Brink of War c-13

by Keith Douglass

  "You bet I do!" Batman said. He rolled back to look at me, pointed one finger at me. "You tell your boys back there that I want to know the second there's any increase in radio traffic or communication with this submarine. Or any hint that the Russians are objecting to us making a lot of noise out here, you hear?"

  I nodded. "I'll just head back to CVIC and-"

  The sudden blare of the bitch box cut me off. "TFCC, CVIC. Sir, we have indications of MiG31 launch ― looks like four aircraft ― sir, they're just taxiing now. As soon as they rotate and get to altitude, I'll know which way they are headed."

  "Get our Alert Five aircraft airborne," Batman snapped. "And spin up four more Hornets and two Tomcats on the deck ― I want them at Alert Five now. A tanker, too ― and an E2. I want gas and eyes in the air the second we need them."

  "TFCC, CVIC. TAO, those MiGs are headed in our direction. They're just clearing ten thousand feet and already starting their turn, sir."

  "Roger, copy all." The TAO's fingers were flying over the keyboard as he orchestrated all the firepower of the battle group. He stabbed a button on the bitch box, got the bridge, and said, "Launch the Alert Five aircraft. And get six more birds on alert, including a tanker and an E2."

  Seconds later, I heard the raucous blare of the 1MC announcing emergency flight quarters. Overhead, the Alert Five aircraft were already turning, their hard, screaming engines rattling the overhead fixtures.

  "If CAG doesn't have them off the deck in six minutes, I'm going to have his ass," Batman muttered. From what I could hear over the bitch box, it sounded like CAG might break his own record for setting flight quarters.

  Sure enough, four minutes after Batman had given the order, the first F/A-18 ripped off the catapult and into the air. I suspected that CAG and the air boss had stashed a couple of people up in the tower just in case of this very event.

  In short order, all the fighters, along with the SAR helo, a tanker, and an E2, were airborne. They clustered in the sky overhead, the Hornets taking a quick top-up off of gas from the tanker before vectoring out toward the inbound Russian fighters.

  The TAO was fielding calls from the lead fighters now, and he turned to the admiral and asked the million-dollar question "Do we shoot first?"

  "Not yet," the admiral answered. "Tell them to continue to close the MiGs and keep their fire-control radars in search mode only. Let's see how serious they are about this. And put another section of Hornets in Alert Five." By now, the ones he'd ordered into an alert status earlier were already fully fueled and armed, just waiting for their turn. Another aircraft shot down the deck and into the air, shown in deadly menacing shades of gray on the plat camera. The first of the on-station Hornets started howling for fuel. The afterburners chugged it down like it was beer.

  "They're turning," the lead Tomcat reported. Seconds later, our tactical display confirmed what his eyes saw first. The MiGs were peeling off, heading back the way they'd come. By the time the second section of Hornets launched, there were no more MiGs to deal with. Overhead the E-2C Hawkeye kept an anxious eye on the entire arena but there were no more indications of MiG launches or other hostile activity from our Russian friends.

  "Harassing action, just like last time," Captain Smith announced.

  "Seen it before ― it's an old Soviet standard ploy to get us to expose our hands." "But why now?" I asked.

  Batman evidently overheard our conversation, and turned toward us and away from the screen. "You think it has something to do with the submarine?"

  I nodded. "I don't know what they'll try, Admiral, but nothing else makes sense. Why did they launch on us? And why only four MiGs? That's not the Russian style, not the Russia I know. They deploy air assets in waves of overwhelming numbers ― you know how they are, they always have to have numerical superiority. So why just four? That's not enough to do any damage to an aircraft carrier that's on the alert. And they have to know we're on alert ― those submarines are talking to their masters, too." The Admiral frowned. "You may be right," he said slowly.

  "The other thing that's odd is that there's no indication that they were prepared to launch missiles, other than from the aircraft. A real Soviet-style attack would come from all quarters and from all platforms," Smith said. "That's why I think it was intended solely as harassment."

  "I'll keep that in mind, sir, when I debrief the pilots. See if they saw anything odd about the weapons load-out, about the formation, anything that might suggest that this was intended to distract us from the submarine problem," I said.

  Admiral Wayne nodded gravely. "You do that, Lab Rat. And I want to know immediately what you find out. In the meantime, I'm going to keep an eye on things in here." He turned back to the screen and studied the positions of the three submarines. They were moving with glacial slowness compared to the air contacts we'd watched fight it out just moments earlier. "I don't like this ― I don't like this one little bit."

  "Expand the range," Batman ordered. The TAO complied immediately.

  A new chart sprang into being on the wall in front of us. I sucked in a hard breath, and realized that Batman had already suspected what we all now knew. To the south, still well inland, were four blood-red inverted V's. They were flying in sets of twos, the symbols so close together that sometimes they merged.

  Behind them were three more sets of fighters, giving us a total of ten enemy aircraft inbound.

  "MiG-31s by the looks of them," Batman muttered. "Shit. What the hell do they think they're doing?" He turned to me. "I'm open to ideas."

