“Captain, Admiral Levchenko is turning to assist,” the radar officer reported with his eyes firmly on the drama taking place only feet away.
The standoff between the Russian colonel and the captain of Peter the Great was a force of wills.
“The Ustinov is gone, Captain,” Second Captain Dishlakov announced as he turned and allowed the binoculars to fall from his hand.
Kreshenko’s eyes never left the colonel’s.
“Helm, resume original course and speed. Radio, send a message to the destroyer—form up on Peter the Great until we breach the eye.”
“Aye, Captain.”
“Most wise, Captain,” Salkukoff said as he gestured for the marines and commandos to lower their weapons.
“Two hundred and fifty-six officers and crew were on board that cruiser.”
“True Russians all, Captain.”
The giant cruiser once more bashed her way into a deep depression and then fought her way back up.
“So, we are back to praising the dead again for their heroic sacrifices? Eighty years of meaningless deaths ordered by men like you was not enough? You wish to return to the days of not being accountable for Russian deaths?”
The colonel gestured for the hatchway to be opened by his men.
“Inform me when we are close to breaching the eye, Captain. That’s when real sacrifices may have to be made.”
All eyes on the bridge watched the man and his men leave. Then their eyes went to the two marines who had sided against their captain. They holstered their weapons and then lowered their eyes. Kreshenko went to the forward windows and stared out into the killer hurricane. He was joined by Second Captain Dishlakov.
“I knew her second in command. He just had a new baby daughter a week ago,” Dishlakov said as he took up station next to his bearded captain.
Kreshenko didn’t respond. As far as he was concerned, his entire crew had just become pariahs in the eyes of the Russian Navy and, for that matter, most other navies around the globe. They had just turned their backs on sailors in peril and allowed them to drown.
“Keep a close eye on Admiral Levchenko. She’s tough, but she’s not as tough as the cruiser we just lost. Tell her to form up and stay close.” His eyes shot to the closed hatchway. “We may need her more than ever if we make it through this hurricane.”
Dishlakov caught the meaning, and then he started giving orders.
Peter the Great, along with her tough little destroyer escort Admiral Levchenko, was only thirty minutes away from entering the eye of Hurricane Tildy.
LOS ANGELES–CLASS ATTACK SUBMARINE USS HOUSTON
HURRICANE TILDY—THE EYE
With the calmer seas, the small task force made a slow circle inside the hurricane’s eye. The Houston was still submerged beneath the four-foot seas while De Zeven, the Dutch frigate, kept station a thousand yards behind the American Aegis cruiser Shiloh and the disabled Russian cruiser Simbirsk.
“Radar, conn,” Captain Thorne said aloud as he peered once more through the periscope, “any surface contacts outside our own?”
“Conn, radar, nothing, Captain.”
“Sonar, conn, any submerged contacts?” Thorne swung the periscope around 180 degrees.
“Conn, sonar, just three whales heading out of here. We’re clear at this time.”
Thorne was about to do something no submarine commander ever ordered lightly.
“Chief of the Boat, surface.”
“Aye, Captain. Blow negative to the mark, fifteen degrees up bubble. Give me full rise on the planes.” The chief hit the alarm warning, and the beluga call was made. “Surface, surface.”
For the five hundred crewmen of both the Dutch frigate De Zeven and the missile cruiser Shiloh, an amazing sight greeted them as the massive, spherical bow of USS Houston broke the surface of the sea. She rose high into the air and then slowly settled back as the calmer waters inside the eye washed away from her sleek black hull. The white numbers on her sail tower shone brightly in the falsehood of sunshine that was the eye of Tildy.
Captain Thorne was the fourth man through the conning tower hatch. His lookouts were posted high on the electronics array as Houston came free of her natural element. Thorne scanned the area and was satisfied that his boat was as safe as it could possibly be for the moment. He turned and scanned every and all areas before he felt he could relax. He reached over and hit his intercom switch.
