***
Aboard the semi-submersible Chinese cruiser Sea Dragon, northeast of Luzon.
Thanks to the Henan’s drone, and satellite imagery, Ko could see the Concord. And Ko knew that every shot the Sea Dragon fired had been on target.
But crippled though the carrier was, it remained afloat, and that was unacceptable. In order to win the battle, and the acceptance that Ko hungered for, he had to send the American ship to the bottom. And he had the means to do so.
Five shots had been enough to cook the railgun’s barrel. A new one was being installed. But the Sea Dragon was armed with 200 surface-to-air and surface-to-surface missiles. That’s why some officials referred to the cruiser as “an arsenal ship.”
The Sea Dragon’s vertical missile launchers were loaded and ready. Ko gave the orders: “Fire missiles 1 through 10 in standard sequence.” The sea-skimming YJ-91 anti-ship missiles were good, but with a range of only 30 to 75 miles, they weren’t comparable to the American Harpoons, some of which could strike targets more than 150 miles away. But improvements were on the way … Or so the authorities claimed.
Ko watched from above as seven explosions blossomed along the length of the Concord’s hull. The remaining destroyer rushed to rescue those she could, while tiny boats and rafts could be seen bobbing around the carrier.
Slowly, almost majestically, the Concord sank until what remained of its island disappeared from view. “We have a fix on the destroyer,” Shi said. “And we’re ready to fire.”
Perhaps it was the sight of fellow sailors struggling to survive. But for whatever reason Ko couldn’t kill any more. Admiral Wen might criticize his decision. But the goddess Tianfei would not. “Secure all missiles,” Ko ordered. “The battle is over.”
CHAPTER TWO
Istanbul, Turkey
After stepping onto the narrow passageway alongside the hydrofoil’s superstructure, U.S. Navy Commander Max Ryson paused to look across the moonlit Bosporus to Istanbul.
Most of the Turkish city was blacked out. But jewel-colored traffic lights twinkled, a police car flashed blue, and rectangles of buttery light marked windows where a shade was up.
Closer in, about a hundred yards away, boats of every possible description slid through the moonlit channel, their engines thrumming, as they journeyed east and west. The Bosporus strait was an important link between the Sea of Marmara and the Black Sea further east. That’s why human beings had been fighting to control it for thousands of years. And were about to do so again.
The air felt warm as Ryson made his way around the boat’s superstructure to the gangplank, and from there to the dock, where a sailor named Farley saluted. “Good evening, sir.”
Ryson returned the salute and paused. “Guard duty again? What was it this time?”
Farley grinned. “A bottle of booze in my locker, sir. The chief took offense.”
Ryson laughed. “Keep a sharp eye out Farley … Istanbul is full of spies and saboteurs.”
“I will, sir. Enjoy the party.”
Ryson nodded agreeably, but knew he wouldn’t. Ryson didn’t like parties, but British Admiral Jerome Canby did. And since Canby was in command of Special Sea Command 2, the group Ryson’s squadron was attached to, he had to attend.
People were filing off other boats as Ryson made his way along the pier. American boats, British boats, and Israeli boats. Ryson could hear the thump, thump, thump of bass and caught a glimpse of light as the door to the warehouse opened and closed.
A cyclone fence and gate barred the way. So the procession slowed as the party goers were forced to stop and show ID. A Royal marine checked Ryson’s card against a list. “Sorry about the delay, sir … But we have orders to keep the Russians out.”
It was supposed to be a joke but the jest contained a kernel of truth. English speaking members of Russia’s foreign Intelligence Service would love to attend Canby’s party.
Of course, the Russians didn’t need secret agents to inform them that an Allied attack was imminent. The concentration of naval resources in Istanbul was very visible to the naked eye and from space. Still, there was no reason to provide the Ivans with operational details regarding the coming attack. “Your card sir,” the marine said, as he returned it. “Have a good time.”
Ryson followed a French officer to a door where a woman was waiting to give him two drink chits. “There’s a two-drink limit tonight,” she said. “And that includes beer. Please stick to it.”
