Beyond the Sea--An Event Group Thriller

by David L. Golemon

  “Captain, we’re getting an intermittent contact just eighteen miles north of us. The heavy swells may be masking someone out there.”

  Captain Johnson nodded. Captain Thorne aboard Houston had passed along CINCLANT’s concern about Russian interference. But he also knew the Russians were very prudent about keeping their capital ships protected at all costs. Unless this signaled a change in Russian naval philosophy, Johnson wasn’t that concerned.

  “Keep a close eye out, but concentrate on the job at hand.”

  “Aye, Captain. We have our inbound, thirty-two miles out and closing fast.”

  Johnson shifted his focus and then quickly spied the edges of the eye. Tildy wasn’t easily giving up her secrets, as he couldn’t see anything other than hell raging across the world. Then he saw the V-25 burst through the clouds at breakneck speed.

  “What are those fools doing?’ he asked as his eyes widened when the Night Owl broke into the clear. It looked as though she had one of her four engines smoking and nonresponsive. She hopped, skipped, and jumped as she fought to level out. He mentally pushed the bird down and across the calmer seas of the eye.

  It took the V-25 fifteen minutes to cover the calmer air of the now dormant eye of Tildy. They came on fast, as the pilot of the VTOL was anxious to get his damaged bird into its nest before Mother Nature explained to him in no uncertain terms who exactly was in charge.

  “XO, take the conn.”

  Johnson tossed the XO his binoculars and then went to the bridge wing to oversee the landing operation.

  “XO has the deck.”

  Ezra Johnson didn’t envy the British pilot in his attempt to get his three-engine VTOL down to the deck. He shot over the three ships three times as he tried to get his bearings on the fantail of the large missile cruiser. The towline in particular was causing the Royal Navy pilot much concern.

  “Goddamn, these pilots are nuts!” he shouted above the din of engine and sea noise.

  The V-25 Night Owl came in low and fast.

  LOS ANGELES–CLASS ATTACK SUBMARINE USS HOUSTON

  Captain Thorne was drinking a cup of coffee and sitting close to the navigation console. His crew was getting anxious as the radio called out altitude and distance of their new arrival to the area. Every time he heard the words abort landing, he cringed, as he knew how dangerous landing a VTOL could be, especially with a towline close to the helo deck.

  “Conn, sonar, we have a close-in surface contact, bearing two-three-seven degrees north, sixty-seven miles out. No, check that. Possible double contact, same bearing.”

  Thorne closed his eyes for the briefest of moments when his own hidden fear was announced to his control room crew. He calmly placed the coffee cup down and stood. He took the 1 MC mic and raised it, but before he spoke, he saw the anxious faces of his young crew. He smiled. It felt false to him, and he stopped.

  “Sonar, conn, how strong is the contact?”

  “Intermittent at times, but course and speed are holding steady. Whoever they are, they’re in a hurry. Engine plant noises indicate cruiser and possible destroyer.”

  “Get me as much information as you can. We’ll get you closer; I need detail.”

  “Aye,” came the brief answer.

  “Okay, let’s play. Gary, all ahead flank, course two-three-seven degrees north. Let’s give this one a wide angle. Okay, let’s put the spurs to her.”

  “Aye, Skipper. All ahead flank, give me five degrees down angle on the planes, take her to six hundred. Let’s go get ’em, Chief,” XO Devers called out. He was satisfied when his people went straight into their work, more confident, more relaxed. It was just the fact that they were now doing something other than just babysitting.

  “Weapons, with one and two loaded for war shot, we’ll need tubes three and four also. Gentlemen, let’s warm up the Harpoons.”

  The Harpoon missile was the deadliest weapon aboard. The crew realized the NATO Reforger operation was no longer a game.

  USS Houston sped toward the oncoming threat.

  ROYAL NAVY TRANSPORT V-25 NIGHT OWL

  Jack turned his head as he snapped closed the strap to his Kevlar helmet. He saw the brighter skies outside and immediately went into his military role as leader. He nodded his unspoken thanks to Carl, who only winked in return as he adjusted his own equipment. He made eye contact with Henri, who only smirked at him. This made Jack just as uneasy as he had been before the music of Elvis had calmed him. Henri Farbeaux now knew one of his weaknesses.

