The ‘wine dark sea’ was Homer’s poetic description for the deep burgundy stillness that falls upon the waters of the sea at sunset. Achilles was said to have looked upon it as he mourned the loss of his beloved Patroclus, killed by Hector before the gates of Troy. Achilles would have been gazing at the Aegean, but as Captain MacRae looked west that evening, the calm waters of the Black Sea seemed a blood red merlot, deepening to shadowy black on the horizon. The sea belies itself, he thought. If Morgan is right on this one, we’ll have trouble soon, and more than we need.
Mack had sent up an Intelligence decrypt indicating that the Russian Black Sea Escadra was about to sortie—bad news for Fairchild & Company at a time like this.
He watched as the sun fattened over the water, the sky a wash of crimson and charcoal gray. MacRae was standing with his executive officer, Commander William Dean, and they were watching the long range returns on the Sampson AESA Radar system for any sign of what Morgan had warned. It was an active electronically scanned array that could broadcast a strong signal spread out over the band so effectively that it seemed little more than background noise to other receivers. The radar was mounted atop the tall, fully enclosed mainmast that had been characteristic of the Type 45 destroyer, and Argos Fire was exactly that.
The Sampson array sat in a great white ball at the top of the main mast, rotating inside at 30 revolutions per minute. The AESA technology allowed it to generate many more sub-beams than a typical radar set, and therefore track many more targets at one time. It also changed frequency with each pulse sent out and could send a rainbow of varied frequencies out in a single beam. In effect, it had powerful detection capabilities while remaining difficult to intercept by other radar listening devices and highly resistant to jamming.
Positioned high above the sea, it also provided excellent coverage against any low level target while extending the overall horizon distance. It could therefore range out to 400 kilometers, all the way up the Black Sea coast to the big Russian naval base at Novorossiysk. MacRae didn’t like what he saw there on the signal returns.
“I’m getting multiple contacts now,” said Radar man Haley. “ Yes, sir. It looks like they’re getting ASW helos up off their frigates. I’d say Morgan was correct. The fleet is putting out to sea.”
“As will we in short order,” said MacRae, looking at his wrist watch. The loading operation had been underway for some time, and went faster than expected. Authorities at the terminal were initially prone to haggle, producing reams of administrative paperwork and sending over requests for verification of letters of credit. The Terminal was principally a British Petroleum project established at the turn of the century, but was now 100% nationalized by the Georgian State. A half hour later they were much more cooperative. MacRae had dispatched two squads of Argonauts, the elite commando that served the interests of the ship, and the Fairchild Corporation. The men fanned out to secure the four big storage tanks the fiscal metering station, with a special detail assigned to guard the central control room and export loading system.
The three Fairchild tankers were docked well offshore, and the export system was a series of diesel driven pumps that moved crude oil from the storage tanks through the export meter, and then into a 36 inch pipeline that extended over 5 kilometers to a securing buoy off shore. Here there were several 20 inch floating hoses that would connect to the waiting tankers. It was soon clear that Elena Fairchild would have her oil, one way or another, and the loading procedure had been underway for a little over three hours before the trouble began.
The Georgian Terminal Export official’s new found smile had been little more than a thin veil. He had apparently made a call to the coast guard base at Poti, and Haley soon reported he had a close signal return of a small craft approaching the loading zone.
“What have we got, Mister Haley?” MacRae was at his side again.
Haley had been checking his database and was quick to answer. “Georgian Coast Guard patrol craft, a single boat, Grif Class. Forty-eight tonner. It’s small, fast, but not much of a threat. It has an eleven man crew with two twin 12.7mm machine gun turrets, manually operated. That’s all the bite they have.”
“Well that may not impress the two of us,” said MacRae, “but I wouldn’t want them raking the hull of any of our little princesses out there with those guns.”
“Aye, sir.”
They could hear the distant whine of a siren as the patrol craft bravely rushed to the scene. MacRae wanted them on the radio and moments later he was speaking with the boat’s skipper.
