Arctic Wind

Chapter 7 Opening Stages

The crowd was growing rapidly into a mob. On the platform in a small center city park was Ileana Gorski, a mother of four who had lost her husband in what the company had called an unavoidable accident when his rail car was struck by a motorist. It had forced the tram off its rails and over an embankment. Unfortunately, the car had been driven by a Polish nationalist who had been very outspoken against the old Soviet regime. The organizers were using this as meaning ‘anti-Russian.’ The worst part had been that because of a paperwork glitch, it had taken almost a year for her husband’s benefits to kick in and a pension check issued. The family had been forced to move to a shack outside of town for a period of time.

Now she stood angrily denouncing the government for allowing people to discriminate against ethnic Russians. With each sentence, the crowd cheered and screamed for change. Gorski held up her two year old daughter pleading that such things never happen to her children. This built up the crowd to a fever pitch.

Bugayev sat behind a black screen at a partially opened window. He took careful aim with the western made rifle used by the government’s elite state police. Just as Gorski raised her fist in the air to close her remarks, he squeezed the trigger. The rifle was silenced. Barely giving a report, he watched as the bullet tore through Gorski’s chest, splattering blood over her children and the people behind her. One of those behind her slumped over as well and the misshapen round tore into his leg.

Someone screamed, then the whole crowd panicked. In a wild melee everyone tried to escape the confines of the park, pushing people out of the way or down to the ground to be trampled by those behind them. Bugayev squeezed off four more rounds before he quickly tossed the rifle into a state police carrying case and rushed to the stairwell. He didn’t look back to see what his actions had done. Instead, he went down four flights of stairs and entered another floor where he had rented a small room on the opposite side of the building.

It was a close call. The sounds of heavy footsteps could be heard coming up the stairwell and going through the halls. Bugayev removed his shirt and the long plastic gloves he had worn. Placing them both in a sink, he scrubbed them thoroughly, then after wringing the water out of the shirt, hung it up to dry. The gloves he took to the toilet. After shredding them with a knife, he flushed them down the drain. Outside, the screams were still in the air and the sounds of police and ambulance vehicles pierced the late afternoon air.

Bugayev, took his shoes off and lay on his bed. When anyone came, he wanted to be asleep, or at least appear to be so. He lay back and thought about how his job was now essentially complete. The rest would be easy compared to what he had been doing. In a few minutes, he dozed off.

***

Erich Bolin had been the one to find the rifle. Upon arrival at the scene, and looking at where the victims had been standing, it hadn’t taken long to determine which building the shot had come from. After only ten minutes of looking he found the silenced rifle lying partially inside an open case. The fact it had been a state police case made him cringe. This wouldn’t be pretty. Although it had been a good thirty minutes since the shooting he ordered a search of the buildings. Squads of four officers began going from door to door to see who was there and if someone might have seen something. With the first three floors from the scene covered, Bolin and three officers went to the fourth floor down. A housekeeper was sent up to assist and open any doors that were locked. Most of the rooms were empty, however some had occupants. One room had an elderly couple who had the television turned up loudly so they could hear it. They had only seen what was on the news.

Two more rooms had people in them with none having paid any attention until they heard the screaming. Bolin knocked on a door at the rear of the building. These people probably wouldn’t have heard anything anyway, but it had to be checked. No one answered the door. The housekeeper opened the door and Bolin and the officers stepped inside. At first the place looked empty, but a light snoring came from the bedroom. The officers began to grin. The smile stopped on Bolin’s face when he saw Anton Bugayev lying on the bed in front of him.

Pouncing on the bed, Bolin quickly jerked Bugayev over and cuffed him, much to the surprise of the other officers. “Call the others! I want this man taken in immediately and placed in isolation!” he nearly screamed. Bolin also grabbed a leather strap and shoved it into Bugayev’s mouth. “This son of a bitch might have a capsule. Get a doctor or dentist to search his mouth. He isn’t going to kill himself on my watch”

Bugayev struggled, but having been asleep, his reactions were not as fast as usual.

He started to kick desperately to try and get away, but all that did was call for another officer to bind his legs with a belt. Within minutes, Bugayev had a cloth bag placed over his head and he was carried out the back entrance to an awaiting van.

Bolin returned to the room. “Tear this place apart. There’s a wet shirt on the window. Get it. Remove the drains and all that. Also get someone to check the sewer line. I want to make sure he didn’t flush something down.”