  “One minute, one minute,” the copilot called out as the Night Owl slowly dropped down to three hundred feet. The V-25’s crew chief managed a walk-through and checked everyone’s safety equipment.

  The pilot was fighting the debilitating lack of lift on his right side where one of the two wing-mounted engines had died. The Night Owl kept wanting to dip in that direction, forcing him to think about aborting the landing altogether.

  Suddenly, a red alarm sounded. Then a piercing scream came into everyone’s ears through the bird’s intercom system. Only Everett and Ryan knew what the warning was about.

  “Jesus, we’re being painted!” the copilot shouted out in shock and surprise. “Oh, crap. We have missile lock!”

  Above the scream of engines and the rocking of the V-25, every man aboard knew now that there was an enemy out there and they had just made their intentions known.

  The NATO salvage mission was now under attack.

  TICONDEROGA–CLASS AEGIS MISSILE CRUISER USS SHILOH

  “Captain, someone just illuminated the Night Owl. Whoever it is, they have missile lock!”

  Johnson turned back into the bridge. “Who has missile lock?”

  “Unknown, sir. We have that intermittent target inside the hurricane but nothing concrete.” Johnson saw the operator jerk his head up in shock and surprise. “We have two missiles in the air!”

  “Track origin and match bearings. Target ASROC. Get the close-in weaps ready.”

  Above deck, the swirl and hum of the close-in weapons system, two Phalanx Gatling guns, one fore and one aft, turned and started tracking the incoming bogeys with the most powerful defensive radar system afloat—the Aegis Electronic Warfare System. The many-barreled gun started rotating, warming up. She was now ready for a gunfight.

  Ezra Johnson knew that he was only trying to keep the target ship guessing, as the Shiloh had no lock on the source. All he could hope to do is make the aggressor blink.

  As the crewmen of Shiloh, De Zeven, and the unseen Houston watched, the V-25 set off their countermeasures. Chaff—small bursts of aluminum foil that were ejected in packets—and hot magnesium flares exploded from the tail section of the Night Owl. Then another, then another as she laid down a false signal for the enemy missiles to track in a virtual waterfall display of fire and aluminum. The Night Owl veered sharply away from the missile cruiser in the hope they could at least draw fire away from their main asset in the area.

  Johnson turned away from the departing V-25 and turned his attention on the area where the incoming hostile threat would emerge. He saw the first of the two missiles free itself of the high winds inside the hurricane. His jaw muscles clenched as one of the large missiles struggled to regain control after breaking into calmer air. He let out a sigh of relief when the missile suddenly took a nosedive and crashed into the sea. Johnson knew they would not have the same luck with the second enemy missile as they had with the first. It came directly at the maneuvering Night Owl.

  “Rolling action missiles, lock on and fire!”

  In the combat control center, a signal was sent out, and the small, multifaceted missile system came to life. Sixteen extremely small missiles left their tubes and streaked outward toward the incoming threat.

  “Get the R2-D2s ready. They’re going to need help!” the captain hissed as he just ordered his only two close-in defensive systems to life.

  Johnson grimaced, as he knew the odds were favoring the enemy and that the V-25 Night Owl was going to die.r />
  * * *

  The Russian SA-N-6 antiair missile dropped low to the sea in its rush toward the V-25. It came close to catching the topmost part of a large swell of sea but hopped easily over it. The American rolling action missiles detonated thirty-five feet in front of it, but the Russian-made system kept coming. The missile then climbed to altitude. It was on a straight line toward the Night Owl. Too late—the Phalanx, a system made by the Raytheon Corporation, acted like a garden hose. One thousand rounds of twenty-millimeter cannon fire greeted the missile. Only one of these struck the weapon as it kept climbing toward the weakened Night Owl. The Phalanx had also failed.

