KIROV-CLASS BATTLE CRUISER PETER THE GREAT
FOUR HUNDRED NAUTICAL MILES NORTH OF HURRICANE TILDY
First Captain Kreshenko stood on the expansive bridge of Peter the Great and faced the window that looked out over the stern. The helipad on the swaying deck looked to be a mile away. Kreshenko frowned just as the giant warship dipped her prow into the heavy seas. He couldn’t imagine what it was like even a hundred miles closer to Tildy. His ship was taking a pounding, and he was nowhere near the killing swirl of the hurricane. He watched through his binoculars as the heavy-lift helicopter, the Mil Mi-26, NATO designation Halo, hovered shakily over the stern. His crewmen were battling the seas, trying to guide the giant helicopter down to the pitching and rolling deck. Thus far, in three attempts, they had come close to crashing the hovering behemoth into the superstructure all three times.
“Are they insane?” Second Captain Dishlakov said as he slammed his fist down upon the reinforced window frame. Both officers watched as the Halo came in for its fourth attempt. “Fools!”
Kreshenko hissed as the huge helicopter’s tail rotor came close to striking the radar boom at the uppermost top of the mast. The tail boom spun crazily, and the captain thought to himself that he was possibly about to lose his ship to a fool’s stunt. He cursed as the Halo finally straightened and then rose once more into the rain-filled black skies.
“That’s it. Tell whoever that is to get the hell away from my ship. RTB immediately. This is not only going to cost those idiots their lives, but we could lose this ship. I’m not having it. They can throw me in the deepest Gulag in Siberia. I’m not losing my ship because some brass-hat son of a bitch has a wild hair up his ass. Call them off, Dishlakov!”
Peter the Great rolled to port, and the dark seas crashed over onto the helo deck. As the radio call went out, Kreshenko was satisfied when the giant helicopter started to rise and turn away.
“Thank God the pilot has some common sense.”
“Should we clear the landing party from action stations, Captain?” Dishlakov asked.
“Yes, I’m sure those boys are wet enough. Let’s—”
“They’re coming back!” called one of the bridge lookouts.
Kreshenko was stunned as he turned back to the window, and through the wash of rainwater, he saw the Halo Mi-26 returning to the battle cruiser. This time, the captain took up the microphone. “Communications, order that bird away from my ship! If they attempt to land, I will shoot them out of the sky.”
“Sir, the Halo is flashing command override on your order. They say they are coming in.”
The captain cursed, and then, to his shock, the Halo came low once more over the fantail. He then saw ropes shoot out from the open doors of the air force bird. His eyes widened when he saw men rappelling down these ropes to the helo deck below. Several of these brave fools landed hard on the steel deck, but they kept coming. They streamed from both sliding doors of the Halo. He turned to his first officer as he watched this insanity through his binoculars. Dishlakov had noticed the same thing as the captain, and as he lowered his glasses, they exchanged worried looks. Each of the first fifty men to the deck was heavily armed. Finally, as they turned their attention back to the badly swerving helicopter, four men in different clothing rappelled down the rubber-treated ropes to land softly onto the pitching deck.
“Second Captain, go below and bring the commander of this band of fools to my cabin, take the others to the ship’s mess, and station a marine guard on them until I get some confirmation on just who these idiots are.”
The captain watched as the Halo, with her belly empty of men and equipment and after the last large bags of gear were lowered down, rose back into the black sky and then made a sharp turn to the north. Kreshenko slammed his fist onto the windowsill once more and then stormed off to his cabin.
Two hurricanes were about to explode into the North Atlantic that day, and one was about to happen on board his ship.
* * *
It took the captain thirty minutes to finally get to his quarters after securing flight operations. His men were battered and seasick, and after he made sure they got something hot into them, he stormed into his cabin.
The big man was dark haired and was using one of the captain’s towels to dry his head. He didn’t even notice when Kreshenko burst through the cabin’s door. He stared angrily at the man wearing black Nomex battle BDUs, the uniform commandos the world over were now wearing. In place of the Russian Federation flag was a Velcro patch depicting a black camouflaged star. The captain looked on his bunk and saw the belt with the holstered weapon. His eyes went from the bed to the newcomer, who seemed to be making himself at home.
“Ah, First Captain Kreshenko. Is it too much to ask if you have a drink anywhere close by?”
