Men of War

Chapter 34

The news whirred on, 24 hours every day, moving from story to story in staccato tempo. The top of the hour replayed the grim warning from the Chinese general at the UN while Fox News rattled verbal sabers in reprisal and an aging Bill O’Reilly pronounced judgment on the story, rallying the right-leaning audience frequenting that channel. On CNN the more liberal talking heads chatted and speculated and trotted out ex-Army and Navy “experts” to explain what had happened in the East China Sea, and what might be coming next…after this brief commercial break.

In a strange juxtaposition of the profoundly serious with the insanity of the irrelevant, the news was quickly followed by a raft of “other news,” celebrity showcasing, and mindless ‘entertainment.’

Wall Street hated the war news. It was not long before the market lost a cool 1200 points, and fell another 350 points the following morning. Commentator Art Hogan nabbed the quote of the day to explain the carnage: “This market is going down like free beer. I would say if there had been a day when we’re trying to price in a worst-case scenario, this might be it.” Money looked for safe havens in bonds, then fled to gold and other precious metals as it always did in times of crisis.

When they weren’t watching TV, Americans hit the malls and supermarkets in a spate of quiet panic buying. Prices began to spike and shortages of many things on the “hundred items to disappear first” list became reality. People felt the shadow of impending war at the gas pump more than ever, then at the super market and the cost of everything from their phone calls to their Blue Rays. Milk was selling at over $4.50 per half gallon. Gasoline was now well over $6.50 per gallon and still cheap compared to prices in Europe and the UK. While millions sat with their after dinner coffee and browsed on ‘The Huffington Post,’ the war but had already escalated in the pulsing, restless energy of the Internet.

Half a world and eight time zones away, Unit 61398 was also very busy that morning in Shanghai. Operating from a plain high rise like any of a thousand others around it in the sprawling mega-city, a select cadre of Chinese military IT and computer specialists were now working overtime to penetrate and exploit any weakness they could find in US defense and infrastructure networks. They attacked the power grids, hydroelectric projects, refineries, satellite and GPS communications networks, telecommunications and cell phone systems, air traffic control, financial institutions, and also made pointed attacks on key defense sites. Cyberspace and outer space were to become the first arena of confrontation between East and West.

That list of strategic targets was surely frightening, but most Americans first felt the attacks when Unit 61398 did the unthinkable in a clever and yet highly symbolic act of defiance. They took down prime time TV on a major network. The feature movie that night was a rerun of the science fiction classic Independence Day. A massive shadow had just passed over the site of the Apollo Moon landing, and an thrumming vibration shook the landmark footprints of Neil Armstrong in the ominous opening scene that promised “you ain’t seen nothing yet.” The next scene showed a cyberpunk scientist scooting about on his lab chair in the SETI listening post, somewhere in the Arizona desert. He had hold of an odd signal that had interrupted the rock song blaring in the background: “It’s the end of the world as you know it…”

There was nothing like a little widescreen mayhem and total destruction to make the home audience forget their troubles. The ex-summer blockbuster was to be followed by something even more spectacular: 2012, the mother of all disaster movies by this same director. Soon the massive alien ships of Independence Day entered the atmosphere and made their way to designated rendezvous points over major world cities. Jeff Goldblum was fussing over misplaced aluminum cans in his role as the genius cable repair guy. He would soon figure the whole thing out, and then rush off to the White House with his Apple PowerBook to warn the president of the impending attack.

The first half was a fabulous mix of awesome special effects as the alien ships appeared and then fired their death rays to begin the extermination of the human race. Scenes of chaos and destruction would abound, then the Air Force would launch a feeble counterattack. The alien force fields were impervious to all our weapons, even nuclear bombs. But the creatures in the ships had not reckoned on Jeff Goldblum and his Macintosh. The hero would write a computer virus and use a Roswell UFO to deliver it to the alien mother ship.

Meanwhile, the President himself would lead the next attack, aided by a drunken ex-crop duster as his wingman. The computer virus would foil the alien force fields, allowing the crop duster to get through to deliver the attack on one of the alien ships—payback for all the molestation he endured as an abductee earlier in life. The clear message: Americans never lose, not even when they’re up against aliens in UFOs. Americans have guys like Jeff Goldblum and drunk crop dusters always lurking in the background and ready to save the world at a moment’s notice.

So while the ships and subs of seven nations slipped quietly from their berths in the Pacific, Americans turned their attention to the 50-inch plasma on the walls above their fireplaces, oblivious. The first segment was over and they were sitting through another commercial break learning more than they ever wanted to know about fashion crazes, facial cream, Cialis, and the impending baseball playoffs.

In spite of the crisis, it was amazing how little real information ever came over the mass media. Besides, the aliens were blowing New York and Washington DC all to hell just after the commercial break, so the thought of $6 or $7 for gas and a little more on the heating bill this winter wouldn’t really matter as they watched the President of the United States ask the alien in the Roswell facility what they wanted us to do. When the movie resumed the captured alien mouthed the reply, spoken through the hapless character actor Brent Spiner, aka “Data” from the popular Star Trek series. It was one simple word, spoken in a long, rasping reprisal: “Die…” and a hell of a way to open negotiations. It was fortunate the nation had Jeff Goldblum on the job this time.

Then the movie feed itself was interrupted, with a rarely seen message frozen on the screen.

“We are experiencing technical difficulties—Please Stand By”

That same morning the thin cord of sanity that stretched between Seoul and Pyongyang for long decades of uneasy peace was suddenly terminated when the daily test of the ‘Red Cross Hotline’ failed. Colonel Sun Yun Kim stood holding the receiver to his ear listening to the line ring and ring, with no answer, until it eventually dissolved into the long heartless buzz of an empty dial tone. He reset the receiver and keyed the system to try again, only this time the line was completely dead.