  The missile struck the V-25 just below the left stabilizer. The wing immediately buckled as the twenty-five-pound warhead detonated. The VTOL was thirty-five feet above the sea when the wing collapsed, and the Night Owl slid over onto her side and fell into the sea. It hit with a sickening crunch as the fuselage snapped into two pieces. Men scrambled to free themselves from their harnesses as the entire V-25 started to slip very quickly beneath the calmer waters of the eye.

  Men and equipment started to float to the surface as the Dutch frigate De Zeven made her way to the crash area. She slowed as men became visible, and the rescue mission started in earnest.

  LOS ANGELES–CLASS ATTACK SUBMARINE USS HOUSTON

  Captain Thorne cursed himself for allowing his surface assets to be fired upon. His weapons officer was reporting that Houston could not get weapons solutions for either vessel entering the eye of the storm.

  “Weapons, as soon as those ships clear the hurricane, target two Mark-48s for each. ASROC, prepare to launch.”

  Battle stations was the call, and Houston came alive as never before.

  TICONDEROGA–CLASS AEGIS MISSILE CRUISER USS SHILOH

  Captain Johnson cursed. He slammed his fist into the steel railing of the bridge wing as De Zeven made her run to save lives.

  His first officer came out to the bridge wing and handed him a communication. The XO’s face had lost all its color.

  “What is it, Sam?” he asked as he reached for the message flimsy.

  TO ALL NATO SHIPS IN THE AREA, STAND DOWN OR AGAIN BE FIRED UPON. THE VESSEL YOU HAVE IN TOW IS THE PROPERTY OF THE RUSSIAN PEOPLE, AND YOU WILL SURRENDER IT IMMEDIATELY.

  SIGNED, KRESHENKO.

  “What do we do, Captain?” the XO asked.

  “Target same area. Get the ASROCs warmed up. Send this to Kreshenko, whoever he is: ‘NATO invites you to come and get it.’”

  Johnson knew his anger had overwhelmed his better judgment. Instead of calming things down, he just exacerbated the situation. He watched his XO vanish into the bridge area, and then he turned and examined the spot he thought their enemy would emerge from the outer edges of Tildy. His guess was only off by a mile.

  “Oh, my God.”

  The largest battle cruiser in the world with another, smaller escort ship broke through the outer edges of the hurricane and into the calmer eye. She made for a spectacular scene as her raked bow cut the seas apart in her race to face the NATO force. Johnson immediately recognized the form of Peter the Great, one of the nastier fears of all Western navies.

  The Russians had arrived.

  PART TWO

  CRACKED MIRRORS

  Unlikely people,

  From unlikely worlds,

  Are never meant to be together.

  —Carlos Gutierrez,

  “Alternate Reality”

  7

  NORTH ATLANTIC

  HURRICANE TILDY—THE EYE

  Jack pulled up a sputtering Charlie Ellenshaw. He had yanked him up by his floating white hair to the surface, where both men spit out salt water and tried their best to stay afloat. Collins looked around as heads began to bob to the surface of the softly rolling sea.

  The last thing of the Night Owl he saw was the tail boom as it slid beneath the water. He spied Jason Ryan soon afterward surface with a gagging and spitting copilot of the V-25. Then he saw Henri and Carl as they assisted the Royal Marines. Collins and Charlie swam toward Ryan.

  “Any other crew get out?” he shouted.

  Ryan made sure the copilot was all right and then turned to face Jack. “No, I couldn’t find the master chief, either.”

  Suddenly, the water erupted next to them as Jenks surfaced. He pulled heavily on something, and then the frightened face of the Royal Navy pilot came into view. He threw up seawater as Jenks pulled off his flight helmet.

  “Come on, breathe, you limey bastard!”

  Finally, the pilot took a deep breath and then vomited again.

  “That’s it. You’ll live.”

  “You always act surprised when your plans go straight to hell. Flying through a hurricane usually means bad things to the rest of the world, but you Americans always think you can pull off the impossible.”

  Jack looked over at a drenched and bleeding Henri Farbeaux. “Glad to see you made it, Henri.”

  Collins started counting the heads that were visible. He stopped at thirty-six. That meant they had lost seventeen men. He slapped the water angrily, as he knew that whoever had fired that missile was now in deep debt with the Royal Navy.

