Yuri headed for his aircraft, walking slowly to survey the other craft parked along the line in order to later compare them with his own bird.
The MiG-31 was not a radical departure from previous airframeslighter, packed with advanced avionics, with a peculiar jutting radar dome near the front. Her skin was smooth and bright, washed daily to prevent the salt air from corroding her. She was still new, so new that no maintenance dings and dents marred her finish. The patina laid down by the factory still glistened in the sun.
He exchanged a few words with the guard, then dismissed him. No one had attempted to approach the aircraft. Despite the alleged secrecy of the project, almost everyone on the flight line knew that there was something special about this bird. Even if the rumor mill had not been operating at full force, the presence of an armed guard alongside the bird would have sparked their curiosity.
He pulled out his laminated checklist and began the preflight. Tires, strutshe jiggled each fuselage panel to make sure it was securely latched. He paused at the weapons hung on the wing, checking the safety streamers plugged into the firing circuit. His plane captain accompanied him.
Plane captain. Spy, most likely. Ukrainian politics intruded on almost every aspect of a pilot’s life. No doubt the secret police got regular reports on his conduct around his aircraft. If his political reliability were ever called into questionno, he wouldn’t let that happen.
Still, even aware of the scrutiny of the man, Yuri paused to examine the weapon more closely. It looked like any normal anti-air missile, sleek, deadly, and far larger than a civilian would have thought. There were no special markings on it, no indications of its warhead.
But there was something odd about itthere had to be, based on the mission briefing he’d been given. He spent a few more seconds looking at it, always aware of the plane captain’s scrutiny. Finally, he finished his circuit around the aircraft, and approached the pull-down stairs inset into its left side.
“A good flight, Comrade,” the plane captain said. He followed Yuri up the ladder, leaned over into the cockpit, and helped him secure his ejection harness to the safety points. Finally, satisfied that everything was in order in the cockpit, the plane captain climbed back down. He walked under the aircraft, pulled the safety streamers out of the weapons lockout, and held them up for Yuri to see.
Yuri made a motion with his hand. The technician spread the streamers out so that he could count them.
Finally, satisfied that his weapons were ready for use, Yuri gave the technician another hand signal. The plane captain nodded, moved over in front of the aircraft, and began signaling him to turn on the engines.
The light-up sequence went smoothly, the plane captain in full control of the aircraft’s conduct while it was still on the ground. After all preflight checks, and a final sweep of the stick by Yuri to ensure full and complete movement of each control surface, the plane captain snapped up to attention and rendered a sharp salute.
Yuri returned it, then slowly eased off the brakes and turned the nimble jet toward the landing strip.
With his release by the plane captain, control of his aircraft shifted to the tower. Shortly after he was airborne, the ground-control-intercept officer would take control, giving him detailed instructions and vectors.
Yet even chafing under the continuous and all-pervasive surveillance, Yuri felt the familiar sensation of freedom slip over him. At least here, inside the aircraft, there was no one watching every expression on his face. No one to comment that he took too long over lunch, was late for a political-reliability meeting, or otherwise exhibited some small sign that could wreck his career. There was no onejust him and his aircraft, with the GCI officer a tolerable annoyance as merely a voice over the radio circuit.
After waiting for a flight of MiG-29’s to vacate the airstrip, Yuri commenced his roll-out. The MiG-31 took barely one third of the runway to come up to rotation speed. He felt the general shift in the aircraft’s center of gravity as it eased up off the concrete and grabbed air, gently buffeted by ground effect. Seconds later, he rotated and was free.
1020 Local
Outside Izmir Naval Base, Turkey
Mike Packmeyer loitered at the small cafe near the Naval base. It was almost deserted, as most of its customary clientele were still at work at the base. In the next thirty minutes, the first of the early lunch crowd would start filtering in. Until then, only two other tables were occupied, and those with pensioners.