“Gary, inform De Zeven and Shiloh this is only a courtesy visit. They are to maintain current course and speed with a straight cut across the eye at thirty-minute intervals. If anyone’s watching, that should keep them on their toes.”
“Aye,” came the answer. “Captain, we have a secure communiqué from Fleet, your eyes only.”
“Send it up,” Thorne said, wondering what sort of maniacal order he was now being given.
A boatswain mate popped his head up through the hatch and handed Thorne the message flimsy on a clipboard. He signed for it and then read. He read it again. He let out a pent-up breath and then hit the intercom once more.
“Gary, somebody’s got a real seashell up their ass. Inform Shiloh that she’ll be taking on representatives of National Command Authority in about half an hour. If whoever they are make it through the hurricane, that is. Inform them to make ready helo recovery. Also, inform De Zeven that she’ll have to be close aboard for any sea rescue operations that may have to be conducted.”
“Aye, aye.”
Thorne adjusted his view of the 130-mile wide eye and spied the heavy, roiling clouds that made up the outer fringes of the killer hurricane. It was like they were inside a glass jar with a menacing swirl of twisting black clouds marking the circular boundaries of life or death. His binoculars went to the ancient battle cruiser Simbirsk. He could see the Shiloh’s riggers were still securing her towline and maintaining the strain. The men were having a much easier time of it than they had before entering the eye. Thorne relaxed.
Thus far, they had not had another blast of electromagnetic pulsing as they had before. The Simbirsk sat lazily behind the Aegis cruiser as if she were nothing more than a normal disabled ship being assisted. The darkened silhouette of the Russian warship gave the captain a severe reaction. It was one of fear, and that was something Captain Thorne was not comfortable with. Once more he hit the switch on the intercom as the cool spray of seawater washed over him.
“Weapons, keep a running track on our Russian mystery. If she does something I don’t like, I want to be able to put two fish into her fast. Warm up two ASROCs.”
“Already done, Captain,” Gary Devers called up.
Now, he had not only torpedoes targeted on the battle cruiser, he had the sophisticated antiship missile system targeting the phantom. Still, Thorne didn’t feel safe. His eyes moved to the swirling hurricane. The cylindrical pattern reminded Thorne of a cage. A very violent cage. His eyes settled on a spot to the north. He wondered if there were any surprises waiting to emerge from the dark skies circling around the small grouping of ships.
“Okay, let’s button her up. Dive, dive!”
Within fifteen seconds, the bow of Houston slowly sank beneath the waves.
ROYAL NAVY TRANSPORT V-25 NIGHT OWL
TEN NAUTICAL MILES NORTH OF TILDY
At twenty-two thousand feet, the ride was rougher than any of the men aboard had ever faced. The Royal Marines were in no better shape, and it made the Americans wonder if they would be any good at their jobs if and when they would be needed. Jack was wondering the same thing about him and his own people. The only ones who seemed to be handling the rough weather well were Henri Farbeaux, Jason Ryan, and Carl.
The V-25 hit a bump in the road, and every man aboard went high in their seats until their safety harnesses stopped their flight to the Night Owl’s roof. They all heard the whine of the turbofan engines as they spooled up to regain the altitude they had just lost. Jack closed his eyes and held his belly pack tighter to his chest. It was Everett who noticed the colone
l’s discomfort. Henri did also but kept his eyes neutral.
Everett leaned over and nudged Collins on the arm. “Having a rough go of it?”
Jack looked briefly at Carl and then shook his head. The Kevlar helmet kept Carl from seeing Jack’s eyes, but he knew the colonel had just lied to him. As far as Everett knew, he and Sarah McIntire were the only two people on the planet who knew that Jack had become terrified about flying. The man had over two hundred parachute jumps in his career, with eleven of those combat jumps, and now after all these years, it had finally started to overwhelm the career officer.
“Give me the music and I’ll have the pilot pipe it in back here,” Carl said as he watched the colonel. Collins shook his head once again. “What, you don’t have any music?”
“Left them all in England,” was all he could say.
