The ghost ship was bringing the dark and stormy night along with her.
2
One of the largest warships in the world, and also a class of vessel named after the mysterious phantom the Americans were now tracking, the modern Kirov-class battle cruiser Peter the Great made her way north and home after receiving word from Red Banner Northern Fleet headquarters that the NATO Reforger IV exercise had been canceled, much to the relief of giant missile cruiser’s captain, Viktor Kreshenko. He sat high on the raised chair just inside the enclosed bridge wing. He was a proud captain whose brother was recently lost on board Peter the Great’s sister ship, the Pyotr Velikiy, lost to enemy alien fire off the coast of Antarctica during the Operation Overlord campaign.
Peter the Great was now exiting the storm-tossed seas west of Scotland with her two escort vessels, the Slava-class missile cruiser Marshal Ustinov and the smaller Udaloy-class destroyer Admiral Levchenko. The two fleet Akula-class attack submarines had exited the area five hours ahead of the smaller section of the battle group. The rest of the fleet had disbursed when it was confirmed that NATO command authority had called a halt to their aggressive war games.
Peter the Great slammed her heavily raked and aerodynamic bow into the last of the deeper troughs caused by the storm that had now been reclassified as a hurricane and named Tildy by the American National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration. The giant warship eased her beautiful bow up and out of the water, shedding the sea like a mythical giant whale. The new warship was one of the more respected missile cruisers in the world, and NATO had the highest regard for her prowess at destroying other surface ships. Yes, she was the mightiest ship the rebuilding Russian Navy had on her books.
First Captain Viktor Kreshenko smiled as his men held on to stanchions and rigging as they happily made their way out of the storm area.
“Captain, a message from Red Banner Northern Command, sir,” a young communications runner said as he stood at attention.
Kreshenko held out his hand without removing his eyes from the seas ahead. He again smiled when he saw the sailor weave and then almost stumble as he came onto the enclosed bridge wing.
“If you can speak, son, read it to me,” the burly, bearded captain said without moving.
“Sir, it’s for captain’s eyes only.”
His hand shot out, exasperated that he would be contacted at all. He knew the pencil pushers in Moscow had never tried to maneuver one of the largest warships in the world out of the path of a hurricane. Now, what did they have to tell him that only he could understand? The runner placed the yellow flimsy in the captain’s hand and then made a hasty retreat. Kreshenko read. Then he read the communiqué again, and then again. He hissed a curse and then slammed his hand down on the intercom. “Second Captain Dishlakov, come to the bridge wing, please.”
The captain waited. While he did, he reread the orders again, and he felt his stomach turn over. Now, the young sailors he was laughing at earlier for being seasick and for not having sea legs weren’t so funny anymore. Even in the tossing seas, Kreshenko heard the pounding of feet up the outside stairs. The wing door opened, and a very wet second captain, Peter the Great’s first officer, stepped into the dry space. He removed his hat and then used his right hand to shed some of the seawater from his short-cropped blond hair.
“Captain, you wished to see me?”
Kreshenko held out the message flimsy. The younger man, destined for great things in the surface navy, read the orders. He too reread them two more times. The captain knew this kid to be bright and good at his job, and he was pleased to see that these new orders scared the hell out of Second Captain Dishlakov as much as they did himself.
“Has someone in Moscow gone completely mad?” Dishlakov said as he gave the message back and then removed his rain slicker. He angrily tossed the wet plastic coat into the far corner of the bridge wing.
The captain held a finger to his lips as a mess steward brought in tea. They remained silent while their hot tea was poured. The second captain took a seat next to his commander. The steward left.
“Not wise to show your emotions in front of the crew, my young friend. It doesn’t pay to let on that the new Russian attitude in Moscow has completely gone off the deep end. We’ll keep that little fact to ourselves. Lord only knows the crew will catch on soon enough.”
“Yes, Captain.”
“Now, what in the hell do you suppose they mean by loiter in the area, await passengers and large contingent of special operations personnel?”
“All I see is that Moscow thinks holding station on the edge of a powerful hurricane is child’s play, Captain. Do they understand the risks?”
The captain laughed and then sipped his glass of tea. “God, this tea is getting worse and worse.” He made a face and then set the glass in its pewter holder down. He watched the level inside the glass roll to one side and then the other. “As to your question, my friend, no, they do not know, nor do they care. We have been, and always will be, expendable.” Kreshenko looked over at the innocent face of his first officer. He knew that the brother lost weighed heavily on his mind and colored his judgment on higher authority. “And it seems even more so the past few years with our fearless leadership. It seems our people in Moscow have never learned the more valuable lessons on aggression. We seem to be backsliding, and there is nothing a mere sailor can do about it.”
The first officer got up from his heavily cushioned seat and then dogged the hatchway. They would not be disturbed.
“Captain, perhaps it’s not well that you speak so openly about the current leadership in this manner. You know I have the same opinions, but my family is in a far better position to protect me than your family is you. I believe the official position is that the Pyotr Velikiy was lost due to your half-brother’s careless actions upon taking command of his ship. Regardless of the official lie, you seem to be a target lately.”
“Yes, my family was also in on the Gorbachev debacle. We helped bring down the Soviet regime; I know the stories. But this message with no explanation? It’s just typical of the way things are being run now.”
“Orders, Captain?”
“Inform the Ustinov and the Levchenko of our orders. We will hold station at the edge of the hurricane and await our passengers.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
“Crazy sons of bitches. Has the world gone completely insane?”
The mighty Russian battle cruiser heeled sharply to starboard as she and her two escorts started steaming in a circle, awaiting their destiny and a voyage into seas they could never have imagined.
The man with blond hair knew this was not a regular police procedure; as a matter of fact, he was well aware through his informative friends that these men were not regular police at all. These imposters failed to even abscond with the right uniforms. The five had the clothing of the local Alexandria Police Department. The uniforms were all ill-fitting, and one of the embroidered patches on the shoulder of one looked as if it had been stitched on in a hurry with the wrong-colored thread. The man suspected he had hit the mark and was now in the custody of their antiquities police, the highly secretive Pharaoh’s Guards Regiment formed after the riots of 2015 in order to protect Egypt’s heritage from vandals. He knew them to be a new, supposedly counterterrorist unit of the Egyptian government brought to fruition to protect Egypt’s history from being destroyed or stolen. But he knew their work was geared more toward the theft of their own national heritage for secretive sales to the highest of world bidders. Interpol knew them to be the men behind the terrorists’ attacks on their own unsuspecting people who dealt with ancient Egyptian works. Right now, the man handcuffed to a steel chair would have taken the terrorists or even Interpol. This was one situation he was not going to make it out of if certain men were even a few minutes off on their slim timetable.