USS Stonewall Jackson BoxSet

by Stephen Makk

  “Sir,” said Blake, “IEDs.”

  “They were all back there! It’s the wrong fucking bridge!”

  “Just do it, sir. Do it now!” Blake shouted.

  Franks turned to the COB. “Is that bubblehead Herzer still in the can?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Signal him to release a suit. Bang on that fucking hatch.”

  The A ganger hit the hatch hard three times with his baby beater. Inside, Herzer, surprised, removed a WAEFFO suit, opened the cylinder and inflated the suit. It quickly raced up and left the cylinder.

  A US Marine with binoculars sat at one end of the huge bridge. He saw the suit and picked up his radio mike.

  “Watch party. We have a signal on the surface.”

  “Copy, watch party.” At six locations across the bridge, the Marines had hung 155mm Howitzer shells deep below the bridge.

  “Goddamn signal. Detonate the IEDs.”

  “SIR,” SAID NOSEY, “FISH in the water, it’s the Akula, Type 53.”

  Shit, thought Franks. “Eject countermeasures, starboard. Blow ballast, come hard to port, max revs.” The boat rose hard and came to the left.

  “Enemy fish coming in, range point four miles, point two five. Pinging, pinging, range point one mile. Oh, point six.” It was all down to the countermeasures now. God help us, thought Franks.

  Nosey stood and punched the air.

  “Yes, yes. Sir, IEDs have gone off, six of em.” Nosey stood and shouted, “Yes. IED. Next to the enemy fish, its motor is stuttering. It’s off course.” There was a huge thudding sound out to front and right.

  “Fish has gone off, it’s blown,” said Nosey.

  Franks breathed again.

  Thank God, thought Nathan, Colonel Tonroe had promised he’d try to set IEDs on the next bridges too, if he could. Nathan grinned; the USMC had kicked ass.

  “Sir, they’ve unset the clamp,” said Nathan, “our fish has cleared, flooding tube, opening outer doors. Solution good. Launching.” The rushing came from forward.

  “Fish running. Pinging, pinging, cutting wire. Closing, pinging.”

  ORLOV LOOKED INTO HIS sonar man’s eyes, saw the look of horror, and knew.

  The Mk 48 hit Leopard amidships to starboard. Her hull ripped open the length of three compartments. A massive gas cloud rose towards the surface. What was left of the boat hit the seabed hard. The Leopard was dead.

  “HOT DATUM, TANGO ONE,”

  Franks had to get the knife in and twist it.

  “Forward 14 knots. Nosey, get those ears on.”

  USS NYC made her way north, twisting and turning up the channel. She had become dispassionate, unstoppable. Out of the darkness loomed a terrible spirit, death her game, vengeance her goal. She turned a corner in the dark submarine channel. Franks face now a mask of grim determination.

  “I sweep away all hope, all faith. I am become death, the destroyer of worlds.”

  For the Russian boat, the USS NYC came out of the gloom, unexpected.

  “Contact up ahead sir, Kilo class.”

  Franks narrowed his eyes. “Weaps. Get him.”

  “Sir, tube one selected. Designate target Tango one. Firing solution laid in on Tango one, tube one. Flooding tube, outer doors open. Fish ready in all respects. Fish is hungry. Launching.” The MK 48 ran hard and fast, and the Kilo didn’t even have time to launch countermeasures. The fish slammed down on her from above.

  “Hot datum,” said Nosey.

  The strait became quiet again. Nosey detected no more contacts in the Bosporus.

  “Where are we, Pigeon?”

  “By the Yavuz Sultan Selim suspension bridge sir. The northernmost bridge.”

  Franks nodded and waited an hour. “This will do. Trim for ascent, up bubble 15. Surface the boat.”

  THE USS NEW YORK CITY came to the surface just north of the bridge and slowed to four knots. She was back at the north end of The Bosporus.

  “Sir,” said Commander Krupa, “this just came in from CINCUSNAVEUR sir.”

  Franks read the slip.

