Beyond the Sea--An Event Group Thriller

by David L. Golemon

  “With that man, I would love to hear about his adventures, I really would,” Durnsford said.

  “Yes, I bet you would, James, but even friends must keep some secrets from each other.”

  Durnsford laughed. “Indeed, old boy, indeed. Secrets must be kept.”

  “Go have your tea; I’ll see what can be done for here. But if it is necessary, James, you have to handle it on your end. I don’t like dealing with our asset on any level. He has yet to earn my full trust.”

  “I understand completely. I have never met a man who I couldn’t understand like that gentleman. Talk soon, Niles.”

  The screen went blank, and then the Europa laptop made a squelching noise, and then she shut down.

  Xavier wanted to say something, but Niles again held up his hand to stop the query from being voiced.

  “Suffice it to say we have a new relationship with a friend after Overlord, and we and that new friend have worries about who is really in control inside Russia. It’s suspected that they have an agenda we have yet to figure out, and both of our governments have yet to catch on. All our combined intelligence services are drawing a blank on this mysterious group. Now we may have a lead that can change all of that if we can prove this man who was just placed on alert for action in the North Atlantic works for this mysterious entity without President Putin’s knowledge.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Good.”

  Xavier watched as Niles stood up and, without a look back, left the empty cafeteria. He took up the new laptop and then smiled.

  “I love a mystery.” Xavier left the room and decided that he would know what needed to be known by the end of the day. “Come on, Europa. We have some digging to do.”

  LOS ANGELES–CLASS ATTACK SUBMARINE USS HOUSTON

  NORTH ATLANTIC

  The crewmen inside the large control center felt the heavy roll as Houston came shallow. She was in a trough, and the view through the periscope was swamped momentarily. Captain Thorne rubbed his eyes as he switched the scope to night vision, an ambient-light-viewing system that utilized existing light from stars, the moon, and sometimes just stored heat energy to illuminate the darkness of the world without sun. There it was—Thorne just caught a brief glimpse of the raised portion of the target’s large upper pagoda-style superstructure.

  “Damn, she’s a big bitch.” He slammed the scope’s handles to the up position. “Gary, take a look at this,” he said as the Houston rolled slightly to port. The storm was increasing in size and volume.

  The first officer stepped up and brought the stainless-steel handles down and then gazed into the scope. He waited as the high seas broke over the sub’s sail tower and then peered into the scope again.

  “Jesus.” He turned and looked at Thorne. “Captain, she has two massive barreled gun turrets, one forward and one aft.”

  Thorne slapped a sailor on the back. “Get into the computer library and match that silhouette against existing warships. Gary, send his station a picture, will you?”

  At the scope, the first officer clicked a button with his thumb and snapped several pictures as the sea rode low enough to get good shots. He then relinquished the periscope back to the captain.

  A specialist at his station started typing into the computer keyboard while the pictures were fed into the system for identification comparison. It was a program that not only matched existing silhouettes of warships all over the world but also had their power-plant noise recordings and screw-propeller signatures for the newer ships.

  “Okay, that thing’s moving too damn much. Take us down to one hundred and hold station as best you can. We don’t need her rolling over on top of us.”

  “Aye, Captain. Okay, gentlemen, let’s get out of this surface clutter. Give me thirty degrees down bubble. Take her to six knots and come parallel to target and hold station.”

  “Communications, anything on VHF?”

  “Conn, radio, there’s nothing, Captain. Target is cold black on electronic or voice communications.”

  “Sonar, conn, anything else out there besides our phantom?”

  “Conn, sonar, negative. We’re clear at this time.”

  “Damn, this is strange.” Thorne saw the technician running the silhouette program stop typing and then turn white-faced to his captain. “What is it?” he asked.

  “Sir, we have a hit on the silhouette index. But it was identified through historical records, not from active naval rolls.”

  “Well?” he asked impatiently. He was disappointed that his crew may have been affected by this unknown. Their reactions in the past were fast and to the point.