The last time this had happened had been the early morning hours of March 11, 2012 when North Korea used the incident to protest military maneuver in the south and UN sanctions aimed at inhibiting its nuclear program. The two countries had no formal diplomatic relations since the tentative truce was signed in the 1950s and technically existed in a suspended state of war. It was no wonder, given the situation in the Pacific, that the border “truce village” of Panmunjom was more than edgy that morning.

Pyongyang had responded to the rising tension in typical fashion by setting its military on high alert. The tiny starving enclave of repressive hegemony in the north fielded the world’s fourth largest standing army, with over a million men under arms on active duty at any given time and another eight million in reserve. With 1000 ballistic missiles, including a handful that could reach the west coast of the US, 5400, tanks, 2600 AFVs, 1600 SPGs and MLRS systems, its ground forces were a snarling dog on a thin leash that stretched all the way back to Beijing.

The “incident” was another grim reminder to the US that if it wished to rush to honor two existing mutual defense treaties with Japan and Taiwan, it would soon find the ante upped and have South Korea to worry about as well. The ravenous North was only too happy to oblige, with its massive armed forces all dressed up and with only one place to go. It was going to be a very long day in the situation room of the White House deep underground bunker.

The long line of warships sailed east, past the submarine base where SSN Kazan had slipped away hours earlier, then northeast into the Sea of Okhotsk. Karpov was taking the fleet north of Hokkaido Island, to the one Russian controlled channel there south of Aniva Bay, Sakhalin Island. It would be a long day’s sailing at 25 knots, and they timed the transit to occur at midnight the following day. There the Japanese watch post at Wakkanai at the northern tip of Hokkaido would surely spot the ships, and relay the count to JDF Headquarters in Tokyo.

A Kawasaki P-1 Maritime Patrol aircraft was already up from Misawa airfield, Japan’s new replacement for the aging US P-3s. It was a sophisticated new surveillance plane, with advanced signals processing capability and new Artificial Intelligence to advise the Tactical Coordinator (TACCO) on best intercept course plots for its alternate role as an ASW strike aircraft. Ten such planes had been procured, giving the Japanese good coverage along the long archipelago of islands that they now controlled. With range just shy of 5000 miles the planes had excellent endurance for the surveillance role it was tasked with that night. It could sit over Hokkaido Island safe in Japanese airspace and use its excellent AESA radar to watch the ominous procession of warships to the north.

The fleet continued due east in the Sea Of Okhotsk for yet another day, making for the wide channel south of Urup Island in the Kurile chain. By day the skies above the flotilla were patrolled by pairs of MIG-29s off airfields in the Kuriles. By night the ships would deploy their own helicopters in wide arcs around the main formation to keep a wary eye out for submarines. Nothing was seen or heard, and no challenge was mounted from Japanese naval or air forces. They had enough on their hands with the angry dragon they had roused from its long slumber, and were content to watch from a respectful distance as Karpov led the fleet out towards the deep blue of the Pacific. It was soon clear to them that this flotilla of formidable warships was hastening to join the Russian Admiral Kuznetsov carrier group already operating in the waters off the southern tip of Kamchatka. That force was now heading southwest towards the Kuriles to effect a rendezvous.

South of the Japanese mainland, the wayward brother ship of Kuznetsov, sold off and adopted by the Chinese years ago, had already deployed from Dalian naval base and was poised to enter the Yellow Sea. The tickling alarm clock had run the course of the forty-eight hour ultimatum set by the People’s Republic of China, and there had not been such a breathless, agonizing wait since the countdown to the launching of the first Gulf war over 30 years ago in August of 1990.

In that war and the Second Gulf War against Saddam that followed it ten years later after 9/11, the absolute superiority of Western air and ground forces had been brutally established. Only the long asymmetric guerilla war fought by the radicalized Islamics had proved again that the modern world was not an age of conquest and occupation. American forces left Iraq and Afghanistan with little to show for the billions in dollars and the thousands of dead and wounded soldiers who fought there. It was not like WWII, where the United States had decisively joined the Allies to defeat two major world powers and liberate over ten nations that had been overrun by the enemy, and did so in only four years. No, in the early 21st century America fought for nearly 15 years in Afghanistan, and then left it much as they had found it. Two years after the last troops pulled out the Taliban were back to business as usual.

This time it was not American troops deploying from their homeland to a far distant and hostile shore. This time it was forces of a coalition that now spanned half the land mass of the world, the SinoPac alliance between China and Russia that had been signed in the year 2020. The Dragon and the Bear had settled their differences, agreed on mutual economic development of the vast untapped resources of Siberia, where China’s hungry manufacturing economy was to be fed by the oil, timber, and metals there, and Russia would be flooded with the finances it so desperately needed to get back to the glory days when it had been a dominant player on the world stage.

The fear of imminent war was circling the globe, and when Taiwan issued a joint resolution by both the executive and legislative Yuans formally declaring independence a quiet hush settled over the region. Mainland China had their answer. Washington grimaced at the announcement, failing to prevent it by diplomatic arm twisting that had gone on for the last 24 hours. Taiwan was calling the Dragon’s bluff, and whistling for the hounds to come to its aid, invoking its longstanding mutual defense treaty with the US.

Washington had walked a careful tightrope stretched between the island and the Chinese mainland since 1955. On the one hand they pledged to defend Taiwan from outside aggression, while on the other they threw a bone to the People’s Republic by inserting careful language into the treaty upon its ratification: “It is the understanding of the Senate that nothing in the treaty shall be construed as affecting or modifying the legal status or sovereignty of the territories to which it applies.”

It suited the US for decades to favor both Japan and Taiwan with promises of military aid and support in exchange for bases and allied states that would help America contain the great Dragon of the East. But now the Chinese had finally gone to sea, building a navy that would allow them to project real power there.

Tonight that navy was also moving. Amphibious ships were slipping away from their quays and piers, escorted by fast new frigates, China’s new destroyers formed up in flotillas in the vanguard of these task forces, and a host of silent submarines crept out from the long coastline. They were all bound for the contested choke points and routes of approach to the region, the first trip wire that any intruder would have to face.

