“Elena Krayev,” she said. “An ethnic Russian working at the U.S. embassy in Moscow as a translator. She’s also a highly trained field agent, who runs errands for us on occasion.”
Christine received a copy of Elena’s portfolio and turned to the first page, containing a head shot and full-body picture. She was stunningly beautiful.
“The last element of the plan we’re working on is how they meet. It needs to be innocuous, in a way that doesn’t raise Chernov’s suspicion, nor that of his security detail. We’re thinking about some sort of official government reception in the evening, because he rarely leaves without a beautiful woman on his arm. Unfortunately, Russia’s invasion of Lithuania and war with Ukraine have put a damper on these types of activities. I understand time is critical, but we’re currently at a loss on this aspect of the plan.”
Christine suggested, “Kalinin’s continental security summit. Would that work?”
Cherry pondered Christine’s suggestion, then replied, “Yes, that would work. Elena can be assigned as a translator for the American representatives.” Cherry looked to the president, who turned to Dawn.
“Agree to the summit,” he ordered, “and get it scheduled ASAP. Try to get as many NATO countries as possible to attend, but time is critical, so give them a twenty-four-hour deadline to decide, then move forward with whoever has agreed. While you’re at it, let the Alliance leaders know we don’t intend to capitulate to Kalinin’s demands; we’re working on something. But don’t mention Elena. We can’t afford to let our plan leak out.”
Turning to Christine, he said, “You’re familiar with the players and have experience negotiating with the Russians. Accompany Dawn to Moscow for the meeting, and you can introduce Elena to Chernov.”
After Dawn and Christine acknowledged the president’s order, McVeigh said, “Mr. President, it’s going to take time to get our naval assets into position. With your permission, we’ll begin uploading fake images into the appropriate satellites.”
The president gave his concurrence, and after reflecting for a moment on the day’s briefing, he said to McVeigh, “I want… a plan B.”
“Plan B?” McVeigh said.
The president spent the next few minutes explaining his idea while McVeigh took notes. When the president finished, he asked, “Can we do this?”
“Yes, Mr. President, it’s doable. We’ll have to begin mobilizing assets and redeploying others, but I don’t foresee any obstacles.”
“Good,” the president said. “Get started.”
51
USS HARRY S. TRUMAN
In the southern Arabian Sea, just west of the Maldives, USS Harry S. Truman headed into the wind as an F/A-18E Super Hornet moved forward on the Flight Deck, locking into the starboard bow catapult. Seated in his chair on the Bridge, Captain David Randle watched as the jet blast deflector behind the fighter tilted up, shielding the F/A-18F behind from the aircraft’s twin-engine exhaust. A moment later, the Super Hornet raced forward, angling up and to the right after clearing the bow, headed out to relieve one of the fighters in Truman’s combat air patrol.
The next Super Hornet also launched successfully, completing this launch cycle. In another thirty minutes, the returning fighters would land aboard Truman. In the meantime, Randle’s eyes scanned the video screens mounted below the Bridge windows. The Reagan strike group was a hundred miles to the west, with both strike groups staying a safe distance from the Russian Northern and Pacific Fleets camped out at the mouth of the Persian Gulf. However, if events unfolded as expected, it wouldn’t be long before Truman headed northwest, with Reagan and two new strike groups alongside. The Eisenhower and Bush strike groups were fresh out of maintenance periods, as were their air wings, but that wasn’t the case for Truman.
USS Harry S. Truman had been at sea for eight months, and the grind was beginning to wear on personnel and equipment. Aircraft carriers had tremendous repair departments, well stocked with spares and well-trained technicians, and Truman was no exception. However, the higher than normal flight tempo had taken its toll and the failures requiring depot-level repair were mounting. With combat looming on the horizon, Randle had been pushing hard to ensure every aircraft aboard was fully operational.
The ship’s Communicator approached, handing Randle the message board. He read the OPORD, then reflected on his new operational orders. The basic battle plan had been laid out, although the start time was TBD. There was still time to prepare, and his repair department needed to fix all inoperable aircraft, while Randle crossed his fingers and hoped no more broke in the meantime.
Five miles east of Truman, Lieutenant Commander Bill Houston aimed his single-seat Super Hornet toward the moving gray postage stamp in the Indian Ocean. It’d been a long five hours on combat air patrol and he was approaching bingo fuel. He was glad to be heading back to the floating bird farm, his home on the water for the last eight months. Real home, with his wife and three kids, would have to wait. Houston’s eyes went to a small, worn photo of his family wedged against the rim of his instrumentation panel. He had his arm around Nell, with the kids in front, his hand on John’s shoulder while Nell pulled Kate and Jackson close.
As he returned his eyes to his instrumentation, he caught the reflection of a Japanese Imperial Navy ensign — the Rising Sun flag — in the canopy. Bill Houston, half Japanese and half English Channel mix, had been awarded the call sign Samurai by his fellow pilots in flight school. The top of every pilot’s helmet had to be covered in reflective paint or tape in case they ejected into the ocean and required retrieval, and with a call sign of Samurai, Houston had decorated his helmet with the red sun near the front, and red and white stripes radiating over the top.
As Houston closed on Truman, he heard Approach in his headset. “Bravo-one-five, Air Ops. Mode one landing.”
Houston acknowledged and turned control of his aircraft over to Truman’s SPN-46 automatic carrier landing system, which would adjust engine speed and flaps to land the fighter at a designated point on the Flight Deck. He wasn’t a fan of delegating control of his aircraft to a computer, but orders were orders and Houston prepared for the hands-off landing.
Not long after enabling the automated landing, Houston heard Bitching Betty in his headset — the female voice of the F/A-18 audio warning system, with its distinctive southern drawl — proclaiming a warning he’d heard only in the simulator.
“Engine right! Engine right!”
Houston’s Super Hornet slowed and yawed to the right, and a glance at his instrumentation revealed a flameout in his starboard engine. He went to afterburner on the port engine and half flaps, straightening his flight trajectory.
Into his headset, he said, “Approach, bravo-one-five is single-engine at four miles.”
Approach acknowledged, and while they passed word to the Flight Deck to prepare for an emergency landing, Houston noticed the engine fuel display ticking rapidly toward empty. He’d developed a fuel leak, which explained the reason for the starboard engine flameout.