Lance turned to watch the men round up the four wounded Regulators. “We lost Dave and Willy.”
“Damn it.”
Lance nodded. “Willy’s gonna be hard to replace, Rob. Might want to rotate RAF-3 down for a while.”
Rob shook his head. “We can’t. This is the second probe these little bastards have sent our way in as many weeks.”
“Jesus, Rob, these guys had some serious battle rattle…” said a voice over the radio.
Rob and Lance turned around to see two men from the RAF team wave a little further down the ravine. “We’re talking high-end rifles, some digital field gear, helmet cameras, full load-outs, grenades, and a bunch of other shit I can’t even identify.”
“Got a new sniper rifle for us over here,” called out another Regulator. “Thermal scope, too!”
“Take it all. Let’s hustle, boys. I want this ravine cleared in thirty. We were never here. They were never here. Got it? We’ll sort out our new toys back at HQ.” Rob turned to Lance and flashed a grin. “Well, at least it was worth it.”
Lance nodded. “You tell the widows, then.” He turned and stalked off toward their new home.
CHAPTER 5
None Shall Pass
CAPTAIN DAVIS BRACED HIMSELF against the exterior railing along the exterior of the U.S.S. Theodore Roosevelt’s superstructure. He watched as the relatively calm waters of the middle Atlantic rolled by at a leisurely 7 knots. Hell, the usual roll of the deck was hardly noticeable. He frowned.
Seven damn knots. Sweet Jesus, we’re sitting ducks out here.
Roosevelt had been limping along ever since her last encounter with the Russians. A tag-team of Russian fast attack boats had gotten close enough to sink one of the escort vessels with a massive loss of life and precious ammunition for his fighters.
He inhaled deep and tasted the salty air as he closed his eyes. He pondered whether or not he could actually fall asleep on his feet just outside the hatch to the bridge. The Old Man would simply love that. Davis sighed and rubbed the fatigue from his eyes. He was asking his sailors to work double—sometimes triple—shifts. The least he could do would be to stand watch for a few doubles, dammit.
Not as young as them anymore, he groused, massaging the tight muscles of his lower back.
The speaker above his head chirped and the tinny voice of one of the young bucks announced end of shift. Davis sighed again and took one last look at the endless expanse of blue-gray ocean. It never seemed to end. Far out to port, the Aegis cruiser Anzio jogged along, easily keeping pace with the wounded carrier. Davis could almost feel the energy pent up in the little cruiser—as if it were a hunting dog straining at the leash with the scent of game.
He glanced forward where the bow of the distant vessel was plowing its sedate way through the sea. That way…west…was home.
A groan of metal on metal alerted him to the presence of his XO, Commander Norman Jeffries as he opened the bridge hatch. The younger man stepped up next to his captain and sighed. Davis grinned and looked at his second-in-command out of the corner of his eye.
“The view does that to you, doesn’t it?” he asked.
Jeffries grunted. “It does, indeed, sir.” He turned to face Davis. “Got a call from CHENG. He says he’s almost got the circuitry rewired on the #2 cooling unit…he’s waiting for your go-ahead to start the test run.”
Davis’ eyes lit up. “So that means—”
“CHENG says we should be good for at least 20 knots—maybe more—he’ll know when we spool up.”
Davis slapped his palm against the sea-slick railing. “Hot damn! Tell him to fire that sucker up. Does the Old Man know?”
“I was about to tell him sir, but figured you’d want to personally.”
“Admiral on the bridge!” someone shouted from inside the command center through the open hatch.
“Guess that’s now,” muttered Davis. He clapped his XO on the shoulder. “Get on the horn and get CHENG moving. I want that speed and I want it now.”
“Aye, sir.” Jeffries nodded and ducked back into the Bridge. Davis followed him.
“Well, what’s the deal? This tin can is stirred up like a nest of hornets down below,” called out Admiral Nella over the top of his coffee mug.
Captain Davis walked closer to his commanding officer and smiled. “My Chief Engineer informed me that he’s ready to restart Reactor 2. The circuitry has been rerouted from the damage caused by the nuke strike—”
The Old Man’s eyebrows arched. “Cut the techno-bullshit. What speed can he give us?”
