Nuke Zone c-11

by Keith Douglass

  In a few minutes, they would all know what Skeeter knew–that USS La Salle was no longer a Navy combat vessel but merely a silent, dead hulk.

  0450 Local

  TFCC

  USS Jefferson

  “They got it!” Gator crowed. He turned to face the admiral. “Right smack on. That Aegis must have-“

  He broke the sentence off as he studied the admiral’s face.

  The admiral had the microphone for the command circuit in his hand and was doggedly, quietly, and desperately calling up Shiloh and La Salle.

  Gator stared at the speaker as though trying to make it answer.

  The normal background electronic hum was noticeably louder, and spiked with violent electronic peaks. Electrons chittered all over the electromagnetic spectrum, violently roiling in the aftermath of the weapon.

  “Admiral?” Gator said finally, a note of uncertainty in his voice. “I thought the Aegis shot it down.”

  Batman replaced the handset in its metal bracket holder. “I don’t think so.”

  A look of deep agony settled on his face. “No, I don’t think they got it at all. Every communications circuit we’ve got is blanked out by full-spectrum electromagnetic distortion. There’s only one kind of weapon that does that. And I never thought I’d see it used. It hasn’t been–not since Hiroshima.”

  0600 Local

  MiG 42

  The Crimean Peninsula

  The fog was thicker at the boundary between land and sea, obscuring the Naval Aviation base and the two long runways that ran east to west along the northern portion. Yuri vectored in along the tactical radial, switching to approach-control frequency as he entered controlled airspace.

  At the same time, he secured the stealth gear. His superiors had decided to continue normal activities on the base, and at this hour of the morning the first routine training flights were already cluttering the approaches.

  He heard several startled exclamations over the ground-control frequency as he popped into being on their radar scopes, but there were no suspicious inquiries or demands for explanations. He smiled slightly, imagining the consternation that the Psychological Services officer–the new term for a zampolit–would be causing in the control tower.

  He requested approach instructions and received priority clearance into base, as he knew he would. Five minutes later, the Foxhound alighted gracefully on the tarmac and rolled smoothly to a stop.

  Yuri paused for a moment, his engines still turning, at the far end of the runway. Even on the ground, he still had the sensation of freedom, and these were the last few moments of it before he returned to the control of his superiors.

  The mission–he mentally ran through his actions and decided that the entire evolution had been executed exactly according to instructions. Even if it hadn’t been, he would have reported it as such–there would be no excuses, could be none. Finally satisfied with his version of the events, he took one last, long deep breath of the purified and filtered air circulating in the cockpit, tasting the oddly sterile flavor of it. Then, using his nose-wheel steering gear, he executed a precision turn toward the flight center and the group of men waiting there.

  0800 Local

  Flag Briefing Room

  USS La Salle

  “There was nothing else you could have done, sir,” OS3 Carey insisted. “Nothing.”

  Skeeter stared at the clutter arrayed on the table. The last hour had been an inquisition, a demanding professional look at every second of time from the moment he detected the incoming aircraft to the attack. The admiral’s questions had been pointed and direct, the Chief of Staff openly accusatory. Maybe that was not what the admiral had intended, but it certainly sounded like it if you were the individual doing the answering.

  In the end, the admiral had concluded that his performance at TAO had been inadequate, and had ordered the COS to place a letter of reprimand in his service jacket.

  Not good enough. He hadn’t made the grade.

  Paper charts and tracing paper cluttered the table in front of him, and the entire control of the flag battle group had shifted to ancient methods men had used for centuries to sail these waters. They were moving in closer to the coast of Greece, waiting for instructions on their next port call for repairs. Work crews scampered over the superstructure, trying desperately to resurrect any bit of combat capability left in the shattered gear. Deep in the bowels of the ship, some of the spare electronic components had survived, and the engineering officer and combat-systems officer had said they thought they might be able to jury-rig a rudimentary Furuno radar and one radio circuit in the clear. Secure, encrypted communications were out of the question. The radio components were stored too far above the waterline to have survived.