“Top of the morning,” he said calmly. “Captain Gordon MacRae, Fairchild Enterprises, aboard corporate HQ Argos Fire here. How may we assist you?”
There was a brief pause before the return call came. “Good morning, Captain. I have received a call from the Georgian Export Ministry and it seems that we have instructions to close this terminal. You will have to cease loading operations at once. Over.”
MacRae raised an eyebrow. Elena Fairchild would not stand for that in any wise, so he decided to explain the situation. “See here,” he began. “We’ve proper letters of credit, all approved in the last twenty four hours. We’ve export credits that are more than adequate for the tonnage involved. Our operation is well underway and we have a tight schedule to meet.”
“That may be so, Captain, but I have my orders. You will have to cease operations and move your tankers off shore beyond the ten kilometer marker. Over.”
MacRae looked over his shoulder at his XO, Commander Dean. “He’s not much impressed by our paperwork, Mister Dean.”
“It doesn’t sound like it, sir.”
“Well, I’m not much impressed by his twin MG mounts either. I think we’ll just continue with the operation and ignore this situation for the moment. Let’s see if he’s prepared to press the matter.”
They watched as the boat approached. “Those were once KGB boats, were they not, Mister Haley?”
“I believe so, sir. They were taken over by the old Georgian Navy and then folded into the Coast Guard.”
“Anything else they might send our way?”
“No, sir. They had two missile boats, Dioskura and Tiblisi, but they’re sitting at the bottom of the bay at Poti up north. The Russians beat up what was left of the force pretty bad in that scrap they had with Georgia in 2008. They have a total of five of these boats left, and a couple P-24 fast attack boats they bought from Turkey. Both those are at Batumi, sir.”
Another radio call came in from the boat, this time more insistent. “Captain MacRae, we have no word that you are ready to comply with our instructions. I must insist you terminate your operation at once.”
MacRae wanted to be careful here. The pipeline that fed the four big storage tanks at the terminal stretched all the way through Georgian territory to Baku in Azerbaijan. It could be interdicted at any of a hundred points along that line. Furthermore, Georgia was an ally of the West, though a skittish one at the moment with the Russians breathing down their neck again. There had to be political considerations here, and MacRae wanted to know more.
“Get Mack Morgan on the line,” he said to Dean, and a moment later he had his Intelligence Chief, asking him about the situation on a secure line.
“Sorry for the surprise, Captain,” said Mack. “It seems the Russians are leaning on the Georgian Government pretty hard and threatening intervention if they don’t shut down all oil terminal exports on this line.”
“This is starting to paint a pretty black picture, Mack. The BTC line is down, the Straits of Hormuz are closed, there’s trouble at Kashagan and they’ve even hit the big platforms in the Gulf of Mexico. This is the last major line open and we’re sucking on the damn thing for all its worth. The only other crude source open would be Nigeria.”
“No question about it, Gordie. The Russians have sent in border guard detachments to all the outposts on the frontier in Abkhazia. There’s activity at the military garrison in Sochi up north, and a motorized column is
heading that way from Novorossiysk. We just got word that the 2nd Georgian Infantry Brigade has orders to deploy to Supsa and Poti to deter any further movement into Georgian territory, and they’re going to be in our hair soon enough.”
“Is this a private fight, or can anybody get in on it?” MacRae repeated the old Irish barroom challenge.
“We’re going to be right in the thick of things if the situation deteriorates,” said Morgan. “That infantry brigade could be sending a full battalion to secure these facilities according to one source on the ground here. We haven’t confirmed that yet, but it’s something to consider.”
“A wee bit more than the Argonauts can manage. How soon will they get here?”
“Three hours, maybe four. There’s a bridge they need to cross just a few klicks inland on the river. We still have an X-3 aboard and could get men out there if you know what I’m thinking.”
“I do indeed,” MacRae smiled.
“The river runs north of the terminal. We get that bridge and the one here over the estuary at the mouth of the river and we’ve got the place, lock, stock and oil barrel.”
“I’ve already got a full squad on the estuary bridge. I’ll take your advice, Mack, but this could get delicate. All they have to do is cut the flow on this line and they can choke off that oil any time. Then we’re limited to what we have in the tanks here.”
