The Ghost Pattern

…63

Captain Kevin Callahan woke up with a start. His XO knocked twice on his stateroom door, then walked right in, not waiting for permission. What the hell was going on?

His current assignment was a tricky one. He was leading battle group Okinawa into a series of tactical naval exercises off the coast of Japan, in collaboration with the Japanese Navy. As captain of USS Okinawa, a Wasp-class amphibious assault ship, he was the commander of the entire battle group: one Arleigh-Burke class destroyer, two Freedom-class and one Independence-class littoral combat ships (LCS), two GHOST super-cavitating stealth ships, and several support vessels.

But that wasn’t the tricky part of his current assignment. The tactical exercises were going well, and the Japanese Navy was a worthy partner with naval strategy valor. However, they rarely operated more than fifty miles away from Russia’s territorial waters. Most days they’d come as close as ten miles, irritating the crap out of the Russian Coast Guard, their vessel commanders, and everyone else for that matter.

Naturally, the Russians were worried, knowing the Okinawa, a Wasp-class, landing helicopter dock (LHD), amphibious, assault ship, essentially an aircraft carrier for helicopters, deployed and maneuvered so close to their coast. The Okinawa carried almost two thousand Marines aboard, in addition to the ship’s complement of almost twelve hundred. Her own fleet of seven Super Stallion helicopters, four MV-22 Osprey aircraft, four Super Cobra attack helos, and six Harrier II attack aircraft packed a serious, worrisome punch. Her stern gate could drop and launch additional armed landing hovercraft, challenging the enemy with its versatility. Hence, it was not surprising that the Okinawa and its battle group made the Russians wary, anxious, and irritable. Yet, while she was executing joint tactical exercises with the Japanese, staying just barely outside of Russian territorial waters, there was little, if anything, the Russians could do.

The Russians had two powerful radar stations, tracking every move the ship made. One station stood high on a cliff near a lighthouse called Red Partisan, and the other was farther south, right on the coast, near Terney. Those two radar installations could track everything, from surface vessels to air traffic. The facilities were heavily guarded, and most likely were humming with intense activity every time one of the battle group ships started her engines, or lifted her anchors.

They had received significant diplomatic pressures to take their joint exercises farther out into the Pacific as a sign of goodwill, but Washington and Tokyo had held equally strong. As long as battle group Okinawa was not entering Russian territorial waters, there was nothing Russia could do about it other than foam at the mouth.

Before Captain Callahan had finally gone to bed for the night, sometime after midnight, his battle group was sailing around Wakkanai heading east, just five miles off the coast of Japan, but only a few miles away from the territorial waters of Sakhalin. He hoped his XO didn’t bring the news that someone had made a mistake and had veered into Russia’s waters by accident; there’d be hell to pay.

He sat on the side of his bed, rubbing his eyes.

“What is it, XO?”

“I have the president for you, sir.”

Sleep still fogging his brain, Callahan asked, “You have who?”

“The president of the United States, sir, on encrypted voice comm.”

All his remaining brain fog instantly dissipated under the wave of adrenaline that hit every nerve in his body. The president? Calling him? That had never happened before, in his entire career. It had to be serious.

He hopped to his feet and threw his working blues on within seconds, then almost ran to the bridge, followed by his XO.

“Captain on the bridge,” one of the lieutenants announced, standing at attention.

Callahan went straight for the communications desk. He put on the headset handed him by his communications officer, cleared his throat a little, then signaled to the young man to open the line.

“Mr. President, sir,” he greeted. “This is Captain Kevin Callahan, Battle Group Okinawa, off the coast of Japan.”

“Captain, we have a situation on our hands, and you’re the only one who can help,” President Krassner said, skipping the pleasantries and going straight to the core of the issue.

“Sir?”

“Flight XA233, the flight that was presumed crashed in the Pacific, was in fact hijacked by Russian terrorists. A small American team found the plane and was able to free the passengers and crew being held as hostages. They’re heading toward the coast, taking heavy fire, right in the area where you are now. There are nearly 450 people, most of them American. They need your help, captain. We have to bring them home.”

Captain Callahan felt sweat beads forming at the roots of his hair. He was being asked to commit an act of war against Russia.

“Mr. President, sir, are you authorizing me to enter Russian sovereign air space with armed military aircraft, engage the enemy, and exfiltrate the rescued people?”

“Precisely. If it can be avoided, I would prefer not to start World War III with Russia over this, but do whatever is necessary to bring those people home. I am 100 percent behind whatever you decide to do, captain. Just get them home.”

“Yes, sir,” Captain Callahan acknowledged the orders.

“We’re sending maps, satellite imagery, and coordinates as we speak. What else do you need?”