Carl looked at Jason Ryan, who was sitting straight across from them next to the master chief and Charlie Ellenshaw. Charlie looked even paler than he usually was, and the mess of vomit at his feet and many others’ attested to the fact that none of them were used to this. Then Carl’s eyes roamed over to the Royal Marines, who were off in their own worlds of misery. He spied them and then made a choice. He unsnapped his harness, and it was Collins who looked at him as if he had lost his mind. The V-25 shook and rose. It then fell and rose again as Everett crashed across the small aisle and leaned into the man he had chosen.
“Any of you men bring any music with you?” he shouted, catching the attention of several others next to the marine.
“Excuse me, sir?” the young white-faced sergeant asked above the whine of engines and the rage of the hurricane.
“Music. Did you men bring any music?”
The sergeant shook his head while his look asked Carl if he had gone nuts.
“I think Blavey has some,” a large man said as he leaned over and faced Everett.
“Who is that?” Carl asked.
“That’s him, sir. He’s a Karaoke nut. Brings his CDs everywhere. Against regs, but he tends to forget about protocol when it comes to his music. He’s a bleedin’ Elvis impersonator.” The large corporal nudged the slight man next to him. Carl saw the kid looked as if he weighed no more than one hundred pounds. What kind of Elvis impersonator was he? “Hey, Blavey. Wake up. The captain wants one of your CDs.”
The boy’s eyes opened wide as if someone had just informed him they were crashing into the sea. He jerked awake fully and focused on the men around him. Everett could see that the kid hadn’t been dozing; he had been praying. With a zombie look on his young face, the kid reached into his pants pocket aligned along the side of his calf and produced several silvery CDs. He held them out to Carl as if he didn’t care one way or the other if he accepted them or not. Carl took one and then handed the rest back to the kid. He took it to Jack.
“Looks like Elvis is all we have,” he said, holding out the one CD he had taken. Jack just stared straight ahead.
Charlie Ellenshaw nudged Jason Ryan, who was busy smiling at all the sick humanity around him. He knew them all well—every one a landlubber. He smirked. Charlie nudged him again, and Jason’s eyes rose to see what had attracted Ellenshaw’s attention. He saw a white-faced colonel and was shocked to realize that the colonel had become terrified of flying. He had suspected it for quite some time, but he and Will Mendenhall had yet to see it for themselves. He was so shocked he wanted to turn away at this very strange sign of weakness that had developed in the man he respected most above all in the world, the bravest officer he had ever even heard of. He silently told Charlie not to look. Now, the reason for the colonel playing music during stressful times became evident. It was his way of taking his mind off his situation.
Jack didn’t seem to hear Carl. He knew the problem was getting worse, and he had been able to hide it for the past few years as it slowly developed, first in his subconscious and then displaying itself in the most inopportune moments. He knew now that flying was quickly becoming a real phobia for him. The Overlord experience he knew had finally cemented his fear in unrepentant terms. It was a fear he would have to deal with upon the completion of this mission. The colonel didn’t notice Carl leave his side and advance toward the cockpit.
Ellenshaw looked at Ryan, and Jason shook his head that he should just stay out of it and watch.
Everett returned and then took his spot next to Jack just as the V-25 took another nosedive toward the raging surface of the sea far below.
“Copilot to crew,” came the call over their helmet headsets. “Five minutes to IP. We will circle and then very quickly make our descent into the eye of the hurricane. Until that time, we have a particularly peculiar request from our American brethren.”
The blast of music exploded into everyone’s ears as the CD that was given to the flight crew came blaringly to life.
“The warden threw a party in the county jail. The prison band was there and they began to wail.…”
Every head of the thirty-five men perked up at the sound of Elvis Presley as he screamed out his hit from a million years before, “Jailhouse Rock.”