“Six holding tanks, 40,000 tons per tank,” said Mack. “That’s just under 300,000 barrels per tank—almost two million barrels on hand at the moment, enough to top off both our tankers here.”
“We’ve half of that aboard Princess Angelina already. I just need time to load Princess Marie, that’s all. Is there any way we can block that bridge up river without blowing the damn thing to hell?”
“Leave that to me, Gordie. I’ll handle it with the X-3.”
“Get you a case of beer for that one, Mack. Get to it.”
“Aye, sir.”
MacRae signed off and crossed his arms, grinning at the Georgian patrol craft now circling in the waters between Argos Fire and the loading operation servicing Princess Angelina. “What are they doing out there, waving at us, Mister Haley?”
“I think they’re getting a little impatient, sir.”
Dean cut in. “Look there…They’ve rotated that forward MG turret our way, sir.”
“Have they?” MacRae, reached for his field glasses, observing the patrol craft for a moment. The radio chattered again, and the heavily accented English from the patrol boat seemed more insistent. “Argos Fire, Argos Fire. Prepare to be boarded. Over.”
“Prepare to be boarded? Tell them we have no time to receive them at the moment. And make it clear, Mister Haley.”
“Aye, sir.” Haley sent a firmly worded response, but the patrol craft edged closer, and now sounded its siren, as though the sound alone would be sufficient to enforce its will in the situation. Argos Fire was a big ship, but the re-design had cleverly hidden all her potent weaponry. The Iron Duke was well away from the scene, thirty kilometers to the north with Princess Irene, so MacRae reasoned this Coast Guard unit thought they were simply dealing with a civilian vessel, and that the two twin MG mounts at their disposal were a significant enough of an advantage to intimidate the bigger ship, the only military caliber weapons in play.
“Captain of the Argos Fire,” came the radio call again. “If you do not comply with our orders at once we will be forced to take stronger measures.”
“Listen to that man, Mister Dean. He’s already forgotten my name, and his ‘instructions’ have now become orders. Very impolite, wouldn’t you say?”
“Indeed, sir.”
“I think we might give him a peek at what he’s dealing with here. We wouldn’t want him to make a mistake he’ll soon come to regret. Raise the forward deck gun and show him the muzzle.”
“Aye, sir. Mister Conners, if you please.”
Connors was the Weapons Systems Operator, and he quickly complied, toggling a switch on his panel. “Forward turret active and ready, sir.”
They heard the deck panels sliding open and the hydraulics lifting the turret into view. It was a modified BAE Mark 8 naval gun in an angled stealth turret using a new barrel and breech designed for the AS-90 self-propelled gun in the British Army. Fairchild had purchased one on a special order and implemented a BAE plan to up-gun the older Mark 8 turret with this newer 155mm third generation maritime fire support system. The sleek barrel rotated smoothly to bear on the advancing patrol craft, gleaming in the rosy light of the setting sun. MacRae took hold of his radio handset and decided he would explain things.
“Georgian Coast Guard,” he began, his tone formal and firm. “I regret to inform you that we are unable to terminate loading at this time and cannot allow boarding of this ship under any circumstances. Any attempt to do so will be opposed. This is a special operation sanctioned by the British government, so I advise you to stand clear of our loading zone. I have orders to secure and protect all at-sea assets here, and I will not hesitate to do so if you interfere. And you might have a look at our forward deck if you think I’m talking through my beer foam. Over.”
MacRae was looking through his field glasses again, and saw a man in naval whites emerge from the pilot house of the patrol boat arms on his hips as he stared at the Argos Fire. He made a frustrated gesture and the siren cut off. The patrol boat slowed, still cruising about a thousand yards from the Argos, but now diverted from its threatening advance.
Soon the sound of the X-3 helo cut through the stillness of the oncoming night as the helicopter lifted from the aft deck and smartly pivoted about. Mack Morgan was aboard with five Argonauts, and MacRae smiled when he saw the helo sweep out and hover just off the bow of the Georgian patrol boat, the heavy downwash of his props flattening the water around the boat and sending up a sheet of white wet spray. MacRae was back on the radio.
