As the excitement in the bay subsided, the radar operator called again to the captain. “Sir, the unknown targets continue to cross the restricted zone. They will soon be nearing the approach to Sevastopol.”
On the video board, a pair of red triangles cut across the left side of the screen in tandem.
“Radio the fools and tell them they have entered restricted waters and must move thirty kilometers to the south before resuming course to Sevastopol.”
“Yes, sir,” the communications officer said. After several minutes, he reported back to the captain. “Sir, I have relayed the message but have received no response.”
Popov glanced again at the combat screen. The two vessels had not deviated from their course.
The ship’s executive officer studied the image, then approached the captain. “A tow ship, sir?”
“Possibly.” Popov’s joy turned to irritation. “Lay in an intercept course, then request an airborne reconnaissance. I want a visual on her, one way or the other. Keep communications after her as well.”
“Yes, sir,” the exec said. “What’s your wager, sir? That she’s a freighter with a drunken captain or a derelict tug with a bad radio?”
Popov nodded. “In these waters, what else could it be?”
33
“I’ve got a visual,” Giordino said over his radio headset. “About eighty degrees.”
Pitt scanned the expanse of open sea beneath their helicopter and spotted a faint gray object to his right. He pressed the pedals that tilted the rear rotor, sending the Bell OH-58 Kiowa in a slight bank to starboard until the distant speck lined up with the center of the windscreen.
Two hours earlier, they had commandeered the light observation chopper at Bezmer Air Base, west of Burgas. Though Pitt and Giordino’s Air Force flying days were well behind them, both retained qualification to pilot a variety of aircraft. The rigors of flying a helicopter for an extended period hadn’t waned, and Pitt felt his muscles beginning to ache as the chopper reached the limits of its flight range. He established radio contact with the ship ahead and received permission to land as the gray vessel gradually loomed beneath them.
It wasn’t the Macedonia but the U.S. Navy Aegis-class destroyer Truxton that was speeding to the northeast at better than thirty knots. Pitt approached from the stern, where he was guided down to the ship’s flight deck, normally reserved for the vessel’s twin SH-60 Seahawk helicopters. As he shut down the Kiowa’s single engine, the ship’s flight crew rushed over to begin refueling.
Pitt and Giordino climbed out to stretch their legs and were promptly met by a pert blond woman, who extended her hand in greeting. “Mr. Pitt, Mr. Giordino, welcome to the Truxton. I’m Commander Deborah Kenfield, Executive Officer. The ship’s captain sends his greetings from the bridge.”
“Thank you for the stopover and fill-up, Commander,” Pitt said.
“We’re trying to get you as close as we can, but we’re still eighty miles away.”
“Do you know where the Macedonia is right now?” Giordino asked.
“We’re tracking her on the Aegis radar. She’s about ten miles from Sevastopol and creating a bit of a stir.”
“How’s that?” Pitt asked.
“The Russians recently established a restricted sea zone west of Crimea. Presumably, it’s an area where the Russian Navy performs weapons testing and engages in tactical simulations. It seems the Macedonia has sailed into the center of the restricted zone. We’ve picked up some scattered radio communications and it doesn’t sound as if the Russians are too happy.”
“The Macedonia is towing a barge filled with munitions to Sevastopol,” Pitt said, “and the Russians don’t know about it?”
“Not from what we can tell. They’ve identified it as an American vessel but don’t seem to be in direct contact. We’ve informed the Russians that we believe the ship has been hijacked and requested intervention, but they haven’t advised us as to their intent.” The look in Kenfield’s eyes told Pitt there was no reason to expect cooperation.
“Do you think they might sink her?” Giordino asked.
“This close to Ukraine, we believe their missile frigate Ladny will be apt to shoot first and ask questions later. For that reason, the captain has respectfully requested you cancel your flight plans, as the Macedonia has already crossed into their territorial waters.”
Pitt shook his head. “We don’t know if the crew is still aboard.”
The nearby ground crew pulled away their refueling gear and indicated the helicopter was topped up.
“Tell your captain we appreciate his concern,” Pitt said, “but we need to know for certain.”
“He suspected as much,” Kenfield said. She passed him a slip of paper. “The Macedonia’s last coordinates. We’ll do what we can to support you. Good luck.”
“Thanks, Commander.”
Pitt walked over and thanked the Truxton’s flight support crew. When he returned to the helicopter, he found Giordino in the pilot’s seat.
“Sorry, boss, but the Air Force said we had to split seat time for extended flights before they gave us the keys.”
“Guess I didn’t read the fine print,” Pitt said. Glad for the break, he stepped around and climbed into the copilot’s seat.
Giordino lifted off quickly and accelerated toward the Macedonia’s coordinates. Thirty minutes later, they spotted the turquoise research ship with its tow barge. The cloud cover had finally thinned and in the distance they could see the hills of the Crimean Peninsula. To the north they could make out the slim gray figure of the Ladny under speed.
Giordino brought the helicopter in low over the barge, examining the wooden crates packed into the open hold.
Pitt pointed to some crates on the starboard side. “There’s a damaged lid.”
