by Glynn James
Not 200.
In naval surface warfare, the key to success and survival was to kill your enemy before he could even see you, never mind get to you. The max range of anti-ship missiles, and the max range of anti-aircraft missiles, had long been an evolutionary arms race, like cheetahs and gazelles. One would increase its range, making the other irrelevant; then the other would increase its range more, doing the same thing right back.
And this was an arms race the Russians had just won.
Drake’s hand snatched at his mic, what felt like a day late and many dollars short, to warn the pilots – that they had basically just brought a knife to a dogfight. But Campbell beat him onto the channel.
“Balerion! Abort, abort – get out of there! Go, go!!!”
* * *
Lieutenant Commander Cole’s right hand moved, in a nearly automatic reflex, down to his eject handle, as his Missile Warning Receiver (MWR) barely even had time to warble up its frantic automated warning.
Looking up from his instruments, he saw a glint on the horizon – which meant he had about one second to live.
A fireball blossomed over his left shoulder, reflecting in his cockpit glass, and telling him his wingman was already dead.
* * *
Campbell had both her hands on the back of the radar console operator. She didn’t realize her fingers were digging into his collarbone.
“Balerion Two is down,” the man said, his voice emotionless – which was either professionalism, or complete shock. Campbell could already see the radar contact had disappeared from his display. And everyone in CIC could see it go off the big board overhead.
“Balerion One is down,” he added a second later.
The big board just sat there, devoid of signals. Devoid of life. No one spoke.
Hardly anyone breathed.
No Scenario in Which This Guy Lives
SAS Saldanha - Main Warehouse
So now his Marines were back – and they had a true stand-off on their hands. Which, Juice had to admit, probably beat what he had a second ago, which was being completely at the mercy of the least nice guys in the entire history of special operations.
Then again, this wasn’t a whole hell of a lot better.
Juice flashed back to the last living people he’d had to fight – those civilians in the middle of Lake Michigan. And what he was facing here was a very different proposition from those self-styled pirates on that pleasure boat. Those guys had imagined themselves to be badasses.
These dudes never even had to think about it.
Well, at least they’re professionals, Juice thought, looking on the bright side. Amateurs were always more dangerous.
Or maybe not… he amended, as he now very unexpectedly saw his own Lance Corporal Jenkins appear from down an aisle – one controlled by the Russians, sitting out past the open central area, and to the left. That is, he emerged from within the Spetsnaz ranks, walking stiffly forward.
He had his hands held out before him, his rifle hanging on its sling. Juice could almost make out the figure of the man walking him forward from behind; and could just about feel the impression of the cold steel muzzle pressing into the base of the young Marine’s skull.
Goddammit.
Now they were a man down, already. And they were also going to have to deal with a hostage situation.
Before Juice could react to this shitty new development, not that he had any particularly good ideas of what to do about it, Jenkins got handed off to Misha, who put one rebar-like forearm across the Marine’s windpipe – and with his other hand produced a ridiculously sinister knife, even by spec-ops standards. It had wicked serrating on the back side, an obviously razor-sharp edge on the front, and a point that curved and tapered as if singing out for some soft flesh to sink into.
Juice realized Misha was making sure they all got a look at that blade – right before he put its tip an inch from Jenkins’s right eyeball, where it hovered. Up until now, the young Marine had looked defiant, and pissed off – probably mostly at himself, for screwing up and getting captured.
But now he seemed to stop breathing.
Hell, I would, too, Juice thought. That was not a nice thing to have pointed at your eyeball.
“Ha, ha, ha!” Misha roared, his bulging and hardwood-like bicep pressing into the side of Jenkins’s neck, while his horror-movie knife hovered before the kid’s right eye. “You are missing one of your Jarheads, no?”
And that’s when Juice’s radio went in his ear. “Biltong Actual, this is JFK CIC, how copy.” Juice ignored this – though it was quiet enough in there that he worried the voice would be audible, if not comprehensible, leaking out of his radio earpiece. “Biltong, send mission status. This is a priority request, over.”
Juice blinked once, slowly. Of all the goddamned shitty timing… He moved his hand very slowly toward the radio on his chest rig. This caused Misha to bring his knife point even closer to poor Jenkins’s eyeball. Juice made a squeezing gesture with two fingers, hoping that was the universal sign for what he was about to do, which was squeeze his PTT button. “CIC, Biltong, wait out.” Then he twizzled down the volume on the command channel.
And as he watched Misha adjust his grip on Jenkins, Juice belatedly considered another possible goal of the Russians: a live capture, someone to interrogate about the status of the American forces, and their intentions. Knowing what Juice did about Spetsnaz interrogation methods, he wanted absolutely no part of that.
And neither did Jenkins.
Juice also had a decent idea about how the young Marine had been taken. He had no doubt been out pushing the flanks, looking for a better position, trying to outmaneuver the enemy force. Being aggressive. But there was definitely such a thing as being too aggressive – especially when facing a tactically superior force.
In that case, aggression was not your friend.
And these Spetsnaz guys were, arguably, at or around the skill level of Alpha, or at worst just below it. Which meant they were definitely tactically superior to the Marines, particularly the young guys. Like Jenkins.