  Shiloh was in better shape. The Aegis cruiser had been specially hardened to withstand EMP, and most of her vital combat circuitry was located well below the waterline. According to the helo that had ferried her XO over ten minutes earlier, she’d have to replace some exterior antennas, but would probably be fully operational within a matter of hours.

  Shiloh would be coordinating the medical evacuation of the flash-blinded lookouts and other casualties, including the bridge watch-standers from both ships, as soon as she could raise Jefferson to provide a helo.

  “I should have…” Skeeter’s voice trailed off, uncertain and wavering. He stared down at the paper, the lines delineating the Aegean Islands and surrounding waters blurring as his eyes drifted out of focus, clouded with tears. “I should have-” he tried again, searching within himself for an adequate definition of how he’d failed the ship.

  “You couldn’t have.” Carey was emphatic. “He stayed outside of our engagement zone, and there was enough ambiguity in the situation that anyone might have made the same decisions. You did your best.”

  Skeeter finally looked up at him. “It wasn’t good enough.”

  2

  Monday, 3 September

  0400 Local

  Washington, D.C

  Even at this early hour, the Beltway was a diamond necklace of headlights. Unmoving headlights. The attack on USS La Salle had occurred late evening Washington time, and by 0400 all roads leading into the Pentagon were tied up in what amounted to rush-hour traffic.

  Rear Admiral Matthew “Tombstone” Magruder throttled his cherry GTO into neutral and set the parking brake. The traffic ahead of him had not moved in ten minutes, and he was tired of holding the powerful engine in check with the brakes. He’d spent too many hours restoring and maintaining the car over the last twenty years to take for granted the possibility of obtaining spare parts for any component in it.

  Hot-and-cold-running admirals–you hear it all the time but you don’t believe it until something like this happens. Every flag staff on every deck and ring is busting ass to get in the office and show the Old Man how on top of things they are. Politicians, half of them. Wonder how much time they spend thinking about the men and women out there on the front line.

  For Tombstone, the question was more than academic.

  The Mediterranean was one part of the world he knew well, particularly this small corner of it. In earlier years, as CAG of Carrier Air Wing 20 on board the USS Jefferson, he’d taken his men and women into harm’s way to give air support to UN forces involved in a civil war. It had been about this time of year too–no, wait, a little later. (Carrier 7: Afterburn) October and November, if memory served. The water had taken on an icy sheen as winter approached, a harder, more brilliant shade of blue. The islands themselves were still green, basking in the warm waters that eddied and flowed around them as they had since the days of the Peloponnesian Wars. And the entrance to the Black Sea itself–the narrow funnel of Bosphorus that opened into what the Russians had once considered their own private lake.

  Not that Turkey had agreed. He grimaced at the memory. The Battle of Kerch as it was now called had ended with a clear victory for the American battle group and the Marine expeditionary unit that accompanied them.

&
nbsp; However, the odds of maintaining a permanent peace among the nations bordering the Black Sea seemed slight. To the north, there was Ukraine. Once a part of the Soviet Union, this newly independent state was suffering the ravages of decades of Communist rule. Its people were an odd mixture of European and Asian cultures. It was also the home of the legendary Cossacks he’d confronted so recently in the Aleutian Islands. (Carrier 9: Arctic Fire)

  In that conflict, he’d found that the legendary savagery of their warriors had not been exaggerated.

  The recent political maneuverings between Ukraine and Russia gave him no reason to feel confident about the Black Sea nation’s future.

  Politically and culturally, the two nations were close. Russia had already provided some evidence of her determination to re-form the former Soviet Union, albeit encompassing a slightly smaller area. Belarus had already been reabsorbed into the Russian hegemony, and Ukraine appeared to be not far behind. Despite Ukraine’s protestations of democracy and prayers at the altar of capitalism, the tenets of socialism were too deeply ingrained in its culture for anyone to expect any miracles.