  PRIORITY RED

  B 86563571Z JUN 51 ZY87

  CINCUSNAVEUR NAVAL FORCES EUROPE. NAPLES ITALY//E1//

  TO NEW YORK CITY

  EURFLT// ID E947QV54//

  NAVAL OPS/31

  MSGID/EUROPS 6722/CINCUSNAVEUR ACTUAL//

  MSG BEGINS://

  RUSSIAN ASSAULT BY VDV AND THE BLACK SEA FLEET TRANSIT OF BOSPORUS CANCELLED DUE TO INABILITY TO CLEAR STRAIT OF SUBSURFACE THREAT. SIXTH FLEET ASSETS NOW IN SEA OF MARMARA.

  YOU STOOD TALL AND HELD YOUR GROUND. THEY DID NOT PASS. YOU ARE RELIVED//

  MSG END//

  Franks grinned and passed the communication to Nathan.

  The hatch opened, and two seamen followed by the COB climbed up into the sail. The COB stood by the jackstaff, he unfurled and raised the stars and stripes. All saluted.

  Old Glory flew proudly in the breeze. It’s a challenge; if you want it, come and take it.

  WASHINGTON DC.

  THE TV THEME MUSIC intro ended. Grim faced, she looked out at the audience.

  “I’m Marcia Goldforli. This is NBC, and our Eyes are on the World tonight.

  We’ve been sent a recording. This recording is genuine, we can’t tell you how we know, but we have verified its authenticity. I must warn you it contains graphic events of a sexual nature. The identity of the woman has been disguised by digitally smearing the image. Her voice is spoken by an actor. The identity of the man has not been disguised for reasons that will become obvious.”

  The recording played. He lay with his back against a pillow in bed. The man was obviously naked. Laid over his legs face down was a woman, her shoulders and back were bare. The woman’s blond hair hung down over his groin. Her face was inches above his groin obviously performing a sex act on him. She intermittently spoke to him, encouraging him to speak.

  “The fools are starting to believe us. Can you imagine? Can you?”

  “What am I imagining, Yuri?” she said.

  “We will soon make our dream come true. The greater Russia. First Ukraine then... Jesus, Bleep.”

  She bobbed her head above his groin for long seconds, then lifted her head away.

  “What were you saying? Tell me,” she asked.

  “This is just part one. Ukraine first then the...” The recording ended.

  Marcia looked at the audience.

  “The man in the recording is the Deputy Russian Ambassador Yuri Komarov. He refers, of course, to events in Ukraine. Now you, our viewers, know what Russia is really up to. What it really thinks of the situation. Believe it or not, we’ve cut some of the more graphic sections. But they contain more spoken revelations from Deputy Ambassador Komarov along the same lines. We contacted the State Department. They refused to comment. They also refused to say the recordings were false when given the opportunity.” Marcia smiled. “The Russian Embassy refused to comment on what we have seen, as we expected. You saw and heard it first here. I’m Marcia Goldforli. This is NBC, and our Eyes are on the World tonight.”

  The picture faded, the program theme music started.

  ONE WEEK LATER.

  IT WAS A MORNING LIKE any other, he picked up a copy of the Washington Post and walked the two blocks to his store. He opened the door to Saul’s Stamps, inside he hung his coat, made a coffee and started to read the newspaper. The first customers wouldn’t be here for an hour or so.

  The story was on page four.

  The headline read” Potomac spy theory.

  “The woman’s body found in the Potomac two days ago by an early morning runner is thought to be that of a Russian spy. The young woman’s body has been identified as that of Yana Borisova, a Ukrainian Journalist thought actually to be a Russian spy. The Russian embassy has denied all knowledge of the woman.”

  He read the details, the discovery, the lack of details of her recent activities. The excess of alcohol and drugs found in her blood samples. Rumours of a sexual relationship wi
th a Russian diplomat were denied by the embassy as scurrilous sensationalist newspaper talk.

  He was saddened by the news; he didn’t know her well, but she was a pleasant girl. You never really knew your clients, but Yana didn’t deserve that fate.

  The door opened, a customer walked in. “Good morning. I’m looking for Polish and Hungarian stamps...”

  LANGLEY VIRGINIA.

  OWEN PICKED UP THE phone. The brass plaque on his desk read, Director. Department of Europe. East sector. His office was spacious and looked like an old English drawing room. The decor was all dark woods with wrought iron and brass fittings.

