“Back into the hurricane?”
“Yes, back into the hurricane.”
“Once more, sir, who are you?”
The man pulled off a wet boot and sock and then fixed the captain with a cold look. “I am Colonel Leonid Salkukoff; I am the assistant director of internal historical studies from Odessa. And I am here to repair a mistake from many, many years ago. A mistake we have well benefited from, but it has now run its course and its usefulness.” The tall man stood and faced the captain. “And you, my good captain, your crew, the other two warships, well, they are expendable in that endeavor. Now, shall we get Peter the Great turned around to meet our destiny?”
Kreshenko was feeling ill as he reached for the phone on his desk. “I want a flash message sent to both Red Banner Fleet North and to Presidential Command Authority in Moscow.” The captain held his hand over the phone as the radio room scrambled to make the connection. “We’ll see if President Putin is as accepting of the consequences in sending his prized flagship of the Red Banner Northern Fleet into danger as cavalierly as yourself.”
Kreshenko was stunned when the man completely undressed and was preparing for a shower when he stopped and smiled.
“President Putin has no say in this, Captain. The sooner you learn this harsh fact, the better off you will be.”
“You’re telling me that the president has no authority to order this ship back to home waters?”
Again, the irritating smile. “Captain, let me explain something to you,” he said as he wrapped a dry towel around his muscled hips and stopped in the doorway leading to the captain’s private head and shower. “Beyond certain offices in our government, the office of the president of Russia has never existed. Since the so-called fall of the Soviet State, the presidency, nor even the politburo, has been in charge of our country and never will be.”
“What are you saying?” Kreshenko was starting to become furious, but at the same time, a sick feeling of knowing struck his guts. He and his dead brother had spoken about it in private times, but they always thought it nothing but a conspiracy theory to scare the progressives in their country.
“You’ll learn more in the orders, but suffice it to say, Captain, playtime in the world is over. I’m afraid the average person won’t be able to recognize Mother Russia in the next few years. The arrogant fools in the West will learn that the cold war was not lost by us. We won it the day we convinced them we lost it. Now, get this ship turned around or I’ll have you shot and turn it around myself.” The man calling himself Colonel Leonid Salkukoff lost his humorous smile as he ducked into the private head and the warm shower that awaited him.
Captain Kreshenko placed the phone down and then grimaced as he hit the intercom to the bridge.
“Second Captain Dishlakov, let’s get Peter the Great and our two escorts turned around. We’re going back into the hurricane. Let’s get all three ships buttoned up tight and prepare for rough seas. Set storm warning conditions throughout all three ships.”
As he sat and read the extraordinary orders he had ever been given, the captain felt the bulk of Russian advanced weaponry heel hard to starboard as she turned away from home and back into danger.
It had been four hours since the message containing the Houston’s mysterious bogey had gone up the chain of command from Nimitz to Norfolk and then finally to Washington. In that time, Captain Thorne became convinced that CINCLANT and NATO command had totally lost their minds.
“Boat’s at a hundred feet and holding,” said officer of the deck Jacobs as he called out the depth. There actually had been no need to do so because the closer the submarine got to the surface, the fiercer the rolling of her bulk became. “I take that back. We’re rolling. Thrusters starboard!”
Thorne looked at the young lieutenant JG and slightly shook his head, wanting the young officer to calm down for the benefit of the crew. The man acknowledged that he received the captain’s silent advice and visibly settled.
Captain Thorne examined the orders he had received via ELF, the low-frequency method of communicating that was coded and protected from snooping ears. He shook his head as the Houston’s first officer joined him. He was tucking in his shirt as he approached Thorne and the message flimsy he held. The captain handed Lieutenant Commander Gary Devers the flimsy.
“You have got to be—” The first officer was cut off by a sharp roll as Houston actually breached the surface with her sail tower, exposing her numbered designation to the early morning sky. Number 713 stood out in all its white-painted glory before dipping back into the dark green tumult. They had gone from one hundred feet to almost nothing in one swell of the rough seas. “Jesus, that was embarrassing. Thank God we don’t have to hide from a warship at these shallow depths. Exposing ourselves like that would be a good way to get a Russian missile sent our way,” the first officer said as Houston finally settled.
“Up scope,” Thorne said as he held tightly to the periscope stanchion. As Thorne looked around him, he saw the anxious faces of the mere kids watching his every move. When the scope was up, he peered into the eyepiece. “Gary, let’s give the old girl a goose. Give her a shot of air, will you? Bring her as shallow as you can without exposing that damn sail to the elements again.”
“Aye, Skipper. Make your depth seventy-five feet.”
“Aye. Blowing negative to the mark. We’re coming shallow to seventy-five feet,” the chief of the boat repeated.
Throughout the length of Houston, loud pops were heard as the hull relaxed as she came to a shallower depth.
“There she is,” Thorne said as the scope cleared the high seas for the briefest of moments. The captain started using his Morse lamp high upon the radar antenna. Houston rolled hard to port as the men were heard cursing as they fought for handholds.
Through the beeping of the Morse signal, Devers could read: Disabled vessel, this is USS Houston, a United States submarine off your starboard beam. Are you under power or do you need assistance? I repeat, this is a United States warship. Do you need assistance? Finally, he pushed a button on the periscope, and although he knew he couldn’t hear it inside the thick-hulled sub, he had just sent out a blast of air through his warning horn affixed to the sail.
“Captain, we’re drifting right toward that hunk of junk,” Devers called out from the plotting station.
Thorne slammed the handles up and then lowered the scope. He reached for the intercom. “Communications, keep trying on all frequencies until she responds.”
“Conn, radio, aye.”
Thorne leaned against the navigation console and then looked at the plot. “How soon until the De Zeven, Shiloh, and Bunker Hill arrive on station?”
“An hour, give or take five minutes. They’re having a far rougher time with Tildy than we are.”
“I imagine,” Thorne said as he examined the plot on the navigation board for what seemed like the thousandth time. “Plot the hurricane against the last weather report and prediction, will you, Gary?”
The first officer designated the edge of Tildy and then plotted the estimated position of the hurricane’s eye as close as he could with the information the boat’s computer had. The virtual reality app made the hurricane swirl as if it were a motion picture animation. The captain placed a finger in the estimated position of the eye, the calmest part of the storm, and tapped the spot.