  “She’s Russian, Captain.”

  “Gary, bring Houston to general quarters, please,” he said with an angry look at the technician. “Battle stations—submerged.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  As the warning tone and announcement by the chief of the boat sounded throughout the cavernous interior, men ran to their battle stations.

  Thorne stepped up to the technician but stopped by his first officer. “Gary, let’s get two fish into tubes one and two. I don’t want to take any chances with this lone wolf.”

  “Aye.”

  “Now, what else have you got from the historical records?” he asked as he leaned over and examined the technician’s computer screen.

  “The nomenclature is coming up now, Captain.”

  The screen started flashing with the silhouettes of hundreds of surface combatants around the world. Every ship was identifiable through this trusted system detailing any vessel that sailed the world’s oceans.

  “Oh, man!” the young blond-haired tech said, exhaling. “Sorry, Captain,” he said after his nonprofessional exclamation.

  The captain read and the words scrolled across Thorne’s glasses, and then the captain straightened. He had to read it again and leaned over the station once more. He was feeling a fluttering in his stomach over the strangest situation he had ever encountered at sea. The captain picked up the 1 MC mic and addressed his crew.

  “Crewmen of the Houston, here is what we’re tracking. We have a Russian warship seven hundred yards to our starboard beam. She is an original Soviet Kirov-class battle cruiser. Not the modern Kirov class. I repeat, she is not part of their modern Kirov class.”

  The men in the control room exchanged uneasy looks. The captain saw this and decided to let them in on the whole story. The technician already knew, so there would be scuttlebutt ringing throughout the boat if he didn’t address the situation now.

  “She’s a fat one,” he said, trying to ease their minds with humor. “Forty-three thousand displaced tons. This monster is also packing six sixteen-inch rifled guns situated inside two turrets you could fit the Lincoln Memorial into.”

  Again, the men and women inside the control center looked uneasy. Sixteen-inch guns was what caught their attention. What ship in the world carried that size armament anymore?

  “Okay, I want scuttlebutt kept to a minimum, and maybe, just maybe, you’ll have a great ghost story to tell your grandkids someday.” He was smiling but saw that his crew was not. He again spoke into the 1 MC mic. “She’s the Simbirsk, a battle cruiser. Launched, 24 November”—he paused as his eyes met those of his first officer and then roamed to the men and women under his command—“1939.”

  The crew in other spaces of the giant sub stopped what they were doing. Even the forward torpedo room came to a momentary halt before being harangued back to work by their weapons supervisor in loading the expensive and delicate Mark 48 torpedoes.

  “She was reported sunk in 1944 by German U-boat U-521. Now, until we know what’s happening here, we will remain at battle stations—submerged. More information as we get it. That is all.” The captain clicked off and then looked pointedly at his first officer. “Gary, bring us shallow. We need to get off a coded ELF message to Nimitz. We’ll let them pass this one up the line.” Thorne placed the mic back into its holder and then faced Devers once more. “I
don’t care to be explaining to the chief of naval operations just how and why we are tracking a ghost ship reportedly sunk over seventy-five years ago.”

  “I guess you’re right about one thing, Skipper: this will be something to tell the grandkids.”

  “Let’s hope. Weapons, I want a rolling fire solution. Be ready for any target aspect change. Set safeties on both fish to seven hundred yards. I want to be able to respond quickly enough if that phantom is more alive than what she’s showing.”

  “Aye, safeties set at seven hundred yards,” came the response.

  As if to say that’s not all you have to worry about, the seas started to scream, and the wind picked up by forty-five miles per hour in just the past three minutes. What they thought was a tropical depression became officially known as Hurricane Tildy, at 0435 hours.

  The ghost ship was bringing the dark and stormy night along with her.

