Red Tide Page 5

  “And the Omsk is Admiral Belkin’s flagship,” Ryson mused. “He can see how fucked up we are, and he’s coming down to play.”

  “So it would seem,” Sterling agreed.

  “Show me the Black Sea chart,” Ryson said.

  The video morphed into a chart. Ryson was well aware of the fact that his squadron was blasting north at 52 knots, while the Russian battle group was traveling south at something like 26 knots, which meant he had very little time in which to make a decision. The squadron would fight. That was a given. But how?

  Ryson scanned the chart looking for something, anything, that might offer a way to slow the oncoming behemoth down. If Squadron 3 could accomplish that, perhaps Canby could send some tin cans to lend a hand.

  But a head on collision with a cruiser and five escorts would be nothing less than suicidal. Especially after losing 25 percent of his command. A sick feeling seeped into the pit of Ryson’s stomach as Sterling stared at him. He could imagine what she was thinking. Make a decision god damnit. That’s what they pay you for.

  According to the chart the Black Sea was empty. No islands. Unless you were willing to count the nameless rock off the coast of Romania as an island. It was marked with a capital “K,” the letter that stood for rocks, wrecks and obstructions. But, so what?

  Then a thought occurred to him. A stupid thought most likely, but a thought nevertheless. And something was better than nothing. Ryson thumbed his mike. “This is Six. I know you can see the battle group that’s coming our way. Boats 1 and 4 are going to try and slow it down. Meanwhile boat 3 will proceed to the only rock on your chart. Get in as close as you can, drop the hook, and prepare to fire missiles on my command. Over.”

  The acknowledgements came in quick succession as the Altostratus turned east and cut speed. “The Russians will assume the three boat is having mechanical problems, and will focus on us,” Sterling said. “Plus, the Alto’s radar image will merge with the blip from the rock. So maybe the Ivans will forget about her.”

  “That’s the plan,” Ryson admitted. “Send a message to the fleet. Tell them that the enemy is north of us, and Squadron 3 will engage. Request air support.”

  Ryson saw the subtle change in Sterling’s expression. She knew they were going to die. “Aye, aye, sir.”

  The sun was peeking through scattered clouds, and the wind was starting to pick up, as the distance between the American boats and the Russians continued to dwindle. The enemy ships were well within range of the PHMs’ Harpoon missiles, and the reverse was true as well. Yet neither party had chosen to launch.

  Ryson knew why he hadn’t chosen to fire, and assumed that Admiral Belkin was thinking the same thing. By closing with the enemy, the travel time for each missile would be shortened. And that meant less time for the enemy to respond with anti-air measures. The difference would be a matter of seconds, but that’s what modern warfare was about.

  According to Aunt Ida the Mammatus had six Harpoon missiles remaining, and the Pileus had all eight, for a total of fourteen. Each of which could be individually targeted.

  So, which was best? Should Ryson spread the love around? And put a couple of missiles on each Russian vessel? Or go all in, and try to stop the Omsk?

  Ryson decided to pursue the second strategy on the theory that the cruiser was the most significant threat to the fleet, and that if seriously damaged, the Omsk’s escorts would be forced to stay and defend her.

  The horizon was about twelve miles away, so Ryson couldn’t see the enemy with his eyes, but they were on the plot. And after choosing a strategy Ryson wanted to draw first blood. He turned to Sterling. “Contact the Pileus. Tell Hanson to put all of his missiles on the Omsk. And we’ll do the same. Sixty from now.”

  “What about the Alto?”

  Ryson glanced at the plot. The three boat was nowhere to be seen. “Tell them to hold their fire but to be ready.”

  The ensuing sixty seconds seemed to last forever. What if he had waited too long? What if Russian missiles blew his boats out of the water before they could launch?

  Finally, the moment came. The Mammatus continued to speed along as the missiles raced away. The full ECM (Electronic Counter Measure) package was on by then, decoys were in the air, and the deck began to tilt as Po put the boat into a hard turn.

  “Incoming from the north,” Deen said phlegmatically. “One, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 missiles.”

  Ryson closed his eyes, but opened them again, as a series of explosions were heard. The last was like a clap of thunder.

