Carrier

PROLOGUE

"Two bogies, Captain! Airborne, bearing two-five-niner, speed five hundred knots, closing."

Captain Gerald K. Gilmore leaned across the shoulder of the young radarman first class, his frown lengthening as he studied the radar screen. "Altitude?"

"Right on the deck, sir. I keep losing them in the wave clutter."

Chimera's exec edged closer, studying the hash of glowing fuzz scattered across the screen. "Damn, skipper. They're coming straight across the line!"

Gilmore nodded. "Sound general quarters, Will. Let's not take any chances."

"Aye, Captain." The exec's finger was already coming down on the panic button. A raucous clamor shrilled through the ship. He brought a microphone to his lips. "Now General Quarters, General Quarters! All hands, man your battle stations."

"Helm, come to zero-niner-five and bring her up to full throttle."

Through the deck, Gilmore felt the steady chug-chug-chug of Chimera's diesels increase in tempo, felt the heel to port as she went into her turn. Chimera was ancient even by Navy standards, built on an LST hull first laid down nearly fifty years before. She was weathered and sea-battered, and only small bits of white relieved her steel-gray monotony: the shallow, sky-staring dish of a satellite downlink and the designation RL 42 picked out in fresh paint at bow and stern. She was a lot newer inside, packed keel to masthead with the latest generation of advanced electronics. Chimera was a spy ship, designed to eavesdrop on conversations beyond the horizon. If this was an attack, she wouldn't stand a chance.

Gilmore picked up a telephone handset and punched in some numbers.

"Wilkinson," the voice on the other end announced. Commander Jake Wilkinson was Chimera's chief spook, the officer in charge of the fourteen officers and enlisted ratings who worked down in the spy ship's "SOD-hut," carrying out their electronic eavesdropping on the airwaves.

"Captain speaking. Our friends out there are getting a little pushy."

"We're monitoring them down here, Captain. Spin SCAN radar emissions. Probably MiG-21s."

"Is the line to Fort Meade open?" He was referring to the satellite-relayed teletype link through which they fed their scavenged data to the National Security agency headquarters in Maryland.

"Affirmative, Captan." Wilkinson's curtness bordered on bad manners. The strain between the "real Navy" and the spooks on an intelligence vessel such as Chimera was always a problem, to the point where it was sometimes difficult to tell who was really in command. At sea, in combat, that was deadly.

"You might let them know what's going on, then, and keep the line open."

"We're feeding them sitrep updates every fifteen minutes, Captain. We'll keep you informed."

"Very well." He replaced the handset, then paced back to the bridge radar station. "What about our shadows?"

"Still there, Captain. Range three miles… just inside the twelve-mile limit."

Chimera's "shadows" had paced the intelligence ship off and on for the past week, sometimes visible, sometimes not. The best guess by the spooks was that they were North Korean patrol boats shepherded by something big. The escort was probably a Najin-class frigate, one of the four largest warships in the KorCom inventory. They were as big as Chimera but a hell of a lot better-armed.

Gilmore strode to the starboard bridge wing, bringing his binoculars to his face and scanning the vague, pearly light illuminating the sky between cloud deck and the horizon to the east. The coast, the Korean Naval vessels, all were invisible in fog and distance, but the bogies were coming from that direction…

The alarm continued to shrill. Below, bridge crewmen spilled onto the deck, pulling on life jackets and battle helmets as they ran to their stations in a tumble of practiced confusion. Chimera's armament consisted of two quad-mounted 40-mm antiaircraft guns in well mounts, one at the bow, the other aft, along with four heavy machine guns. He watched a machine gun crew snapping belts of ammo into the breech blocks and jerking back the levers to charge the weapons.

"Fifteen miles off the coast, Captain." Lieutenant Commander William Kingsly's face mirrored what Gilmore was feeling inside. "We are clearly in international waters. Do you think it's an attack?"

The Captain lowered his binoculars and looked at the exec. "I don't know, Will. Maybe they're just testing us. But no way I'm gonna let them pull another Pueblo on us." The fate of the Pueblo ― also an intelligence-gathering vessel ― had been heavy on everyone's minds since they'd been ordered to these waters the week before. The U.S.S. Pueblo had been in this same area when she was captured in 1968.

Pueblo's captain hadn't even tried to resist, though, had left the canvas covers on his machine guns. Gilmore was dammed if he was going to surrender his command without a fight.

Gilmore raised the binoculars again. He saw nothing ― No! There! A pair of black specks, low above the gray, white-capped water. "Targets, Mr. Kingsly," he told his exec. "heading two-six-oh." The specks swelled visibly…

… and exploded over the ship at mast-top height. Gilmore flinched and ducked, the reaction instinctive. The bridge windscreen rattled and the deck shuddered as though Chimera had just run aground. A thundering sound followed those twin, death-gray shapes; it shook the ship and assaulted Gilmore like a physical blow. He found himself staring into twin orange eyes of flame as the combat jets cut in full afterburners yards above the surface of the sea, pulling up and around, turning… turning…

As the thunder faded, he was again aware of the shrilling of the General Quarters alarm. The approach of the jets had been so fast, so shockingly sudden, that the crew was still running to battle stations.