“Best guess right now—20 knots. Maybe more. We’ll know when we get moving, sir.”
“Son of a bitch, that’s the best news I’ve heard since the Pope died.”
Davis chuckled. “Yes, sir. We should know any minute now when he’s ready to start the test.” He turned to the communications officer of the watch. “Comms, get the word out to the fleet we’re about to start reactor trials. Maintain course but be prepared for variable speed.”
“Helm, aye,” said the young man at the ship’s helm.
The comms officer of the watch relayed the message to another junior seaman who exited the bridge, heading for the signal station outside. From there, Davis knew, his message would be relayed to the nearest vessels of the fleet via WW2-era light code. Those vessels would in turn relay it to the outliers until everyone acknowledged. It was primitive, time consuming, and more than a little ridiculous to his way of thinking, but in the absence of a miracle it was also the only way Roosevelt had to communicate with the rest of the Strike Group.
“Where are the subs?” asked The Old Man. He took a sip of his coffee and glared at a screen behind the captain’s chair which displayed the locations of the Strike Group in real time.
Davis swiveled his seat and pointed at the very edge of the display. “They were just out of range at last check-in. No threats sighted, just empty water.”
The speaker above his head chirped and the tinny voice of the ship’s Chief Engineer said, “Bridge, Engine Room.”
Davis grabbed the nearest microphone dangling from the ceiling and held it to his mouth. “Bridge, aye.”
“We’re ready when you are, sir. Reactor 2 is spooled up, the cooling system is holding…new circuitry is reporting all systems are go.”
“Very well, Chief. Let’s bring the props on-line.”
“Aye, aye, captain.”
The Captain got a nod from Admiral Nella and turned to face the rest of the bridge crew. “All ahead one-half.”
“All ahead one-half, aye, sir,” replied the sailor manning the ship’s wheel. He pushed the speed gauge forward.
Davis watched the closest read-out which showed the ship’s speed hover at 7 knots. He felt a slight tremble—no more than the sigh of a baby, really—through his feet and the speed gauge began to rise. 10 knots…12…15…
He grabbed the microphone again. “Engine Room, Bridge,” he called out, eyes on the speed gauge.
“Engine Room, aye.”
“How we holding up, Chief?” he asked, watching the speed rise to 19…and settle at 20 knots.
“She’s holding together just fine, sir. Like a walk in the park.”
“What more can you give me?”
There was a slight pause before the chief engineer’s voice returned: “Ah, I’d say we’re good for at least 25 knots, sir. If you don’t mind, I’d like to keep her there for a while and run a full diagnostic…just to be safe.”
“Twenty-five sounds fine. Make it happen, Chief.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Davis replaced the mic in its ceiling-mounted cradle and turned to the Admiral. The Old Man wore a smile from ear to ear.
“Now this is more like it!” He stomped his foot on the deck. “Finally feel the old girl come alive again…poor thing wasn’t meant to move so slow.”
“No, sir,” agreed Davis. He felt a smile spread across his own face.
The junior seaman sent to relay the
Captain’s message to the fleet burst into the room, his uniform wet with salt-spray. “Sir!” he called out. “Message from the Anzio—contact reported from the Hampton bearing 1-7-9, range 290 miles.”
Davis turned to his Air Boss and said, “Get me something.”
“Hawkeye is reporting…” the carrier’s fighter wing commander said, peering at a display. “Looks like seven surface contacts. I’ve got the Hawks in the air now. I’ll reroute.”
LIEUTENANT COMMANDER RIGGS PULLED his F-35C Lightning II into a tight turn and adjusted his course to intercept unknown surface contacts. He checked his fuel gauge and weapons status screens to make sure his plane was in prime condition for combat. His squadron was out over the open ocean in the middle of the Atlantic, flying air patrol over Roosevelt’s Strike Group and he was going to take no chances.
“Hawk Lead, Two,” said, his wingman, Jonesy.
“Yeah, Two,” he replied.
“You see what I’m seein’ down there? One O’clock low.”
