6

KIROV-CLASS BATTLE CRUISER PETER THE GREAT

NORTH ATLANTIC

The mighty warship rolled heavily to port, knocking most of the crew on the battle bridge from their feet. A one-inch-thick window smashed inward as the green sea poured into the bridge. The large space of bridge was filled with the stench of vomit as men could no longer bear the attack on their inner ears and the motion sickness caused by the merciless rolling seas.

Captain Kreshenko regained his feet with the assistance of Second Captain Dishlakov.

“Seal that breach!” the XO shouted above the roar of the hurricane.

“Hang on!” someone shouted as another forty-foot wave cascaded over the immense deck of the battle cruiser.

Kreshenko cringed as he heard steel being sheared away from their uppermost mast. Electrical circuits shorted out all across the electronic suite of the battle bridge. Fires erupted as Kreshenko calmly replaced his hat.

“Captain, we are receiving a distress call from the Ustinov. They say they have lost their forward missile mounts and are taking on water in their engineering spaces.”

Kreshenko and Dishlakov ran to the aft windows and raised their binoculars to the north. At first they couldn’t see the missile cruiser, and their hearts simultaneously skipped a beat. Then they saw the smaller cruiser’s radio and electronic warfare mast rise above the crashing sea. Their momentary relief was stolen away as they watched an explosion erupt on the forward spaces of her deck. The fireball rose until the raging sea and high winds consumed it.

“She’s going to buckle, Captain!” Dishlakov shouted as more seawater rushed in through the damaged bridge window on their own battered warship.

“Helm, give me twenty degrees to port. We’ll circle slowly and assist as best we can. Have a rescue team ready to take on survivors if needed.”

“Aye.”

“Belay that order, please.”

Both officers turned as a man came through the port hatch, shaking water from his rain gear.

“Helm, bring her around,” Kreshenko again ordered.

“I said disregard that order,” Colonel Salkukoff said as he stripped the rubber parka from his body.

“We have a ship in trouble. Those are Russian sailors out there. We will assist.”

Salkukoff smiled and then nodded toward the Russian marines stationed on the battle bridge. With his nod, both guards pulled out their sidearms. One was leveled at the nineteen-year-old helmsman.

“Captain, it will be you who causes the death of your helmsman if he obeys that order. We are near to breaking through into the eye of the hurricane, so we shall remain on course. Do you understand?”

Before the glaring Kreshenko could respond, Peter the Great heeled hard over to the starboard side. This time it felt as though the giant battle cruiser could never recover. She was close to capsizing.

“Helm, turn her into the roll!” Kreshenko yelled over the din.

Another heavy wave crashed into the ship as the order was given. This time they all felt the pressure as Peter the Great was totally submerged for the briefest of moments before she rose back from the killing seas and took a large imaginary breath of life.

“Captain, we have a distress call from the Ustinov. She has buckled along her centerline mass. She has hull plate separation. They are requesting assistance.”

Dishlakov looked from the two marines holding their weapons on the captain and the helmsman toward the barbarian who was ordering their ship to turn their backs on a sister vessel in distress.

“Captain, we have lost the forward missile-loading hatch. We’re taking on water in the forward spaces.”

Kreshenko cursed as the calls kept getting more desperate and frequent.

“Send out a call to the Admiral Levchenko: assist the Ustinov and take on her crew.”

“No, I want the Admiral Levchenko to form up with us. We will break into the eye together. The Ustinov is on her own. Send a message to her captain and crew; they will never be forgotten for their bravery,” Salkukoff said as blandly as he could.

As Peter the Great went down into another trough, Kreshenko pushed his way past his men to face the Russian colonel. When one of the marines faced him with a loaded weapon, Kreshenko merely batted the handgun away angrily. “Stand down, marine,” he said menacingly. The rest of the bridge crew became aware of the confrontation and watched. Most were ready to assist their captain after the recent order to abandon their fellows had been said aloud, which would have angered any sailor the world over.

“Captain, if you do not follow my orders, I will command your weapons officer to target that cruiser and finish sinking her. Do you understand?”

Kreshenko was silent as he took a firm hold on the helm console when the battle cruiser once more fought her way back to the surface of the roiling seas.

The bridge-wing hatch opened, and ten of the colonel’s commandos entered the bridge. These men didn’t look seasick at all. They all had automatic weapons held at port arms. The colonel never removed his dark eyes from the captain. He was sure his bluff was about to be called when the announcement was made.

Ustinov just broke her back!” one of the bridge lookouts called.

Kreshenko screamed a curse as he snatched the binoculars from his first officer and focused to the north. Tears of rage and frustration filled his eyes as he fought to see through the ravages of the hurricane. He felt his heart sink as the raked bow of the Ustinov rose high into the air at the same moment her stern section with her proudly proclaimed name in Cyrillic rose and then, astonishingly, the two halves of the ship crashed together, shredding steel and men in one massive action. She had snapped in the middle. A giant wave struck the forward section and slammed it into another advancing wave. Then her stern slipped beneath the waves, and as it did, a tremendous explosion illuminated the dark world in which they had entered. Kreshenko lowered the glasses and angrily tossed them to Dishlakov. He stormed toward Colonel Salkukoff, who stood bracing himself against the rolling waves.

“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 TILDYTHE 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 colonel’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 aboard 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.

“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.

*   *   *

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.