“But that would be long gone from here,” said one of the officers.

“Not necessarily. This is the back of the building. It may still be somewhere near the basement. Have them tell everyone not to use the toilets for a while.” Bolin pointed to the shoes by the bed. “Take those and the sheets. I want everything tested in the lab for gunpowder residue. I also need someone to talk to the landlord. I want to know when he checked in and if they have noticed when he came and went. Check everything. This may be one of the most important cases we ever had,” he said to the people in the room.

Everyone went to work. Within an hour, teams of people were going in and out, taking samples from the sink, carpets, walls and every other surface. The big break came when they found a piece of torn box in one of the drawers of a dresser. It matched perfectly with a box of ammunition found beside the rifle. The second break came when they found shards of plastic glove stuck inside one of the drain pipes. Embedded in it were tiny grains of burned gunpowder which hadn’t washed out. When they found the same residue on Bugayev’s pants and shoes and on the rifle, it was an open and shut case.

Little Steve pulled away from his Mom and ran into his Daddy’s arms. Roger Hammond scooped his son up and then hugged his wife. Despite it being in a very crowded and busy Reagan National Airport, the moment seemed almost private as they met in the terminal baggage area. In a few minutes, the three of them had retrieved their luggage and had walked to Roger’s latest purchase, a 1965 Chevrolet Impala convertible. The car was red with a white top and interior. At first sight of it, Little Steve could only say, “Wow.”

Pulling away from the parking deck, Hammond pointed the car toward downtown DC. Patricia was talking, letting him know all the things that had been going on while Steve sat in his child seat staring at all the lights. As they passed the Washington Monument, he began to ask questions about what it was and what some of the other buildings were. Patricia was happily answering everything until Hammond made a right turn onto the White House grounds. He stopped at the gate where his friend, Jack, gave a wave. “This must be the Misses, he said with a grin.”

“Yep, and the one in the back is Steven James Hammond. I believe you are expecting us,” Hammond said happily.

“Yes sir, we’ve been looking for you. Glad to have you here for the holiday,” Jack said as he lowered the gate.

Hammond began to enter the grounds. “You didn’t tell me we were staying here,” Patricia said cautiously.

“Well, Steve insisted. Besides, I understand they have child proofed most of the house already. We couldn’t say no,” he said as they pulled up to the front of the house.

Patricia turned to Steve. “Young man, we are going to be in a very nice place. You need to remember to keep your hands off of things and mind your manners,” she scolded him.

Steve looked up at his mother. “Yes, Mommy. I promise,” he said. Both Patricia and Roger knew there would be no way for him to keep that promise.

A member of the staff came down and opened the door while another walked round to the driver’s side to park the car. Another took the bags from the trunk and, after waiting for Roger to get Steve out of his car seat, followed the family up to the door.

Janie O’Bannon welcomed the family at the door, giving both Roger and Patricia a big hug. She then turned to Steve. “Well! You are much bigger than I thought you would be. I have a special room set aside just for you,” she said while shaking his little hand.

“Mom told me not to touch anything,” he said.

Janie laughed. “You don’t need to worry too much. There have been boys like you in the White House before,” she said. “Now come on in to dinner. We held it until you got here,” she said.

Everyone walked through the entrance hall off the north portico, then turned right. Steve’s eyes opened wide at how grand and spacious everything looked. He could see into the blue room and red room as they walked along. “Look at the colors!” he exclaimed as they walked by. He got even more excited to see the giant chandelier in the state dining room before they turned right again into the family dining room. The pale yellow walls and ornate woodwork was breathtaking. Right beneath the crystal chandelier was a smaller round table with just seven chairs. One of the chairs had a booster seat in it.

They talked for a minute until Steve O’Bannon and their two children came into the room. He gave Patricia a big hug. “Patricia, I am so proud of you. I can’t believe all the good work you are doing back home,” he said.

“You were the one who told me to always look out for your people. Besides, I kind of got upset for a while,” she said. “Your remarks at the funeral were very kind. I don’t think the man deserved it, but then again, he didn’t deserve to get shot either,” she said.

“Yes, I agree. At least now things can get back to somewhat normal,” the President said. He turned to the young man standing beside his father. “Steven James Hammond. I have been looking forward to meeting you,” he said extending his hand.

Little Steve shook the President’s hand. “Are you the one who gave me your name?” he asked.

The President chuckled. “I am. I hope you like it,” he said.

“Yes, sir, it’s mine now,” Little Steve said.