Back on the mainland hundreds of aircraft were queuing up at the military airfields, ready for takeoff, some sleek and stealthy, already climbing into the night with missiles hidden within their sculpted bellies, others more conventional, with their wings heavy with bombs and other ordinance. At locations all over the mainland coastline thousands of mobile ballistic missile launchers emerged from hidden caves, bunkers, and tunnels and their blood red noses lifted slowly toward the silver moon. A cold “East Wind” was about to blow as the deadly Dong Feng missiles prepared for launching. There were over 1100 DF-11 and DF-15 missiles available for land based targets and a another thousand older tactical missiles. With these were up to 200 of the deadly DF-21 ship killers like those that had hit a bull’s eye and ravaged the Japanese helicopter carrier DDH Hyuga in the recent hot engagement over the Senkaku / Diaoyutai Islands.

Lt. Commander Reed had explained it as a game of darts and arrows to the White House Chief of Staff Leyman, but it was about to become a very real nightmare. Signals intelligence and satellites were watching it all with tense alertness while a great debate raged in the White House Situation Room: should the United states preemptively attack and destroy China’s intelligence and GPS satellite network?

While they were talking about it 2nd Lieutenant Matt Eden at US NAVINTEL saw something very interesting on his own spy satellite monitoring station at Hawaii. Satellite NROL-50 picked up the obvious back flash of three missiles being launched from Shuangchengzi Space and Missile Center and Eden quickly reached for his alert phone.

“Deep Black Ten reporting. Red One, Red One, Red One,” he said three times quickly. “I have back flash on three Red Arrows out of Sierra-Mike-Charlie, confidence high. Do you copy?”

“Roger that Deep Black Ten, Red One, three times. Will confirm.”

Hot damn I hope they move on this one in a hurry, he thought, because one of those bad boys could be coming up after my NROL-50. NORAD, STRATCOM, and J-SOC, the Joint Space Operations Center, would be all over this as well. They surely picked up that back flash on infrared and know what’s coming. If he was going to have to move his bird he need confirming radar and SIGINT on the missiles, and a clear line on their presumed orbital entry point and threat vector. Satellites were killed by simply putting an infrared seeking warhead into orbit for what would end up looking like a collision of two particles in an accelerator. The warhead would take an orbital path retrograde to that of the target satellite and come flashing in to collide with it at over 18,000 miles per hour.

So while the West discussed the matter and debated the relative merits of this and that, the East acted. All that came before in the Senkaku Island group was just an overture. The three missiles Eden had spotted were now the opening salvo of a war that might indeed be the one to end all others, but they would be the last he would see.

Far below, in the rugged mountains of Xinjiang province, two well camouflaged concrete doors slowly opened and a ‘device’ resembling a massive searchlight slowly emerged from a deep hidden cave bunker and rolled out on two thin rails. It rotated, angling its massive circular shape to the sky as if it were an enormous telescope peering into the heavens. Seconds later a powerful laser fired, its intense beam vanishing into the heavens above. The Dazzle Gun had just blinded Matt Eden’s satellite eyes.

Chapter 35

Karpov stood on the bridge of Kirov, watching the sun rise over the wide Pacific. They were right on its doorstep, just passing through the channel south of Urup Island, some 250 miles northeast of Hokkaido. He was peering through his binoculars, north to the rising cone of the island where the long sleeping volcano called the Demon was slowly rousing from its slumber. A Holocene stratovolcano with no known historic eruptions, it had begun stirring with fitful dreams that shook the region with a spate of earthquakes over the last month, and now a geologic watch was posted. The Demon was awakening.

Up ahead he could see the three lead ships of his formation. The new frigate Admiral Golovko led the way, with the superb new destroyer Orlan cruising in her wake. Then came the heart of his surface action group. The old cruiser Varyag of the Slava Class was beyond its prime but still a potent threat with sixteen supersonic P-1000 Vulkan cruise missiles that could range out to 700 kilometers. It was the last ship in the fleet that would use that older missile. The ship also carried sixty-four of the same S-300 long range SAMs that Kirov used so effectively to savage the air forces of Britain, the United States, Italy and Japan on her mysterious sorties to a distant past. No one on Varyag knew any of that, and her Captain Myshelov was more than happy to look over his shoulder now and see the fleet’s most powerful surface ship at his back.

Kirov was last in the main line, wounded but up and running again, the hull patch holding well in the open seas and the ship’s speed good at a steady 25 knots. Fresh new missiles were loaded in the underdeck silos, twenty Moskit-II Sunburns, ten Mos-III Hypersonic Starfires and ten more P-900 cruise missiles-more than twice the firepower of the Varyag. Karpov had taken his tail of four older Udaloy Class destroyers and sent two to either side of this main formation as screening ships. Marshal Shaposhnikov and Admiral Tributs were off the port side, and Admiral Vinogradov and Admiral Panteleyev off the starboard side. Deep beneath the sea ten submarines were fanning out in a protective arc as the fleet prepared to make its rendezvous with Admiral Kuznetsov.

Rodenko reported an air contact just ahead and coming in at high speed, but there was no alarm. It was a flight of three Mig-29s and a single SU-33 in a low diamond formation flying in tribute to the new King of the Northern Pacific, Vladimir Karpov. The planes came in low, the sun gleaming off their swept back wings, the long white contrails lacing through the blue morning sky. The roar of the flyby was followed by cheers from the men on deck, who waved excitedly at their comrades in the sky. The three Migs then turned their noses sharply up and created a wide fan as they splayed apart in the climb, and the sole SU-33 kept strait on, saluting with a wag of its wings.