The captain watched the man as he smiled and then simply tossed the towel onto the tiled deck. Kreshenko closed the door and retrieved the towel as Peter the Great rolled to starboard. As the captain tossed the wet towel into his private head, he turned to face the stranger. He saw the man wore no rank on his collar and that he was one of those film actor types that always seemed to walk out with the women after the drinking establishments closed. The captain had seen his ilk his entire life and despised the breed.
“I don’t have alcohol in my cabin. I try to shy away from it at sea.”
“Ah, I had heard that you were a prudent man, Captain. Thank goodness I always come prepared,” he said as he retrieved his bag and produced a bottle of very expensive vodka. “Thank goodness it survived the flight.” He held the bottle up so the captain could view the label. “This was a gift from old Putin himself, the moron,” he said as a way of telling Kreshenko to be careful in his approach about his visitor endangering his precious ship.
Instead of commenting, the captain walked to his desk and came back with two glasses.
“You see, I knew you were a man of action, Captain,” the stranger said as he tore the protective plastic from the cork and then poured two glasses. “Just as your brave brother and his crew.” He held a glass up and then toasted, “To the new Russia.”
Kreshenko remained still, not moving for the glass. Finally, in deference to the toast, he nodded. The man acted as though he hadn’t noticed Kreshenko’s small displeasure at the term new Russia or the mention of his dead brother, but Kreshenko knew that the man had. It was in this man’s cold eyes, and the captain knew immediately this visitor was no military person, or at least hadn’t been one for many years.
“What are you doing on my ship?” Kreshenko asked as he pushed aside the glass of vodka, which was still untouched.
The other man smiled, his eyes moving from the captain of Peter the Great to the still-half-full glass. He reached out and took the glass and drank the fiery liquid down. He closed his black eyes momentarily and then let out a satisfied breath. He then tossed the empty glass to the captain, who fumbled with it and then secured it before it crashed to the floor. The stranger unzipped his BDU top and then pulled a large envelope from its dry place.
“You endangered my ship and crew with that little stunt.”
“Yes.”
The captain looked at the envelope and then grudgingly accepted.
“May I assume my men are being dried and fed?”
“Your men are being taken care of,” Kreshenko said as he sat at his desk and broke the wax seal on the package.
“Perhaps to speed things along, go to the last page and examine the signature on the bottom.”
Kreshenko, with his eyes firmly affixed to the man he had instantly taken a dislike to, flipped through the sixteen pages, and then his eyes settled on the last name and signature, the commander in chief of the Russian Navy.
“Okay, you have impressive credentials. That still gives you no right to endanger my ship.”
The man laughed once more and then retrieved the bottle of vodka and poured again. He drank and then sat upon the captain’s bunk without asking.
“Captain Kreshenko, from this moment on, your ship will be in constant danger. So will the other two vessels of your rather small battle group.”
“Just who in the hell are you?” he asked, not bothering with the set of orders. He had seen that this man’s name had been blacked out on the official copies.
Once more, the glass was filled, and the stranger drank deeply. He started untying his boots. “Why, I’m the man who’s ordering you to turn Peter the Great, the Ustinov, and the Admiral Levchenko around one hundred and eighty degrees.”
This time, Kreshenko recovered far more quickly than the newcomer thought possible. He sprang to his feet, slamming the orders down on the desk.
“Back into the hurricane?”
“Yes, back into the hurricane.”
“Once more, sir, who are you?”
The man pulled off a wet boot and sock and then fixed the captain with a cold look. “I am Colonel Leonid Salkukoff; I am the assistant director of internal historical studies from Odessa. And I am here to repair a mistake from many, many years ago. A mistake we have well benefited from, but it has now run its course and its usefulness.” The tall man stood and faced the captain. “And you, my good captain, your crew, the other two warships, well, they are expendable in that endeavor. Now, shall we get Peter the Great turned around to meet our destiny?”
Kreshenko was feeling ill as he reached for the phone on his desk. “I want a flash message sent to both Red Banner Fleet North and to Presidential Command Authority in Moscow.” The captain held his hand over the phone as the radio room scrambled to make the connection. “We’ll see if President Putin is as accepting of the consequences in sending his prized flagship of the Red Banner Northern Fleet into danger as cavalierly as yourself.”
Kreshenko was stunned when the man completely undressed and was preparing for a shower when he stopped and smiled.
