Umbris walked through the hatch into the boat’s sonar station and put a hand on Donnahay’s shoulder. “All right, show me what you got.”
“Yes, sir.” Donnahay pointed at the screen, indicating the growing list of surface contacts. The computer displayed the sonar return as a constant waterfall of green data. There were seven “rocks” in the flow, interrupting the waterfall with telltale signs that indicated surface vessels. “We got seven now, sir. Whoops, make that eight. I think we stumbled onto a fleet.”
Umbris pointed at the first ship. “Is this position correct?”
“Yes, sir, it is. That’s the Kalinksi-class destroyer we’ve been chasing. Ivan’s cruising right at the mouth of the Hudson.”
Umbris cursed and snatched a mic from above Donnahay. He keyed the transmit button. “Conn, Sonar. This is the captain. Bring us up to transmission depth.”
“Sonar, Conn, aye. Transmission depth, aye, sir,” responded the deep voice of Lt. Cmdr. Whitaker.
Umbris headed back to the control room and made his way to the communication station. As he walked, he felt the comfortable tilt of the deck as Hampton knifed upwards through the Atlantic, toward a depth of about 90 feet measured from her keel. Umbris had driven his people hard on their journey across the Atlantic, but they had met the challenge head on. He was damn proud of his men.
The damage Hampton had suffered during the attempted nuclear strike back in the Eastern Med had, for the most part, been repaired. He was confident that his boat could now contact naval headquarters and other ships—if they could ever establish an uplink with the satellites.
Why the hell they still couldn’t do that was a mystery.
Roosevelt was a different matter, since she had taken severe damage in the nuclear strike. The aircraft carrier could no longer contact the outside world and could barely communicate with its own strike group. In order to talk with Roosevelt’s captain, Umbris had to bring his boat up enough so his UHF/VHF antennae could pick up signals. Sub commanders never liked going that shallow in wartime. Umbris would much rather stay deep and hidden, where Hampton could be the hunter and not an easy target.
Hampton and her sister subs were the tip of the spear for Roosevelt’s strike group. Normally she could be found ranging as far as 200 miles ahead of the aircraft carrier’s main core of ships. However, since communications were now limited to line-of-sight, she averaged about 15 miles separation. Dangerously close.
After weeks of navigating the Atlantic—suddenly dark and devoid of any and all commercial shipping—Roosevelt and her strike group was now within spitting distance of the American coastline. They had been on course for arriving in Norfolk, Roosevelt’s home port, when Hampton discovered a single Russian destroyer wandering out in the Atlantic all by its lonesome.
Well, Umbris thought, wandering around wasn’t exactly what it had been doing. The damn thing was hauling ass as fast as its twin-screws could propel it through the water. Her skipper sure as hell doesn’t give a damn about the amount of noise that he’s making. Umbris figured he could have heard the Russian ship from the other side of the Atlantic.
So Hampton had bird-dogged the destroyer and it led the strike group straight to New York City. Now the destroyer had joined a larger fleet—no Frenchmen here—this was a real threat. The Russians were serious when it came to naval warfare.
Umbris stepped back into the control room and stood behind the sailor manning the Hampton’s communication center. Most of the screens that usually displayed all kinds of radio and electronic transmissions from fleet command or Roosevelt were blank. “Okay, sir, I’ve got Roosevelt on the line for you,” he said. He reached up and handed the microphone headset to his captain.
INCOMING MESSAGE FROM HAMPTON, sir," called out a midshipmen from the other side of the combat information center buried deep in Roosevelt’s island. Captain Davis looked up from his daily reports and his cold cup of coffee.
"Let's have it."
"Sir, Hampton reports: ‘Have established contact with eight Russian surface vessels parked just north of Sandy Hook. The closer we get, the more ships we’re picking up. We could be looking at a significant fleet. Please advise.’ End transmission."
Davis glanced at Admiral Nella, who glared at the floor to ceiling tactical display. On the left-hand side the outline of the Atlantic seaboard of the United States glowed a pale, transparent green. Blue arrows in a tight cluster about 300 miles offshore represented the Roosevelt Strike Group. A single blue point, much closer to the coastline, marked Hampton’s location. Eight red dots appeared between Hampton and Manhattan. The Russian fleet. As Davis watched his Admiral, a ninth red dot appeared.