“Nothing else, sir. It’s an honor to be chosen for such a mission, sir. We’ll get the job done; we won’t let you down. You can count on us to bring our people home.”

“I know that, captain. Good luck!”

The connection ended, leaving Callahan with two parallel ridges of deep worry on his forehead. An incursion like this typically took months of preparation, of careful planning. He had a few minutes, not more.

“XO,” he called.

“Sir?”

“Get all Stallion crews ready, two Harriers, four Cobras. Arm and fuel them, have them ready on deck. Let’s look at the map.”

He walked toward the navigation desk, followed closely by the XO, the weapons officer, and the flight operations officer.

“Get me a satellite feed for the rescue location. How do we communicate with them?”

The XO checked the recently decrypted communication.

“We have their comm frequencies and their sat phones. We have codes to tap into their satellite support, sir. They’ve suggested LZ coordinates for extraction.”

“Put it on the screen,” Callahan said.

The XO typed quickly some numbers, and a red dot appeared on the regional map. Green dots marked the locations of the USS Okinawa and its battle group. A dotted line marked the limit of Russia’s territorial waters, and two red triangles marked the locations of the Russian radar stations.

On a separate screen, an officer brought up a live satellite feed, showing a slow-moving convoy of trucks taking fire from Russian assault vehicles. It was still dark; the feed barely showed anything other than flashes of light accompanying whatever projectiles were fired and briefly illuminating the convoy and its attackers. A vehicle had been left behind, burning on the side of the road. Some projectiles were fired at the enemy, hitting the targets, and causing explosive damage, but Callahan couldn’t tell who was firing what at whom. There wasn’t any time to figure out what was going on with the convoy; he needed to act.

“Switch to infrared and get me a sitrep,” he ordered one of the lieutenants.

Then he went back to the comm desk and grabbed the microphone that opened channels to every station on the vessel.

“All hands, this is the captain speaking. We are now at condition Delta. This is not a drill. We have been tasked with the rescue of about 450 civilians from behind the Russian border. We will engage in immediate combat action.”

He hung up the microphone, and a second later an officer grabbed it and called, “Battle stations. Battle stations. This is not a drill.” Then he hit a button, and a familiar alarm went on for a few seconds.

Callahan went back to the digital map and studied it intently for a little while.

“This is what we’re going to do,” he said. “We need a diversion, and we have to take out these two radar stations.”

“Diversion, sir?” the XO asked.

“There are just too many Russian vessels and helicopters patrolling the area. If they see us too early and they send in their MiGs, we won’t be able to pull the civilians out; we’re finished. There’s an air base on Sakhalin holding at least four MiGs, only minutes away in flight time; we have to move lightning fast.” He stopped for a second, frowning deeper at the digital map. “I’ll ask Admiral Tochigi for a favor. If one of his battleships here, off the coast of… umm… Mashike, should send an SOS, and we deploy our group for search-and-rescue operations, all the Russians will gather there to keep an eye on us. We’ll head out there with the entire battle group, but right before we’d have to turn south, here,” he added, pointing at the northern tip of the Japanese island of Hokkaido, where Wakkanai was, “the Okinawa will claim engine trouble, and stay behind with only the GHOST vessels and some armed RHIBs.”

“Sir, if I may?” the XO asked.

“Yes, what is it? the captain answered.

“We’d be vulnerable with only two GHOSTS; we’d be sitting ducks. Our helos would be gone, our escort too. The Russians could take advantage of the situation we created.”

“We’ll keep two Harriers and a Cobra. But that’s why we’ll start by sending a couple of SEALs to take out those radar stations. Send out a Cobra with two SEAL teams armed with RPGs. Let’s take those radars out first. This will give us a small window of darkness to get to the coast and out again with the civilians.”

His XO’s face lit up, as he understood the captain’s strategy. A faint smile fluttered on his lips.

“Sending SEALs now, sir.”

“Good. As soon as they confirm the radar stations are out, send in all seven Super Stallions to the LZ, with two Cobras and two Harriers as escorts. Confirm extraction with the ground team, confirm LZ coordinates. Get their ETA for the LZ.”

“We’re 250 klicks from the LZ. Stallions will take almost one hour to get there.”

Callahan frowned again.

“Let’s synchronize with the rescue team on the ground. We shouldn’t remain in Russian airspace one second longer than strictly necessary.”

One of the lieutenants approached them.

“I have the satellite sitrep, sir. The convoy has drone support.”

“Drones? Who’s flying them?”

“Unknown, sir. But the Russians are sending in helos. Several Russian armored vehicles are still engaged in battle with the convoy, and three helos are approaching from the north. They should reach the convoy within thirty minutes or so.”

Callahan clenched his fists in a rare display of anger.

“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath.

Their exfil plan needed more than an hour to execute; more likely two.