The fighters were back, bow on and low above the waves.

"They're firing!" Gouts of white water exploded on either side of the bow. The geysers walked aft until a shell slammed into Chimera's hull like a jackhammer. Gilmore had an instant's horror-frozen glimpse of a sailor pitching back, his dungaree shirt exploding in tatters and crimson mist. Explosions flashed and shrieked, savaging the forward deck, parting the railing, slamming into the hull…

"Captain!" the radarman screamed. "Surface targets changing course! They're closing, speed thirty knots!"

Gilmore fought the sense of unreality which had closed around him. "Mr. Kingsly! Are our colors raised?"

"They are, Captain." The exec showed his teeth, a humorless smile. "There's no mistake this time."

There'd been speculation that the Korean Communists had initially thought Pueblo was South Korean when they attacked her.

Gilmore nodded. "Send out an SOS, Number One. Give our position, and tell them we are under attack."

Damn! Chimera was lucky when she could manage eleven knots, and these bastards were running her down at thirty.

An intercom buzzed, and Gilmore picked up the handset. "Bridge. Captain."

"Wilkinson, Captain. Just thought you'd want to know. They're fingering us with Kite Screech."

Kite Screech was NATO code for a certain type of Soviet fire-control radar. The Koreans had it, were probably using it to aim the 100-mm guns on that frigate. Things could get grim very quickly now.

"Thank you. Are you in contact with Fort Meade?"

"Negative, Captain. No contact."

"No contact! Why?"

"Beats me, Captain. We're checking. We may have an equipment failure here… or the SOBs may be on their coffee break. No way to tell if they got our message or-"

Thunder filled the bridge again as the two North Korean MiGs roared straight toward Chimera's bow, guns sparkling. Stanchions on the mid-deck helipad spun away, followed by fragments of deck plating as 23-mm shells chewed into the ship. A crewman running down the starboard side gangway skidded and fell, his legs pulped. Another sailor stooped to help, was hurled over the side.

Then the jets passed low above Chimera's masts in a savage thunder which shook the entire ship.

Water exploded forward, a towering pillar of white reaching as high as the bridge. For a moment, Gilmore thought the MiGs had dropped bombs… and then another white pillar erupted close to port and he realized that Chimera was under fire, cannon fire from an enemy warship.

A third round struck somewhere behind the bridge, and the shock knocked Gilmore to the deck. Glass shattered in the bridge windscreen. There was a rending crash as the whaleboat close by the starboard wing of the bridge was slammed against the ship's hull. It took Gilmore a long second to recognize the high-pitched keening he heard.

Someone was screaming. He looked down at the Intercom handset he still held, blinking at it. The line was dead, useless. Carefully, he placed it back in its cradle.

How can I save MY ship? How can I save my men?

The next shell missed, geysering close to starboard. The one after that struck amidships, between the bridge and the helipad, a shattering explosion which flung antenna leads and deck platform stanchions and piping high in the air. Flames boiled from a broken fuel line, sending a black and ugly clot of smoke passed the bridge.

Above the roar of explosions and fire, above the screams of the wounded, Gilmore heard the rumbling search of the MiGs returning…

… and then what was left of the bridge windscreen burst inward, filling the air with knife-edged shards of glass and the whip-crack of exploding shells. The helmsman jerked back from the wheel, half of his head gone in a spray of bone chips and blood.

Smoke fouled the air. Gilmore lay sprawled on the deck with no memory of how he'd gotten there. "Get-" he snapped. "Someone get on the wheel!"

He stopped when he saw Kingsly. The exec was on the deck three feet away, most Of his face blown away.

Oh, God…!

He tried to rise, tried to get his legs under him, and failed. Something was wrong. He couldn't see…

"Captain Gilmore! Captain Gilmore!"

Gilmore blinked his eyes Open, groggily aware that he must have passed out. How long…?

A Young lieutenant knelt over him, his uniform blackened with soot, tears streaking his face. "Captain, please!"

Somehow, Gilmore managed to Prop himself up on his elbows, to look down at the gash in his thigh, at the spreading crimson pool on the deck beneath him. He felt weak and very cold. "What…?" He tried to remember the lieutenant's name. Novak, that was it.

"Captain! They're coming aboard, Sir. What should we do?"

Coming aboard? Who…?

Distantly, he heard the chatter of automatic weapons fire, the shouts of voices, foreign voices.

Not on my ship!

"No… surrender." But somehow, Gilmore knew it was already too late. Through the open way to the starboard bridge wing, across a hundred yards of gray water, he could see the knife-lean shape of a North Korean frigate, could see the forward turret trained on Chimera, and the boats in the water loaded with armed men.

He must have been unconscious longer than he'd realized. Strange, but he couldn't feel the wound at all. He'd heard that that happened sometimes, but he'd never quite believed it. God! He was so cold…

"Take… command, Lieutenant." But he saw only fear in Novak's eyes, fear and incomprehension.

Then Korean soldiers in mustard-colored uniforms appeared in the door, brandishing AKMs, and Gilmore knew that he'd lost. Chimera had never really had a chance.