Giordino eased the chopper down until they were hovering just above it. The lid of one crate had been worked loose by the jostling seas, allowing a partial glimpse inside. Both men could make out a row of brass cylindrical objects.
“Yaeger was right,” Pitt said. “She is indeed loaded with munitions.”
“Why would someone steal an oceanographic research ship and use it to haul a barge full of artillery shells to Sevastopol?” Giordino asked.
Pitt shook his head. “For no good reason I can think of.”
Giordino pushed the helicopter’s cyclic control forward, propelling them past the barge and over the water. He followed the tow line to the Macedonia, where he made a wide loop around the ship. No one appeared on deck to watch the thumping chopper skim overhead.
“Must be a skeleton crew,” Giordino said.
“Let’s see who’s on the bridge.”
Giordino eased close alongside the port bridge wing, where they had a clear view inside. The entire bridge was empty.
“No wonder she’s defying the Russians,” Pitt said. “No one’s home. She must be on autopilot.”
“If the crew’s locked belowdecks, that might not be good.”
“Get me aboard,” Pitt said.
Giordino elevated the Bell to better scan the moving ship beneath him. The topsides were an unfriendly maze of cranes, antennas, and radar masts. Moving aft, he pointed to the Macedonia’s submersible, which had been left dangling from a lift crane while under repair. “Not optimal, but if I can get a clear drop over the submersible, you can use it as a ladder.”
“Do it,” Pitt said.
Giordino brought the chopper around the stern and over the submersible, expertly matching speed with the ship.
As he eased the helicopter lower, Pitt rapped him on the arm. “See you in Varna. First beer’s on me.” Pitt tore off his radio headset, opened the side door, and stepped down onto the landing skid.
Despite the rotor wash buffeting off the deck, Giordino held the helicopter rock steady.
Pitt took a short l
eap from the skid, landing atop the submersible while grabbing a lift cable for support.
The helicopter instantly pulled up and away from the ship as Pitt slid down the exterior of the submersible, landing on his feet. He raced forward across the deck and ducked into a covered passageway.
As Giordino watched him disappear, the helicopter radio erupted with a deep voice speaking in heavily accented English. “American vessel Macedonia, this is the warship Ladny. You are instructed to halt for inspection or turn away and exit the restricted zone at once. This is your final warning. Please respond or be fired upon.”
Only silence came from the ship.
34
Popov looked from the large display to a nearby computer monitor, which displayed the distant image of the Macedonia through a long-range video camera. The turquoise ship was plodding through the waves as a green helicopter hovered close behind.
“Sir, the American helicopter has repeated its request not to fire.” The communications officer had translated Giordino’s radio transmission, which was broadcast through the combat information center.
Popov gazed from the camera view to the large screen. “I detect no change in speed or course. Radio the vessel one last time. Tell them to respond at once or be fired upon.”
As the message was relayed to the NUMA ship, the Ladny’s executive officer rushed up to Popov with a slip of paper. “Fleet Headquarters has approved our defense of territorial waters. We may strike at the vessel with discretion.”
Popov read the order, folded the paper, and slipped it into his pocket.
“Status, surface weapons?” he said in a commanding voice.
A weapons officer at a nearby console spoke in a similar tone, as the rest of the combat information center fell quiet. “Sir, forward batteries loaded and armed. Target coordinates have been input to port battery. Torpedoes set to surface running.”
Popov nodded. “Ready, port missile one?”
“Port missile one ready, sir.”
Popov looked at his communications officer. “Any response?”
The officer returned his gaze with a faint shake of the head. “Still no reply, sir.”
The captain took a deep breath. “Fire port missile one.”
“Fire port missile one.”
The weapons specialist’s fingers danced over the console. A loud rushing sound echoed from above and the ship swayed on its keel.
“Port missile one away,” he said.
Popov turned to the turquoise ship displayed on the video monitor and watched for it to disappear.
35
Pitt stepped onto the bridge of the Macedonia to be met by Giordino’s voice blaring through the radio speaker. “Dirk, if you’re there, radio the Ladny that you’re aboard. They’ve got their finger on the trigger.”
“Let’s get her turned around first,” Pitt muttered aloud as Giordino repeated the warning.
He stepped to the helm console and disengaged the autopilot. He set the throttle, then spun the rudder control dial one hundred and eighty degrees to send the ship on a starboard pivot in the opposite direction. As he watched the tip of the bow begin to nudge right, Giordino’s voice blared once more through the radio. This time, his voice had an urgent tone.
“Dirk, I’ve spotted a flash from the Russian ship. They’ve fired! They’ve fired! Get off the ship now!”
Pitt coolly glanced at the radarscope, his brain responding in hyperdrive. He was no stranger to life-or-death situations, and, for him, time seemed to slow in those moments. His mind raced back to a pair of Russian warships they had passed in the Bosphorus a few days earlier. They were aged vessels, at least forty years old, showing rust and poor maintenance. Even the sailors appeared slovenly. It signaled to him that Russia’s frontline Navy, with its most modern ships and weapons, was deployed somewhere other than the Black Sea. That meant he had a chance.