  “The Pileus is no longer on-screen,” Deen said.

  Ryson felt slightly nauseous. Fifty percent of his command had been destroyed. A male voice interrupted his train of thought. “Shag and Digger in from the west with missiles and guns. There are six Ivans north of your location. Smoke is pouring off the big boy … But he’s still underway. Your wish is our command. Over.”

  Ryson felt a sense of elation. Some of the Harpoons had struck home! He thumbed his mike. “Welcome to the party, Shag. See if you can stop the big boy. Then, if you have something left over, put it on the escorts.

  “Be advised that we have a boat to the west with a full load of eight Harpoons. Once you’ve completed your run give me an assessment. Then we’ll put those missiles where they can do the most good. Over.”

  “Roger that,” Shag replied cheerfully. Over.”

  Meanwhile the Mammatus continued to hurtle toward the Russian battle group at 52 knots. “I see smoke,” Sterling said. “The bastards are just over the horizon.” Then, to all hands, “Prepare for a surface action. I want the RPGs and the SLMs on deck and ready to fire.”

  It was crazy really. A single hydrofoil attacking six enemy ships. But Ryson hoped that Shag and Digger would make a difference. As would the missiles fired by the Alto. Time seemed to slow.

  ***

  Aboard the Russian cruiser Omsk, on the Black Sea

  Vice Admiral Viktor Belkin was standing on the cruiser’s bridge trying to reconcile his expectations with reality. His line of defense towers had been penetrated. And, even though the mighty Omsk had been able to destroy most of the incoming missiles, two had been able to penetrate the ship’s anti-air defenses. One hit the stern, punched a hole in the plating, and started a fire below. The other sea-skimming missile slammed into the port missile launchers, where it triggered a secondary explosion. None of which was supposed to happen.

  “Two enemy planes in from the west,” a voice said. “They’re a match for Pindo F-16s.”

  “One, 2, 3, 4 missiles in from the west,” a second voice said. “Where’s our air cover?”

  Elsewhere, Belkin thought morosely. Or dead. He saw a blur and was trying to process it when his world exploded.

  ***

  Aboard the USS Mammatus, in the Black Sea

  “Four Harpoons, and four hits,” Shag reported. “The big boy is dead in the water, and burning. Over.”

  Ryson felt no sense of joy. Not after the loss of two boats. Just a feeling of relief. He opened his mike. “Roger that, and thank you. I hereby retract all the things I’ve said about the ‘chair force’ in the past. Destroy as many escorts as you can. Hit the largest ones first. And be sure to stand off. There will be incoming from the west. Over.”

  “Your apology is accepted,” Shag replied. “Going in. Over.”

  Ryson thumbed his mike. “Six to the Alto. You are to engage the cruiser’s escorts. At least one Harpoon each. And be careful. The Mammatus is to the south. Over.”

  There was a squawk of static followed by a female voice. “This is Three actual. One each. The Mammatus to the south. Over.”

  Ryson could see the enemy by then. Smoke trickled out of the cruiser’s badly mangled superstructure as waves washed across the Omsk’s main deck. Boats and rafts were in the water. A corvette was in close and pulling sailors aboard. Ryson turned to Sterling. “Don’t attack the corvette unless it opens fire.”

  No sooner had he spoken than the missiles from the Alt
o arrived. Some were blown out of the air, two followed decoys into oblivion, and four found targets.

  A missile boat disappeared in a flash of light, a destroyer took a hit, and so sadly enough, did the corvette. And, after additional hits from the F-18s, it began to sink.

  That left a tug and a patrol boat. Sterling went after them with a vengeance.

  The patrol boat tried to fight, but quickly fell victim to Guns and his cannon. The tug had a heavy machine gun mounted in the bow. But the HE rounds from the starboard .50 caliber machine gun, as well as a solid hit from an RPG, destroyed the gun as the Mammatus roared past. A sailor pulled the Russian flag down while another waved his white tee shirt.

  “The Omsk sank,” Sterling said.