Karpov smiled. Yes, the men were calling him that now, King of the Northern Pacific, just as they had also crowned Admiral Volsky with that title when he ruled from Severomorsk. The Admiral was now chained to his desk at Fokino, managing the coordination of all the various fleet components along with logistics, fleet air arm deployments, and the inevitable political problems all this would cause. At the same time he was setting up the daring operation to rescue Fedorov and the others in the Caspian, with the bulk of the ship’s Marine contingent and Chief Dobrynin.

Fedorov’s plan to use the Anatoly Alexandrov was brilliant, he thought. Knowing the fleet may have to fight very soon, was a heavy burden, and there would have been no way to safely extricate Kirov from battle to revisit the past. Yet now he felt the odd absence of Rod-25 as he sailed, like a man that had forgotten his wallet or keys, like a man trying to smile with a missing front tooth. Kirov was no longer a ship with a magic wand. The possibilities and power Rod-25 had bestowed upon them were now gone, and he felt like a god that had suddenly fallen from grace, just a common mortal man again. Yes, he realized, now it comes down to flesh, blood and steel, just as Volsky said. We no longer have time in the palm of our hand—at least I do not. Perhaps that is for the better. It removes the great temptation, and I can no longer answer the Siren Song as before. I am lashed to the main mast of the here and now. But what in the world will happen to Fedorov, Orlov and the others? The notion that his fate, and that of the world, still danced on the razor’s edge of time, was still deeply unsettling.

He shook this from his mind, trying to focus on the ship and his mission. Kuznetsov already had helos up with oko AEW radar panels to extend their over-the-horizon radar coverage, and the ring announcer was introducing his likely opponent.

Carrier Strike Group Five had deployed from Yokosuka at the entrance to Tokyo Bay with a powerful squadron of the US 7th Pacific Fleet. It was comprised of CVN Washington, escorted by two Ticonderoga Class guided missile cruisers, Antietam and Shiloh. If that were not enough, the bulk of Desron 15 followed with five of the formidable American Arleigh Burke Class Destroyers: Wilbur, McCain, Fitzgerald, Lassen, McCampbell. Two more cruised in escort for the Command Ship Blue Ridge well south of the main carrier battlegroup. Karpov knew that there would also be logistics and replenishment ships at sea, and dangerous submarines were surely beneath it as this powerful flotilla approached.

The damn American Navy again, he thought, and not the one I blew to pieces eighty years ago. Yes, I sunk the Wasp and that old battleship, but now the odds are even. Two other American carriers were also moving into the region. CV Eisenhower was already at Singapore, and the Nimitz was hastening west from Pearl Harbor. The Chinese would have to deal with the Eisenhower, but these other two… He had thought CVBG Washington would deploy south to support the Japanese in the East China Sea. Instead it was heading east into the Pacific, ready to assume a blocking position if I take the fleet south.

Probably waiting for the Nimitz, he thought. That was the ship where they filmed that old science fiction classic The Final Countdown. How Ironic. If the American actor Kirk Douglas only knew what I know now. He smiled, then realized the grave threat that the Nimitz group would also represent. Against one of these battlegroups, his forces were well matched… But against both?

He had good reason to be cautious now, Nimitz would not be alone. It was the heart of Carrier Strike Group Eight, and intelligence indicated that it was escorted by the guided missile cruiser Princeton and Desron 23. This was another fistful of Arleigh Burke class destroyers: John Paul Jones, Howard, Sampson, Lawrence, Spruance, and two decent ASW frigates in Thatch and Vandegrift. So even as he led the entire Russian Pacific Fleet out that morning, the Americans were doubling down. How would he fight this battle if it came to it? He had forty-two strike planes on the Admiral Kuznetsov and additional land based air power if he stayed close to home, but the Americans were bringing nearly 200 aircraft to the fight!

He also knew he had a stealthy and dangerous submarine out ahead of him in Kazan, one of our best, he thought. It was skulking through the deep waters south of the submerged Emperor Seamounts. Yet the Americans will have subs too, and not the old diesel boats I was killing one after another. He already knew that at least one Los Angeles Class boat was operating out of Guam, the Key West, and his threat briefing file also indicated he could expect at least one more LA class boat there. If we meet again, he mused, I will not have cigars for the Captain this time. He was the best Russia could put at the helm now, with the best ships they had. Would it be enough? Would it even be close? All he could do is have faith in his ship and crew, and in himself.

Yes, it was coming down to this now, flesh, blood, steel and something more—mind and will power. He would need all his skill in the craft of war to survive and prevail. How would the Americans measure up? They have never faced us in real battle; we have never really faced them. So now we see just how good our Moskit-IIs are against well defended targets. This fight will be much different. There will not be the slow, measured use of weapons with his SSMs fired in ones and twos against lumbering enemy battleships. No. This time it was going to be fast, brutal and merciless combat. The struggle for the first salvo was now uppermost in his mind. Should he take the initiative and strike first to saturate at least one of these formidable battlegroups with a missile barrage so intense that he would surely devastate it? The consequences of such an act would be severe. And then what would he have left to face the second carrier?

“Mister Rodenko,” he said calmly. “The moment you have surface returns from the helos on the Washington or Nimitz battlegroup I want the ship on full alert. Remember, you are acting Starpom. Watch them like a hawk. If you detect anything remotely resembling the launch of strike squadron, go to immediate air alert one on the new S-400 system. And Mister Samsonov, the moment we have a confirmed air strike package inbound on us I want to be ready with a full salvo of Moskit IIs.”

His officer’s nodded, intrinsically understanding that the game had changed now. This was war as they had never seen it, though they had trained for it for many years. It was a war of seconds and minutes, and not one stretching over long decades to the past where they faced an unknowing opponent with ships that had little chance of ever finding or really harming Kirov.

“The Pacific Ocean,” said Karpov. “Well it won’t be that way for long. “Welcome to hell, gentlemen. Welcome to hell on earth.”

As if to underscore his words there was a distant rumble from the slumbering Demon volcano on Urup Island, and Karpov saw a new column of smoke and ash rising from its high conical peak. He suddenly had a very interesting idea.

