“‘Nine Soviet aircraft carriers ready to challenge America’s control of
the seas,'” Wheeler quoted with a grin. “What the hell are those people
playing at anyway? You’d think they’d learn the background before they went
on the air with that shit, y’know? At least enough to tell a helicopter
cruiser from a carrier!”
It had been greeted with laughs aboard the carrier, but Wheeler couldn’t
help but be indignant at the thought of the message the documentary had
delivered back in the World. He could imagine his mother and father seeing
that broadcast and worrying unnecessarily at the media’s claim that the
Soviets had nearly as many aircraft carriers as the United States, and most of
them much newer and more modern than the American boats.
Apparently ACN didn’t realize–or hadn’t bothered to report–the truth.
Most of the so-called “carriers” in the Soviet Navy were ships of the Kiev and
Moskva classes, strange hybrids between cruiser and carrier designs that
carried helicopters or V/STOL fighters and served primarily in an ASW role.
Of the three true carriers in Soviet service, only one was nuclear powered,
and it was still undergoing sea trials in the Black Sea. Unless the Russians
were really desperate it was unlikely that she would leave friendly waters.
Only the two conventional carriers, Soyuz and Kreml, were anything like the
Jefferson. At that they were smaller and much less capable than any of the
Nimitz-class ships.
And the Soviets had been using carriers for less than a decade. They
still had a long way to go before they would evolve the expertise and
experience of their American counterparts. The Russians could be dangerous
foes, but it was foolish to believe that they could seriously challenge the
United States Navy in a stand-up carrier-to-carrier engagement.
Brown laughed again. “Maybe we should surrender now so we don’t
disappoint the newsmen, huh?”
“All right, you guys, let’s can the chatter and concentrate on the job.”
That was Lieutenant Commander Jake Braxton, the CIC officer. Despite his
words he sounded amused. “Let’s save the battle of the airwaves for when
we’re back on the Jeff and stick with watching for Russkies while we’re up
here, okay?”
“Aye, aye, oh, lord and master,” Brown responded. As with most aircraft
crews the men on Tango 65 were easy about rank, at least in the privacy
imposed at thirty thousand feet. Wheeler noted a threat light and checked his
instruments.
“The ALR’s picking up electronic emissions. Bearing zero-five-zero,
range four hundred.”
“Any idea what?” Braxton asked.
Pursing his lips, Wheeler studied his readouts. “Down Beat,” he said at
last, giving the NATO code name for the Russian radar system.
“That’s either a Blinder or a Backfire,” Brown said. “Bombers.”
“You getting anything on radar yet, Wheeler?” Braxton asked.
Wheeler shook his head. “Still out of range.” He paused and looked down
at his radar screen. It was beginning to show an irregular pattern of streaks
and clutter. “Getting some jamming now. Probably an EW bird out there with
them.”
“Great,” Braxton said sarcastically. He turned back to his own station
and checked the Link-II data-transmission system that was supposed to relay
information back to Jefferson and the rest of the battle group. The CIC
officer picked up a radio mike. “Camelot, Camelot, this is Tango Six-fiver.
Come in, Camelot. Over.”
Wheeler watched the radar screen and tapped his fingers on the console
nervously. It was possible they were picking up a Russian raid against the
Norwegian forces around Bergen … but a twisting in his guts told him that
this was something else, something bigger.
And Jefferson was likely to be right in the middle of whatever the
Soviets were pulling.
CHAPTER 13
Thursday, 12 June, 1997
0855 hours Zulu (0855 hours Zone)
Dirty Shirt Wardroom, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson
Southeast of the Faeroe Islands
They called it the “Dirty Shirt Wardroom” because it was the officers’
mess hall set aside for informal meals, where an officer could eat without
changing from his work clothes into the regular uniform of the day.
Lieutenant Roger Bannon felt conspicuous in his neatly pressed khakis as he
hunted for a place to sit with his breakfast tray. His neat uniform was an