  Ryson turned to look. There wasn’t much to see. Just an oil slick, flotsam, and a flotilla of dead bodies. “Call fleet. Tell them that we sank the Omsk with assistance from two zoomies. And tell them that we neutralized a missile boat, a corvette, and a destroyer. Three enemy vessels remain afloat, but are no longer offering resistance.”

  Sterling eyed him quizzically. “That’s all?”

  “Yes,” Ryson replied. “And that’s enough.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Luzon Island, the Philippines

  LT. Commander Jayson Greer, aka “Gun Daddy,” was falling out of the sky. And the lush, green jungle was waiting to receive him. This is gonna hurt, Greer told himself. Gotta protect the boys. Knees and feet together.

  He was falling at a theoretical rate of 17 mph. But it seemed to be much faster than that. And suddenly he was there. His boots penetrated the upper canopy of the triple canopy forest. Branches broke, vines snapped, and a bird took flight. Then Greer felt a stab of pain and came to a sudden stop.

  When Greer looked up, he could see the torn chute, the hole in the foliage, and a patch of blue sky above. How long had it been since he punched out? Five minutes? Ten? And where was his F-18? On the ground somewhere was the obvious answer. I hope it didn’t hurt someone, Greer thought. Please God, make it so.

  Greer looked down at the point past his bloody pant leg, past his boots, to the ground waiting below. What was it? A twenty-foot drop? Yeah, something like that. That’s going to hurt too, Greer decided. But it’s like Daddy said. “Do want your whupping now? Or do you want it later on? It’s gonna hurt either way.”

  Greer drew his survival knife, thumbed it open, and went to work. He felt a jerk as the risers on the left came free. Then it was time to hack his way through the straps on the right. The ground came up hard. His boots hit, he fell forward, and struggled to breathe. “Radio. SAR.” (Search and rescue.) Then he fainted.

  ***

  The city of Sanya, Hainan Island, Southeast China

  Sanya was a modern city with a population of nearly 700,000 residents, tall buildings, and a constant flow of tourists eager to enjoy the city’s warm weather.

  The local economy had taken a hit when the war started, and travel restrictions were imposed. But, thanks to the adjacent navy base, the influx of additional navy personnel had been sufficient to compensate for the loss in tourism. And Mayor Chee was well aware of how important the military was to Sanya’s wellbeing.

  So, when the victory over the Americans was announced, followed by the news that President Enlai and Premier Lau were going to be present for a military parade, Chee pulled out all the stops.

  For Lieutenant Junior Grade Jev Jing, and all the personnel from the Sea Dragon, it was a proud moment as they followed the Henan’s 3,896-person crew down Sanya’s main street and past the reviewing stand where the president and the premier were seated.

  Like most sailors Jing didn’t spend much time marching. As a result, the goose step, or zheng bu (straight march), was beginning to hurt by the time they passed the Yifang Shopping Mall. And from that point forward Jing was forced to grit his teeth during the rest of the two-mile-journey.

  Finally, after being marched into a parking lot, the sailors were ordered to form up, threatened with all manner of punishments if they misbehaved, and released into the city.

  Most made straight for the bars, restaurants, and shopping malls. Jing was the exception. His desire to get back at political officer Bohai Ang was undiminished. However, since Ang outranked him, the process would have to be circumspect. But how?

  Jing wasn’t absolutely sure. But as one of the Sea Dragon’s communications officers, he knew that Ang sent an encrypted message off every three days. A uniquely encrypted message which only Ang could access.

  That sort of thing was to be expected where political officers were concerned. They were spies after all, whose job it was to ferret out sailors who questioned communist doctrine, or had an affinity for western culture. That meant Ang’s reports were probably within the purview of his job.

  As far as Jing had been able to ascertain from his brother officers however, the use of specially encrypted messages was specifically prohibited, lest an Allied spy use such an app to communicate with his handler. But the other Com officers were too scared to report the issue. So, what was Ang hiding?

  Such were Jing’s thoughts as he rode a bus back to the Yulin naval base, cleared security, and entered the maze of passageways that led to the cavernous sub pens. And that was where the semi-submersible cruiser Sea Dragon was moored. This, Jing reasoned, is probably the only day of the year when there will be no more than ten people aboard.