Riggs rolled his Lightning to starboard to get a better look. The vast expanse of gray-blue ocean rolled smoothly under his cock-pit canopy and he quietly savored the simple joy of flight for a brief moment. Then the little fleet Jonesy had pointed out brought his focus back to target. Nine targets, to be exact.
He scanned his instrument displays—no threats, no radar signatures. Whoever the hell they were, they weren’t targeting him or his squadron. That was one tick in their favor. If they had so much as farted in his direction, he would have pounced. Standing orders were to destroy any and all threats—no questions asked.
He sighed. “Well, Jonesy, let’s have us a look-see.” Riggs switched back to the inter-squadron frequency. “Hawks, Hawk Lead. Maintain CAP over these jokers. Me and Jonesy are going down for a closer look.”
When the rest of the squadron radioed in to confirm his orders, Riggs looked out his cockpit to port and saw his wingman looking back at him from his own F-35C. Damn graceful plane, to Riggs’ mind. The Lockheed Martin Lightning II was 51 feet of fuel efficiency, stealth capability and lethal response. It flew like a greased Corvette and handled like it owned the sky.
“After you,” said Jonesy. He waved.
Riggs grinned and put his jet into a steep starboard roll that transitioned expertly into a dive. Whoever was on these ships was about to get a free demonstration of American air power. About three miles out, he dropped down and skimmed the ocean at sixty feet off the deck. Outside his canopy, the wind roared and the slate gray ocean whipped past. He checked his rear-view mirrors and smiled behind his oxygen mask as he saw the great rooster-tail of sea-spray cascading up into the air behind him.
“I’ll take port, you take starboard.”
“Roger that,” replied Jonesy.
“And…split,” Riggs said. He and Jonesy pulled in opposite directions and the two jets screamed past the little fleet, enveloping the gray ships in a wall of kicked-up spray. They crossed paths and looped around behind the fleet.
“This is United States Naval aircraft on your stern,” he called out on the international maritime frequencies. He casually looped wide of the fleet as it steamed southwest. The collection of rusty merchant vessels and one small cruise ship was on an intercept course with the Roosevelt Strike Group.
No response.
He rolled to port and felt the delicious pull of gravity as he looped around now in front of the rag-tag fleet and noted with satisfaction the small glint of light off Jonesy’s cockpit canopy—his wingman was doing the exact same maneuver, only behind the ships. They were two sharks circling a potential meal. He knew without looking the rest of his squadron was circling out of sight overhead waiting to drop the hammer should this fleet pose any threat.
“I say again,” he called out, switching frequencies to the lower end of the common channels—used mostly by pirates and third-world navies. “This is United States Naval aircraft your port side. Can you read me, over?”
“Da,” crackled a static-filled voice over Riggs’s helmet. He instinctively turned his head to follow the ships as they swam past his field of view. He rolled the plane again and began another loop around the fleet, gaining a little altitude. He saw Jonesy follow his lead in the distance, his wingman’s Lightning looked like a model.
“We hear you!”
Riggs grinned. “You are dangerously close to entering restricted waters. Turn your fleet to bearing oh-niner-five, over.”
“Nyet,” the voice said and barked a laugh. “This we will not do, American.”
“Hey I got flags going up on the sterns, man,” called out Jonesy. “I see Russia, France…I think that’s Germany…looks like—is that Liberia?” It was Jonesy’s turn to laugh. “What the hell is this? Amateur hour?”
“I am warning you one last time, you are about to enter restricted waters. I have authorization to fire on your vessels if you do not turn back.” Riggs was beginning to lose his patience. He pulled back on the stick and took his Lightning up to a decent attack level, about a thousand feet. He scanned his weapons displays. His full complement of missiles was in the green, locked and loaded. Unfortunately, since his flight was CAP at the moment, his missiles were all designed to take out enemy aircraft. He mentally shrugged. A target was a target. The missiles shouldn’t have any problem hitting a slow moving ship.
“We are unarmed vessels of peace,” the suddenly frantic voice called out. The man pronounced it “wessels”.
The thick Russian accent made Riggs frown. He still had a score to settle with Ivan over the sinking of the Coral Sea.