Juice let his right hand drift down toward his rifle’s pistol grip, which was resting against his thigh.
Misha cocked his head, and his knife closed half the tiny distance to Jenkins’ eyeball. “Come now, my friend,” he said, still managing to sound friendly, or at least carefree. “Let’s be civilized! We’re the living, after all! We don’t want to start shooting in here. We don’t need the dead coming down on our heads – no one wins that way! Am I right, tovarishch?”
Juice exhaled, and considered spitting again. But it seemed inappropriate, with a man he was responsible for in immediate peril. He racked his brain for some next move, some way to save Jenkins – anything other than what he knew deep down was coming next.
“Let’s all put our guns down,” Misha said. “And we’ll just have a little chat.”
“I don’t think you and I have anything to chat about.” Juice went ahead and spat. “Tovarishch.”
“Of course we do. We are all operators! Think of it as military cooperation, joint exercises.”
Juice sighed. This guy’s English was certainly good. For a half a second, he lulled himself into thinking maybe there was still some kind of a chance of an accommodation, as there always ought to be between the living. That this still might work out. That it could be resolved, without catastrophic loss to everyone there.
But then he remembered.
It was these guys’ fucking ship that had fired on the JFK, instantly, and without the least provocation.
And he also remembered that this here was the only cache of military supplies going, that they knew of, anywhere in the region. And his people absolutely had to have it.
No doubt the Russians felt the same way.
Deep in his bones, Juice knew these men had no intention of letting him or any of his guys walk out of there. And the life of Lance Corporal Jenkins was already forfeit. Even if they kept him, questioned him, and t
ortured him, they were never going to give him back.
To borrow a line from good old Uncle Jack, which Juice was by no means above doing:
There’s no scenario in which this guy lives.
No, Juice knew which way this was going to go. He was just wrong about who was going to kick it off.
He saw Misha’s eyes come off him and go over his right shoulder. As a result of this, first of all, Juice knew one of the Marines had the same take on things that he did. And, secondly, he knew that, just maybe, there was now some small chance he himself might live long enough to see cover.
The crack of a single rifle round was too close in time to Misha’s lightning pivot to distinguish them. But the pivot must have come first, because it was Jenkins’s head, and not Misha’s, that jerked from the impact of the round, as a spray of dark-red blood decorated the air. Whoever it was who had tried to save Jenkins by taking out Misha… had done exactly the opposite.
Which didn’t mean it was the wrong decision – Jenkins was probably dead anyway – it just meant the implementation had failed.
Before those droplets even hit the ground, Juice brought around his left hand, which he had snuck behind him during Misha’s moment of distraction when he took receipt of Jenkins, and which for the last ten seconds had been gripping a flashbang grenade.
Also, for the last one and three-quarters seconds, the pin had been out, and the spoon (quietly) popped.
Now he brought it around from behind him in a blur, slammed his eyes shut, and wrist-flicked it into the air before him. It went off about 48 inches from his chest, in mid-air, instantly if temporarily blinding every one of the Russians, and quite a few of the Marines. The explosion whited out everything, and echoed crashingly off the concrete and wood. It even drowned out the first volleys of gunfire.
By the time the next heartbeat had passed, Juice was back under cover among the Marines, and the air around them was thunderstorm-thick with lead. Rounds were coming in everywhere. Juice grabbed a lungful of air, and patted himself down for holes. He didn’t find any.
When he looked to his immediate left, he saw Corporal Raible. And he also knew – instantly and without any doubt – that it had been Raible who had taken the shot at Misha, but had instead killed the man under his command. And Juice knew Raible would be a long time climbing out from under the weight of that.
If he lived through today.
Right now, it was game on.
The Trick is to Keep Breathing
JFK - Bridge
When Gunny Fick burst onto the bridge, in the seconds after both their F-35s were blown out of the sky by the Admiral Nakhimov’s bolt-from-the-blue long-range missiles, he briefly thought he’d taken a wrong turn and stumbled into the mortuary affairs compartment. It was that quiet, and that grim.
The first thing he saw was Drake doubled up near the front screens, like someone had punched him in the gut. The rest of the bridge crew seemed frozen in place, like a visitor from an advanced civilization had just warped in and halted time. The disaster that had just struck them was completely unthinkable. And it had seemingly robbed everyone of the ability to react, or perhaps even to think.
Abrams rushed now to the side of Drake, who seemed to be having trouble breathing, or even standing.
As Fick stepped inside, he and Handon locked eyes across the room.
This was bad.
Finally, Fick spoke, his rough voice rupturing the stunned silence of the bridge: “Okay, I’ll bite – what the fuck is the status of that goddamned Russian warship?”
When none of the bridge crew immediately answered, many of them looking like headlights-stricken deer, Handon decided to abandon his bulkhead, and stepped toward the station monitoring the Predator’s video and radar feeds.
But Abrams beat him to it, coming alive and turning to the man at that station. “Report,” he said. “And update time until we’re in enemy weapons range.”
The ensign at the station came alive as well, as all eyes turned to look at him. “Enemy surface contact is… she’s actually slowing, sir. Coming down through twenty knots. Fifteen. Ten. Enemy contact now appears static.”