The President and his wife laughed. “Well, tomorrow you may get to meet the guy who gave you the other name,” the President said.

“I don’t like that name as much,” Steve said. They all laughed at that one.

“Let’s eat,” said the President.

Little Steve crawled into his booster seat and an usher slid him into the table. A fine napkin was placed in his lap. Watching the others, he decided that in a place like this, one didn’t use a bib. He took great care to use his fork like he had been taught. In the end, there was almost no mess at all.

Later that evening, Little Steve went to bed in a big double bed with crisp sheets. It was directly across from his Mom and Dad. He lay and wondered at all the fine things in the house. He had never seen anything like it before, but he liked his trailer home better. It had bunk beds that were just his size. Tomorrow was a day they called Thanksgiving. He fell asleep wondering if he would like turkey.

The interrogation had already lasted over eight hours. Bugayev had been transported to the capital for interrogation just two hours before. Now, he was in an enclosed, stuffy, room with smoke from the detective’s cigarettes hanging in the air. Sitting at a small table, Bugayev seemed to sit calmly as five officers in the room grilled him. In the eight hours Bugayev had remained silent except to ask for water or to use the facilities. He had a smugness about him that had infuriated the officers.

One of the officers looked at the man. “Obviously you fail to grasp what we are telling you. You have been caught in the act. We have the evidence to convict you and send you to a hangman. Does this not bother you?” he asked.

Bugayev simply smiled at the man and said nothing. His training had prepared for this and he had steeled himself for the possibility of being captured. He kept telling himself that escape could come at any time and that his silence was his best option.

The door opened and another man entered. He whispered something to two of the officers and then left the room.

“You are one cool character,” said one of the other officers. “But now things shall change. I’m not sure what you know about Poland, but we have certain laws which, upon court approval, allow us to gather information deemed necessary for state security. I now have a court order allowing us to do just that. Before we are done with you, we will know everything you know, and we shall use that information against both you and your homeland,” he said with a sneer.

Bugayev glanced up at the clock on the wall. Noting it was five a.m., he smiled at the men in the room and said, “I’m afraid you are too late.”

Medyka was a small community near the Polish border with the Ukraine. It had grown from the border crossing for both a major highway and trains coming and going from the Ukraine. Over the past year, the army had deployed thousands of tank traps along the border with Ukraine and Russia and had begun stepped up patrols to make sure they were left undisturbed. The patrols had become routine, with a truck dropping off patrols every 200 yards to make sure there were no activities left undetected on the Russian side.

The sky was becoming a little lighter as the morning crept in. Within an hour, most of the guards would be changed out and a fresh set of eyes and ears would come in. Everyone was looking forward to getting out of the cold of the evening and getting a hot shower and good meal. Each patrol of two men joked and talked as they patrolled their sector.

The air was torn apart by the sounds of incoming artillery. The shells began plastering the high fences of the border and the tank traps just beyond. The patrols along a twenty mile front began calling frantically into their radios to let everyone know that the border was under attack.

***

The radars at the Deblin and Minsk Mazowiecki air bases began showing large numbers of incoming aircraft approaching from the Ukraine. Controllers sounded the alert and within seconds, pilots throughout Poland raced for their planes to counter the assault. The first in the air were the American made F-16s and older Soviet Mig-29s. In all, over 80 Polish fighters scrambled to meet the invaders. Unfortunately, the controllers were counting over 300 aircraft rapidly approaching the Polish border.

***

Almost immediately, all army units were alerted. General Pol, initiated the defense plan that the NATO leaders had agreed upon. Across Poland, men and women manned their tanks, guns, and missile batteries. Troops began taking up the defensive positions planned and waited for the troops to cross the border.

***

The Russian SU-24s and SU-34s cleared the borders and began engaging their designated targets — mostly army tank and heavy equipment compounds. They raced in to drop their weapons almost unopposed since the Polish fighters had not had the time to get within range. That was when the first surprise came. Missiles streaked skyward from the mobile anti-aircraft missile launchers that were tracking using infra-red sensors. The Russian pilots suddenly saw several of their comrades fall from the sky in flames. Several in the squadron wheeled back to engage the batteries only to find that the ground was dark and there were no radars to lock onto. Switching to their own thermal sensors, they scanned the ground in the area but found nothing. Frustrated, the attack aircraft turned back to join the others, only to find that, once turned, they came under attack again. Four more aircraft fell.