Had it been up to Ryson there wouldn’t have been a party or drinks. But Canby thought the gathering would boost morale. “Play hard and fight hard,” the mercurial officer said. But Ryson wasn’t so sure.
A blast of music escaped the warehouse as the group in front of Ryson opened the door and went in. He followed. Not surprisingly, the interior of the building looked like the inside of a warehouse, complete with harsh lighting, concrete columns, and yellow lines on the floor.
Ryson guessed that something like two hundred people were present, most of whom were Allied navy personnel, all wearing the cammies peculiar to their particular service.
Ryson couldn’t help but notice how egalitarian the crowd was. Both officers and senior enlisted people had been invited and were mingling in a manner typical of special operations units. And that made sense. If these men and women were going to die together, why not party together? Ryson’s respect for Canby went up a notch.
A temporary bar had been established against one wall. Thanks to the presence of six bartenders, the lines were short. Ryson began to work his way through the crowd. A Brit called his name. Ryson waved but kept going.
To Ryson’s ear the Europop music was loud and frantic. Not the sort of thing he wanted to hear on the eve of battle. But others felt differently and were dancing. Something he was completely unqualified to do.
After surrendering a chit, and collecting a gin and tonic, Ryson scanned the crowd. Where was Canby? His plan was to find the admiral, stage a short conversation, and exfil.
“Commander Ryson,” a voice said from behind him. “I’m glad you were able to join us.”
Ryson turned to find that Admiral Canby was standing behind him, glass in hand. The admiral was built like a fire plug, and was good looking in a Rugby-player sort-of-way.
Canby’s face was flushed. Because he’d been drinking? Or as a function of his mercurial personality? There was no way to know.
Ryson started to come to attention but Canby waved the formality off. “No need for that sort of thing, old fruit. Save it for the Queen Elizabeth’s flight deck. How’s Squadron 3? Ready to go I should imagine.”
“It is,” Ryson assured him.
“You’re a lucky man,” Canby said. “Forty feet up off the waves, wind rushing through your hair, pumping 76mm shells downrange! Who could ask for more! You’re a lucky dog. I wish I could trade places with you.”
Judging from the look on Canby’s face the admiral meant every word of it. “I’m sorry, sir … But I refuse to trade. The paperwork would drive me crazy.”
“I don’t blame you,” Canby said, as his face darkened. “The paper shuffling bastards at the admiralty are relentless. But, should we take control of the Black Sea, all the bureaucratic bullshit will be worth it. As it stands the Black Sea is like a cyst filled with Russian pus. And the longer we wait, the more pus there is. We need to act before the cyst bursts.”
Ryson got the feeling that the analogy had been used before. Canby’s eyes had a messianic quality to them. “‘The clock is ticking,’ old boy. We need to act now.”
Ryson frowned. “Are the Russians about to break out? And enter the Med?”
“No,” Canby said. “Not so far as I know. The problem is Turkey.”
Turkey was the most controversial member of NATO (North Atlantic Treaty Organization). And Turkish troops deserved a huge amount credit for defending Bulgaria and Georgia from the Russians.
But the Turks were obsessed with the Kurd separatists to the south. And stood accused
of using the war effort as cover for a thinly disguised strategy to seize control of Kurdish territory.
Canby took a quick look around as if to ensure that no one else could hear. “Keep this under your hat, Commander … But there’s a significant group of people within the Turkish government who want to renounce NATO membership and move against the Kurds.
“If that occurs, they sure as hell won’t let us travel through the Bosporus. But, if we have control of the Black Sea, they’ll be forced to tolerate our presence. And that, Commander Ryson, is what makes this outing so urgent.”
Ryson finished his drink. “We’ll do our best sir. What about our supply line—should the Bosporus be closed to us?”
“Then we’ll take supplies in through Bulgaria,” Canby replied. “That would be extremely tiresome. But it’s feasible.”
Suddenly the sunny personality was back. “You’re out of gin, Commander,” Canby said. “I suggest that you take on fuel. The bar will close in forty-five minutes.” Then the admiral vanished into the crowd.