"It’s a trap," he muttered as he stepped up next to the Admiral.
The Old Man rubbed his chin. "Could be. Could also be an invasion force. We know the Russians have been attacking our people all around the globe—hell, they sank Coral Sea off the coast of Libya…"
"You really think the Russians are invading New York City?" asked Davis. Even after all they'd seen, he still found it hard to believe that anyone would be so bold as to invade the continental United States.
"Well, we have two options,” said the Admiral. “We make for Norfolk and hope that it’s still there or we sneak up on Ivan and start a littoral engagement."
The Admiral checked the ship’s clock. It was time for the subs to surface and receive transmissions. He turned to the comms officer of the watch. “We have a live feed with Hampton?”
“Yes, sir.”
He grabbed a mic. "Hampton, this is Nest Actual.”
"Yes, sir,” said Rick Umbris’ voice over the CIC speakers.
"You get any more hits?"
"We just picked up what looks like a 10th vessel. Sonar signature shows it's an Admiral Kodinski-class carrier.”
Admiral Nella shot a look at Davis. He brought the mic to his mouth. “Hampton, execute NEPTUNE GOAL, repeat: execute NEPTUNE GOAL.”
“Aye, aye, Actual. Confirm execute NEPTUNE GOAL.”
“Good hunting, Hampton. Nest Actual out.”
"Helm, CIC,” called out Davis.
“CIC, Helm, aye.”
“Adjust course to bring us into New York. All ahead full.” He replaced the mic before the order confirmation was announced.
“I will be God-damned if I allow a Russian carrier to park in New York Harbor. Son of a bitch!” growled the Admiral.
"There's something I thought I'd never see," said Davis as red dots numbers 11 and 12 appeared in New York Harbor. He touched the controls on the screen and the map zoomed-in to show Manhattan, western Long Island, and northern part of New Jersey. The Russian ships clustered north of Sandy Hook, blocking the entrance to the Upper Bay. They moved sedately toward the southern tip of Manhattan Island, as if daring Roosevelt to give chase. At this scale, Hampton didn't even register on the map.
"I know what you’re thinking," said Nella, holding up a hand to stop Davis before he could object. “It’s a trap. It’s clear as day. They’re leading us on a merry chase right up the gullet of the Hudson. Then they use their smaller size to keep us pinned between the shores. Right?”
Davis stared at the Admiral. “I don’t give a damn what they think they’re doing, we’re going to sink every last one of them.” He turned away from the glowing tactical display. “CAP, retask the Hawkeye—I want to know where the Russian fighters are. Get your intercept squadrons in the air."
"Signal the fleet," said the Admiral. He folded his arms on his chest and glared at the map. "Battle stations."
HEY, I GOT NEW contacts over here!" announced the radar control officer on-board Zeus, one of Roosevelt’s two E-2C Hawkeyes. The twin-prop AWACS had been cruising along at its highest altitude in order to give the greatest range possible to the Roosevelt Strike Group. Right now they could ‘see’ at least 600 nautical miles in every direction, greatly enhancing the radar coverage that the injured carrier could pull on its own. They had the Russian fleet parked in New York Harbor
in their sights. Approaching from the south, off the coast of the Delmarva Peninsula, another cluster of ships appeared.
"You tag IFF yet?" asked the voice of the pilot over the drone of the twin turboprop engines which propelled the plane through the sky at a leisurely 400 miles an hour.
The radar technician turned the appropriate switches and smiled at the response his screen displayed. "They're ours! I have five ships. They should be within hailing distance."
"Well, let's see who we got out there, eh?" said the pilot. "Sure will be nice to see some friendly faces for a change."
CAPTAIN DAVIS, ZEUS IS reporting they've made contact with five new surface vessels to our south—Americans!" said the communications officer. A cheer went up around the CIC as the tired sailors got their first good news of the cursed cruise.