The remaining attack force dropped their weapons on several tank farms identified by intelligence from just a few days before. The pilots were elated when several sets of flames sprung skyward after their bomb release. By the time they left, the fires were seen all round the target area. They had no time to give their targets a hard look. The Polish air force was almost there and the attack aircraft scurried back across the border to safety.

***

At the border, the artillery continued to pound the tank traps, often flinging the steel structure off the ground, only to come back down almost intact in another position. Just beyond the traps, the mines in a mine field were occasionally detonated during the bombardment. The patrols were now firmly huddled into slit trenches previously set along the borderline beyond the mine field.

The bombardment lasted for nearly an hour before the fire was shifted further across the line. That was when the sound of tanks could be heard nearing the border. The patrols quickly left their trenches and made their way to an extraction area to be taken back to join other units. Within minutes, the Russian tanks rolled up to the high fence and pushed it over. The twenty yard no man’s land passed quickly. That was when the Russian tankers hit the tank traps.

Made from several welded pieces of jagged steel beams, the traps looked somewhat like three dimensional snowflakes on the ground. The tankers had hoped that the artillery would have gotten rid of them, but the traps had simply been moved around the area and deposited again. Some had actually fallen into the craters of the artillery shells and had made things even more difficult.

The first line of tanks tried to push the traps out of the way, only making things worse when one or more of the legs dug deeply into the ground and held fast. In only a few cases, was a tank able to nudge the obstacle out of the way and move ahead, only to come up against more of them. The advance ground to a halt with tankers calling for bulldozers to come up and make passages through the line.

Now it was the turn of the Polish army. Polish artillery, hidden in the surrounding hills and trees, began pounding the tanks which were slowed and stopped by the defenses. Mercilessly the rounds came down on top of the tanks and their crews, penetrating the lightly armored roof of the tanks and killing all inside. Within minutes, scores of tanks were burning along the border.

Now, in the gathering light of dawn, the Polish units came under fire from additional attack aircraft skimming the surface and dashing across the border. They began weeding out the artillery pieces and easing the destruction of their own units. The Polish fighters were on the scene now and dove in on their prey. The low level melee was not how the pilots had anticipated fighting a war. This was emphasized when the Russian fighters screamed in at treetop level to protect the attack aircraft. The results were not pretty. Polish fighters began to fall left and right from the Russian fighters. Although few of the attack aircraft made it home, by concentrating their attacks on the attack planes, the Polish fighters had left themselves open. The Russian fighters had plowed into them. In the end, nearly half of the Polish fighter aircraft had been destroyed.

On the ground, the Polish army pulled out the hand held anti-tank missiles. As the second wave came forward, they saw several crawl over the carcasses of their fallen comrades and drop down on the other side. They too became entangled in the tank traps. More artillery zeroed in on these units. But as more attack aircraft came in, fewer artillery rounds fell along the line. Soldiers carrying the hand held munitions aimed at the latest line to crawl over the hulls of their comrades and pulled the trigger. More tanks fell. That was when the field officers realized what the Russians were doing. They were building a bridge of tanks through the traps. Soon there was an unbroken line where the Russians could cross the borders. The tanks poured across, struck the mine field and kept going. The few tanks damaged made it possible for the others to get through. Within two hours, a division of tanks and infantry were across the border and into Poland.

The sound of jet aircraft flying somewhere overhead put everyone at the little border crossing on edge. Everyone was expecting the Russians to do something and since they had taken the Ukraine, there wasn’t much to stop them. At the small border crossing two tanks were displayed with their guns pointed in the direction of Ukraine. A garrison of about 100 men and women kept an eye open in case the Russians made a move, but with a border of a little over fifty miles, it was impossible to watch it all. In just a few minutes the people on the grounds could feel the rumbling of heavy vehicles. Several aircraft streaked suddenly across the sky and released ordnance which took out both tanks and the small barracks the garrison was housed in. Two helicopters came up over the hill and began peppering the area with machine gun fire. Despite their efforts, the young soldiers were mowed down mercilessly. That did not prevent the garrison commander from sending a warning up the line. It didn’t mean much. Within ten minutes, highway 50 was filled with men and equipment. Only a small group stopped to secure the town. The rest were burning fuel to hop from one town to the next as quickly as possible. Their orders were to take highway 50 to R1, then all the way to Bratislava.