Ryson had no desire for a second drink. His goal was to exit the warehouse and return to the Mammatus. He was halfway to the door when Rav-Seren (Lt. Commander) Yaakov Segal stepped out of the crowd to block his way. “Max! Surely you aren’t leaving yet … We must toast the old days.”
Five years earlier, when Ryson had been a lieutenant commander, and Segal was a seren (lieutenant), they’d been assigned to a joint task force operating out of Israel’s Haifa naval base. Both were ambitious and competitive. And the competition continued when they were off duty.
The girl’s name was Noa Shapira. In addition to a quick mind, and a wicked sense of humor, she was beautiful. So much so that both men were willing to do just about anything to win her affections.
Looking back Ryson realized that Noa had been playing them off against each other. But that wasn’t the way it seemed at the time. The situation came to a head in a bar when Segal bragged about having sex with Noa. A claim that may, or may not, have been true. Ryson hit him in the face and a brawl ensued.
Ryson won the fight, but lost the girl. So, the last thing Ryson wanted to do was toast old times. “Hello, Yaakov. I didn’t know you were part of Command 2.”
“I wasn’t,” the Israeli said, “until yesterday. One of our squadron commanders has appendicitis. I jumped at the opportunity to replace him. I have six kills now. I plan to double that number by the end of the day tomorrow.”
Ryson knew that Squadron 5 consisted of four Israeli Super Dvora Mark III-class patrol boats. They could make 50 knots, and were armed with everything from automatic grenade launchers to Hellfire missiles, all packed on ninety-foot hulls that looked the way a fast patrol boat should look. Better than Ryson’s hydrofoils, truth be told, although his Pegs were faster and more maneuverable.
“It doesn’t matter how many kills you make,” Ryson said. “The purpose of the mission is to seize control of the Black Sea.”
“So, you still have a stick up your ass,” Segal replied. “Some things never change.”
“No,” Ryson replied. “They don’t. Goodnight Yaakov.” And with that Ryson made his way toward the door.
“My squadron will score more kills than yours!” Segal shouted.
Ryson felt dozens of eyes on him as he stepped out into the night. Special Sea Command 2 was a relatively small unit. And some people, the stupid ones, would think that the challenge was important. Well, Ryson thought. Fuck them.
***
Aboard the Russian cruiser Omsk, on the Black Sea
The Allies were about to invade the Black Sea, and Vice Admiral Viktor Belkin was in a good mood, because his men were ready. But first it was necessary for Belkin to complete his morning workout. Phase one involved pumping iron in his cabin to keep his six-foot two-inch frame in good shape. No, excellent shape, especially for a man in his fifties.
Then it was time for phase two, which required him to don a Speedo, and make his way out onto to the deck where a section of railing had been removed for his convenience. The sun was just starting to rise and an easterly breeze chilled his skin.
The swim was a tradition by that time, and one that roughly twenty crew members were waiting to witness. They cheered for their admiral as Belkin stepped up to the edge of the deck, brought his hands together, and dived head-first into the Black Sea.
He went deep. The water was relatively warm at that time of year. So, there was none of the icy shock Belkin felt upon entering the North Pacific. As he’d done in the past.
Belkin surfaced, waved to his audience, and swam back to the ship where a rope ladder equipped with wooden rungs was waiting. He scrambled up to the main deck where he paused to take a bow. That was part of the act, part of the mystique, and one of the reasons why Belkin’s sailors loved him. Who else could, or would, do such a thing? Certainly not the mostly rotund admirals in charge of the other fleets.
Belkin accepted a towel, wrapped it around his midriff, and addressed the crowd. “Go have breakfast. Tell your shipmates. The enemy will come today and we will defeat him!”
And that was almost certainly true. In order to enter the Black Sea, the Allies would have to send mine sweepers to neutralize the five hundred so called “influence mines” that would block their way.
Influence mines were equipped with fuses that could detect pressure, not to mention magnetic, electronic, and acoustic activity. That made them equally deadly against submarines and surface ships alike. And once the Allied minesweepers went to work, Russian fighter jets would harvest them like wheat. A cheery thought indeed.