The cell phone rested on the table in front of him, fresh from the recharger. It should be good for another twelve hours, if the advertisements were correct. Still, he counted on no more than six. After that, he’d swap battery packs.
With events proceeding at this pace, twelve hours looked like a long time away.
So just what was going on?
Once again, he entered the circular logic of motives and opportunities that defined international relationships in this part of the world. He was still no closer to an answer, but his gut conviction that everyone had the wrong read on this situation was growing.
That was the reason he was here. The lunch crowd was often noisy, and he’d eaten here often enough that his presence would go unremarked by the regular patrons. A few comments, someone slipping up and letting out a small piece of the puzzle, and he’d have it. Have it, and the story would be all his. Pamela Drake might be out on the aircraft carrier, but he was right here, right here where the story was breaking. He felt a gleeful satisfaction at being the first one to beat Pamela to the punch.
The cell phone rang, startling him out of his delightful reverie of edging out Pamela Drake. He reached for it, jabbed the answer button, and snapped, “Packmeyer.”
“UhMr. Mike Packmeyer?” a voice on the other end said cautiously. “The reporter?”
“Yes. You’ve got him. Who’s this?”
Americanmost definitely, from the accent. That’s not one they acquired in four years of college or through self-study. No, that’s the genuine thing.
Still, he proceeded cautiously. “You’ve got this numberyou must know it’s me.”
“Yes. Of course. Mr. Packmeyer, my name is Commander Hillman Busby.”
“United States Navy?”
“Yes. I’m not prepared to go any further than that in identifying myself. Not on an unsecure line. There’s no chance you can get to a STU-3 phone?” the voice inquired hopefully.
Mike grimaced. “Not hardly. You folks haven’t been too eager to give reporters access to top-secret secure telephone lines.”
“The American Embassy-“
“Listen,” Packmeyer broke in, “if we go through all the security bullshit, we’re going to be sitting out in the cold. Things are moving too fasttoo fast to bother with that.”
A long silence. “I think you’re right,” the voice said finally.
“You’re on sceneI’m not. You made a call this morningis there anything I should know about? My source at this end vouches for your reliability.”
The aircraft carrier. Mike knew it to a certainty, although the solid endorsement from Pamela Drake puzzled him momentarily. His motives at this point were a little bit different from hers. “Things are gearing up. I’m at Izmiryou know it?”
“All too well. Izmir has certain capabilities. How much of that are you familiar with?”
“Very familiar with the capabilities someone in your position would be concerned about,” Mike replied with grim satisfaction. “That’s why I’m here. I’m hoping to pick up something from the luncheon trade that may shed some light on our situationsboth yours and mine.”
“No specifics yet?” The officer’s voice was suddenly hard and demanding. “I need anything you can tell mewe’ll sort it out here, but give it all to me. No filteringeven your worst rumors. And your opinions, if you will clearly indicate that’s what they are.”
“Got it.” Mike proceeded to fill in the anonymous voice on the other end. “Increased troop movements, and ships
seem to be gearing up to go to sea. I see black smoke, people moving, and lots of traffic headed into the basebut none coming out.”
“These other facilitiesyou understand we’re quite interested in them.”
“No information,” Packmeyer reported with regret. “Is there a number I can reach you at?”
“Yes.” The officer reeled off a series of numbers preceded by the international code for accessing one particular satellite. “It’ll cost you about nine bucks a minute, but we’ll cover the cost. I think you know where to find us.”
“I do indeed. And from the looks of it, you’re not going anywhere else anytime soon.”
“Thank you, Mr. Packmeyer,” the officer said politely. “We appreciate your assistance in this matter. Rest assured it will not go unnoticed. Or unrewarded.”
“Thanks, buddy, but there’s one thing you people seem to forget sometimes. The rest of us are Americans too.”
Another silence. “Some people have different priorities.”
“Not me,” Mike shot back promptly. “Sure, I want the storybut for now, it takes second place behind this. As soon as I hear something, you’ll hear it from me first. Not on ACN.”