Captain Michael Hufnagel stepped from his cabin and walked up to the bridge of his ship, the German ship, Bayern, a Brandenburg Class multipurpose frigate. He had taken command just three months before and had taken his ship to the Mediterranean to operate with the Americans for a while as a part of their NATO Standing Naval Force. So far, the cruise had been exceptional. The American Navy was fun to work with and in the few times they had mixed with the officers on the American ships, friendships had begun.

Stepping onto the bridge of his small ship, he looked out from his anchorage in the Bay of Naples at the twinkling lights of the city and the looming hulk of the American aircraft carrier USS Abraham Lincoln. Hufnagel couldn’t imagine commanding something that big. Germany had a navy of only about 85 ships of all types, including tugs. The Americans had hundreds, and the aircraft carrier was at the top of the list. He sipped some of the coffee from his mug. He had insisted that a supply be available in his cabin for just such times as these — quiet times when he could free his mind from the duties of running a ship and simply enjoy the world around him.

Hufnagel climbed into his chair and eased back to watch the sun come up. Looking through the bridge windows he noticed that two of the Russian Grisha class corvettes had gotten underway early. He shook his head. The Grishas looked rough, utilitarian. There were streaks of rust down their sides and he could see smoke coming from one of the stacks. Hufnagel couldn’t believe the Russians still sent the things to sea. He watched as they began to make their way from the inner harbor out toward the entrance of the bay. They were passing close to the Lincoln.

A strange popping noise came from the direction of the corvettes. Hufnagel grabbed binoculars and peered into them. The two corvettes had turned their twin 57 mm guns toward the carrier and had opened fire, blasting numerous holes into the side of the great ship near the waterline.

Hufnagle jumped up and reached for the ship’s announcing system. “Battle stations!” he called out. “The Russians are attacking the American carrier. All hands to your battle stations!” he nearly screamed as he reached over and sounded the general alarm.

Almost immediately his crew sprang from their beds and rushed to their stations. Calling down to engineering, Hufnagel ordered the ship’s engines brought online. Men were rushing into the bridge now, taking up their stations. Within minutes the ship was fully manned and ready. Hufnagel ordered the ship’s anchor hauled in.

The two corvettes continued to fire into the carrier. As the anchor was raised, Hufnagel noticed both ships suddenly pick up speed. You won’t get away that easy, he said to himself. “Intercept those ships,” he ordered. The ship’s diesels began to pick up their revolutions as the ship gained steerageway.

Dashing back into his combat information center, Hufnagel ordered his gunners to target the corvettes. In seconds, the 76 mm OTO-Melara twisted in its mount and opened fire. As the ship picked up speed, he saw splashes from his gun all around the leading corvette. As the distance narrowed, the ship’s LM 2500 gas turbines came online and he felt the screws dig deeper, urging the German frigate towards the enemy.

There was a hit. One of the 76 mm shells struck just at the base of the corvette’s mast nearly ripping the radars and fire control director from the ship. A second round hit at the base of the stack as the corvette’s gun opened fire on the Bayern. That hit, caused the ship to slow and stop. Even the gun quit operating.

Not so the second corvette. It continued to increase speed and its gun had found the range. Shells splashed on either side of the frigate. Shifting fire to the second corvette, the German crew frantically fired on their targets. The firing rate got even better when one of the 57 mm rounds struck among the life raft capsules just aft of the bridge. The firing remained fast and furious with several hits reported on the corvette and another hit knocking the Thales air search radar antenna off the Bayern.

Just as it looked as if the corvette might get away, a round penetrated her after gun and exploded inside the magazine below. The resulting explosion blew the stern completely off the corvette. Turning his attention back to the first corvette, Hufnagel saw them frantically trying to turn the ship’s torpedo tubes outboard to launch. He signaled for them to surrender. Machine gun fire erupted from a spot on the small ship’s stern. With reluctance, Hufnagel ordered his gun to open fire.

Firing from point blank range, the rounds peppered the small corvette’s hull. Smoke and flames seemed to come out of every opening on the ship, yet the machine gun continued. The small ship sank until only the top of its mast was visible above the waters of the bay.

Norfolk was quiet. It was 11 pm and the Thanksgiving feast would begin the next day. Despite the orders to keep as many ships as possible at sea, a number were in port, including two carriers. Most sailors had been given liberty and were still in town enjoying the extended holiday. Radar watches for the area were lightly manned and in the defense centers there was an anticipation of a few days off with families. The operators watched their screens, not really anticipating seeing anything. Nothing appeared on their scopes.