“Georgian Coast Guard,” he said. “To prevent any further misunderstanding, that’s a 4000 RPM mini-gun in the nose of that chopper, and that big baby out on my forward deck is a 155mm QF naval battery. Now, my radar man here tells me you’ve got a whole lot of trouble up north in the Russian Black Sea fleet. Let’s not have a squabble among friends here. I’d much rather stand with you than against you if they come south, but I have my orders. Understood?”
This time there was silence from the other end of the line, and MacRae folded his arms, smiling. “I think they got the message.”
Part VIII
The Demon
“What, if some day or night a demon were to steal after you into your loneliest loneliness and say to you: ‘This life as you now live it and have lived it, you will have to live once more and innumerable times more’… Would you not throw yourself down and gnash your teeth and curse the demon who spoke thus?”
~ Friedrich Nietzsche
Chapter 22
“Bear Hunt!” Rodenko exclaimed. “They’re sending fighters after our A-50Us.”
That got Karpov’s attention immediately. Bear hunt was the old warning call from the days when the Bear-D turboprop was Russia’s long range recon asset. The handle stuck, even though the old Bears were now sleeping quietly in their caves for a long hibernation with mothballs. Fighters vectoring in on the A-50-U AEW planes would be the opening notes in the symphony that was about to be played, the harsh clash of cymbals to sound the thunder that would soon follow. He was quickly at Rodenko’s side.
“What do we have down there?”
“Black Bear has a Mig-29 off Kuznetsov in escort here,” Rodenko pointed, but it’s getting hungry for fuel by now. Red Bear is all alone further east. They were tasked to keep an eye on Nimitz. No threat there at the moment.”
“Get Black Bear out of there,” said Karpov, his eyes narrowing. “It seems our Captain Tanner is not going to honor our little agreement.”
“It could be a bluff, sir,” Rodenko suggested.
“We’ll know that soon enough.” Karpov turned to Nikolin. “Signal Naval HQ
Fokino. Call Sign Bear Hunt.” Karpov had spent some time huddling with Admiral Volsky before the fleet left Vladivostok, and Volsky had assured him his ships would not be alone. The Fleet Naval Air Arm was going to have bombers waiting in racetrack orbits with aerial refueling tankers, and from the moment Karpov had concluded his tentative negotiation, these planes were ordered up and ready to support the fleet if called upon. By signaling Bear Hunt, Karpov was telling the Admiral the Americans were beginning their attack. There was no other way to interpret the deliberate advance of fighters on his long range AEW assets—not under these circumstances.
Nikolin sent the signal, and minutes later a coded message returned from Fokino. “It’s just two words, sir,” said Nikolin, a bemused look on his face. “Andrei Nikolayevich.”
Karpov smiled. “Andrei Nikolayevich Tupolev, Mister Nikolin. Our TU-22M3 strike bombers are coming.” He thought for a moment, his heart heavy on the one hand as he contemplated the orders he must now give and looked to the hours ahead. The code was Volsky’s authorization to proceed with his plan, yet after the grueling experience on the last several months, seeing the ship in battle, men killed, he was stricken with the gravity of the moment. We did not want the war, he knew, but it is coming to us under the wings and fuselages of those American strike planes. If we have to fight it, then I owe it to the ship, the men, and my country to do all I can to win. The thrum of excitement chased his reservations away. It always came to him when battle stations would sound, one part adrenaline, one part fear, one part an earnest love of the fight. You could not be a man of war and not feel that, he realized. It was time to fight.
Karpov clasped his hands behind his back, eyes narrowing, a posture Rodenko had seen time and time again as he prepared to give the order to engage in combat. He knew what was coming next.
The Captain turned to the log officer. “Let the record indicate that, on orders from Naval Headquarters Fokino I am now engaging the American Carrier Task Group Washington. Captain Vladimir Karpov commanding. Time stamp and record.”
9 Days Falling, Volume I k-5 Page 21