“Good enough.”
The line went dead, hissing static and odd echoes that were so common on cell-phone circuits in this part of the world.
Packmeyer toggled the phone off and set it back down on the table.
Interesting, thata telephone call from, if he were not sadly mistaken, the USS Thomas Jefferson. And just who the hell was Commander Busby?
1030 Local
TFCC
USS Jefferson
“And that’s the gist of it,” Lab Rat said, finishing up a summary of his conversation with Mike Packmeyer. “A good source, and it sounds like he knows what he’s doing.”
Tombstone turned to Pamela. “Does he?” he said bluntly.
Reluctantly, Pamela nodded. “He’s been in this area of the world for a long time. He knows the people, knows the normal movementsand what’s not normal. He’s been on a desk for a long time, but Packmeyer has good instincts.”
A guarded expression crept across her face. “Are you going to tell me what he tells you? I mean the next time?”
Tombstone considered the matter. “Maybe. It depends.”
“On what?” Pamela said, pressing the matter.
“On whether or not I decide to at the time,” Tombstone shot back. “No promises, Pamela. I’m not certain about this Packmeyer fellow, but I know what your priorities are. If he’s telling us the truth, then his are a bit different. At the same time, I’m not going to screw him over by feeding his stories to you if it’s going to hurt him.”
Pamela shook her head angrily. “You just don’t get it, do you?”
Tombstone shook his head. “No, I get it. You’re the one that won’t.”
1035 Local
Admiral’s Conference Room
“We’re only five miles from open water,” Batman said. “Five milesdammit, you can see it from the bridge.”
The staff assembled around the table was silent. They all knew what their status was. Surrounded by a potentially activated minefield, the safest course was to simply sit where they were and wait for minesweeping help before proceeding.
But they didn’t have that luxurynot this time. Activating the minefield by itself was an act of war, and that didn’t even take into account the earlier attack on La Salle. Trapped here, not even moving forward at bare steerage, the carrier had lost its most potent weapon, the ability to launch and recover aircraft. Additionally, there were twenty fighters orbiting forty miles ahead over the Black Sea. Sooner or later, the tankers would exhaust their reserves and the fighters would be running on fumes.
Within the next hour, Batman would have to make the decision whether or not to bingo the fuel-starved aircraft to the naval base in Greecethat is, assuming that Greece would grant them landing rights.
Or Ukraine. He frowned, not wanting to consider that possibility.
Ukraine’s offer of assistance with the catapult had seemed wrong to him from the very first, as it had to Tombstone. Had it not been for the insistence of the State Department, the carrier would have remained in the relative safety of the Med, able to turn into the wind and generate enough airspeed across the deck to launch and recover aircraft. With the bare twenty fighters bingoing back and forth from an airfield somewhere, the carrier was almost completely exposed. Exposed, and trapped.
“Admiral, at least the Shiloh is with us,” his Chief of Staff said. “She’s a pretty potent ship.”
Captain Daniel Heather, CO of the Shiloh, who had ferried over by helo for the conference, nodded. “If we let the Spy One run the engagement, we can target and engage more incoming missiles and aircraft than any ship in the Navy.”
He frowned. “Of course, you all know the problem with sea-skimmers. The probability of kill is highbut not that high.”
“And this close to land, the odds go down dramatically,” the Air Operations officer chimed in. “Admiral, we need air coverthere’s no way around it.”
“I know that,” Batman said heavily. “We need our deck back.”
He turned to Captain Heather. “And as much as I hate to say it, there’s only one way I know to do thatbreak out of the Strait and get into the Black Sea.”
Captain Heather was a tall, muscular man. Pale blond hair cropped short topped blue eyes and a genial open face. He stared at Batman for a moment, a puzzled expression on his face. Then he paled markedly. “You’re serious?” he said, reading the admiral’s mind. Heather’s soft Georgia accent made the question sound mild. “We can do it, Admiral, but the cost is going to be hellacious.”