The first warning came when the sound of jet engines streaked just 50 feet over Interstate 60 and Fort Wool at the entrance to Hampton Roads. Turning sharply to the left, the missiles centered on the first ship they saw — the carrier USS Dwight D. Eisenhower. The first three missiles struck along her port side, just below the flight deck overhang. Penetrating the hull, the warheads went off just below the hanger deck in the berthing spaces and shops. The fourth missile skimmed the flight deck and struck the island structure, tearing a hole through the center. The explosion sent steel and flames through the other side of the island and hitting USS Nimitz on the other side.

Another four missiles continued further into Hampton Roads before circling back to strike any other carriers in port. With the Nimitz and the Eisenhower at the same pier, they looked like just one ship on the missile radar, not so for USS Iwo Jima, an LHD nearly the size of a carrier, tied up the next pier over. All four missiles struck the ship near the waterline sending up huge gouts of flame and debris. Just back from a deployment, the Iwo Jima was fully loaded. When one of the missiles hit a magazine, the eruption lit the night sky for several miles. Almost immediately, the Iwo Jima began to list to starboard. Within a minute, the ship had turned over on its side. The flames inside the ship continued to consume her. It would take two days for the fires to be extinguished.

Aboard the Eisenhower, crewmen shaken from their racks began rushing to their stations to try and save their ship and shipmates. Flames engulfed the hanger deck from below and teams lit off the fire systems to dispense foam over the flames. But there was only the duty section aboard. The base firefighters arrived quickly and rushed aboard. Compartment by compartment, they made their way, dousing flames and pulling out the bodies of the sailors killed while asleep in their racks. In a few minutes the call went out to the city for more help. In all, fifteen fire stations emptied to kill the fires aboard the great ship. The engineers rushed deep inside to check the engineering plant to make sure the ship’s two nuclear reactors had not been breached. Fortunately, the compartmentalization built into the ship had done its job. Not only were the reactors still safe, the underwater hull had not been damaged. USS Dwight D. Eisenhower would survive.

There was only one carrier docked at Naval Air Station North Island. USS Stennis was in to repair a bearing in the number one engine room. Just a few hours before, USS Ronald Reagan had departed to be at sea in case something happened. Eight missiles streaked past Point Loma and turned toward the Stennis. Two missiles mistakenly struck hangers and warehouses near the ship. One came straight down the bow, skipping across the flight deck before exploding near the fantail. Another missile struck the island just below the bridge. A fifth missile glanced off the angled deck and skipped out into the harbor before exploding 500 yards away. Three other missiles missed the ship altogether, aiming instead at the museum, USS Midway berthed across San Diego bay. The first missile struck dead on the bow, destroying the ship’s secondary conning station, while the other two struck a taller warehouse just across the street.

The missiles tracked in from the sea into Los Angeles harbor. They had been programmed to strike the largest ship on the pier — USS Iowa. Five had been fired. Two struck the loading and unloading cranes on the adjacent piers. Three struck the huge Disney cruise ship Dream which had entered port just an hour before and docked just behind the Iowa. There had been over 5,000 people aboard. All missiles struck her starboard side, causing her to list and sink at her moorings. Of the 5,000 aboard, only around 1,000 survived.

Captain Frank Jacobs was not happy. An attack submarine, like the Texas, needed to roam freely to search for targets, not shepherd a bird farm. Yet, here they were, tied to USS John F. Kennedy, one of the newest carriers, like some wet nurse. His people had identified over twenty possible targets but no one would pull a trigger unless fired upon. So his highly trained crew would sit, listen, and wait.

Holiday routine would be observed today because of Thanksgiving. Already the smell of turkey was circulating through the boat. At least his supply officer had been able to get enough frozen turkeys to feed the crew. He looked in the mirror in his cabin and scratched his chin. “Another day…” he sighed to himself. He had lathered up when the call came over the speakers, “Captain to the control room.”

“What now,” he said to himself. Exiting his cabin, he made his way forward and stepped into the crowded control room. “Okay, OOD, what’s up?”

“Captain, sonar has some strange noises from contact twelve. She bears 083 degrees about 45,000 yards. They say they are hearing some metal on metal sounds,” the OOD said.

Jacobs hit the bitch box. “Sonar, what do you have?” he grumbled.

“Captain, we hear some metal on metal sounds and now I am hearing hull popping noises,” said the sonar watch.

“Where’s the carrier?” Jacobs asked.

