“That’s why the phone call, Captain. I don’t know if we can trust seventy-five-year-old canned beets and Spam.”
“I get your point. I’ll have the galley send over a hot meal and fresh coffee.”
“How are your electronics?” he asked through the high-pitched whine of the bullhorn.
“We should have communications and radar back up within the hour. We had the necessary circuit boards in ship’s stores. The weapons systems are something else. They are fried. So, for right now, we have only our .50-caliber and five-inch Bofors systems available.”
Jack lowered the bullhorn in exasperation. In the strange world they found themselves in, he was not happy about the weapons situation. “Captain, we need to get together and talk. Let’s get everyone on Simbirsk and figure out where we go from here. We should have some answers soon on just where in the hell we’re at.”
“Is that little toy of yours turned off?” Johnson said, not joking one bit.
“We think. But then it was turned off before this little adventure started, so we’ll see.”
“Then I reluctantly accept.” Johnson lowered his head and then spoke again. “Also, we have over one hundred men we have to get buried. May I suggest at sunset?”
“I’ll confer with our Russian guests and confirm.”
Johnson waved once more and then tossed the bullhorn to a passing sailor.
Collins turned to the master chief. “I’m getting real tired of burying kids.” Jack tossed the bullhorn to the deck, where Jenks retrieved it and then watched the colonel’s back as he sadly moved off.
“Amen to that.”
Captain Kreshenko prayed that the pumping and counterflooding would work. His warship was still listing at fifteen degrees to her port side after nearly capsizing after the initial wall of water, light, and heat had struck. He had had little time in feeling sorrow for the lives lost on the escort destroyer Admiral Levchenko. His ship had lost almost as many crew as their doomed escort. He was down 175 men from the assault of the American weapon.
“The pumps are catching up, and the counterflooding is working, Captain,” said a tired and worn Second Captain Dishlakov as he came into the shattered bridge of the giant cruiser.
Kreshenko saw the disheveled state of his first officer. The man was burned on the right side of his face, and his arm may have been broken, as he was holding his left with his right as he reported. The captain frowned as he took the man in.
“Now, your orders are to go below and get some hot soup and tea, Vasily. I’ll need you in the next few hours. Have the doctor check that arm, and get something for that burn.”
“I’m all right, Captain. We need to get our electronics suite up and running.”
“Communications is a priority at the moment.”
“What about our weapons systems?”
Kreshenko chuckled. “In case you have not noticed, my old friend, we lost. Our priority now is to communicate with Moscow and get our men home. First we have to make contact with the only naval force in the area and hope that tempers have calmed to the point where we’re not shooting at each other anymore. Besides, I’m still not sure if my ship can make it home, and I am not losing any more of my men to this craziness. We’ll go and find the Americans and hope we don’t have to fight this thing all over again.”
He saw the questioning look on Dishlakov’s face and tilted his head, waiting for his response. It took him only a moment.
“Captain, what about the color of the sea, the shattered moon?”
“I have no answers for that, Vasily. I am not that sure I want to know. We have to go on the assumption that it is all explainable and that our only duty is to these men aboard our ship.”
“Yes, Captain.” Dishlakov turned to leave.
“Vasily?”
The first officer stopped and turned, still holding his broken arm. “Sir?”
“If we get communications up, our priority is to contact Moscow, not our dear operational commander Salkukoff. Understood?”
“I never had any intention of contacting that arrogant son of a bitch… sir,” Dishlakov said and then saluted with his good right hand.
Kreshenko smiled at his friend and then turned his attention back to his damaged ship.
“Engine room reports engines are now operational.”
The captain turned to his chief engineer and nodded. “Okay, as soon as we have propulsion, get the air defense systems up and running.”
“Sir, we have no missile capability, and we won’t have. We don’t carry the necessary electronic stores aboard the ship. Moscow, in her infinite wisdom, never figured we would actually ever sustain damage from what we may assume was an EMP burst.”
“Imagine that — Moscow miscalculated. Wonders never cease, do they? But alas, the twenty-millimeter weaponry will have to do for offense and defense, now won’t it?”
“Yes, sir.” The man saluted and then quickly moved away.
Kreshenko felt the powerful engines spring to life beneath his feet. He took a deep breath as the mighty ship started to breathe once more. Her powerful generators started supplying far more than emergency power, and the ship sprang to electrified life.
“Helm, all ahead slow one-third.”
“Aye, all ahead slow one-third.”
“Steer south-southwest, fifteen degrees. Stay on course. Let’s get what weaponry we do have warmed up and ready. Let’s go find the Americans.”
Peter the Great started forward, her four massive bronze propellers churning the violet-colored waters at her stern.
She was going straight at the unsuspecting Americans.
10
Jack and Carl met Ezra Johnson at the gangway that had been placed between the Simbirsk and the Shiloh. It was Carl who broke the ice with the captain the navy way.
“The last time we met, Captain, I was a shavetail ensign and you were a JG, if my memory serves.”
The black captain smiled politely, but Everett knew the man didn’t remember some lowly SEAL from years back. Carl gestured the captain to join the team and their Russian counterparts near the fantail of the Simbirsk.
There had already been a flare-up between Captain Johnson and Colonel Salkukoff. Johnson refused to transfer his dead sailors over to the Simbirsk for burial. The exchange had become heated over the undamaged walkie-talkies when Johnson even insisted that the NATO contingent lost in the phase shift be transferred over to Shiloh for burial. It was Jack who had stepped in and told both parties to conduct separate services for each group. When the two men finally met face-to-face, the hatred was palpable. Johnson could not go lightly with someone who had fired on his ship and killed his men.
Johnson took his place at the table that had been set up at the fantail. Coffee and tea were served by the mess staff that Johnson had reassigned to Collins while they were aboard the Simbirsk.
Standing at the head of this table was an unlikely candidate to be chairing the meeting. Charlie Ellenshaw had come a long way since the Brazil mission, his very first field excursion. Crazy Charlie, a moniker that was being used less and less these days, adjusted his wire-frame glasses on his nose and then looked at Jason Ryan, who had just placed the portable Europa laptop on the table in front of Charlie. Jack caught the warning look from Jason to Charlie about the security surrounding Europa that Ellenshaw was using. The Russians could never learn about the supercomputer’s abilities. Charlie nodded as much to Jack’s satisfaction. The cryptozoologist looked down at Master Chief Jenks, and the cigar-chomping navy man nodded and gestured that he had the floor.