Eight ships raced southeast at high speed, slicing through long, gray-green waves rolling steadily eastward. A long line of low-lying dark clouds stretched across the western horizon behind them — the leading edge of a slow-moving storm they’d punched through while rounding the northern tip of Scotland.
Four of the vessels were massive SL-7 container ships, each nearly a thousand feet long but still able to move at thirty-three knots. Together the freighters carried enough M1 Abrams tanks, M2 Bradley infantry fighting vehicles, artillery pieces, helicopters, spare parts, and ammunition to completely refit a Polish mechanized brigade. They were ringed by four sleek, antenna-studded U.S. Navy warships — two Aegis-class guided-missile cruisers, Leyte Gulf and Monterey; John Barry, a Burke-class guided-missile destroyer; and an improved Spruance-class destroyer, Conolly.
Task Group 22.1 was a powerful force to guard just four cargo ships, far more powerful than standard naval doctrine would have dictated. With tensions in Europe still climbing, Washington was using this arms convoy to send a strong signal to the leaders in Paris and Berlin: America would not back away from its Polish and Czech allies. Not even under growing EurCon pressure.
Vice Admiral Jack Ward lowered his binoculars, satisfied by what he could see from Leyte Gulf’s bridge wing. He’d been working the whole group incessantly since their mid-Atlantic rendezvous, running drill after drill against every imaginable threat. Now all that hard work was starting to pay off. Even the civilian-manned container ships were keeping station with almost military precision.
The admiral was a middling-tall man with broad shoulders and a long reach that had served him well as a boxer at the Naval Academy. Snow-white hair topped a tanned, square-jawed face that only turned red when he was ready to jump down somebody’s throat. That didn’t happen often, just often enough to keep his subordinates on their toes.
Since joining the fleet during the mid-sixties, Ward had seen steady, if not spectacular, promotion. Along the way he’d attended all the right staff and command schools, held several commands both ashore and afloat, and managed to finagle more sea duty than any of his contemporaries. For the admiral, being a sailor meant being aboard a warship at sea — not confined to sailing a desk or navigating the Pentagon’s labyrinthine corridors.
Now he commanded Task Force 22, the collection of American warships assigned to provide escorts for the oil and LNG tankers keeping Poland and the Czech and Slovak republics alive. Task Group 22.1 and their charges was only one of several similar formations under his control.
His cruisers, destroyers, and frigates had been hard at work for more than six weeks now, shepherding the mammoth floating bombs from Scotland and Norway through the narrow straits to Gdansk. At first, their biggest problems had come when Greenpeace demonstrators tried chaining themselves to the tankers or forming small boat blockades. Lately, though, his captains had been reporting increasing Franco-German air and naval activity — barely disguised harassment, really — along the sea approaches to the Baltic.
Ward was expecting even more trouble this time. Egged on by their political leaders, EurCon’s military commanders were taking more serious measures to turn their anger into action. Over the past several days, they’d stepped up their air patrols over the Atlantic and the North Sea, put several squadrons of maritime attack aircraft on higher states of alert, and sortied an unusually large number of diesel and nuclear submarines. But it was all part of the same dangerous game of intimidation they’d been playing with his oil and gas convoys. Probably.
The admiral frowned. He didn’t scare easily. Of course, he also didn’t plan on making his opposing numbers’ lives any easier. That was why he’d brought this convoy around Scotland rather than through the English Channel. The SL-7s were so fast that going the extra distance cost very little time. And taking the northern route avoided the bulk of the French coast — making it that much more difficult for EurCon’s search planes to find them.
Ward looked up as a bright light began flashing from the closest destroyer, John Barry.
He checked his watch. Probably the noon position report.
All communications between his ships were being passed the old-fashioned way, either by signal flags or by blinker light. Task Group 22.1 was operating in EMCON, or emission control. Traveling in radio and radar silence would make the convoy harder for the French or Germans to find. The less they knew about his position, course, and speed, the happier he was.
Naturally, the closer the group got to the funnel called the Skagerrak, the easier it would be to find. But then it wouldn’t matter so much. With their own trade lifelines at risk, Denmark and Sweden were enforcing strict operating restrictions on ships and aircraft near the straits. And with both EurCon and U.S. diplomats wooing the two countries, neither side wanted trouble there. No, the only place with enough room for real monkey business was the North Sea. Here.
Ward took one last breath of crisp, clean salt air and left the bridge wing, headed for Leyte Gulf’s CIC. It was time to settle down to business. The boatswain’s announcement “Admiral’s left the bridge” followed him as he headed for the ship’s brain.
The days when opposing ships met yardarm-to-yardarm were long gone. Modern naval battles were fought at long range by men hunched over computer displays in darkened, air-conditioned compartments.
CIC was one deck down, behind a door with a cipher-key lock on it. A brass plaque proudly proclaimed the ship’s name, builder, and dates of launching and commissioning. As he punched the combination and pushed the door open, he stepped into a different world.
The darkened space was crammed with equipment, its huge size hidden by row after row of displays and panels. Two “alleys,” lined with consoles on either side, ran almost the full length of the space. Capping the alleys at one end were four special consoles for Ward and Leyte’s captain in the center, and their watch officers on the sides.
Equipment didn’t just cover the deck. Overhead, TV screens replaced the old Plexiglas and grease-pencil status boards, displaying ship’s status, contacts, the Aegis computer’s health, and other vital information. TV cameras mounted fore and aft showed views of the bow and stern, while any spot on the overhead not already used held pencil-beam lights, air-conditioning equipment, or mysterious gray boxes filled with electronics. While the space was neatly laid out, it was so jammed with gear that Ward’s first impression was that he had somehow stepped inside a piece of electronic equipment.
He nodded to his staff watch officer, Commander Miller, and the ship’s tactical action officer. These two posts were always manned, and they would have to “fight the ship” if a threat suddenly appeared. Before sitting in his own chair, he scanned the displays, trying to understand their situation.