  I shook my head, now fairly well at a loss. The admiral wasn't asking me what he should do about the incoming MiGs. The well-oiled machinery of the Jefferson's combat watch team was already swinging into motion, vectoring the aircraft now airborne toward the new threat and launching additional Hornets and Tomcats.

  What the admiral wanted from me was something much tougher. Why? was his real question. Why were the Russians after our submarine, and why this air attack? Why now?

  The compartment filled with the hard, shuddering roar of a Tomcat on the catapult. It built up, vibrating deep in our bones, until the deceptively gentle whoosh and thud of the catapult indicated that it had launched. Seconds later, another Tomcat spooled up.

  "They're not going to attack, Admiral," I said, thinking furiously.

  "You're right ― not with that few aircraft. The Russians' intelligence network is almost as capable as ours, and they know they don't stand a chance with an Aegis cruiser in our battle group and with our own air support. Therefore, there's something else behind this."

  "Nuclear weapons? Maybe they're going for the EMP again," Batman said, pulling the fire-retardant flash gear over his hands. "Like when we were going into the Black Sea that time."

  I shook my head. "I don't think so. Too close to their own soil.

  The Russians have a real thing about ever risking exposure to radiation within their own population. Not after Chernobyl."

  "Chernobyl is exactly my point." Batman pointed at the large-screen display. "And their history in submarine operations. The Russians have been none too careful to make sure that their crews weren't exposed to serious radiation hazards from their own nuclear reactors onboard. And that's the only way that I can think of that they'd be able to hurt us.

  Same argument," he continued, "against a chemical or biological attack.

  We're not that far out ― too much danger of any biohazard drifting in and affecting their own population."

  "Then what are they trying to do? Send a message of some sort?"

  Batman nodded. "Probably. But like they say in the movies, ' you want to send a message, use Western Union.'" He slid into the brown leatherette chair mounted in the center of TFCC. "My bet is they're not gonna wait around for a reply to it, either. Not with what I'm about to hit them with.

  "Now, get over to SCIF and get me some warnings and indications. I want to know two seconds before those bastards light off any fire-control radar."

&nb
sp; I darted next door into the SCIF and pulled on the rest of my General Quarters gear. I was the last one to arrive at my General Quarters station, and the watch officer dogged down the hatch after me. So far, nothing. The sensitive electronic spy gear and national asset receivers we had were silent. The MiGs were inbound without radar, without jamming, without any electronic indication that they were doing anything besides conducting routine training operations.

  Except for the submarines. And except for the fact that they were inbound on our location.

  I picked up the white phone and punched in the number for TFCC.

  Although they were just next door, we stayed closed up during General Quarters.

  "Admiral, I think I might have it," I offered. "It's just an idea, but ― well, given that we're running the flying competition on the mainland with our people and theirs, maybe they're going to claim that this is just an expansion of that. There was that paragraph, you know. The one about other opportunities for training as they arise? Well, I think that's going to be their explanation for both launches."

  "So what happens when I light off a fire-control radar on the Aegis?" Batman asked when I was finished. "We lose this game of chicken?"

  "And if we don't-" I glanced forward at our own tactical display, and saw the MiGs closing to within weapons range. "And if we don't, we're sitting ducks." technicians shouted. The screen in the forward part of our compartment was identical to that in TFCC, and I still had the admiral on the line.

  "You see that, Lab Rat?" Batman demanded. "Talk about a game of chicken ― Jesus, I hope these people know what they're doing. Unless I have a Russian flag officer on the horn in the next two seconds, I'm giving my aircrews weapons free."

  I stared in horror and disbelief at the battle unfolding before me on the screen. The Russian submarines had increased their speed to flank, and were rapidly closing the location of our own. The MiGs were just at the edge of their firing envelope, although they were still radiating no hostile emissions. Our own Tomcats and Hornets were poised midway between the carrier and the MiGs, in combat spread, waiting and ready. They had their normal air-search radars lit off, but were not yet in targeting mode.

  "Aegis has a firing solution, sir," my electronics technician announced. "Is the admiral going weapons free on them as well?"

  I turned to face him. "I don't know."

  "All units in the battle group, this is the Alpha Bravo." I heard Batman speaking simultaneously over the radio-circuit speaker and the telephone. The two seconds were up. He was going to go weapons free.

  But before the admiral could get the words out, the MiGs did what they'd done before ― turned away from the battle group and headed back toward Russia. Captain Smith shot me a knowing look.

  11

  Tuesday, 22 December

  Midnight Local (+3 GMT)

  Kursk, Ukraine

  Vice Admiral Tombstone Magruder

  Vladimir and his friends came for me at midnight. They wore the dark black-and-gray patterned nighttime camouflage uniform, all rank and unit insignia removed, feet snug in dull black crepe-soled boots. Even without their collar devices, I could sort them out by ranks. One officer, Vladimir, and three enlisted men, the latter all battle-toughened veterans.

  The final man in the group was a civilian. He was smaller than the rest, with the pale, unhealthy look of a man who spends too much time inside drinking vodka. He was wearing the same outfit as the others, but his bearing told me he was something besides military ― KGB, GRU, or whatever the modern equivalent for internal security was. Vladimir nodded a greeting, then motioned to the civilian.