Would the Allies manage to break through? That seemed doubtful. But, if by some miracle they did, five 100-foot-tall defense towers were waiting to greet them. Each armed with remotely operated radars, guns and missiles. And that was to say nothing of the fast patrol boats waiting to pounce.
Finally, there was the Omsk herself. Though not as agile as the patrol boats, the cruiser was more than 600 feet long, and was armed with 16 Vulkan anti-ship missiles. That was on top of surface-to-air missiles, guns, and antisubmarine mortars.
After a shower, followed by a shave, Belkin got dressed. A hearty breakfast was waiting when he entered the day room located next to his cabin.
Members of Belkin’s senior staff arrived moments later. They included Captain 1st Rank Shubin, who was the Omsk’s CO, and second in command of the Black Sea Fleet. Also present were Captain 3rd Rank Garin, who was in charge of the fleet’s air arm, and Lieutenant Volkov, Belkin’s Intel Officer.
“So,” Belkin said from behind his desk. “Have the inostrannyye svin’i (foreign pigs) entered the slaughterhouse yet?”
Both of the more senior officers turned their eyes to Volkov. She had short hair, a plain face, and thin lips. “Yes,” she said. “And no.”
Belkin washed a mouthful of kasha (porridge) down with hot tea. “What the fuck does that mean? Are they in the minefield or not?”
“Our mines are detonating,” Volkov said. “But we don’t know why. In the meantime, the Allied boats are in the Bosporus waiting to enter.”
Belkin put his spoon down. “What about submarines? Maybe submarines triggered the mines.”
“That’s possible,” Volkov agreed. “But it’s unlikely. Rather than localized explosions, which we would see if a sub set the mines off, they’re exploding in waves. That suggests some sort of electronic or electromechanical clearing process.”
That was unexpected. And Belkin didn’t like unexpected things. But, mines or no mines, the outcome would be the same. The Black Sea was his, and it was going to remain that way.
***
The entrance to the Bosporus Strait
The “Mother Ship,” as the USV operators generally called the 262-foot-long steel barge, was heavily armored and propelled by two diesel engines. It was remotely operated by a civilian located in Maryland.
The space forward of the engine room was filled with racks of so-called “Otters.” That was the name bestowed
on the semi-autonomous mine killers being fired through underwater launching slots into the Black Sea.
By that time the first two waves of machines had destroyed more than one hundred Russian mines by spoofing the signals “influence” mines were waiting for. In most cases, but not all, the Otters were destroyed by the explosions they triggered. Those that survived continued on their way.
Now the Mother Ship was coming under attack by Russian planes, as the third wave of Otters slipped into the Black Sea. But, as the Russian planes swooped in to attack, Allied fighter jets were waiting to pounce on them from 30,000 feet.
Thousands of eyes watched as contrails twisted and turned to create what looked like scribbling in the sky. Meanwhile the Allied ships and boats stood ready to fire on the enemy aircraft with SAMs, and shoulder launched missiles, when Russians came into range.
Ryson felt impatient despite his attempts to look calm, cool, and collected. The vessels under his command were Pegasus II Class PHMs (Patrol, Hydrofoil, Missile boats). Often referred to as “Peg Twos.”
The Pegasus Class I boats had seen service from 1977 to 1993. And, when the program came to an end, it seemed as though hydrofoils were gone for good. But that was before Admiral Hartwell came along.
Hartwell, and some equally visionary Congress people, succeeded in securing seed money for a Class II prototype in 2018. And when that proved to be successful, they managed to fund a full-on PHM program.
The program’s formal objective was: “To operate offensively against hostile surface combatants and other surface craft—and conduct surveillance, screening and special operations.” And the Peg Twos were everything a “small navy” sailor could possibly want. They were fast, steady when foilborne, and armed to the teeth.
The PHMs were, as one reporter put it, “The 21st century equivalent of PT boats.” And the only boats equipped with hydrofoil technology. But when hull borne, they had a slightly retro gunboat look to them.
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