Carl smiled over at Jason and Charlie. But it was Henri who guessed as to the reasoning behind the music. He had always wondered why Colonel Collins insisted on rock music before a jump or anything harrowing that had to do with flying. The music actually was therapy for him. He smirked as he realized he had just learned a large secret he could use to irritate the arrogant American colonel as much as possible. His smile grew when Collins perked up, and he nodded as if to himself as his eyes closed and his body relaxed. The music from his father’s and grandfather’s time calmed him, and he had never in his life known the reasons why. He knew psychiatrists would have a field day with him on their couches.
“Now, that’s the way you sing it, Blavey!” the Cockney-accented sergeant said as he nudged the kid next to him in his never-ending tease about his Karaoke. The young corporal took a cue from Jack across the way and visibly relaxed. Most of the men felt the relief the music provided.
That would have to be noted in the past tense, since the V-25 Night Owl took a nosedive for the deck. The signal had been given. It was time to enter the eye of the hurricane.
Tildy awaited the assault team with her open arms.
HURRICANE TILDY
FIVE HUNDRED NAUTICAL MILES SOUTH OF GREENLAND
The Night Owl came into full contact with the edge of the eye, and she nearly buckled. One of her four GE turbofan engines was actually drowned by the inrush of water as she tried desperately to escape the high winds that threatened to rip her from the sky. Inside, every man held on for dear life as the death plunge through the swirling and raging clouds convinced them they were into their final minutes of life. A brief but brutal gust of wind that measured 130 miles per hour slammed into the V-25 and turned her upside down. The pilot fought the controls, fearing he was about to shear off both wings as he brought the hydraulic systems online to invert the stabilizers for vertical flight.
TICONDEROGA–CLASS AEGIS MISSILE CRUISER USS SHILOH
Captain Ezra Johnson, a graduate of Mississippi State University, had fought his way up the naval ranks. His skin color had not been the detractor he had always thought it would be. Instead, the black captain had found out that the only real prejudice in the US Navy was the fact that he and many others were not graduates of the US Naval Academy at Annapolis. Any officer was looked down upon for that little failure in education; despite this fact he had steadily climbed the ladder until he landed his command aboard the advanced missile cruiser USS Shiloh. He had accomplished this through knowing naval operations better than he knew the alphabet.
At the moment, he was cursing the higher command authority that had authorized this crazy maneuver. The British, NATO command, or even his own president had lost their collective minds to try to pull off this kind of stunt in the middle of a hurricane. The weather was still wet and the seas rolling inside the eye of Tildy, but even this was too much to try to land a VTOL aircraft aboa
rd his ship. With the towline connected to the Russian cruiser, it was a maneuver that could spell certain destruction for his ship and crew.
As he stared through his binoculars on the starboard bridge wing, he again cursed his luck at having drawn this command from NATO organizers. While Captain Thorne on Houston was the outright ranking commander of this rear guard group, he was well aware it would be his call on whether or not the landing aboard his expensive missile cruiser would go forward. As of right now, he was willing to call off the whole thing. He swung his glasses to the starboard as the Dutch frigate De Zeven took rescue stations on her starboard beam. He moved the glasses to the towline and then to the forward decking of the Russian derelict in his charge. The line was holding as the ship lightly entered a small swell of sea and then settled.
“Minimal radar contact, Captain, bearing three-four-five degrees north.”
Johnson swung his binoculars around and spied the blackened skies swirling menacingly to the north. He knew whoever was flying this mission had lost their minds. He turned and nodded at his XO. The executive officer then reached out and hit his intercom.
“Stand by to take on aircraft. All stations, the smoking lamp is out. Rescue stations, rescue stations.”
The radar officer aboard Shiloh was a patient man and always allowed his radar men a full range of training. This time, however, his eyes never left the scope of the operator he leaned over. He was watching not just the incoming aircraft but a spot on the screen that had held his attention for the past thirty minutes. It was a solid blip on the scope that was there one minute, gone the next. Then when he thought it was a trick upon his eyes, the officer thought he saw two red blips appear and then vanish. He knew the heavy seas of the hurricane were causing havoc with everyone, including himself.
Beyond the Sea--An Event Group Thriller Page 12