  Would Ang be one of them? Possibly. But Jing didn’t think so. Ang was a suck up. And as such wouldn’t be able to resist all the opportunities to mingle and kiss ass in Sanya.

  Once aboard Jing made his way to the CIC, told the duty tech to take a thirty-minute break, and promised to monitor incoming radio traffic himself. The moment the tech was gone Jing checked to see which cameras covered the approaches to Ang’s cabin and turned them off.

  Confident now that he could enter Ang’s tiny cabin without being seen, Jing went there, opened the door and slid inside. There was barely enough room for a bunk, some storage, and a fold down desk. A laptop was sitting on top of it.

  Less than five seconds were required to install the Wi-Fi compatible keylogger which, thanks to a remote access feature, would allow Jing to track every keystroke the political officer made. The interesting stuff would be encrypted. But Jing hoped to solve that problem later.

  Would Ang discover the tiny unit? And understand what it was? Maybe. But even if he did, the logger couldn’t be traced to Jing.

  The moment Jing was back in the CIC he turned the surveillance cameras back on and glanced at his watch. The whole exercise had taken less than ten minutes. Jing smiled.

  ***

  Luzon Island, the Philippines

  Greer felt a tickling sensation as if something was walking across his face. His leg hurt. And, when the pilot tried to open his eyes, he couldn’t. It felt as if they were glued shut.

  Greer pawed at them and tried again. Then something warm was pressed against his eyes. And when he opened them, a blurry face appeared. “There,” a voice said. “That better. No worry. Doctor coming.”

  As the face came into focus Greer saw that his nurse was an old man. He had brown skin, a wrinkled countenance, and was chewing something. He turned to spit into a rusty can.

  Greer struggled to form words. “Where am I?”

  “You in my house,” the man answered.

  Greer discovered that he could turn his head. “The house” was a hut with a thatched roof. And, when a bug fell on his face, he slapped it. “My leg, what’s wrong with it?”

  “Deep wound,” the man said laconically. “Pus.”

  Pus. That wasn’t good. “You said a doctor is coming.”

  “Doctor Diwa come soon. Here, you drink.”

  The man cupped the back of Greer’s head with one hand, while holding an ancient Pepsi bottle to his cracked lips with the other. The water was sweet and cool. “Thank you,” Greer said, as he allowed his head to fall onto a foam pillow. “My radio … I need my radio.”
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  “No radio,” the old man said sternly. “It bring troops. Kill you, kill me, kill everyone.”

  Greer tried to get up, felt dizzy, and fell back. Something like sleep pulled him down. When he awoke it was to find that night had fallen and a different face was staring down at him. A female face with wideset eyes, a delicate nose, and full lips. “You’re black,” the woman observed.

  “And good looking,” Greer said. “Is being black a problem?”

  “Yes,” the woman replied. “There are relatively few black people in the Philippines, and that will make it easier for the government to find you.”

  Greer remembered what the old man had said. “Kill you, kill me, kill everyone.” And that’s when he remembered the briefing. Though theoretically neutral, the Philippine government was very friendly with the Chinese. “So, they’re looking for me?”

  “Yes. And there’s a bounty on your head. Five-thousand American.”

  “Shit, I’m worth more than that.”

  The woman smiled for the first time. “You were lucky. Datu hates the government. And the people in his village hate the government too.”

  “And you?”

  “I’m here, aren’t I? My name is Marikit. I’m a doctor. How does your leg feel?”

  Suddenly Greer realized that the pain had disappeared. “I feel good. The pain is gone. What did you do?”

  “I drained half a gallon of pus out of your wound, put in half a dozen sutures, and shot you full of ampicillin. Which is all I have. Take it easy for a few days, and voila, you’ll be ready to go.”

  “Go where? I would call for a ride, but Datu told me not to.”

  “And Datu is right,” Marikit replied. “The government is quite good at locating downed pilots. They claim to have captured three in the last few days.

  “So, the best thing you can do is let Datu put you in touch with the underground. They can send you south to Indonesia. That will take a while however.”

  Greer nodded. “Tell me about those pilots. Where are they?”

  Marikit shook her head. “Don’t even think about it.”

  Her expression softened. “Jayson, there’s something you need to know.”