Captain James Tanner, USN sat in the driver’s seat aboard CV Washington with a hundred things running through his mind. He had expected to be heading south now to backstop the Japanese at Okinawa and form a northern pincer to meet with CVBG Eisenhower coming up from the south, but instead his orders were suddenly revised. He was to assume a position off the coast of Japan and deter the advance of the Russian Pacific Fleet until the arrival of CVBG Nimitz. Then, pending appraisal of the situation, he would either turn this duty over to Nimitz to head southwest as originally planned, or team up with that battlegroup to back the Russians off. Either way it looked to be some very tense days ahead.

“Ensign Pyle, where is that SITREP? I don’t have all day, Mister.”

“Sorry, sir.” Pyle was at his side with a tablet and the latest briefing on what the Russians were sending out.

“Well?” Tanner gave him an impatient look.

“Yes, sir. The main body centered on that new battlecruiser is just south of Urup Island in the Kuriles. It is presently composed of battlecruiser Kirov, cruiser Varyag, four old Udaloys, one of their new frigates, and a new destroyer, sir, the Orlan. They look to be on a heading to rendezvous with this small carrier group here, the Admiral Kuznetsov, and three old Krivak class frigates.”

“Krivak class?”

“Yes, sir. Hot dog pack, smokestack, guns in back—Krivak.”

Tanner gave him a disparaging look, but he remembered the old rap line on the Krivak just the same. The hot dog pack was the forward missile battery, the stacks were amidships and then the aft deck mounted a pair of twin 76mm deck gun turrets. “Haven’t seen one of those for years,” he said. “They must be scraping the bottom of the barrel up there.”

“It looks that way, sir. Those Udaloys aren’t much to worry about either—Vlad, Dad, Winograd and Pantywaist. Pyle had his own name for the Admiral Vladimir Tributs. He just called it Vlad. Shaposhnikov was the old Russian Marshal he called “Dad.” Winograd was short for the Admiral Vinogradov and the Pantywaist was Admiral Pantelyev.

“But I wouldn’t short sell this Kirov class battlecruiser, sir. It’s a pretty mean looking hombre.”

“No argument there, Pyle. We used to bump noses with its older brother up north in the Norwegian Sea before this new refit appeared.”

“I hear this new ship is even tougher, sir.”

“Maybe so, Pyle. Maybe So.” Tanner rubbed his chin.

“What’s it doing out here, sir? Last time I looked Kirov was flagship of their Northern Fleet.”

“Been doing some reading lately, Ensign? It doesn’t matter where the damn ship was last time you looked. It’s right here and about to get in our face. Alright, you can leave that pad with me and get the hell out of here. I’ve got some thinking to do and I damn well won’t need you around for that.”

“Yes, sir. Aye, sir.” Pyle scrambled off to some other duty and the Captain grinned as he went. Krivak class frigates. He looked at his Weapon Systems Officer, Lieutenant Deaken, sometimes called “the “Wizzo” by the bridge crew, a handle they had stolen from the air force brats. “Say, Deke. What kind of AA umbrella are these old Krivaks going to be packing? It’s been a few years.”

Deaken checked his status board, calling up the ship class and checking the data readout. “Looks to be a box of SA-N-4 Geckos, sir. Range under ten miles and a ceiling under Angels forty. Good warhead, 16kgs with a five meter frag radius. But they won’t be bothering our air wing with those, sir. That’s just missile bait.”

“Pretty damn thin cover for the Russkie’s only CV. No wonder they sortied with that surface action group.”

“Aye, sir.”

“What should we be worried about here, Deke?”

“Those damn S-300s on Kirov, sir. 150 kilometer range and fast as greased lightning.”

“Damn annoying,” said Tanner. “Our Harpoons can range out that far over the horizon, but S-300s can be on them in no time.”

Neither Deke nor Tanner knew anything about the missile upgrade Kirov had received before sailing from the Golden Horn Harbor. Her forward silos now harbored the more advanced S-400F Triumf system, extending that engagement range even farther to 400 kilometers.

“They can, indeed, sir. And don’t even think about the Tomahawks. Too damn slow. They pulled TASM from ship inventories long ago, and good riddance. Thing is, the Russians make some pretty mean SSMs. This new Sunburn — II is a real threat, and their Starfires are even faster.”

Tanner turned to his radar man. “Bougie, how far out is that SAG centered on Kirov?”

“Feed from Misawa has ‘em at about 800 nautical miles now sir. Hawkeye confirms… Hello?… What’s up here?” Ensign Bogue was poking at his SATCOMM link panel. “Sir, I just lost data link on our GPS Satellite. Checking it now, but I’m completely red on that link, sir. I don’t think it’s a local system failure.”

Tanner didn’t like the sound of that. Not one bit. “Someone taking pot shots at our satellites?”

“I’ll check SIGINT traffic. Nothing on my board, sir…Wait a second. Coming in now, sir. Confirmed ASAT strike at zero nine forty. Red Arrows.”

Tanner set his jaw, resigned to the fact that he was going to have to take some rather direct action now, and very soon. “That makes this thing hot for us as well as the Japanese,” he said. “Well that’s all I was waiting on, gentlemen. We’re not sitting on 104,000 long tons of steel out here to get a suntan. Get the Air Boss on the line and have him spot the Royal Maces ASAP. Diamondbacks on deck with the Dambusters in the number three hole. Eagles batting cleanup.”

“Aye sir, spot for strike, sir, Maces and Snakes leading off.”

Strike Fighter Squadron 27, the Royal Maces, were still flying F/A 18E Super Hornets, but the plane was more than capable with new avionics and added stealth features over the years, even though it was schedule for replacement by the F-35s. The squadron had been flying since 1967, with A-7 Corsairs over the skies of Vietnam. They fought all through the 1970s in Nam, provided top cover for the Iran hostage rescue attempt in 1980, then received their first Hornets in 1991 in time for the first Gulf War. Twenty years ago they were in action over Afghanistan after 9/11and the Second Gulf War. One thing the US Navy had was experience, with more raw combat hours logged than every other navy on earth combined.