Batman nodded. “I know. But we’ve got no options right now. None at all. We can’t go back the way we camethat’s too far. Clear water lies five miles ahead, and there are no minesweepers around. As much as I hate to say it, the priority at this point is on the carrier. That means Shiloh takes point. You’ve got minesweeping duty, Captain.”
Captain Heather tried for an optimistic look. “It could be worse. Most of these are older mines, tethered near the surface. Some good lookouts, the motor whaleboat going out ahead, sonar will probably pick up most of them. The fifty-caliber-gun crews can detonate some of them, and we’ll vector around them if they can’t.”
Batman recognized and silently applauded the man’s courage. He was overstating the odds by a good deal, but you had to give him credit for recognizing the situation and realizing that Batman had only one possible choice. “You’ll want to get back to your ship soon, Captain,” Batman said gravely. “You have some preparations to make. For starters, I’d recommend having everyone up above the waterline.”
The captain nodded. “We’ll be buttoned up completely, you can count on it. If I may take my leave, Admiral?”
Batman nodded. “Godspeed. We’ll see you in the Black Sea. Be ready to get underway in twenty minutes.”
1100 Local
USS Shiloh
Precisely twenty minutes after his conversation with Admiral Wayne, Captain Heather began inching Shiloh forward. Two motor whaleboats as well as his own gig were in the water, arrayed in a loose half-diamond formation in front of the Aegis cruiser. They were each manned with a boat crew, and were proceeding slowly ahead, carefully scanning the water in front of them. Gun crews were just inside the skin of the ship, waiting to try their skills on any mines.
Shiloh herself was buttoned up for battle, setting full General Quarters stations. The ping of the sonar reverberated throughout the hull as she searched the water ahead with her underwater sensors, trying desperately to generate an active return off any mines ahead.
Captain Heather was on the bridge, pacing back and forth, adding his own eyes to the barrage of faces turned toward the water ahead.
The Shiloh was tough, built for survivability, especially against EMPbut not that tough. Even an ancient mine, cheap and easily obtainable by any
nation in the world, could do her serious damage. At the very least, if it hit the forward part of the ship, it would blind her, ripping off the massive sonar dome that protruded down into the water from her bow twenty-eight feet.
“Another possible,” the OOD announced. It was the third alert in the last five minutes. “They’re vectoring to check it out.”
“Anything from sonar?”
The captain tried to keep his voice calm, but despite his best efforts, tension edged up on the bridge. “No, Captain. Not a thing.”
“Warn the gun crews. We’ll detonate it if we can.”
He took a moment to watch the others on the bridge, noting the stark concentration and fixed gaze on every man and woman’s face. This was one of the most deadly effects of a mine, much like the effects of a submarinethe sheer terror, the gut-wrenching uncertainty that it evoked in any surface ship. There was danger beneath the waves, unseen and undetectable. The small metal casings of the mines were generally below the ship’s detection threshold. A minesweeper, equipped with an SQR-14 sonar set, a high-frequency, specialized piece of gear designed specifically for this purpose, could ferret them out of their hidey-holes.
If he had one. That, and a Special Forces team to disarm the ones too deep to reach with the fifty-cals.
But they didn’t. All they had was the Shiloh, and the aircraft carrier two thousand yards behind her that desperately needed open ocean.
“Sir?” The OOD turned toward him, his eyes fixed on the water ahead.
“There may be counters,” he concluded quietly, “and we might not see them in time.”
“I know. Let’s just make sure we find them before we have to worry about that.”
He tried to smile.
“We’ll get’em, Captain.” The OOD’s voice was firm and clear. He took a deep breath, turned back toward the watch crew, and issued a stream of orders and encouragements that steadied them.
A good manhow the hell do we build them like that?
Not a one of them over thirty, most of them are under twenty-five, and they’re doing a job that no one else in the world can do.
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