  The number had taken some tracking down, not by him of course, he’d staffed it. It rang and then was finally answered.

  “God, who’s this? He rubbed his eyes, he’d just awoken.

  “Good morning. I have a task for you,” said Owen.

  “What? Who is this....”

  HE WALKED SLOWLY DOWN the city street, he was early and walked into a café. His hood and dark glasses were his disguise. Nobody seemed to suspect anything. He was anonymous as far as he could tell. The woman served him a coffee and a Pliatsky cake. The man ate it, paid her, then left. The city was bustling today, people went about their business with a spring in their step. People laughed and joked. Life was good. He knew that all this came at a price. He walked around another three blocks and then turned into Kiev’s Dubky Park.

  Vasyl, the Father of the Nation, sat on the appointed bench and waited.

  She entered the Park from the North end of Saratovska Street and walked up to the third bench, and sat next to him.

  He handed her a coffee in its disposable cup; he sipped one himself.

  “How are you today?”

  “I’m good, Vasyl. I slept well and the sun is shining, all’s well with my world.”

  “I read that you were dead, Yana. Found floating in the Potomac.” He smiled at her. “You’re looking well, to say that you’re dead.”

  “It had to be done I suppose. Who was it? The dead person?”

  “I’ve no idea Yana. I left that to The Sluzhba Bezpeky Ukrayiny. It’s the secret service’s sort of thing. Probably a dead drug addict, I suppose.” He took another sip of coffee. “You did well. The Russians are humbled and have pulled back into the Eastern Ukraine. One day we’ll push them from there too. But for now, we are saved. Our nation is ours, The Black Sea is open again. We tricked them. We thwarted their plans.” He smiled at her. “Now that you’re dead Yana, you can serve your country all the more. The Russians think you’re one of theirs now; that we killed you in revenge. Or that we tried to do but failed, and you killed someone to frame your own death. We’ll see that they find evidence that it was the latter. They’ll be pleased to find one of their own is still alive. The Kievan Unit has great things for you to do. Great things.” Vasyl grinned. “In the meantime, you need a break. Here, take this.” He handed her an envelope. “In it, you’ll find a ticket, booking details and a credit card. There’ll be instructions and a location where you’ll meet your contact. Enjoy your trip, Yana. And thanks.”

  SHE WALKED DOWN THE dusty path by the beach. The Bahamas. It had been a surprise, why here? Yana didn’t mind, she’d over two weeks here. He’d said it was a break. Just one meeting and that was it. Freedom; she smiled. She walked by a group of palm shrubs and there it was, The Red Sailfish bar, that was where her contact would be. She pushed the door open, walked in and ordered a Red Stripe beer. The inside was nautical style with sea fishing trimmings. Hooks, nets, gaffs. Photographs of men with large fish suspended from hooks.

  “Hi, Yana, better than a forest cabin.”

  She turned. There he stood, in shorts and a yellow frayed tee shirt. Bare muscled arms. He grinned.

  “Nathan! What are you doing here?” she tried hard to suppress her grin.

  “I have a message for you. It’s from Langley.” He handed her a letter.

  “I’ll read it later. Why did they ask you to pass it to me?”

  “You know me I guess? And I have some free time now.”

  She raised her eyebrows.

  “I have two weeks leave before I report to Naval Submarine school at Groton for the Prospective Commanding Officer course.” He smiled. “They might give me my own boat someday.”

  “So Nathan, we both have time off? Let’s make the most of it.”

  She walked over, they kissed and............

  HMS HOLY GHOST.

  AUTHOR’S NOTES:-

  I’ve used some licence here to frame the story, my apologies to anyone taking exception to these inaccuracies.

  THE KILO CLASS HAS been in Russian service since 1980 but Iran didn’t receive its first boat, the Tareg until 1991.

  ONLY IN RECENT YEARS, have Women been allowed to serve on Royal Navy submarines.

  THE ORIGINAL HOLY GHOST may have been found in a Solent mud bank. Timbers of a ship have been seen protruding from the mud at very low tide. It matches the size and proportions of the Holy Ghost and lies where the ship should be, as old documents state. Tests on its timbers are being carried out. At the time of writing, it’s expected to be Henry V’s flagship.

