“Captain, we have lost the forward missile-loading hatch. We’re taking on water in the forward spaces.”
Kreshenko cursed as the calls kept getting more desperate and frequent.
“Send out a call to the Admiral Levchenko: assist the Ustinov and take on her crew.”
“No, I want the Admiral Levchenko to form up with us. We will break into the eye together. The Ustinov is on her own. Send a message to her captain and crew; they will never be forgotten for their bravery,” Salkukoff said as blandly as he could.
As Peter the Great went down into another trough, Kreshenko pushed his way past his men to face the Russian colonel. When one of the marines faced him with a loaded weapon, Kreshenko merely batted the handgun away angrily. “Stand down, marine,” he said menacingly. The rest of the bridge crew became aware of the confrontation and watched. Most were ready to assist their captain after the recent order to abandon their fellows had been said aloud, which would have angered any sailor the world over.
“Captain, if you do not follow my orders, I will command your weapons officer to target that cruiser and finish sinking her. Do you understand?”
Kreshenko was silent as he took a firm hold on the helm console when the battle cruiser once more fought her way back to the surface of the roiling seas.
The bridge-wing hatch opened, and ten of the colonel’s commandos entered the bridge. These men didn’t look seasick at all. They all had automatic weapons held at port arms. The colonel never removed his dark eyes from the captain. He was sure his bluff was about to be called when the announcement was made.
“Ustinov just broke her back!” one of the bridge lookouts called.
Kreshenko screamed a curse as he snatched the binoculars from his first officer and focused to the north. Tears of rage and frustration filled his eyes as he fought to see through the ravages of the hurricane. He felt his heart sink as the raked bow of the Ustinov rose high into the air at the same moment her stern section with her proudly proclaimed name in Cyrillic rose and then, astonishingly, the two halves of the ship crashed together, shredding steel and men in one massive action. She had snapped in the middle. A giant wave struck the forward section and slammed it into another advancing wave. Then her stern slipped beneath the waves, and as it did, a tremendous explosion illuminated the dark world in which they had entered. Kreshenko lowered the glasses and angrily tossed them to Dishlakov. He stormed toward Colonel Salkukoff, who stood bracing himself against the rolling waves.
“Captain, Admiral Levchenko is turning to assist,” the radar officer reported with his eyes firmly on the drama taking place only feet away.
The standoff between the Russian colonel and the captain of Peter the Great was a force of wills.
“The Ustinov is gone, Captain,” Second Captain Dishlakov announced as he turned and allowed the binoculars to fall from his hand.
Kreshenko’s eyes never left the colonel’s.
“Helm, resume original course and speed. Radio, send a message to the destroyer — form up on Peter the Great until we breach the eye.”
“Aye, Captain.”
“Most wise, Captain,” Salkukoff said as he gestured for the marines and commandos to lower their weapons.
“Two hundred and fifty-six officers and crew were on board that cruiser.”
“True Russians all, Captain.”
The giant cruiser once more bashed her way into a deep depression and then fought her way back up.
“So, we are back to praising the dead again for their heroic sacrifices? Eighty years of meaningless deaths ordered by men like you was not enough? You wish to return to the days of not being accountable for Russian deaths?”
The colonel gestured for the hatchway to be opened by his men.
“Inform me when we are close to breaching the eye, Captain. That’s when real sacrifices may have to be made.”
All eyes on the bridge watched the man and his men leave. Then their eyes went to the two marines who had sided against their captain. They holstered their weapons and then lowered their eyes. Kreshenko went to the forward windows and stared out into the killer hurricane. He was joined by Second Captain Dishlakov.
“I knew her second in command. He just had a new baby daughter a week ago,” Dishlakov said as he took up station next to his bearded captain.
Kreshenko didn’t respond. As far as he was concerned, his entire crew had just become pariahs in the eyes of the Russian Navy and, for that matter, most other navies around the globe. They had just turned their backs on sailors in peril and allowed them to drown.
“Keep a close eye on Admiral Levchenko. She’s tough, but she’s not as tough as the cruiser we just lost. Tell her to form up and stay close.” His eyes shot to the closed hatchway. “We may need her more than ever if we make it through this hurricane.”
Dishlakov caught the meaning, and then he started giving orders.
Peter the Great, along with her tough little destroyer escort Admiral Levchenko, was only thirty minutes away from entering the eye of Hurricane Tildy.
With the calmer seas, the small task force made a slow circle inside the hurricane’s eye. The Houston was still submerged beneath the four-foot seas while De Zeven, the Dutch frigate, kept station a thousand yards behind the American Aegis cruiser Shiloh and the disabled Russian cruiser Simbirsk.
“Radar, conn,” Captain Thorne said aloud as he peered once more through the periscope, “any surface contacts outside our own?”
“Conn, radar, nothing, Captain.”
“Sonar, conn, any submerged contacts?” Thorne swung the periscope around 180 degrees.
“Conn, sonar, just three whales heading out of here. We’re clear at this time.”
Thorne was about to do something no submarine commander ever ordered lightly.
“Chief of the Boat, surface.”
“Aye, Captain. Blow negative to the mark, fifteen degrees up bubble. Give me full rise on the planes.” The chief hit the alarm warning, and the beluga call was made. “Surface, surface.”
For the five hundred crewmen of both the Dutch frigate De Zeven and the missile cruiser Shiloh, an amazing sight greeted them as the massive, spherical bow of USS Houston broke the surface of the sea. She rose high into the air and then slowly settled back as the calmer waters inside the eye washed away from her sleek black hull. The white numbers on her sail tower shone brightly in the falsehood of sunshine that was the eye of Tildy.
Captain Thorne was the fourth man through the conning tower hatch. His lookouts were posted high on the electronics array as Houston came free of her natural element. Thorne scanned the area and was satisfied that his boat was as safe as it could possibly be for the moment. He turned and scanned every and all areas before he felt he could relax. He reached over and hit his intercom switch.
“Gary, inform De Zeven and Shiloh this is only a courtesy visit. They are to maintain current course and speed with a straight cut across the eye at thirty-minute intervals. If anyone’s watching, that should keep them on their toes.”