  2

  KIROV-CLASS BATTLE CRUISER PETER THE GREAT

  FOUR HUNDRED NAUTICAL MILES NORTH OF HURRICANE TILDY

  One of the largest warships in the world, and also a class of vessel named after the mysterious phantom the Americans were now tracking, the modern Kirov-class battle cruiser Peter the Great made her way north and home after receiving word from Red Banner Northern Fleet headquarters that the NATO Reforger IV exercise had been canceled, much to the relief of giant missile cruiser’s captain, Viktor Kreshenko. He sat high on the raised chair just inside the enclosed bridge wing. He was a proud captain whose brother was recently lost on board Peter the Great’s sister ship, the Pyotr Velikiy, lost to enemy alien fire off the coast of Antarctica during the Operation Overlord campaign.

  Peter the Great was now exiting the storm-tossed seas west of Scotland with her two escort vessels, the Slava-class missile cruiser Marshal Ustinov and the smaller Udaloy-class destroyer Admiral Levchenko. The two fleet Akula-class attack submarines had exited the area five hours ahead of the smaller section of the battle group. The rest of the fleet had disbursed when it was confirmed that NATO command authority had called a halt to their aggressive war games.

  Peter the Great slammed her heavily raked and aerodynamic bow into the last of the deeper troughs caused by the storm that had now been reclassified as a hurricane and named Tildy by the American National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration. The giant warship eased her beautiful bow up and out of the water, shedding the sea like a mythical giant whale. The new warship was one of the more respected missile cruisers in the world, and NATO had the highest regard for her prowess at destroying other surface ships. Yes, she was the mightiest ship the rebuilding Russian Navy had on her books.

  First Captain Viktor Kreshenko smiled as his men held on to stanchions and rigging as they happily made their way out of the storm area.

  “Captain, a message from Red Banner Northern Command, sir,” a young communications runner said as he stood at attention.

  Kreshenko held out his hand without removing his eyes from the seas ahead. He again smiled when he saw the sailor weave and then almost stumble as he came onto the enclosed bridge wing.

  “If you can speak, son, read it to me,” the burly, bearded captain said without moving.

  “Sir, it’s for captain’s eyes only.”

  His hand shot out, exasperated that he would be contacted at all. He knew the pencil pushers in Moscow had never tried to maneuver one of the largest warships in the world out of the path of a hurricane. Now, what did they have to tell him that only he could understand? The runner placed the yellow flimsy in the captain’s hand and then made a hasty retreat. Kreshenko read. Then he read the communiqué again, and then again. He hissed a curse and then slammed his hand down on the intercom. “Second Captain Dishlakov, come to the bridge wing, please.”

  The captain waited. While he did, he reread the orders again, and he felt his stomach turn over. Now, the young sailors he was laughing at earlier for being seasick and for not having sea legs weren’t so funny anymore. Even in the tossing seas, Kreshenko heard the pounding of feet up the outside stairs. The wing door opened, and a very wet second captain, Peter the Great’s first officer, stepped into the dry space. He removed his hat and then used his right hand to shed some of the seawater from his short-cropped blond hair.

  “Captain, you wished to see me?”

  Kreshenko held out the message flimsy. The younger man, destined for great things in the surface navy, read the orders. He too reread them two more times. The captain knew this kid to be bright and good at his job, and he was pleased to see that these new orders scared the hell out of Second Captain Dishlakov as much as they did himself.

  “Has someone in Moscow gone completely mad?” Dishlakov said as he gave the message back and then removed his rain slicker. He angrily tossed the wet plastic coat into the far corner of the bridge wing.

  The captain held a finger to his lips as a mess steward brought in tea. They remained silent while their hot tea was poured. The second captain took a seat next to his commander. The steward left.

  “Not wise to show your emotions in front of the crew, my young friend. It doesn’t pay to let on that the new Russian attitude in Moscow has completely gone off the deep end. We’ll keep that little fact to ourselves. Lord only knows the crew will catch on soon enough.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “Now, what in the hell do you suppose they mean by loiter in the area, await passengers and large contingent of special operations personnel?”

  “All I see is that Moscow thinks holding station on the edge of a powerful hurricane is child’s play, Captain. Do they understand the risks?”