  There was an air of nervousness about the civilian ― nervousness, yet determination. I saw the others following his lead, standing slightly back.

  They moved into my room without invitation, taking up corners and crowding it by their very presence. The civilian walked over and stood before me, studying me for a few minutes. Finally, he held out his hand.

  "It is very nice to meet you finally."

  Now that threw me for a loop. In my studies of the history of Russia's internal security measures, that was not a normal approach. "Have we met? Should I know you?"

  He shook his head. "No, there's no reason you should." He considered me for a moment, as though assessing how far to go. "But I know you. And I knew your father. You weren't fooled today, were you?"

  "About what?" "With the man they said was your father. I told them it wouldn't work. But you know how they are ― they think themselves so clever." He shrugged, an oddly casual gesture that one would make when talking to an old friend. "Even without Vladimir's warning, it would not have convinced you, I suspect. And they are convinced they succeeded. Too willing to believe their own brilliance, I suspect. A common military failing." He studied me for a moment longer. "But I know better. I know who you are, Admiral Magruder."

  "Then you have me at a disadvantage, sir."

  He laughed softly. "And one that won't be remedied anytime soon, I assure you."

  His accent was slight, the words a bit stilted but spoken with near native proficiency. He had to have been educated abroad, or in one of the Russian camps that had been constructed during the Cold War to mimic American cities and towns. Either way, his accent spoke of connections further into the intricate web of Russian intelligence and counterintelligence than anyone I'd encountered so far. "You have no reason to trust me, Admiral Magruder," he continued. "I realize that. But if you are ever going to know the truth, if you are ever going to answer for once and for all those questions, then you must come with me. This is your only chance. I dare not take this one again."

  "But why?" I burst out. "Why the elaborate charade today?"

  "Why do you think?"

  Now it was my turn to examine him, as though the answers to that very question would be written somewhere on his face. "I can think of no reason," I said finally. But I could. Millions of them. If the Russians believed they had convinced me my father was alive, he then became a bargaining chip. Perhaps it would weaken my resolve, make me hesitate to act when- When what? Russian counterintelligence plans were often intricate works of art, each piece gently moved into place in perfect sequence to effect an overall result. These invitations to mock war games, the bad information we'd been fed about the previous missions, the charade with my supposed father ― to what purpose? Even if I knew, I was not about to admit to this man, a man whose name I did not even know, what I suspected. "Well? Have you made your decision?" he asked.

  "About what? You haven't been particularly clear on that." He sighed, a truly Russian sound. There are depths of meaning in those sighs, ones that hint of the deep, tragic passions that run all through the Russian psyche. "Your father is not alive. He was brought to Russia, and later to Ukraine. That much was true. But, unfortunately, he was seriously injured in the ejection from his aircraft. He lived for a while. It might have been longer had the Vietnamese given him better medical care. By the time he came to us, he was too weak ― too far gone."

  He was telling the truth. There was no doubt in my mind of that. How I knew, I could not tell you, but there was something in his voice, a depth of feeling and sympathy that made disbelief almost impossible.

  His words arrowed straight into my gut, twisting and coiling like a vicious serpent. For so long we'd said that we believed he was dead, but somewhere deep down we'd never really given up hope. Never ― not really.

  Now, to hear the final confirmation from Russian lips, what the U.S. authorities had told us for all those decades, was too painful. I believed this man in a way that I had not believed the countless United States government officials who had sworn my father died in Vietnam.

  "I will take you to his grave this evening," the man continued quietly. He reached out and laid one hand gently on my forearm. "My sympathies, Admiral. It is very difficult to lose a member of your family, even during times of war. This is something we Russians understand well.

  One out of every ten Russians di
ed during World War II, do you realize that? Do you know what an impact that has on a nation's character?" He shook his head gravely. "Millions ― tens of millions ― Russian families felt the same pain, knew this loss. I myself lost my father, and two uncles.

  But still, even for the fact that so many of us have lost, it is never easier for an individual."

  "You said you would take me to him," I said. "How do I know you're telling me the truth?" "You have a photograph," he said. "One that you obtained from the POW-MIA groups. It was I who gave the photo to Vladimir to send to you. I can give you every detail of it, where it was taken, who took the picture.

  I can even tell you who we used to impersonate your father."

  "The man I met at the hospital?" I asked. And just who had he really been? Another American brought to Russia? How could I walk away and leave him here?

  Because he broke the trust. When he agreed to impersonate my father, no matter what the threats, he betrayed the faith. I was not entirely comfortable with that analysis, but decided I would have to live with it.

  He nodded. "And I can tell you something else, something your father told me. He knew that you would not believe, you see. During those days that I guarded him, I tried to convince him to talk, and later tried to make some sense of his ramblings; he knew that you would come. He always believed his government would come for him ― he never lost faith in that ― but more than anything in the world he believed that his son would grow up and insist on the truth." "Tell me what you know," I said.

  He began, and first recounted the story of how my father and mother met. The true story, not the one I'd heard today from the ersatz father.

  Even as he started to talk, I knew I was hearing the truth again. Then, finally, he said, "Your father told me about the words he scratched into the wall in Vietnam. "Go west." He said that, didn't he?"