When the noise died down, Davis walked over to the comms station. The sailor was lost in concentration as he adjusted the gain on his control panel. “That doesn’t make any sense, sir,” he muttered.
“What you got?” asked Davis.
“It’s odd, sir,” said the comms officer. “Zeus says the ships claim they’re under direct orders from CINCATLANT to observe the Russian fleet in New York harbor, not engage."
"Say again?" asked the Admiral, his voice cutting through the background noise like a knife. Everyone in the CIC went silent.
"Yes, sir, that's what I said,” reported the comms officer. He touched his headset again. “Zeus repeats: They are under direct orders to not engage the Russian fleet, merely observe."
"Observe what?" growled the Admiral. "Damn Russians could be conquering New York City for all we know…”
CHAPTER 27
Apex Predator
IT WAS THE DAY after his failed escape attempt when Erik realized without a doubt that he was going to kill Captain Stepanovich. And he would enjoy it.
He'd seen death before. He'd killed before. The early days of the Troubles back in the Freehold had well-prepared him to face death. But it had never been like this.
After spending the night in solitary confinement, Erik had been brought to the edge of the pine forest just north of the women's quarters. He’d been tied to a tree and left there, surrounded by the bodies of the American prisoners who’d been executed for their attempt at escape. He stood without food or water all day, forced to stare at the faces of the men he’d tried to lead to freedom. He had spent the morning looking at each corpse, hoping that he wouldn’t find the men from his cabin. He gave up when he saw Sgt. Purnell staring back at him with glassy, lifeless eyes.
Erik couldn’t even close his eyes—every time he tried to blind himself to the horrific sight before him, the faces of his men floated before him. It was better to look. Each one of the men had a single bullet hole in the forehead. The pile of bodies attracted hundreds of flies that multiplied into countless thousands by the heat of the afternoon. It was the smell, though, that pushed him to his breaking point.
Captain Stepanovich told Eric that all too often, when a mission went wrong, the officers took the blame and the enlisted walked away Scot-free. Erik had stoically held his tongue and simply stared at the man.
"This time," the Russian had said with a slow smile. "You shall pay a price befitting your rank. However, the price you pay shall be shared by the men who served under you and carried out your nefarious orders."
That had been shortly after sunrise. Very soon after that, Erik heard rifle shots in the distance. In a stately procession the Russians had dragged the bodies of the men who had shared his prison one by one across the camp for everyone to see before dumping them in a semicircle at Erik's feet.
He cried—he could do little else. It went on and on for hours. He screamed, he struggled, he tore at the ropes that bound him to the tree until he felt blood, slick on his arms and back and legs. All to no avail.
The Russians left the bodies on the edge of the fenced-in yard where the women were allowed to roam. Erik knew that at least some of the men at his feet had family on the other side of that barbed-wire fence, just like he did. And now those families knew that Erik had caused their deaths.
Some small part of him had to admire the Russian. Erik very much doubted there would be another escape attempt from anyone after this. He knew deep down that his spirit was one breath from being completely shattered. He had come so achingly close…
The Russian had also promised the smell of the dead would attract predators at night. Erik would get little sleep. By nightfall, Erik had resigned himself to the fact that he would never see Brin again—she'd been hauled away before his eyes. The Russians had laughed as Brin wept.
As the sun set and painted the gray overcast sky into a watercolor palette of swirling pinks and oranges, Erik prepared himself for death. He knew what predators lurked in the pine woods of Florida. At some point, something would get brave and decide to take a bite out of him in order to sample a fresh meal. And then it would all be over. He hoped it would be swift.
Rustling leaves behind him sent a chill down Erik’s spine. Fear bloomed in his chest and suddenly he wasn’t ready to die. Not when the there was still light left in the world. Not while Brin might still be alive. He stiffened against the rough bark of the pine tree.
When the bloodied ropes fell away from his hands, an astonished Erik saw before him a predator. One far more dangerous than any animal the Russian prison commander could imagine. An apex predator.
"You okay?" asked Ted.