As Tanner was thinking the situation over Ensign Bogue suddenly had another surprised look on his face. “Sir, I have a radio message hail from the Russians. Right in the clear!”

“What is this a phone call from Moscow?”

“No sir. It’s that Surface Action Group up north. I’ve got their CO on the line. Their Comm Officer is translating to English.”

Tanner raised his eyebrows. “Well I’ll be damned.”

Chapter 36

Nikolin translated as best he could. “Good morning, Captain. How can I assist you?” He was conveying the American Captain’s words, and looked at Karpov, waiting for his response.”

“Tell him we have one of those interesting situations here that we seem to have been rehearsing for the last eighty years. I just want to be sure he’s memorized his lines.” Nikolin translated, smiling.

“Oh, we know our part well enough, Captain. Just can’t figure why you’re out here spoiling the show.”

Nikolin was very good, and the conversation moved seamlessly on, though it seemed to Rodenko and the other members of the Bridge crew that Karpov was having his talk with Nikolin himself, and some of the things that came out of his mouth as he translated what the Americans said made them laugh. The Captain had a smile himself, realizing that there would be a little dance of words at the outset and he jousted verbally with his counterpart in the American battlegroup to the south.

“Of course,” said Karpov. “You are all too fond of thinking you are the hero on stage. But I have a surprise for you, Captain. A phantom has come to the opera this morning, and I’m standing on its bridge.” A little chest thumping was always par for the course in these exchanges. Karpov expected it from the Americans, so he thought he would get the first missile on its way at the outset.

Nikolin listened, his eyes bright under his headphone set. “Is that so?” he translated. “You and those four old Udaloy’s you’re towing? You dragging them out for some more target practice? Going to try and pull another disappearing act like you did in the Atlantic?”

“Did you miss us?” Karpov smiled, ignoring the insults, as did most of the bridge crew. “We hurried back as soon as we could get here. Thanks for the escort home. I hope the officers aboard Key West enjoyed their cigars.”

More laughter, but Nikolin was listening intently now. He looked at Karpov, thumbing his microphone off to whisper a message. “He sounds more serious now, sir. I think he’s getting down to business.” A moment later he translated.

“Look, Captain. I’m standing on over a hundred thousand tons of might and muscle out here, and have a look east. We’ve got more for you, stage right. This is the United States Navy speaking now, and I am its duly authorized ambassador at the moment. So get the message: You and your fleet can sail around all you want up there in the Sea of Okhotsk. Go on up and pay a visit to Kamchatka. I hear the weather is nice up there this time of year. But you come out here on the deep blue and it’s my watch, understand?”

Karpov expected this. The Americans had patrolled the deep water oceans, particularly here in the Pacific, since their decisive victory in WWII. He thought it ironic that Kirov had been instrumental in winnowing down the odds for the American carriers when they faced the superior forces of Yamamoto’s fleet, just weeks ago in his own mind, though now it was old history to this new adversary he faced.

“Yes, you Americans are the world’s policeman, I forgot. Well I’m afraid the rest of the world was never quite comfortable with that arrangement, Captain Tanner. Your policy was too often one where might made right, but you are not the only nation with determined men in ships of war. On the sea the boldest steer, and I’m one of them. So is this ship. I don’t need an invitation to sail these waters. The Red Banner Pacific Fleet goes where it pleases.”

“That so? Is that what you call it these days? Where are you headed, Captain? You figure to weigh in with the Chinese in this scrap over Taiwan?”

“Have you heard of SinoPac, Mister Tanner? You know very well that we are compelled by agreements and alliances signed by the Russian nation.”

“As are we, Mister Karpov.” The American had used his name for the first time. “The United States has pledged itself in defense of the sovereign nations of both Japan and Taiwan. But we won’t sort that business out here, will we?”

“I suppose not,” said Karpov. “We’re just here to let you know the Chinese won’t be in this alone. You ought to think carefully about your next move, Captain. Very carefully.”

“Damn if that doesn’t sound threatening…” Nikolin paused. “He’s being sarcastic, sir,” he whispered, then continued translating. “Look, Karpov. We can’t sort out the diplomacy. I leave that to the men in suits and just follow orders. It’s ours to determine what happens in the water between your ship and mine. You Russkies used to love to bump gunwales with us in your day, but that time has passed. Your ships have been rusting away in your harbors for the last twenty years.”

“That’s a pretty old lady you’re riding, Captain. Same goes for your buddy out east on the Nimitz. Commissioned in 1975, was she?”

Nikolin paused, then said: “Oldies but goodies, and we’ve sang quite a few tunes in our day. Fact is we’ve been out here since you were a babe in arms, Captain. That says it all. We know what we’re about. I don’t suppose you’ve ever seen anything in the way of a serious fight, but I have. I’ve beat on Iraqi’s and Iranians and Afghans too. I’ve been the government’s muscle out here for a good long while. Rustle my feathers and I can fill the sky with fire and brimstone. This is the Fifth Carrier Strike group, and I lean heavily on the word strike. Do you get my message now, sir?”

“Loud and clear, Captain. Well let me say this to you. You have an expression about the dilemma of being caught between the devil and the deep blue sea. Yes? Well you have already laid claim to the latter… I’m the former. I don’t have feathers, just nice thick scales, a pointy tail, and two red horns. I am not a man you wish to trifle with here, and advise you not to underestimate the capabilities of the Russian Navy.”

“That so? Well I guess your target practice last month has got you all hot and bothered. Look, Karpov, enough of these word games. I’ll give it to you right in the clear. I’m standing off the coast of Japan for one reason—I was ordered here by the United States government—and nobody else is going to darken my shadow. You stay up north with your babushkas and I have no quarrel with you. Point your bow south and cross 43 degrees and I have to figure you’ve got bad manners after hearing this, and bad intentions to go with them. Do that and I’ll darken your skies and ruin your morning. Are we understood?”