“The carrier is 195 degrees, five thousand yards. That puts her on our port quarter, sir,” the OOD reported.

“How long have we been tracking this guy?” Jacobs asked.

“For the past three days, captain.”

Jacobs’ brow furled. He didn’t like it. “OOD, sound general quarters. Ready all tubes,” he ordered.

A muted klaxon sounded through the ship and the crew sprang to their general quarters stations. Within three minutes, all stations were manned and ready.

Jacobs had moved to sonar. “Okay, give me your best shot. What is she?” he asked.

“Captain, we already know she is a Russian. The machinery noises make her a nuke plant and definitely not one of ours. The signature is not in our computers, but is very similar to an Oscar. We have the signatures of all of them, but this one is a little different. I might guess that it may be the Tomsk. Remember, she had that accident about a year ago and she went in for repairs. There’s a good chance it changed her signature. That would explain it,” the chief said as he listened on a separate set of headphones.

“She’s a missile boat, isn’t she?” asked Jacobs.

“Yes sir. Cruise missiles,” said the chief. He suddenly jerked up and looked at the operator. “Fuck!” he exclaimed. “Captain, he’s launching missiles!”

“Shit!” Jacobs called out as he left the room. “OOD, make for contact 12. Make your depth 800 feet, speed 20. I’m going to blast his ass all over the ocean,” Jacobs shouted.

“Missiles in the air, bearing 080!” came the cry from the combat information center. Immediately the Kennedy went to general quarters and turned away. Outboard, USS Anzio, an older AEGIS cruiser, sprang to life. The door on her launcher opened and an SM-2 erupted out of the launcher toward the incoming missiles. Several more followed.

“How many are incoming?” shouted the Kennedy’s captain.

“Four inbound. There are no ships on the bearing. It must have been a submarine,” the watch officer exclaimed.

“Is the missile launcher ready?” the captain asked.

“Ready, captain. Almost in range.”

The first SM-2 struck its target along with the second. The third SM-2 failed to go off and hit the water while the fourth struck the fourth missile in the line. The third missile adjusted its course toward the carrier and flew on just 100 feet above the water. It roared over the cruiser toward the bigger target beyond.

The Kennedy launched a Sea Sparrow. The smaller missile picked up the enemy missile and struck it just two miles from the carrier, spinning it into the sea where it exploded with a bang.

Aboard the Kennedy, the captain let out a whistle. “Too close. How far away was the launch?” he asked.

“About 25 miles, Captain.”

“Get some ASW assets in the air. Let’s hunt that son of a bitch down,” he said.

“The carrier is going away at high speed,” reported the ship’s sonar officer.

“Damn! We heard some explosions. Are you sure she isn’t damaged?” the captain asked.

“Does not sound like it at all. Her engine noises have increased.”

“Ready another four missiles. Move us in closer. Do you hear any other ships?”

“Just her escorts. They are following her,” the sonar officer reported.

“Then we must complete the job. Make course for intercepting. Make our speed thirty,” the captain ordered.

“Captain, it will mean we make some noise,” said the sonar officer.

“Our task is to sink that carrier. Since we have heard no other ships but her escorts, we may be safe to take that risk. Give me thirty knots!” he demanded. The submarine increased speed toward the carrier.

“Bridge, Sonar. I have cavitation noises from target 12. He’s heading our way,” the chief called out.

“How close will he get?” the Captain asked.

There was a snicker over the bitch box. “Almost right on top of us. But at that speed, I guarantee he won’t hear us,” the chief said.

“Must not be too bright. Do we have a solution?” Jacobs asked.

“We have a solution, Captain. It’s long range, but we have a green light,” said the fire controlman.

“Are there any other submarine contacts?”

“None within fifty miles, Captain,” said sonar.

“Then let’s show him the error of his ways. Fire control, match bearings and shoot,” Jacobs ordered.

The Mark 48 ADCAP torpedo swam out of its tube and increased its speed to nearly 50 knots. The Texas fire control team could hear the oncoming submarine through the torpedo’s system via the wire still attached to the ship. The torpedo tracked straight in.

A member of the crew saw the explosion as it erupted through the surface of the water and reported it to the bridge. The Captain turned to his OOD. “I hope that was a bad guy,” he said.

Within a few minutes USS Texas reported the target sunk. After a few minutes of deep breaths, the Captain ordered the ship to reduce speed and deploy more ASW assets. The Russians had started a war and the Kennedy would be ready.