  “We lost one hell of a lot of people, Jack.”

  Collins looked over and saw Everett. He had gathered some of the equipment bags that had almost gone down with the V-25.

  “I know. Let’s get aboard that damnable ship and get this over with before some asshole tries that again.”

  A line hit the water next to Ryan’s head as he joined them. They turned and saw that it was the Shiloh’s rigging crew aboard the Simbirsk who had thrown the ropes.

  Jack watched as the De Zeven, initially tagged for the rescue, turned and made her way back to Shiloh. Evidently, Captain Johnson wanted his escort back to multiply defensive weaponry in case they were attacked again. Prudent thinking as far as Jack was concerned.

  “I hope they have coffee going on that tub,” Jenks said as he tied the thick rope around the pilot and signaled Simbirsk to haul him aboard.

  Jack looked at the World War II Russian cruiser and saw that she looked as if she had come out of her commissioning birth just last week. She was in pristine condition and looked like any warship from that era. There was one notable exception—the coiled wiring that covered her hull from stem to stern. They looked like old-fashioned coil springs from an army cot. They were gray in color to match the ship’s paint scheme. He saw the American riggers on board as they managed to throw five more lines into the water. Collins felt a strange electrical sensation gently coursing through his body. It wasn’t painful, but he knew it was there. It was like the feeling you get just before a close encounter with a lightning strike.

  “Shall we see what all the hubbub is about, Colonel? At least to take cover in case someone starts shooting missiles at us again.”

  Jack nodded at Carl, who also turned to see the ghost ship in front of them.

  The Russian battle cruiser Simbirsk waited like an old haunted house from stories told to make you frightened of your own shadow when you were a child. It was Ellenshaw who put the right words to it.

  “That ship has gone bad,” he said as he was pulled toward the derelict by the lifeline.

  At that moment, a Russian-made Ka-27 antisubmarine helicopter swooped low over the floating men and the towed Simbirsk. The counter-rotating blades made a heavy whump as they passed. Jack’s eyes narrowed when the Russian was joined by an American Seahawk. They dueled in the sky over their heads, each helicopter coming closer and closer together in ever-more dangerous maneuvering.

  “I guess Hurricane Tildy is the place to be. All the best people are here.”

  * * *

  As soon as Jack and his remaining men were aboard, he was handed a radio. Now that his team had arrived, the mission had become his operational command. Everett stood next to him, trying to shake some of the cold water from his nylon BDU. Before Jack raised the radio to his mouth, he quickly made sure everyone was safely
aboard. After the excitement of their arrival, it took him a moment to remember the code name for the operation.

  “This is Dynamo actual, over,” he said as he caught his breath from the strenuous climb to the high decking of the old warship.

  “Dynamo actual, this is Captain Ezra Johnson. I think we can drop the pretense here. I think the damn Russians know about our presence, over.”

  Before Jack could respond, the Russian helicopter broke with the Seahawk and turned and swooped low over the bow of the ship—low enough that all aboard dove for cover. Collins raised his head with an angry look but forcibly calmed himself as the twin counter-rotating blades buffeted the exposed men. The Royal Navy lieutenant was organizing his remaining men to prepare to resist an onboard assault. He dispersed them throughout the upper deck into hidden positions. Jack nodded at the young officer’s move.

  “I see your point, Captain.” Jack gave Carl a knowing look. Everett, for his part, was assisting Jenks and Charlie Ellenshaw with their equipment check. They had lost some gear and were worried they wouldn’t be able to make their analysis of the Russian ship with what they had left. Carl shook his head slightly at Jack, indicating the trouble. “What is the current situation? Over.”

  “Well, if that rust bucket over there had radar, you would be able to see a most disturbing sight. We have a Kirov-class missile cruiser and her escort bearing down on us. They are currently sixty miles out and closing at flank speed. No more ordnances have been popped off, but I don’t expect the situation to hold. I have my orders also, over.”

  Jack and the others knew what those orders were. If for any reason they could not secure the vessel, it would be sunk as a hazard to navigation. That was a polite euphemism for “If we can’t have it, you can’t either.”