Karpov didn’t like that, but he thought for a moment before he answered. “Something tells me the skies will be darkening soon in any case, Captain, and not only here. You and I may have something to do with that if we want to continue on like this. You have your orders; I have mine. You’re here to keep an eye on me. I’m here to keep an eye on you. It’s that simple. We’ve been at it for eighty years, and this is no different. But things do tend to get a little out of hand when this much metal puts to sea. So let me be equally frank with you. If I see anything even vaguely resembling a strike package within 200 nautical miles of my position and heading my way I’ll have to interpret that as an attack. Are we clear on that, Captain? Do you get my message? You want to fly around and chase a few seagulls, that’s your business. Head my way and we’ll have our next conversation with missiles. I wanted to have this little chat to see if we could avoid that. Any thoughts before you go back to your morning coffee?”

Nikolin waited. “He’s thinking, sir…” There was a long pause on the channel before he began translating again. “I think we understand one another, Captain Karpov. You just remember those 43 degrees. Yes, I’ll chase a few gulls down here. It’s a favorite pastime for a carrier Captain. But I hear the birds up north are pretty sparse.”

It was a subtle way of telling Karpov the Americans had no intention of pressing the issue. Both sides were clearly ‘showing the flag’ and the muscle behind it, but neither Captain wanted this to go any further than it had to.

“Haven’t seen so much as a seagull this morning,” Karpov replied. “And I have also heard the waters south of 43 degrees are a still polluted by that old reactor at Fukujima. Yes, Captain Tanner. I think we do understand one another. I suppose we can only hope that our respective governments can come to a similar understanding. Enjoy your coffee. Karpov out.”

Captain Tanner scratched his head, a bemused look on his face. Karpov had quietly stated his intention to say above the 43rd parallel and pose no threat unless his fleet was approached to within 200 nautical miles. His carrier aircraft would have to get inside that to launch their Harpoons. With their Block II AGM-84Ls they could fire at 150 nautical miles.

The Russkies still like to hang tough, but it had been a long time since they could walk their talk. This battlecruiser out there was a capable ship, no doubt about that, but it didn’t have much company. I’ve got 5th and 8th Carrier Strike Groups out here armed to the teeth with nearly 200 aircraft and this guy thinks he can still thumb his nose at me? The devil incarnate, is he? My ass. He had read the file on this Karpov, and he didn’t see much that impressed him at all. The man had probably never fired a missile in anger at a real target in his miserable life. Who in hell did he think he was laying down law to the United States Navy?

Tanner had a mind to get up north and call this man’s bluff, and send those rust buckets he called the Red Banner Pacific Fleet home to Vladivostok and Kamchatka where they belonged. Yet his better judgment intervened and told him their ‘understanding’ would be much preferred to a battle at sea here. He didn’t have to sit on that thought too long, for ten minutes after his little radio parley with the Russians he had a priority one Flash Z message in hand, and was looking at the confirmation code being handed him by his XO. A Flash Z message was reserved for the most urgent operational combat messages, trumping all other traffic on the wire and to be taken as an immediate and first priority order.

“FLASH — FLASH — FLASH,” he started to read aloud, then kept the rest. Holy mother! Someone’s got a hair up his ass on this one. He was just ordered to find and sink the battlecruiser Kirov, at any and all costs, and to do so immediately.

He was going to have to renege on the little gentlemen’s agreement he had just negotiated with this Russian Captain up north. Now the sudden change of orders that put him here instead of the East China Sea and the hasty advance of the Nimitz group to the west suddenly made sense. The suits back in DC must be drinking some real strange cool-aid, he thought. Apparently they wanted the Russians to know the US meant business and was willing to put the best they had at the bottom of the deep blue sea to make sure the message stuck. But what didn’t add up was why this ship?

He looked at his XO. “Flash Z on this one, Skip. Better tell the Air Boss to double up on those strike packages. I want the Maces and Snakes ready to dance in thirty.”

“Aye, sir.” Skip Patterson had a troubled look on his face. “You figure it was that ASAT hit, sir?”

“Could be, but Intel indicates the Chinese were behind that. PACOM says they launched three Red Arrows and also fired lasers early this morning. They took down two GPS navigation satellites and a couple of our Intel birds over their territory. I suppose they’ll claim the space above China is theirs too, but that’s where it stands. Somebody starts scratching your eyes out and you damn well do something about it. We’ll probably hit them with our new Skybolts today to even the score, but this is quite an escalation if they’re pissed off about the satellites. DC wants to drop a hammer on someone. But why the battlecruiser? Going after the Russians is just going to get butt ugly, and real fast. And why Kirov as opposed to some snot nosed Russky sub out there that gets a little too nosey? We’ll have to take on that whole Surface Action Group now.”

“It’s the best they have, sir. Put Kirov down under and the Russians can pretty much go home and leave us with the football.”

“What about the Admiral Kuznetsov?”

“We can handle him, sir. Suppose we give the Russians a two for one special this morning.”

Tanner looked at his coffee cup, knowing it was stone cold by now. “There’s a lot of dead metal on the bottom of this ocean,” he said, a forlorn tone in his voice now. I guess Davey Jones has room in his locker for a little more. Let’s just hope old that we aren’t included.”

Half a world away another Russian naval commander was about to deliver message himself, in one of those snot nosed Russian submarines that was getting a just little too nosey. A tiger was on the prowl in the Gulf of Mexico. The Tigr, was hovering on the turbulent waters of the gulf, though 200 feet above the seas were raging with the fury of a hurricane Victor. Tigr was an improved Akula class nuclear submarine, sleek and dangerous like the animal it was named for, with 8 big torpedoes and 40 fish to go with them. Fast at well over 30 knots submerged, it was also very quiet for an older boat, among the best the Russians had aside from their three new Yasen class boats.

