Incidents between U.S. and Soviet vessels had been particularly numerous back in the sixties, when the Russian navy was vigorously expanding under the guidance of its number-one sponsor, Soviet CNO Admiral Gorshkov. Harassment by both sides had been commonplace, with ships crossing one another’s paths, penetrating each other’s formations, even deliberately trying to ram. The number of incidents had grown until, at one point, collisions at sea were averaging an incredible one a month. One of the worst of those had occurred in May of 1967, when the U.S. destroyer Walker cut in front of a Soviet vessel and sheered off, then sideswiped the destroyer Besslednyi, tearing loose a whaleboat and punching a hole in her side. The next day, unbelievably, the Walker had rammed a second Russian ship, holing her twice.
In 1972, in a little-publicized agreement signed during Nixon’s visit to Moscow, the U.S. and the USSR had agreed to hold yearly meetings, to exchange information and review charges arising from such incidents. Called the Incidents at Sea Agreement, or IncSeA, it was designed to stop harassment on and over the high seas.
It had worked well for eight years. Unfortunately, by 1980 the political balance in Washington had become extremely precarious. Russian aggression in Afghanistan, communist support for the Sandanistas, the collapse of detente all had suggested a final breakdown of any dialogue with the Soviets. Certain factions in Congress, with political careers riding on SALT II and good relations with the Soviets, had hoped to reverse what seemed to be increasing intransigence on the part of Moscow. The ramming incident had appeared to be the Americans’ fault … or at least the fault of the admiral who had been aggressively hounding the Russian sub. By playing up the incident and doing some aggressive hounding of their
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own, they had hoped to prove the benevolence of U.S. intentions toward the Russians.
Too aggressive, the bastards had claimed. Even after being vindicated by the Navy board, there’d been little his supporters could do to shield him at the time. The Navy could not afford to antagonize the source of its yearly appropriations, and Vaughn, by fighting back, had made enemies on Capitol Hill.
So he’d been quietly shunted aside, out of sight, out of mind, hi a crippling turn of irony, another U.S. carrier, the Kitty Hawk, had collided with a Soviet Victor I in 1984. The Russian had been running with no lights in the hours just before dawn, and the collision had left pieces of the sub’s propeller embedded in the Kitty Hawk’s hull. By mat time, though, America’s military reawakening in the Reagan years had been well under way, and the men involved had suffered none of the probings or ostracism that Vaughn had suffered.
Vaughn understood the Navy’s reasoning—at least he tried to convince himself that he understood—but that didn’t change the bitter unfairness of it all. For twelve years he’d sat it out on the beach, his career at dead slow. His wife had left him four years earlier, a scandal in the tight circles of high-ranking Washington Navy society that had only added to his image as a has-been who’d never quite made the grade. He’d been ready to quit, to formally retire from the Navy, when the intervention of powerful friends in the Pentagon had opened up this new opportunity.
Command of CBG-14.
If he could carry out his orders … if Washington or the Russians didn’t screw him once again, he could still salvage his career, salvage his life. But the sinking of the Indian sub had raised the old specters once more. Biddle’s aggressive patrolling had triggered the incident … or at least, that was how Washington would interpret it.
And as COCBG, he was responsible for Biddle.
He climbed up the ladder into the Seahawk, accepting a cranial and life vest from the crew chief. “We’ll be a few minutes taking off, Admiral,” the enlisted man said as Bersticer scrambled up the ladder and took his seat at the admiral’s side. “That Russkie helo’s on its approach to the Vickie now. We want to give them plenty of room.”
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Vaughn nodded as he strapped on the helmet. It figured. The Russians were always getting in his way! Well, God help the bastards if they ever got in his way again!