Ghost Ship - Diane Carey [4]
Ninety thousand gross tons of scrap metal rained across the waters of the Black Sea.
“Captain’s on the bridge.”
The U.S.S. Theodore Roosevelt (CVN-71) churned through the sea at the center of the six cruisers and seventeen destroyers that made up its carrier group. From where he came to a stop beside the navigation station on the bridge, Captain Leon Ruszkowski could easily see two of the Aegis cruisers plowing along at a distance of four miles off their forward and port beams.
“Nice,” he murmured. “Blue sky, warm day, waters of the exotic Mediterranean beneath, and a song in our hearts. Ah, to be in Paris. Or Athens … hell, pick a city.”
“Will coffee do?” Executive Officer David Galanter appeared, and sure enough the mocha scent of coffee, sugar/no cream, came with him.
The captain took the china mug and said, “Dave, you’ll make a hell of a headwaiter someday. We’ll all retire and open up a Greek restaurant in east L.A. Admiral Harper could be maître d’ … Annalise can cook….”
Air Wing Commander Annalise Drumm broke off her enchantment with the flattop and looked his way. “Do I get free breakfast?”
“Poached octopus on whole-wheat toast, our specialty.”
She smiled and rolled her eyes. “After a while we could replace the octopus with those little pink erasers that come on the tops of navy pencils. Nobody’d know the difference.”
“We’d probably get a write-up in Connoisseur. Dave, what’s that blip?”
“Sorry, sir … one minute. Compton, check that.”
The captain moved closer, squinting. “Gone now. What was it?”
Galanter shook his dark head and frowned. “Not sure, sir. All stations, verify integrity of the area.”
A very subtle change came over the bridge. Highly trained crewmen moved into action so smoothly that the series of exercises was barely distinguishable from what went on when they were doing nothing.
Then the radar officer calmly said, “Picking up six blips, skipper … correction-seven blips. Seem to be fighters.”
“Fighters from where? Annalise, you got hardware in the air I don’t know about?”
Annalise crowded him at the monitor, suddenly possessive of their airspace. “No, sir, all fixed-wings are in.”
The captain’s brows drew closer. “And the Dwight Eisenhower’s three thousand miles away. Get an ID, Compton.”
“They seem to be seven MiGs, sir. Signature radar says configuration is MiG-33B, Naval Version.”
“Are we under attack?”
“No, sir. Their missile radar is not on.”
“What are MiG-33s doing here? What happened? Who speaks Russian?”
“I do, sir,” Compton said without taking his eyes from his screen.
The captain didn’t hesitate. “Get on there and find out what’s up.”
“Uh, yessir.” He bantered into his comm set in Russian, and within seconds came back with, “Skipper, Soviet CAP is requesting permission to land on our flattop. Says they’re out of fuel. Coming in at high warble. Very agitated.”
Commander Drumm and the exec crowded the captain as he frowned and muttered, “Seven MiG-33s want to land on a U.S. CVN? Must be some bitchin’ reason. I don’t suppose we better wait for a note from Mother on this one.”
Galanter agreed with a cautious nod. “Out of fuel’s out of fuel.”
The captain watched the status boards and said, “Tell the Soviet squadron leader to dump all their missiles and bombs and empty their guns completely. Annalise, scramble four Tomcats to escort them in.”
“Aye, skipper.” She dashed for the exit so fast that they almost didn’t notice her leave until she was gone.
But the captain knew-he didn’t even bother to look. “Sound general quarters.”
Galanter’s voice got stiff. “Aye, sir. Bos’n, sound general quarters.”
“General quarters, aye.” The bosun immediately went to his broadcast intercom, pierced the ship with an alert whistle, and sent the deceptively calm order booming through the two thousand airtight chambers on the carrier. “General quarters. General quarters. Man your battle stations. This is not a drill. Man your battle stations.