“President Putin has no say in this, Captain. The sooner you learn this harsh fact, the better off you will be.”
“You’re telling me that the president has no authority to order this ship back to home waters?”
Again, the irritating smile. “Captain, let me explain something to you,” he said as he wrapped a dry towel around his muscled hips and stopped in the doorway leading to the captain’s private head and shower. “Beyond certain offices in our government, the office of the president of Russia has never existed. Since the so-called fall of the Soviet State, the presidency, nor even the politburo, has been in charge of our country and never will be.”
“What are you saying?” Kreshenko was starting to become furious, but at the same time, a sick feeling of knowing struck his guts. He and his dead brother had spoken about it in private times, but they always thought it nothing but a conspiracy theory to scare the progressives in their country.
“You’ll learn more in the orders, but suffice it to say, Captain, playtime in the world is over. I’m afraid the average person won’t be able to recognize Mother Russia in the next few years. The arrogant fools in the West will learn that the cold war was not lost by us. We won it the day we convinced them we lost it. Now, get this ship turned around or I’ll have you shot and turn it around myself.” The man calling himself Colonel Leonid Salkukoff lost his humorous smile as he ducked into the private head and the warm shower that awaited him.
Captain Kreshenko placed the phone down and then grimaced as he hit the intercom to the bridge.
“Second Captain Dishlakov, let’s get Peter the Great and our two escorts turned around. We’re going back into the hurricane. Let’s get all three ships buttoned up tight and prepare for rough seas. Set storm warning conditions throughout all three ships.”
As he sat and read the extraordinary orders he had ever been given, the captain felt the bulk of Russian advanced weaponry heel hard to starboard as she turned away from home and back into danger.
LOS ANGELES–CLASS ATTACK SUBMARINE USS HOUSTON
FOUR HUNDRED NAUTICAL MILES SOUTHWEST
It had been four hours since the message containing the Houston’s mysterious bogey had gone up the chain of command from Nimitz to Norfolk and then finally to Washington. In that time, Captain Thorne became convinced that CINCLANT and NATO command had totally lost their minds.
“Boat’s at a hundred feet and holding,” said officer of the deck Jacobs as he called out the depth. There actually had been no need to do so because the closer the submarine got to the surface, the fiercer the rolling of her bulk became. “I take that back. We’re rolling. Thrusters starboard!”
Thorne looked at the young lieutenant JG and slightly shook his head, wanting the young officer to calm down for the benefit of the crew. The man acknowledged that he received the captain’s silent advice and visibly settled.
Captain Thorne examined the orders he had received via ELF, the low-frequency method of communicating that was coded and protected from snooping ears. He shook his head as the Houston’s first officer joined him. He was tucking in his shirt as he approached Thorne and the message flimsy he held. The captain handed Lieutenant Commander Gary Devers the flimsy.
“You have got to be—” The first officer was cut off by a sharp roll as Houston actually breached the surface with her sail tower, exposing her numbered designation to the early morning sky. Number 713 stood out in all its white-painted glory before dipping back into the dark green tumult. They had gone from one hundred feet to almost nothing in one swell of the rough seas. “Jesus, that was embarrassing. Thank God we don’t have to hide from a warship at these shallow depths. Exposing ourselves like that would be a good way to get a Russian missile sent our way,” the first officer said as Houston finally settled.
“Up scope,” Thorne said as he held tightly to the periscope stanchion. As Thorne looked around him, he saw the anxious faces of the mere kids watching his every move. When the scope was up, he peered into the eyepiece. “Gary, let’s give the old girl a goose. Give her a shot of air, will you? Bring her as shallow as you can without exposing that damn sail to the elements again.”
“Aye, Skipper. Make your depth seventy-five feet.”
“Aye. Blowing negative to the mark. We’re coming shallow to seventy-five feet,” the chief of the boat repeated.
Throughout the length of Houston, loud pops were heard as the hull relaxed as she came to a shallower depth.
“There she is,” Thorne said as the scope cleared the high seas for the briefest of moments. The captain started using his Morse lamp high upon the radar antenna. Houston rolled hard to port as the men were heard cursing as they fought for handholds.
