Rhodes gave a thumbs up and then looked down at the upturned faces. He could see the relief and appreciation for being rescued. He called back, “How many bodies do you think we need to retrieve?”
The Boatswain gave him a puzzled look. “Haven’t seen any, Captain. We went all round the area and everyone we saw we picked up,” he said.
Doc Dickerson heard the exchange and came over. “That can’t be, Captain. This water is around forty degrees. A man can’t survive more than a couple of minutes without some sort of protection. These guys are in wool uniforms,” he said.
“Maybe they sank,” Patnaude offered.
“No, they would still float for hours,” said Rhodes. “Get these guys aboard and send the boat to check again,” he said.
It took another two hours, but in the end, no bodies were found floating on the sea. That is when Captain Rhodes realized he had just witnessed a miracle.
Major Vasiley led the remaining three aircraft back home. They hadn’t seen the other aircraft come in and there was not much they could do about it. Instead, he had pressed his throttles to the limit and headed home.
He had watched as the bombs appeared to kill many of the people on the deck. He cursed his superiors with each breath. This was not what he had joined the military service for. He still had some notion of right and wrong in how a war should be fought. This was definitely wrong. Something had to be done. The question was what it would be.
“The Iowa group is back underway. The Iowa sank the Kirov and the Moskva. The Port Royal and Freedom sank another destroyer and two frigates. Iowa was struck twice with little damage. She currently has over four hundred Russian crewmen aboard that they rescued. The Port Royal has another seventy and the Freedom fifty seven. Too bad they were a little too far away to help the Iowa, but it turned out alright,” said the briefer.
“So for all intents and purposes, the Black sea Fleet no longer exists,” said Hammond.
“Pretty much. They have some patrol boats and such, but nothing major,” the briefer said.
Hammond sat back and let out a long breath. “I was expecting far worse from them. Using the helicopters for decoys was brilliant. Where are the missile boats now,” he asked.
“They are loitering around about 150 miles away. They were headed toward the landings, but stopped about ten minutes ago.”
“We’ll need to take care of them too. They probably all carry missiles,” Hammond said.
“I’ll send a message to Admiral Hustvedt,” said the briefer.
Captain Kuroki Potemkin was getting seasick. His little missile boat, R-44, was not really designed for open ocean cruising. At only about 240 tons, she bobbed like a cork. She was also top heavy. Because of this, the delay because one of the other boats broke down was making it much more difficult to keep the ship in any trim. The Shtil, a Nanuchka class corvette had lost one of her engines and was wallowing in the choppy seas trying to fix the problem. The Captain in charge insisted they all go in together.
He felt it coming and couldn’t stop it. Rushing to the bridge wing, he leaned over the side and let go. After heaving for almost a minute, he opened his eyes only to see a trail of vomit running down the side of the ship to the main deck. He instantly felt better, but he knew it wouldn’t last. The embarrassment was worse. To lose one’s lunch in front of your crew was not something to instill respect.
He heard a whistle blow and saw the Shtil begin to move. At least they were underway again. Giving the order to return to base course and speed, the R-44 began to ride much better in the seas. He watched the Nanutchka corvette plowing along. Potemkin wondered why she came along at all. Of all the missile boats, hers had the least range. Even worse, they were the least reliable. It would take another thirty minutes before they reached launch range. He couldn’t wait to get there and get this job over with. Any moment now he expected the American navy to swoop in and blast them from the sea. At least his boat had the best chance of getting away. The R-44 was a hydrofoil and he could be up on the foils and out of any situation in a matter of seconds.
Potemkin breathed in great lungfulls of air. It helped clear his mind and possibly keep the seasickness away for a time. His crew was doing their jobs, making sure the ship was exactly where it was supposed to be. The radio suddenly crackled to life. Someone screamed “American aircraft!”
Coming in high, they had been given away by vapor trails. The aircraft were still at some distance away, but the Russian commander wasn’t taking chances. “Launch all missiles,” came the order.
One by one, each boat fired its anti-ship missiles. They were various types, some supersonic, others not. The last to fire was the old Shtil. By that time, Captain Potemkin had ordered the foils lowered and his diesels were running at full revolutions. Long before the aircraft began their bomb runs she was doing 42 knots back towards Sevastopol.
The Eyeball system immediately put the missiles through Link 16 and the landing forces went to full alert. Unfortunately, through dumb luck, the missiles were all tracking straight toward the landing forces. The cloaking systems were still on and Hustvedt was counting on it to keep the ships safe.
Captain Donner was in a sweat. He had almost been that way from the moment the ships had entered the Black Sea. He paced around the ship’s combat information center plying his people with questions, often interrupting the work they were doing trying to protect the ship. “How many now?” he asked.
“There are twelve missiles spread out over a distance. Most are within a ten degree arc. Only about three are coming anywhere near us. All have a bearing drift. We’re safe as long as they can’t see us on radar. So far that cloak has worked pretty good,” said the Ship’s Weapons Coordinator.
“How do you know we’re in the clear?” demanded Donner. “It looks like those three are coming right down our throat!”
“It’s not as it looks, Captain. We are seeing a right bearing drift on these two and a left one on this one.” the coordinator assured him.
“But how close will they come?”
“Closest will be around 1,000 yards.”
“That’s too close for me,” shouted Donner already in a lather. “I want you to bring the ship’s weapons systems online. Shoot those missiles down!”
“But Captain, they are going to miss us. If we turn the systems on, they will lock into us and we run a much greater risk of…”
“I ordered you to engage those missiles! Do it now!” Donner screamed as he reached over and turned off the cloak.
Almost immediately the three missiles and two others turned toward the America. Getting the weapons systems up and tracking took time — something they did not have with missiles traveling beyond the speed of sound. The missile launcher spun to starboard. One of the missiles flew out of the launcher and exploded an incoming missile just three miles from the ship. The Close-In Weapons System got another. The next was just too close.
“We’re going to get hit!” shouted the Coordinator. “What do you want me to do now, Captain?”
Donner stood and stared at the screen. His eyes were filled with terror. He let out a whimper.
“You bastard,” growled another officer.
The missile hit just over the Combat Information Center, tearing into the compartment and exploding, killing everyone there and starting fires over a wide area. A second missile came in striking the starboard side of the bridge overhang. A third struck just forward of the midships refueling station on the starboard side. With each hit, the ship shuddered violently. Flames engulfed the area of the hits and smoke began billowing out of the ship.