“We have no weapons—we come to protest the illegal and unjustified destruction of—”
“Jesus,” said Jonesy, cutting in on the private frequency. “They’re peace-freaks, for cryin’ out loud. Don’t they know they’re about to get their asses shot off?”
Riggs silenced the still yapping Russian and signaled Roosevelt. “Nest, Hawk Lead, how copy?”
“Nest copies all, go ahead, Hawk Lead.”
Riggs glanced down at the little collection of toy boats on the ocean surface a thousand feet below. The long white wakes spread out for a mile. Something was making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He trusted his instinct—it had saved his ass more times than he could remember.
“Nest, please advise—got a surface fleet of nine, repeat niner civilian vessels. Mostly rust buckets and one cruise ship, all displaying flags from different countries. Russia, France, Germany…Liberia,” he said trying not to laugh. “In contact with a Russian captain. They refuse to alter course and claim they are international protesters.”
“Wait one, Hawk Lead.”
“Roger that,” replied Riggs. He turned his Lighting into a slow, gradual turn around the fleet.
“—sanctioned by the United Nations, you cannot interfere with our mission—” screeched the Russian. “I say again, this is MV Dolstoy, Captain Zhorah Karbonenko—”
Riggs rolled his eyes and double-checked the location of his squadron on his GPS display. There they were, a pack of hungry wolves patrolling the sky. At his signal they would rain down death and destruction from on high—poor bastards down there in those garbage-scows would never see it coming. That was a lot of power to command.
“Hawk Lead, Nest.”
“Roger Nest, go ahead,” he said. He scanned his threat boards—still nothing. The fleet either didn’t have any weapons systems or they were clever about hiding them.
“What’s your fuel status?”
Riggs checked his fuel gauge. “Twenty mikes TOT.”
“Roger that, Hawk Lead. Maintain your position. We’re sending Hammer flight to back you up. In the meantime, warn your new friends again—and keep an eye a few miles ahead of them. Nest out.”
His curiosity piqued, Riggs shrugged again and started another lap over the fleet. “Dolstoy, this is Hawk Lead, turn back, turn back, turn back. This is your final warning.”
“Nyet. You Americans have no right to order us
to change course—we are international vessels in international waters—”
“Holy shit!” called out Jonesy. “Look at that! Two miles off their bows.”
Riggs glanced where Jonesy indicated and felt a smile spread over his face. A dark shape had materialized out of the ocean like a watery ghost. “Hampton,” said Riggs. He shook his head. That ought to make those captains want to change their pants.
“Dolstoy, you see what’s about two miles dead-ahead?”
There was a pause—Riggs imagined frantic sailors and merchantmen pointing and waving binoculars at the sail and upper hull of the sleek attack sub bearing down on them.
“Da…we see your submarine.”
“What you are looking at is your absolute last warning. Be sure to spread the word to your friends—that is the U.S.S. Hampton, a Los Angeles-class nuclear submarine, one the finest in the world. And she’s heading straight for you with orders to sink your little fleet if you approach any closer, over.”
Captain Karbonenko laughed. “You do not frighten me, Yankee cowboy.”
Riggs frowned. “You ever play chicken with the Reaper?”
“You ever play roulette with a Russian?”
“They’ll turn,” said Jonesy’s voice. Riggs didn’t detect much confidence in his wingman’s words, though.
Riggs watched as the nine ships steamed forward, holding their course and heading straight for the slowly advancing Hampton.
CAPTAIN DAVIS WATCHED ADMIRAL Nella Admiral rub his chin in thought. They were deep inside Roosevelt’s island, in the Combat Information Center. The carrier’s war room was kept in perpetual semi-darkness. Davis rubbed his eyes to fight his fatigue, but he worried it was a losing battle.
“What do you think, sir?”
The Admiral stared at the threat board and watched the progress of the foreign ships as tracked by the E-2D Hawkeye now on station. “Umbris has his orders.”
A chill slithered down Davis’ spine. Commander Umbris, Hampton’s skipper, was a man known to follow his orders to the letter. But even the most unyielding of men had to balk at firing on unarmed civilian vessels.
Sic Semper Tyrannis Page 7