He calculated that he had two, maybe three minutes tops, as his body began to move ahead of his thoughts. He adjusted the rudder controls, then sprinted toward the door, muttering, “Please let it be a torpedo.”
A few seconds later, Giordino brought the helicopter in tight alongside the bridge to give warning. Finding the bridge empty, he elevated the chopper and fell back. Pitt was running across the stern deck toward the submersible.
Giordino swooped in to pick him up, but Pitt waved him off, instead climbing onto the lift crane controls.
With quick precision, Pitt powered up the crane and swung the submersible out over the stern. The sub swayed over the angled tow line pulling the distant barge and splashed into the sea. Pitt reversed the cable spool attached to the lift line, allowing the submersible to fall back of the moving ship. Watching the bobbing submersible recede behind him, he saw the smoky trail of the approaching Russian missile.
He moved to return to the bridge but hesitated when he heard a loud pop. It came from the barge, angled far to Pitt’s left. He noted a small puff of smoke rising from the barge’s stern, then turned and raced to the Macedonia’s bridge.
Five hundred feet above the NUMA ship, Giordino watched Pitt’s defensive measure, then turned to the imminent threat. The incoming missile was skimming above the waves. At a quarter mile away, the missile dropped an object into the water and continued on its flight.
But the missile did not align on the Macedonia after Pitt had changed course. Instead, it flew past the ship and continued toward the horizon, where it would expire harmlessly once its fuel was spent.
So far, Pitt’s luck was holding. The Russians had fired an SS-N-14 Silex missile, whose payload was an underslung torpedo that was dropped near the target. While free of a missile strike, the torpedo was nearly as deadly.
Giordino searched the water for the torpedo, spotting its white-water tail as it bore down on the Macedonia. Pitt had turned the research ship away from the Ladny, so the assault would strike from the stern. Giordino watched helplessly as the homing torpedo locked onto the ship and raced toward its transom. The torpedo seemed to gain speed as it drew closer to the research ship until it struck paydirt—and exploded in a towering cloud of spray and debris.
36
The Ladny’s long-range camera showed an upheaval of sea and white smoke rising high into the air. Popov and his crew seldom had the opportunity to fire live weapons, let alone against an actual opponent. They stared at the video monitor with a mixed sense of wonder and satisfaction. But Popov’s pride turned to confusion as a ghostly image appeared on the screen.
It was the Macedonia, sailing past the dissolving smoke. The NUMA vessel was apparently still charging toward Sevastopol, completely unscathed. Popov looked to the combat screen to affirm he wasn’t seeing things. The red triangles of the two targets were still moving east, though now positioned parallel to each other rather than in tandem.
“What has gone wrong?” Popov yelled.
The executive officer shook his head. “It must have been a premature detonation.”
“Do we have a second missile ready?”
“Port missile two armed and ready,” the weapons officer said.
“Fire port missile two.”
Seconds after the frigate shuddered under the launch, the Ladny’s communications officer turned to Popov with a startled look. “Sir, I’m receiving a call from the American ship.”
“What? Patch it through.”
Pitt’s voice was transmitted through the bay. “Ladny, this is the Macedonia. Thanks for the warm hospitality, but we’ve decided to save Crimea for another vacation. We’ll be departing your restricted zone shortly. Do svidaniya!”
The communications officer turned pale. “Sir, what do I say? The missile has already been launched.”
The weapons officer seated nearby looked at a firing clock. “The torpedo is about to deploy, sir. It’s too late to stop it now.”
Popov turned to the communicati
ons officer with a sober gaze.
“There is nothing to say now,” he said in a low voice. He turned to the exec. “Have the crew stand down.”
• • •
PEERING FROM THE HELM of the Macedonia, Pitt could see the second Silex missile coming at him. He felt only slightly more confident in this second deadly game of chicken. He could tell the Macedonia was faster and more responsive since the barge tow cable had been severed when the first torpedo had struck the submersible tailing behind, exploding well aft of the research ship. And this time he had more than just a tiny submersible to run interference.
Pitt had briefly driven the ship toward the Ladny but now spun the vessel around and away from the oncoming missile. He pushed the Macedonia to full speed as he made for a collision course with the munitions barge. The open tow boat was barely fifty yards ahead, sitting low in the water from its keel-shattering explosion.
“Torpedo’s away,” Giordino said over the bridge radio.
Pitt watched the Silex missile shriek by low overhead after jettisoning its payload. He had just a few seconds for the torpedo’s acoustic homing device to lock onto the rumble of the Macedonia’s engines and rush in for the kill.
The sinking barge loomed off the bow as Giordino radioed him again from his observation point in the sky. “She’s on you. About five hundred meters.”
“Got it. You best fly clear.” Pitt held the helm steady to the last possible second, then cut to his port side, following the current. The turquoise ship barely slipped alongside the barge, scraping its hull paint in the process.
“One hundred meters,” Giordino said, easing the helicopter away to watch from a safe distance.
Odessa Sea Page 16
