“Commander Hadley’s got the ship, though he’s pretty junior, too. I’ve been confirmed as CAG. Sorry, Stoney, but you’re out of a job. At least until we work out a way to get you guys out of there.”
“No problem, Coyote. I think I’ll have my hands full here.”
“Right. We’re on full alert, of course, and flying full coverage patrols. Lots of intercepts, too. The Russkis are testing us… or maybe trying to use up our JP-5. We’ll keep flying as long as we can, though.”
“We’re going to need to work on getting the shore party back to the ship,” Tombstone told him. “The admiral needs medical help, better medical help than they can give him here, and we have some other wounded as well. We also have a large number of civilians. They might be allowed to leave from the Simferopol Airport, but I’m not holding my breath.”
“I wouldn’t, Stoney. Last we heard here, monitoring Russian radio, the military was shutting down all commercial flights, ‘for the duration of the present emergency.’”
“Did they say what the emergency was?”
“No. They’re managing to say it’s Ukrainians and foreign mercenaries both, without releasing anything definite. Oh, and Boychenko has been branded a traitor. Our old friend Dmitriev is in charge of the Black Sea Fleet, and he’s declared himself the legitimate military governor. No response yet from Krasilnikov’s people. At least, none we’ve heard.”
“Okay. I think we’re going to have to assume that we’re stuck here for a while, though I want you to keep working on a way of getting the wounded off. Maybe at night, by submarine.”
“We’ll look into it.”
The crump and rumble of heavy gunfire ― field artillery, possibly ― sounded closer and louder, lending a new sense of urgency to the conversation.
“Okay, Coyote. I don’t have much time. The way I see it, either Washington comes to our rescue, or we’re going to be left on our own out here while they argue about it.”
“Is this a multiple-choice test? How many guesses do I get?”
“We have to start planning for what happens if they hang us out to dry.”
“Agreed.”
“Okay, here are some possibilities.
Together, they began discussing options.
“Attention on deck!”
Coyote and the other staff officers standing around the large chart table snapped to attention at the call of the sailor standing guard outside the compartment door. Captain ― no, Coyote reminded himself ― Admiral Brandt walked in, followed by several of his staff aides, looking grim.
The assembly had been called earlier that afternoon and included not only Jefferson’s department heads, but the skippers and senior staff of several of the other ships in the squadron, including those of MEU-25. Steve Marusko was there, as skipper of the Guadalcanal, as was Colonel Winston Howell, the commanding officer of MEU-25’s Marine detachment. Admiral Collins was conspicuous by his absence. He was still aboard his flag, the Guadalcanal, and had delegated his interest in the planning session to Howell. In a way, Coyote thought, that was good. They could brainstorm some rather wild possibilities here, without being immediately overruled by the conservative MEU commander.
“At ease, gentlemen,” Brandt said. Walking to his accustomed place at one side of the chart table, instead of Admiral Tarrant’s usual spot at the head, he nodded to the others in the room. “Okay, people. We’ve had to endure a lot of sudden changes, and chances are this is just the beginning. I’d like to tell all of you, before we set out, that I have no idea how I’m to fill Admiral Tarrant’s shoes. I’m not half the man he was, not half the strategist, and I’m feeling a bit out of my depth. I’m counting on each and every one of you here to see me through this thing, to help keep me from making an ass of myself and putting this battle group in jeopardy.”
He paused a moment, looking from face to face. “Okay. We’re here, as you all know by now, to discuss our options. I don’t need to tell any of you, I’m sure, that our situation as of this morning is not very promising. Some of us have been working on the various alternatives that have presented themselves, however.
“Let’s hear from you first, CAG.”
Coyote hesitated. It was the first time anyone had referred to him officially by that unfamiliar title, and he still wasn’t very comfortable with it.
Of course, he thought, Jeremy Brandt must be having the same problem with his new role as admiral and CO of the whole battle group.
“Our major problem,” he told the others, “isn’t tactical. We’re more or less hamstrung until we get definitive orders from Washington, and it could be a day or so before that happens. In the meantime, all we can really do is button up and maintain our own operational security.
“We are, however, maintaining full CAP coverage, and we’re continuing to fly ASW patrols. We are also beginning to make plans for some sort of operation aimed at getting CAG ― Captain Magruder, I mean ― and the rest of the Americans ashore out of hostile territory.” He smiled. “We’ve code-named it Operation Ranger, after John Paul Jones’s ship.”
“I thought that was the Bonhomme Richard,” Commander Barnes, the Air Boss, said.
“Just for his big I’ve-not-yet-begun-to-fight engagement,” Coyote said.
“Before that, his ship was the Ranger.”
He pointed to the large chart, which showed the Crimean coastline.
Jefferson and the other ships of the CVBG, along with the vessels of MEU-25, were all plotted, along with the current CAP tracks and ASW patrols. A number of points had been marked in red, extending in a ragged arc along the battle group’s perimeter. “Our principal tactical problem is the Russian overflights, of course,” Coyote continued. “Their attempted overflights. In the past five hours, our aviators have carried out seven interceptions of various Russian naval aircraft, ranging from Mig-29s to a Badger-G attack plane.”
During the bad old days of the Cold War, encounters between Russian reconnaissance aircraft probing both the material and psychological readiness of the American carrier defenses had been common. Most aviators had treated it as a kind of a game, a way to show off to the Russians and even pick up a souvenir or two. There’d been plenty of cases of trades arranged by sign language or radio between bomber and Tomcat crews ― a Russian fur cap for a copy of Playboy, for instance. For the most part, though, the Russian bomber pilots had tested the American defenses, noting how soon they were intercepted by the Tomcats and how far they could press the Tomcats before being forced to change course. There’d been several accidents during the closest of those encounters, but no cases of missiles or gunfire exchanged.
The situation was far more uncertain here, with the Americans completely in the dark about Russian intentions. Any of those approaching aircraft could be loaded with ship-killers intended for an all-out assault on the Jefferson. Each had to be met and, if possible, turned aside.
“We’ve met each Russian approach and turned it aside without incident, but it’s forcing us to use our aircraft fuel reserves at a rather alarming rate. We’ve been putting aircraft off our flight deck nonstop now for, let’s see…” He checked his watch. “For two hours, now. It seems likely, to Ops, at least, that the Russians are deliberately forcing us to expend our fuel reserves. They blocked the straits in the first place. They know we’re not getting any more fuel. Now they’re trying to get us to expend what we have.”
“Setting us up for an attack, CAG?” General Howe asked.
“Maybe. Or maybe just to leave us helpless. Without air, of course, we’re just so much gray-painted metal.”
“What about our UN assignment for keeping the peace?” Marusko wanted to know.