But Tigr was not quiet enough that morning as it moved slowly through the oil blighted waters of the gulf. It had been picked up off the northern coast of Cuba by a fiery senator from Virginia, the SSN John Warner, among the very best attack subs in the US Navy, and a boat that trumped anything the Russians had. Dan Phillips had the boat that day, and he was keeping a steady ear on the Tigr in his pond, and his hand on the trigger. What was it up to? With events in the Pacific wound up so tight, it was a bold and provocative move for the Russians to send an Akula into the Gulf Of Mexico, and a most unwise decision insofar as Phillips was concerned.

His sonar man had a passive fix on the Russian sub, and it did not seem that the other side even knew he was there. He had two torpedoes up and primed, and then he heard the one thing that he dreaded every moment he had ever sailed at sea.

“Con, Sonar. Torpedo in the water! Range 1500 meters and… and increasing sir…It’s not headed our way, Captain.”

“Not headed our way?” Phillips took a fast look at his Plexi chart and knew immediately what was happening. “Mother of God,” he breathed. “Ready on tubes two and four,” he said sharply. “Arm torpedoes!”

“Sir, tubes two and four ready, and torpedoes armed, aye!”

Seconds later two Mk 48 torpedoes were also in the water, and homing their way toward the distant tiger in the sea. By the time the Akula heard them and thought to turn its head and bear fangs, the Mk 48s had the target in their crosshairs, their active electronically steered ‘pingers’ guiding them unerringly forward. A moment later they struck home with a ripple of underwater thunder, two 295kg warheads striking the Russian sub and virtually blowing the boat in half. But the Tigr had already finished what it came here to do that morning. It had fired a single 650mm torpedo with a massive 450kg warhead, though it would never fire another.

The John Warner’s sonar man had been correct. The big torpedo was running away at high speed now, not seeking the American boat, but finding instead a much bigger prize in the dark waters ahead. It was homing in on the massive underwater segment of the British Petroleum/Exxon Mobile super rig dubbed Thunder Horse, and it was about to take down one of the principle production facilities in the Gulf. Hurricane Victor, raging with winds near 200 miles per hour above, would do the rest.

Hours later, when the storm had passed and raged inland on the Texas coast, a helo swooped low over the restless waters of the Gulf, the pilot aghast at what he was seeing. It was a British Petroleum ride, out from Port Fourchon in the Mississippi Region on an emergency rig tour after Hurricane Victor cut a swath through the production zone at sea. Thus far 15 platforms had sustained damage that would be at least a week in repair, perhaps longer. This was the last planned stop for the day, to the crown jewel in the joint BP-Exxon operation in the region. They were going out to Thunder Horse, the world’s largest semi-submersible oil platform, so big you could put three football fields up on the topside area. It was fully submersible now.

“Look at that!” the pilot pointed at the badly listing platform. Thunder Horse was keeling over on her massive industrial orange flotation columns, and apparently still taking on water. Constructed in Korea and delivered to Corpus Christi, Texas in 2004, the rig had problems from the very first. Some grease monkey had set in a bad six-inch pipe, and water was misrouted between ballast tanks causing a major list in 2005. The big platform almost tipped completely over during that incident, and it took a week to pump out the water and get the ballast tanks balanced again. Six weeks later it weathered a blow from Hurricane Katrina, and the last few brushes from the big storms never seemed to bother the immense platform—until now. The 650mm torpedo was a little more than the design engineers had ever planned for.

“What could have caused this?” The engineer aboard knew they had not suffered a direct hit from Victor this time. Yet the damage was plain to see. “Can you get a bit lower, I want to check the other side.” The platform had finally sorted out its teething troubles and was brought on-line in June of 2008. She was expected to deliver all of a billion barrels of oil over her 25 year industrial life span, but this was a problem that could cause a drastic setback in that schedule. The 250,000 barrels she might have contributed to that total today were obviously not going to be delivered, let alone the daily expected quota of 200 million cubic feet of gas. She was obviously floundering, and in very deep water, sitting right astride block 778/822 in the Mississippi Canyon, the bottom over a mile away, some 6300 feet below. One of her massive cranes was already completely underwater.

“Damn, with Mad Dog damaged we can’t lose Thunder Horse,” said the engineer.

Mad Dog was dubbed one of the 50 projects to change the world by Goldman Sachs, sporting the world’s largest single piece truss spar, one of the biggest lifts ever set in the Gulf of Mexico, about 190 miles south of New Orleans in the Green Canyon plot. The big dog was permanently moored to the seabed, with a capacity to produce up to 100,000 barrels of oil and 60 million cubic feet of natural gas per day, much smaller than Thunder Horse, but significant. She was also damaged, but still intact.

“Shall I spread the word?” The pilot gave the engineer a sheepish look.

“Better tell the techs on Mad Dog to get over here first,” said the engineer. Crews were already working to restore the 24-inch lateral connecting Mad Dog to the Caesar oil pipeline. Her Natural gas was transported via a 16-inch lateral connected to the Cleopatra gas pipeline, both part of BPs Mardi Gras Transportation System in the Gulf.

“Lord,” the engineer was scratching his head, eyes wide as he surveyed the platform below them now. “We’ve got a fire down there too! With Caesar and Cleopatra off line, and big rigs like this in the water, we’re buggered for weeks, mate. Better blow the horn. This baby needs help fast. Damn thing’s about to go down under!”

“Right-o,” said the pilot, flipping his headset on to begin transmitting. “Mad Dog, Mad Dog, this is BP Survey, Over. “

A scratch voice answered in a few seconds. “Go ahead, Survey.”

“Thunder Horse down, mates. Repeat. Thunder Horse down. Survey engineer says we’ll need all your people out this way on the double, with anything you can float, over.”

Someone swore on the other end of the transmission. Then the voice came back, “Roger that, Survey. Thunder Horse down.”