MAJOR ALEXI STROGOLEV SAT collapsed onto the chair of his temporary command post. He wiped the sweat from his brow and laid his tanker’s helmet on the polished desk. With a sigh of relief, he leaned back in the plush executive chair and propped his feet up on the desk. He grinned at the sight of dirt and sand falling off his combat boots onto the gleaming wooden desk. He reached out a hand and took an ice-cold Coke from one of his soldiers.
"Sir—"
Strogolev raised a hand for silence as he savored the first crisp, sweet, cold embrace of the carbonated beverage. After that first gulp burned his throat, he let out a sigh and opened his eyes. Before him, through the wide expansive windows stretched one of the thousands of lakes that dotted central Florida. This one had clearly been man-made, custom tailored for the office complex that he was now using as his forward headquarters.
His men were relaxing by the water’s edge. Some had even took the opportunity to go swimming. He smiled and took another sip of the cold drink. Let them relax. He had driven his men hard and forced his scout brigade far out ahead of Colonel Doskoy’s.
General Doskoy.
Strogolev frowned. The pompous ass was a general now. Was there no justice left in the world? Word came down from Moscow overnight that Colonel Doskoy had shown tactical brilliance in the sack of Orlando and conquest of southern Florida. For his efforts, Moscow had decided to reward him with a field commission to Brigadier General.
The man had not one ounce of integrity in his body. Instead of securing weapons and ammunition for his forces or making even a backhanded note of Strogolev’s near complete victory in Orlando, Doskoy had cloaked himself in glory. All of it. What was worse, however, was the official ass-reaming Strogolev had received—publicly—after the General announced his own promotion.
He called me too ambitious, Strogolev fumed. Son of a motherless whore.
Strogolev had been incensed. He was so mad his only option had been to get out from under Doskoy's presence, take his scout battalion and push toward Tampa. He chose to focus on the next objective. Strogolev realized it was childish and petulant to leave in such a huff, but it was either that or he would have pulled his sidearm and shot the General in his pig-like face. And that wouldn't do his career any good.
So he now found himself about halfway to Tampa. There'd been token American resistance from isolated civilians and fleeing soldiers, but his scout battalion had been fully capable of handling the surviving Americans.
He had discovered from captives acquired on the road to Tamp
a that nearly all the local American forces were in retreat. Any soldiers north of Orlando were already heading for Georgia. A few of the prisoners had suggested that the soldiers in Tampa were preparing to head north as well.
That little morsel of information was something Strogolev had somehow forgotten to report to General Doskoy. As far as the general and Moscow were concerned, the Americans were putting up stiff resistance at every turn. In fact, only the civilians were putting up stiff resistance, Strogolev found. He had lost six more men just that morning to an IED hidden at a petrol station.
He took another swig of Coke. The cold, refreshing beverage did wonders for his mood. His quartermaster had found a stash along the way and had kept it on ice—where he’d found that, Strogolev did not need to know. No matter what happened, Strogolev swore his quartermaster would receive a promotion. He looked at the cold bottle in his hands, condensation dripping down its garish red exterior. The man had earned a promotion and then some.
Despite the fact that it was October, Strogolev found the humidity in Florida oppressive. He’d never been a fan of the tropics. Indeed, some of his fondest memories were from time spent training in Siberia. No, Alexi Strogolev was definitely a cold warrior.
"Sir," prompted the soldier again.
Strogolev closed his eyes and sighed. He could not keep out the cares of the world for long. Invasion is such difficult work, he thought. Looking down at the Coke in his hand again, he smiled. But it does have benefits.
"Very well," he said with a sigh. “Let's have your all-important report.”
"Sir, we have new communication from Captain Stepanovich."
Strogolev interlaced his fingers behind his head and relaxed in the chair. “All right, what does the good Captain Stepanovich have to say?"
"Well…" stammered the young soldier as he read the dispatch. "He… He says…"
"Spit it out, man." Strogolev's mood was darkening. The soldier before him was nervous to read the report. That meant bad news. "Just tell me what the report says," Strogolev said slowly. He sat up and placed his hands on the chair’s armrests in a slow, deliberate movement.
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