CARRIER 3: ARMAGEDDON MODE

Cunningham studied the displays showing the Vicksburg’s helo status for a moment. The Russian Helix had landed safely, dropped off her passengers, and was now headed for the Kreml with Admiral Dmitriev. The three Russian staff officers were now being escorted forward to Vicksburg’s wardroom. The second helo, the Seahawk carrying Admiral Vaughn and his staff, was inbound with an ETA of four more minutes. He should have met the Russians, he knew, but Vaughn’s instructions about no formal ceremony had been explicit. That was just as well. Seas were rough, and the Soviet officers would probably prefer to be greeted in the dry security of Vicksburg’s wardroom, rather than the spray-drenched openness of the CG’s fantail.

He would have to go aft to greet Admiral Vaughn, of course. CBG-14*s admiral would expect that.

He was just about to turn and leave the CIC when the Tactical Officer called to him, ‘ ‘Captain?” The officer was standing behind an ET chief seated at one of the consoles, puzzling at the display on one of the LSDs. “Something funny here.”

“What do you have, Hark?”

Commander Gregory Harkowicz pointed. The screen displayed numerous white blips against a dark blue background. Letters and numerals tagged most of the contacts, identifying them as ships and aircraft belonging to the battle group.

But there were four close-spaced blips to the northeast, still unidentified.

Cunningham squinted at the screen. “Aircraft?” “No, sir. Surface vessels. Range thirty miles. Contact is intermittent. They come and go. That suggests very small targets, maybe fishing smacks. Speed eight knots.”

That made sense. Seas were running at three to five feet. A ‘* small boat could easily be lost in the radar reflection from the „ ocean, registering only as it rose to the crest of each wave.

• , “How long have they been there?”

“We picked up something maybe an hour ago, Captain,” the

•:•’ ETC said. ‘ ‘But it disappeared and didn’t show again. This has £.’ just been within the last ten minutes.” £ Cunningham stared at the display, trying to milk additional f; information from the uninformative screen.

•v “Five gets you ten it’s a dhow fleet,” he said softly. I “But …”

•••’ Harkowicz looked at him. “You’re thinking patrol boat?” v. “Could be. Cruise Druze.”

•£ The TO chuckled. During the carrier operations off Lebanon ?. during the early eighties, there’d been some concern that one of

•: the warring Lebanese factions might attempt a suicide attack on ^va.Navy ship with a light plane or speedboat packed with |v explosives … or even with a single fanatic on a hang glider, hypothetical lone commando on a hang glider had been

“Cruise Druze,” and the word had stuck. ^ “Give me a Jane’s readout for India, Hark,” Cunningham ;>,«aid. “List only.”

ivfe; An ASTAB nearby flickered, and a column of ship names, ^; numbers, and types replaced a readout on fleet fuel consump-^v-tion. Cunningham scanned the list as it scrolled. His eyes widened. “Stop. Oh … shit.”

“Sir?” Then Harkowicz saw what the Captain had noticed. ‘Oh . . .” “Thought I remembered Osas,” Cunningham said. “Eight

Hs, each carrying four Styx SSMs. We’d better—” “Captain!” the ET chief called. “Unknowns accelerating! flUdar makes it twenty knots! Twenty-five . . . thirty knots!” No native dhow could manage thirty knots. “Battle stations!” igham snapped. The Tactical Officer’s hand was already

168

Kerth Dougiass

slapping down on a large, red button on a nearby console.” Sound fleet alert!”

But he wondered if it was not already too late. On the screen, new bogies were appearing, separating as if by magic from the larger blips marking the unknowns.

“It’s goin’ down!” Harkowicz shouted. “Missile launch! Missile launch!”

CHAPTER 16

;. 0739 hours, 26 March

A Patrol Boat K91, INS Prateya

i&-‘

§ Senior Lieutenant Javed Chaudry was a fatalistic man, but that „.- didn’t stop him from slamming his fist against the bridge ^•r console and biting off a savage curse as the two Styx missiles :;” roared off into the northwest, dazzling pinpoints of light ;” drawing white contrails across the sky. INS Pratap, Patrol Boat ;: K93, wallowed in the heavy seas to starboard, her two forward

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