  The captain laughed and then sipped his glass of tea. “God, this tea is getting worse and worse.” He made a face and then set the glass in its pewter holder down. He watched the level inside the glass roll to one side and then the other. “As to your question, my friend, no, they do not know, nor do they care. We have been, and always will be, expendable.” Kreshenko looked over at the innocent face of his first officer. He knew that the brother lost weighed heavily on his mind and colored his judgment on higher authority. “And it seems even more so the past few years with our fearless leadership. It seems our people in Moscow have never learned the more valuable lessons on aggression. We seem to be backsliding, and there is nothing a mere sailor can do about it.”

  The first officer got up from his heavily cushioned seat and then dogged the hatchway. They would not be disturbed.

  “Captain, perhaps it’s not well that you speak so openly about the current leadership in this manner. You know I have the same opinions, but my family is in a far better position to protect me than your family is you. I believe the official position is that the Pyotr Velikiy was lost due to your half-brother’s careless actions upon taking command of his ship. Regardless of the official lie, you seem to be a target lately.”

  “Yes, my family was also in on the Gorbachev debacle. We helped bring down the Soviet regime; I know the stories. But this message with no explanation? It’s just typical of the way things are being run now.”

  “Orders, Captain?”

  “Inform the Ustinov and the Levchenko of our orders. We will hold station at the edge of the hurricane and await our passengers.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.”

  “Crazy sons of bitches. Has the world gone completely insane?”

  The mighty Russian battle cruiser heeled sharply to starboard as she and her two escorts started steaming in a circle, awaiting their destiny and a voyage into seas they could never have imagined.

  ALEXANDRIA, EGYPT

  The man with blond hair knew this was not a regular police procedure; as a matter of fact, he was well aware through his informative friends that these men were not regular police at all. These imposters failed to even abscond with the right uniforms. The five had the clothing of the local Alexandria Police Department. The uniforms were all ill-fitting, and one of the embroidered patches on the shoulder of one looked as if it had been stitched on in a hurry
with the wrong-colored thread. The man suspected he had hit the mark and was now in the custody of their antiquities police, the highly secretive Pharaoh’s Guards Regiment formed after the riots of 2015 in order to protect Egypt’s heritage from vandals. He knew them to be a new, supposedly counterterrorist unit of the Egyptian government brought to fruition to protect Egypt’s history from being destroyed or stolen. But he knew their work was geared more toward the theft of their own national heritage for secretive sales to the highest of world bidders. Interpol knew them to be the men behind the terrorists’ attacks on their own unsuspecting people who dealt with ancient Egyptian works. Right now, the man handcuffed to a steel chair would have taken the terrorists or even Interpol. This was one situation he was not going to make it out of if certain men were even a few minutes off on their slim timetable.

  “Who do you work for?” the man sitting in a chair in a darkened corner asked for the fifth time.

  “I work for myself. My business card is still in your hand. Just because I came into possession of the object in question before you gentlemen could steal it does not mean I’m not who I say I am.”

  “Yes, Mr. Klaus Udell, of”—the man held the business card up to the light—“Dresden, Germany.”

  “Yes, I run a fashionable antique shop on the outskirts of—”

  Whack. The open-fist blow to the side of his head made his vision find that ever-elusive tunnel that usually preceded being knocked the hell out. The man shook his head and stared at the black-bearded man who had delivered the sneak attack. This thug he would remember.

  “If you insist, I admit it’s not that fashionable a shop.” His blue eyes never left those of the bearded man, who now moved to the side of the chair. That irritating smile was still etched on his dark features.

  “Humor. I’m so glad that you have some. You are going to need it, my friend. The days of Europeans pilfering our heritage are over. An example must be made.” The man finally stood, and the official identification was made. This was the gentlemen you see on the Discovery Channel and National Geographic. He was famous inside and outside of Egypt. Dr. Hasan Mobbari, national director of the antiquities bureau for the government of Egypt.