“That’s it. Tell whoever that is to get the hell away from my ship. RTB immediately. This is not only going to cost those idiots their lives, but we could lose this ship. I’m not having it. They can throw me in the deepest Gulag in Siberia. I’m not losing my ship because some brass-hat son of a bitch has a wild hair up his ass. Call them off, Dishlakov!”
Peter the Great rolled to port, and the dark seas crashed over onto the helo deck. As the radio call went out, Kreshenko was satisfied when the giant helicopter started to rise and turn away.
“Thank God the pilot has some common sense.”
“Should we clear the landing party from action stations, Captain?” Dishlakov asked.
“Yes, I’m sure those boys are wet enough. Let’s—”
“They’re coming back!” called one of the bridge lookouts.
Kreshenko was stunned as he turned back to the window, and through the wash of rainwater, he saw the Halo Mi-26 returning to the battle cruiser. This time, the captain took up the microphone. “Communications, order that bird away from my ship! If they attempt to land, I will shoot them out of the sky.”
“Sir, the Halo is flashing command override on your order. They say they are coming in.”
The captain cursed, and then, to his shock, the Halo came low once more over the fantail. He then saw ropes shoot out from the open doors of the air force bird. His eyes widened when he saw men rappelling down these ropes to the helo deck below. Several of these brave fools landed hard on the steel deck, but they kept coming. They streamed from both sliding doors of the Halo. He turned to his first officer as he watched this insanity through his binoculars. Dishlakov had noticed the same thing as the captain, and as he lowered his glasses, they exchanged worried looks. Each of the first fifty men to the deck was heavily armed. Finally, as they turned their attention back to the badly swerving helicopter, four men in different clothing rappelled down the rubber-treated ropes to land softly onto the pitching deck.
“Second Captain, go below and bring the commander of this band of fools to my cabin, take the others to the ship’s mess, and station a marine guard on them until I get some confirmation on just who these idiots are.”
The captain watched as the Halo, with her belly empty of men and equipment and after the last large bags of gear were lowered down, rose back into the black sky and then made a sharp turn to the north. Kreshenko slammed his fist onto the windowsill once more and then stormed off to his cabin.
Two hurricanes were about to explode into the North Atlantic that day, and one was about to happen on board his ship.
It took the captain thirty minutes to finally get to his quarters after securing flight operations. His men were battered and seasick, and after he made sure they got something hot into them, he stormed into his cabin.
The big man was dark haired and was using one of the captain’s towels to dry his head. He didn’t even notice when Kreshenko burst through the cabin’s door. He stared angrily at the man wearing black Nomex battle BDUs, the uniform commandos the world over were now wearing. In place of the Russian Federation flag was a Velcro patch depicting a black camouflaged star. The captain looked on his bunk and saw the belt with the holstered weapon. His eyes went from the bed to the newcomer, who seemed to be making himself at home.
“Ah, First Captain Kreshenko. Is it too much to ask if you have a drink anywhere close by?”
The captain watched the man as he smiled and then simply tossed the towel onto the tiled deck. Kreshenko closed the door and retrieved the towel as Peter the Great rolled to starboard. As the captain tossed the wet towel into his private head, he turned to face the stranger. He saw the man wore no rank on his collar and that he was one of those film actor types that always seemed to walk out with the women after the drinking establishments closed. The captain had seen his ilk his entire life and despised the breed.
“I don’t have alcohol in my cabin. I try to shy away from it at sea.”
“Ah, I had heard that you were a prudent man, Captain. Thank goodness I always come prepared,” he said as he retrieved his bag and produced a bottle of very expensive vodka. “Thank goodness it survived the flight.” He held the bottle up so the captain could view the label. “This was a gift from old Putin himself, the moron,” he said as a way of telling Kreshenko to be careful in his approach about his visitor endangering his precious ship.
Instead of commenting, the captain walked to his desk and came back with two glasses.
“You see, I knew you were a man of action, Captain,” the stranger said as he tore the protective plastic from the cork and then poured two glasses. “Just as your brave brother and his crew.” He held a glass up and then toasted, “To the new Russia.”
Kreshenko remained still, not moving for the glass. Finally, in deference to the toast, he nodded. The man acted as though he hadn’t noticed Kreshenko’s small displeasure at the term new Russia or the mention of his dead brother, but Kreshenko knew that the man had. It was in this man’s cold eyes, and the captain knew immediately this visitor was no military person, or at least hadn’t been one for many years.
“What are you doing on my ship?” Kreshenko asked as he pushed aside the glass of vodka, which was still untouched.
The other man smiled, his eyes moving from the captain of Peter the Great to the still-half-full glass. He reached out and took the glass and drank the fiery liquid down. He closed his black eyes momentarily and then let out a satisfied breath. He then tossed the empty glass to the captain, who fumbled with it and then secured it before it crashed to the floor. The stranger unzipped his BDU top and then pulled a large envelope from its dry place.
“You endangered my ship and crew with that little stunt.”
“Yes.”
The captain looked at the envelope and then grudgingly accepted.
“May I assume my men are being dried and fed?”
“Your men are being taken care of,” Kreshenko said as he sat at his desk and broke the wax seal on the package.
“Perhaps to speed things along, go to the last page and examine the signature on the bottom.”
Kreshenko, with his eyes firmly affixed to the man he had instantly taken a dislike to, flipped through the sixteen pages, and then his eyes settled on the last name and signature, the commander in chief of the Russian Navy.
“Okay, you have impressive credentials. That still gives you no right to endanger my ship.”
The man laughed once more and then retrieved the bottle of vodka and poured again. He drank and then sat upon the captain’s bunk without asking.
“Captain Kreshenko, from this moment on, your ship will be in constant danger. So will the other two vessels of your rather small battle group.”
“Just who in the hell are you?” he asked, not bothering with the set of orders. He had seen that this man’s name had been blacked out on the official copies.
Once more, the glass was filled, and the stranger drank deeply. He started untying his boots. “Why, I’m the man who’s ordering you to turn Peter the Great, the Ustinov, and the Admiral Levchenko around one hundred and eighty degrees.”
This time, Kreshenko recovered far more quickly than the newcomer thought possible. He sprang to his feet, slamming the orders down on the desk.