  The other nations surrounding the Black Sea were just as worrisome.

  Turkey held the southern coast of the Black Sea, and for that reason had been for years the recipient of massive American foreign aid. The pundits in Washington called her the gatekeeper to the back door of the Mediterranean, and permanent military missions as well as ongoing technical support were a routine part of the relationships between the two nations.

  However, like many nations in the region, Turkey was moving away from the centered, global approach to politics and toward a hard-line fundamentalist Islamic approach. With it came the ever-so-subtle realignment of attitudes. While formal treaties and alliances remained in place, in recent years Turkey had begun to view American support as an unwanted and unwelcome intrusion. Not the money, not the technology–just the influx of Western culture. As a result, Turkey appeared to be moving away from the Western world and reestablishing her ties with Iraq and Iran.

  Finally, the west coast of the Black Sea. Bulgaria and Romania shared that coast, and both had substantial ties to Ukraine.

  And Greece. The ancient nation, with its smattering of islands and reefs, comprised the western border of the Aegean Sea, the entrance to the Black Sea, while Turkey held the east. Since ancient times, the Aegean Sea had been a naval battleground of renown. Through the Aegean and into the Black Sea via the Bosphorus was a trade route as old as history could record, and it had been the site of the final battles between the Greek and Roman empires.

  No, there was no reason to be surprised that trouble was brewing again in this part of the world. History has a memory, and those lessons that nations failed to learn they were doomed to repeat.

  The car ahead of him moved forward several feet. Tombstone pulled the gearshift back to Drive and closed the gap between them. Traffic stopped again. He sighed and reset the parking brake. No sense in wasting time.

  He reached across the well-cared-for vinyl seat and drew a small notebook out of his briefcase. “At least some skills you learn as an aviator come in useful later,” he remarked aloud, more to keep himself company than for any other reason. “Keep up the scan–that’s the first rule.”

  He positioned the legal pad on his lap and began making notes, shifting his gaze between the paper and the traffic ahead.

  Thirty minutes later, following a check of his ID card by the Marine guard, Tombstone pulled into his designated parking spot near the main entrance to the Pentagon. At the entrance, he went through another ID check line, which included a check of his briefcase. The Marine Corps guard was polite, formal, but doggedly thorough.

  When he finally reached his temporary office, it was almost 0500. The rabbit warren of temporary offices and cubicles that comprised the floating working staff of the Chief of Naval Operations was already lit, with at least half of the spaces occupied.

  Tombstone parked his briefcase in the private office he’d been assigned for the duration of his temporary duty, and headed for the Chief of Staff’s office. Not surprisingly, the captain was already in.

  “Morning, sir,” the Chief of Staff said. Tombstone noted he already looked drawn and haggard. How long would it be before he looked the same way himself?

  Not long, he suspected. Along with every other officer assigned to the Pentagon, Tombstone would be living at his desk or in the command center until this crisis was resolved.

  And as for Tomboy–her recall to her squadron had come only moments after his own notification of the incident in the Aegean Sea. Her flight back to Pax River would leave at 0700. Any chance they’d had of stealing some time away from their busy careers for each other had vanished as quickly as that unknown contact had blipped onto La Salle’s radar.

  “Is he in?” Tombstone asked, gesturing toward the Chief of Naval Operations’ office after acknowledging the Chief of Staff’s greeting.

  The Chief of Staff nodded. “He just got back from the JCS briefing. I’ll let him know you’re here.”

  Tombstone paused outside the paneled door, wondering how many other nephews in the world had to be announced in to see their favorite uncles.

  Not many. But then again, not many uncles were Chief of Naval Operations, one of the most powerful positions inside the Pentagon.

  The captain replaced the telephone receiver and gestured toward the door. “He’s got a few minutes, Admiral.”

  A small frown crossed his face.

  “I need him back in ten, if that’s convenient for you.”

  “Having trouble keeping him on schedule?” Tombstone asked.