  Chapter 1

  Margaret tap tapped away on the new electric typewriter, she knew they were an improvement on the old mechanical ones, but she missed hers. She’d even asked him if she could go back to one. The First Sea Lord had refused. “Times have changed Margaret.” The sun streamed in through tall Georgian windows and backlit the finished order as she held the paper up. She read through it, carefully checking for errors. That’s it, perfect. She frowned as she read it. As PA to the First Sea Lord Sir Arthur Beaumont she’d done well. He’d a reputation for being difficult but she’d got on with him. He liked things a certain way and as long as it was done that way, then fine. She walked over to his office door and knocked softly. There was a muffled “Come in.” She opened the door, he sat reading a document behind a large desk. A number of faded gold-framed paintings of historical naval actions adorned the walls. On his desk was a model of a world war two Corvette.

  “Sir, I typed up your release and commissioning order, would you like to check the work before I issue them?” She handed them over and stood by.

  “Thanks.” He read them over carefully.

  “That’s it Margaret, good. Get them off to Northwood.”

  “I have a question, Sir.” He looked up at her.

  “The new Trafalgar class nuclear submarine. Why’s it called Holy Ghost Sir? It’s an odd name for a ship.”

  He sat back in his chair and smiled.

  “A submarine is a boat, not a ship. You could be keel hauled in the submarine service for calling one a ship. As she’s different from a regular Trafalgar class, she’s an enhancement. I decided her name wouldn’t begin with a T. I’m a student of history, so she’s named after Henry V’s flagship in the hundred years war between England and France. That was back in the thirteen and fourteen hundreds.”

  “I see, Sir. I thought you’d gone all born again.” He laughed.

  “No, it’s time we had a new boat with that name. Don’t you think it’s a good name for a submarine?”

  “Yes Sir, they like to keep out of the way, sneaking around.” He nodded and grinned, “You’re learning.”

  “I’ll send them off Sir,” she left his office with a smirk.

  HMS HOLY GHOST TOOK her first taste of the sea at Barrow in Furness. She completed her shakedown cruise and was commissioned into the fleet under the command of Captain Luke MacArthur. She’s an upgraded Trafalgar class nuclear hunter-killer, an SSN. The Ghost as she’s known in the Navy is the most powerful submarine in the world.

  HMNB DEVONPORT. PLYMOUTH. England.

  “HOW IS HE TODAY?” THE petty officer sat at her desk outside Vice Admiral Speed’s office.

  “He’s fine Sir. He’s his usual self, you know how he is?” Luke MacArthur nodded. He knew that meant irascible, anchor faced and impatient. Luke was forty-two, brown hair, p
iercing grey eyes.

  “Would you like a tea Sir while you’re waiting?”

  “Yes, thanks.” She got up, turned and walked over to the kettle putting an extra sway to her hips, hoping that the handsome submarine Captain would notice. She’d seen him around the base, and more than a few of her colleagues had said they wouldn’t kick him out of bed. She passed him the tea.

  “Thanks.” A couple of minutes later the Admiral’s door opened.

  “Right, MacArthur let’s get started, and Penny bring me a brew in too.”

  “Sir.” He walked into the Admiral’s office. The right-hand wall was covered with a copy of Turner's fighting Temeraire. On a table to the left was a model of HMS Newcastle.

  “Sit,” Luke sat in a large leather chair the Admiral sat on the edge of his desk.

  “You know the situation.” There was a knock at the door. “Come in.” The petty officer carried in two teas on a tray and placed them on his desk.

  “I made two brews Sir,” she used the Admiral’s Northern term for a tea or coffee, “and there are some choccy biccies too.”

  “Thanks Penny.” She left the room.

  “I’ve got your orders and tasking here. But first, they think we’re deploying in four days, can the Ghost sail tomorrow night?”

  “We’re still waiting for the medical officer, I’m told he’s probably OK Sir, skiing accident. He still needs clearance.”

  “I knew you’d say that. He’s worse than you think. He’ll be AWOL. I’ve got a replacement lined up. She was on the Glamorgan, she’s only completed part of her submarine orientation. She’s well recommended though. Here’s her file.” He took the file. Lieutenant Pearl Turner, last posting HMS Glamorgan. He scanned her records all looked in order.