Ghost Ship - Diane Carey [2]
Vasska’s cheeks tightened as he imagined the dignitaries hitting the ceilings of their staterooms when the gunnery practice began. He made his back straight and firmly announced to the duty officer, “Signal tracking maneuvers, Comrade Myakishev.”
The performance with live fighters went shiningly well, primarily because it was all “on paper.” There was no firing of weapons until the unmanned drones were launched to circle out wide across the expanse of the Black Sea and come back to harass the Gorshkov as had been carefully arranged and rearranged. The dummy missiles were bombarded with a hail of depleted-uranium slugs whose weight alone would be enough to press off an attacking missile if it hit at sufficient distance. There were dignitaries on board, and nothing was being left to chance. There were a few misfires, a few misses, and a few false starts, but while not a perfect performance, it was a performance that could be interpreted as perfect, if the right language were used. Reykov was certain the language would be selected as carefully as a mother clips her infant’s fingernails.
That immutable fact about Soviet coverage was little comfort, however, as Reykov turned to Timofei Vasska and quietly spoke words that chained them to their seats. “Prepare demonstration of the E.M.P.”
With the last hour’s weapons’ displays still booming in his ears, Vasska’s skin shrank from the order, though he let none of his apprehension show. Such a device. The first of its kind to be mounted on a moving unit. Even the stationary ones prior to this one had been nothing more than a few isolated test guns. This one was real, mounted permanently at the center of Gorshkov’s gunnery shroud. E.M.P…. controlled electromagnetic pulse.
“Signal the Vladivostok to begin firing dummy Teardrops. And Vasska,” Reykov added quickly, raising a finger, “be sure they only fire one at a time and give us forty seconds to reenergize the pulse.”
Vasska shook his head and said, “Won’t it be wonderful if our enemies are so cooperative as to never fire more than one missile at a time?”
Reykov shrugged his big shoulders and said, “We’re working on it. It’ll be good enough if we can scramble the guidance systems one by one. Let’s not ask for trouble. Just don’t make fools of the designers.”
Vasska nodded to Myakishev, who relayed the order out into the distance.
“Inbound,” came the dry announcement a few moments later. “One Teardrop missile, heading four-zero true.”
“Visual range?”
“In six seconds, sir.”
“When it becomes visible, we’ll fire the E.M.P. on my order.”
“Yes, Comrade Captain. Visibility in three … two … one … mark.”
They squinted into the crisp blue atmosphere and saw the incoming dummy missile. Hardly more than a silver glint against the sky, even the dud caused a hard ball in the pit of every stomach. Reykov imagined the dignitaries’ skin crawling right about now.
“Fire the E.M.P.”
Myakishev touched his control panel, and below them on the tower a twelve-foot-wide antenna swiveled toward the inbound. They all flinched when the pulse fired—
There was a near-simultaneous snap and a white flash. At first it seemed the snap came first, but now that it was over they weren’t sure.
In the distant sky, the Teardrop skittered on its trajectory, corkscrewed to one side, and plunged into the sea far off its mark, victim of a fizzled guidance system.
The bridge broke into cheers.
Reykov pumped a sigh of relief from his lungs. “Reenergize the pulse, Comrade Vasska.”
“Recharging now, Comrade Captain.”
“Good boy, good boy … ” Reykov inhaled deeply and tried to make the sensation of trouble go away. He wasn’t really nervous, but for some reason his hands were cold.
“Comrade Captain … ” Myakishev bent over the officer’s shoulders at the radar screen.
“Comrade?” Reykov prodded, his hands dropping to his sides.
Vasska, having heard something in Myakishev’s tone, was also bending over the radar station.
“We have an inbound … and it’s not one of ours.”
Vasska dove for the TBS phone and had it to his ear as Reykov barked,