Abrams looked around and locked eyes with Handon, then Fick. They all knew what this meant: they weren’t in fact going to have to steam away from the naval base in order to save the carrier, abandoning the men on shore. At least not this second. The countdown clock read: 00:04:32.
Drake stood up straight, and seemed to regain his breath. “Helm,” he wheezed. “All stop.”
“Well, that’s something,” Fick muttered, exhaling.
“Maybe our air attack bought us some time,” Handon said. But his expression underscored the fact that they had no idea how much. Also, that this was the only good news going.
It was little enough.
But then a voice broke the silence again, speaking across the open channel from CIC.
* * *
“…I’ve got a canopy signature!” This was the CIC radarman. “Somebody punched out. Transponder signal is Balerion One. The CAG punched out in time!”
Still hunching over the man’s back, Campbell finally remembered to draw breath. And she suddenly recalled that what counted as good news around here often had to be radically adjusted to circumstances.
“Scramble the CSAR bird,” she said. “Now!”
Suddenly, there were a hundred new problems to attend to. But all were in the service of going out and getting their pilot back. And at least that was the kind of mission they’d drilled for back in the world. This they could do.
Campbell stood up straight again.
And remembered to keep breathing.
* * *
Kneeling on the dock at the rear of the carrier, Predator jammed the air hose nozzle into the port on their combat rubber raiding craft (CRRC), and prayed someone had remembered to charge the air pump since last time they did this routine. But it started right up, and the rubber mass began to regain a boat-like shape.
Ali and Henno were helping unroll it, the three working in silence. All of them had their rifles with them, as well as tactical vests and their go-to-hell bags. After they’d been recruited by Homer, but before they moved out, they’d also gotten word from Handon – that the Russians were back.
And that the Kennedy was in play again.
So, once again, they had to be ready to bail. The good news was that getting ready for this was completely compatible with the help Homer needed.
Pred looked up from his inflation operation and realized one thing was missing.
“Wait – where the hell’s Dr. Park?”
Ali said, “Handon said Sarah would get him here when and if the time came.”
“Sometimes the time comes pretty damned fast. And, wait, where the hell’s Handon again?”
“On the bridge.”
All of them looked up suddenly, their attention drawn by what sounded like a big mean insect buzzing right at their heads. Predator actually swatted at it. By the time they could focus, it was flying away again.
“What the hell was that?” Pred growled.
A calm and confident voice answered. “It’s an Orlan. A sea-launched mini-UAV.”
The others turned and looked up to see Homer, who’d had to get dressed and thus had been trailing the others, climbing down from the fantail deck. He now wore his wetsuit, with a sleek air tank, rebreather, and fins slung over one shoulder.
“That’s not one of ours, is it?” Ali asked.
“No,” Homer said, stepping onto the dock. “Russian.”
“Huh…” Pred said. “Hey, how do they launch that from a ship with no flight deck?”
“Catapult.”
“How do they recover it?”
“Pretty much just turn off the engine and deploy a parachute.”
“Huh,” Pred said. “That’s clever.”
Ali gritted her teeth. She didn’t think it was all that clever. “Do you really need all of us?” she asked Homer tightly.
�
��No, not really,” he said, sitting down on the edge of the dock. “Two should be fine – one to drive, and one to shoot.”
Ali slung her rifle and mounted the ladder. “I’m going to find Handon,” she said.
Henno squinted at her. “What for? Brief him on what we’re doing here?”
“That. And also make sure command knows the fucking Russians have eyes on us.”
Pred straightened up and turned, looking concerned. “You sure going back in there is a good idea?”
Ali shrugged, “If the Russians sink us, I can probably survive a jump off the flight deck. Come and fish me out of the port side near the island.”
“Yeah, no worries,” Henno said. “We’ll be there.”
And with that she was gone.
As Homer sat and efficiently prepared his dive equipment, Predator continued to monitor the inflation of their boat and asked, “Orlan – that Russian?”
“Yes,” Homer said, his feet dangling in the water. “Means sea eagle. Relative of the American bald eagle, but only found in Russia and Japan.”
“That’s nice,” Pred said. “Everyone likes bald eagles.”
“Sure – except this one’s the heaviest eagle in the world, with the biggest and most powerful beak. It actually preys on cranes, swans – and baby seals.”
“Jesus,” Pred said, checking the pressure gauge, and turning off the air pump. “The Russians don’t spare the scary symbolism, do they?”
Now Henno gritted his teeth, tapping his fingers on his rifle receiver. “Any chance you’re going to brief us in on what you’re going swimming for, mate?”
And with that, everyone jerked as the two gigantic screws beneath their feet stopped turning. The ship was stopping again. “Well,” Homer said, pulling on his rocket fins, “that’s good timing. And, yes, I will brief you now—”
But as he drew breath to explain, they all heard the distant chatter of a machine gun starting up.
That didn’t seem like a good sign.
* * *
On the bridge, Drake was bent over again, with Abrams trying to help him, when everyone saw the little propeller-driven drone buzz the goddamned island itself.