  The Chief of Staff shrugged. “Well, he’s been better than most, but you know how it is–any problems that reach his desk are tough ones. In the last six months he’s been here, he’s never had to make one single easy decision. And now…”

  Tombstone nodded. “And now it just got tougher. I’ll do what I can, Captain.”

  Tombstone turned the knob on the heavy door, tapped lightly, and shoved it open. He took one step into the room and waited for his uncle’s greeting.

  “Stoney,” Admiral Thomas Magruder said. “Come on in.”

  He gestured at the piles of ubiquitous red folders already crowding the edge of the credenza. “I was looking for you. Come on, have a seat.”

  He pointed at the leather chair positioned in front of the desk.

  “Good morning, sir. What can I do for you?”

  The CNO grimaced. “You can tell me why the hell the Turks took a shot at us, for starters. And after that, explain the theory of general relativity, the quantum physics in a black hole, and what the hell it is that women really want from us. Is that enough for starters?”

  His uncle’s wry, self-deprecating voice coupled with his self-assured gestures touched something ancient in Tombstone. It was a feeling of deja vu, as though he–

  Of course. His father. Tombstone’s father, like most of the Magruder men, a Navy pilot.

  Tombstone stirred uneasily in his chair, uncomfortable with the memories that came flooding back. He’d been young, so young, the last time he’d seen his father. Could he even have comprehended at that age that it would be the last time?

  Military service was more than a career choice for a Magruder. It was a way of life, the hard lessons and dangers that came with it the backbone of their family traditions. His grandfather had served on Nimitz’s staff during World War II. His great-great-grandfather had commanded one of Farragut’s monitors at Mobile Bay. His father and the man sitting behind the massive desk had continued the tradition, both attending the Naval Academy. They’d both been fast-tracked–both, at least, until his father had been shot down above the Doumer Bridge in downtown Hanoi in the summer of 1969. Sam Magruder had finally been listed as killed in action, and the family had long since given up hope that he was still alive.

  “I’m relieving Sixth Fleet,” the CNO said bluntly, interrupting his nephew’s reverie. He fixed Tom
bstone with that somber, unreadable stare that all of the Magruder men possessed. His slate-gray eyes, a shade lighter than Tombstone’s, revealed no trace of emotion.

  “Loss of confidence?” Tombstone asked, referring to the standard Navy reason for relieving officers of command absent cause for disciplinary action.

  “Yes. The early reports indicate he damn near pulled a Stark,” the senior admiral said.

  Stark. One of the most critical failures of naval leadership in the last several decades. Coupled with the USS Vincennes shoot-down of an Iranian airbus, the two incidents neatly book-ended the delicate line a commander was required to walk between caution and recklessness.

  In the case of the Stark, an Iranian P3 Charlie in an overflight had approached the vast frigate in a threatening posture. The Stark’s TAO had treated it as a routine mission, relying on their past experience with Iranian maritime patrols. The captain, in fact, had been in the head during the actual first attack on Stark.

  Closing to within tactical range, the Iranian P3 had fired an antiship missile at the USS Stark. With the close-in weapons systems masked by her aspect to the attack, the Stark hadn’t had a chance. The missile had plowed into the ship’s midsection. The resulting explosion had killed a number of men, and the Stark herself had managed to stay afloat only through the superb professionalism and damage control of the remainder of her crew.

  “How bad is La Salle?” Tombstone asked. “The EMP is something we’ve been worried about for a long time. Were there any personnel casualties?”

  The CNO sighed. “It’s bad. Real bad, I suspect. Every bit of electronic circuitry on the ship is fried. She’s underway–just barely–en route to Gaeta for full damage assessment.”

  He shook his head gravely.

  “We’re looking at a full refit of all combat systems, of every bit of twidget equipment on board La Salle. Fortunately, Shiloh’s EMP hardening worked like it was supposed to, and Jefferson was out of range. We’ve got fifty-one sailors with either complete or partial loss of vision from the nuke flash. Which brings us to the critical question–why?”