Through the beeping of the Morse signal, Devers could read: Disabled vessel, this is USS Houston, a United States submarine off your starboard beam. Are you under power or do you need assistance? I repeat, this is a United States warship. Do you need assistance? Finally, he pushed a button on the periscope, and although he knew he couldn’t hear it inside the thick-hulled sub, he had just sent out a blast of air through his warning horn affixed to the sail.
“Captain, we’re drifting right toward that hunk of junk,” Devers called out from the plotting station.
Thorne slammed the handles up and then lowered the scope. He reached for the intercom. “Communications, keep trying on all frequencies until she responds.”
“Conn, radio, aye.”
Thorne leaned against the navigation console and then looked at the plot. “How soon until the De Zeven, Shiloh, and Bunker Hill arrive on station?”
“An hour, give or take five minutes. They’re having a far rougher time with Tildy than we are.”
“I imagine,” Thorne said as he examined the plot on the navigation board for what seemed like the thousandth time. “Plot the hurricane against the last weather report and prediction, will you, Gary?”
The first officer designated the edge of Tildy and then plotted the estimated position of the hurricane’s eye as close as he could with the information the boat’s computer had. The virtual reality app made the hurricane swirl as if it were a motion picture animation. The captain placed a finger in the estimated position of the eye, the calmest part of the storm, and tapped the spot.
“There it is. If CINCLANT and the president want that ship boarded, there’s the only place it will be possible. I estimate five hours until the hurricane’s eye if the phantom’s drift remains the same. If not, we’ll have to have one of the heavy cruisers attempt to take her in tow.”
Devers leaned over and silently concurred with the estimate. “Captain, maybe those in power have thought this through, but what if the Russians find out we’re attempting to board that derelict?”
Thorne laughed but immediately regretted it when he saw the anxious young faces of his control room crew.
“I guess at that time we’ll find out just how important this hunk of junk is to someone, won’t we?”
“Yes, Captain.”
“Okay, let’s take one more look. Up scope,” he said as the chrome-and-plastic scope rose from the deck. “Damn, that thing is riding pretty low in the water. Either she’s taking on water and foundering or she’s far heavier than her listed displacement tonnage. If that’s the case, we need to—”
The flash in the eyepiece of the periscope sent the captain back hard enough that he almost lost his footing. It was as if the sun had exploded in the advanced optics of the scope.
“Captain, what—”
A pressure wave slammed into Houston, swinging her bow around fifteen degrees before her thrusters corrected her programmed position. She rolled hard to starboard and then to port as she finally started to settle. The captain gained his composure, and then, rubbing his eyes, which felt like they had been burned from his skull, he grasped the handles of the scope again and looked. He closed his eyes once more and rubbed them. He peered through the eyepiece again, expecting to see nothing but flaming wreckage on the surface of the rolling seas. Again, a bright flash and the Russian ship vanished. Before he could say or do anything, another bright flash that lit up the dark skies again wreaked havoc with his vision and the optics. The lens cleared, and then the vessel was back, rolling and pitching and sinking into a deep depression.
Houston suddenly went dark. Not even her emergency lighting came on. All her boards went out along with the overheads. Then, just as quickly, electrical power sprang back to life.
“Electromagnetic pulse?” the first officer asked, concerned when the captain started moving the periscope to the left, right, and then settling once more.
“I don’t have a clue, but that damn ship is still there. Chief of the Boat, I want a damage assessment and diagnostics run on everything.”
“Aye.”
The captain again slammed the handles of the scope to the up position and then lowered it. He looked around the control room at the anxious faces staring at him. He took a deep breath and then nodded at his first officer.
“Okay, take her to five hundred feet and hold station. Use thrusters to keep us even with the Simbirsk. Sonar, conn, I want shifts rotated every thirty minutes. I want fresh ears listening for any untoward intruders to our little drama.”
“Conn, sonar, aye. No contacts at this time other than our three sisters a hundred miles off. We did have a spike in the infrared band ten seconds before power shut down and another spike in radiation output at the same time.”
“From Houston?”
“Negative, conn. It came from our phantom.”
Throughout the boat, the rumors were really starting to fly. It seemed the USS Houston and her surface cronies were about to attempt the boarding of Russian state property, and they knew those same Russians wouldn’t be too fond of that little development. Now, they realized that whatever that ship was, it could possibly have the potential to send Houston and her crew to the bottom of the Atlantic.
The USS Houston went deep with her crew’s knowledge that there was something out there that rattled one of the most experienced submarine skippers in the world.