“That’s something to think about.” Jake finished his coffee and tossed the Styrofoam cup in a wastebasket.
“Don’t you go riding one of those pigs into the water, Mr. Grafton. When you gotta go, you go.”
“Sure, Bosun.”
18
A Soviet task group came over the horizon one Sunday in late November. Columbia had no flying scheduled that day, so gawkers packed the flight deck when Jake Grafton came up for a first-hand look. A strong wind from the southwest was ripping the tops off the twelve- to fifteen-foot swells. Spindrift covered the sea, all under a clear blue sky. Columbia was pitching noticeably. The nearest destroyer was occasionally taking white water over the bow.
Up on deck Jake ran into the Real McCoy. “Where are they?”
McCoy pointed. Jake saw six gray warships in close formation, closing the American formation at an angle from the port side, still four or five miles away. The U.S. ships were only making ten knots or so due to the sea state, but the Soviets were doing at least twice that. Even from this distance the rearing and plunging of the Soviet ships was quite obvious. Their bows were rising clear of the water, then plunging deeply as white water cascaded across the main decks and smashed against the gun mounts.
On they came, seemingly aiming straight for Columbia, which, as usual, was in the middle of the American formation.
Gidrograf, the Soviet Pamir-class AGI that had been shadowing the Americans’ for the last month, was trailing along behind the Americans, at least two miles astern. Her speed matched the Americans’ and she made no move to join the oncoming Soviet ships.
“What do you think?” McCoy asked.
“Unless Ivan changes course, he’s going to run his ships smack through the middle of our formation.”
“I think that is exactly what he intends to do,” McCoy said after a bit, when the Russians were at least a mile closer.
“Sure looks like it,” Jake agreed. The angle-of-bearing hadn’t changed noticeably, which was the clue that the ships were on collision courses. He glanced up at Columbia’s bridge. Reflections on the glass prevented him from seeing anyone, but he imagined that the captain and the admiral were conferring just now.
“Under the rules of the road, we have the right of way,” McCoy said.
“Yeah.” Somehow Jake suspected that paper rules didn’t count for much with the Russian admiral, who was probably on the bridge of his flagship with one eye on the compass and the other on the Americans.
The Soviet ships were gorgeous, with sleek, raked hulls and superstructures bristling with weapons and topped with radar dishes of various types. The biggest one was apparently a cruiser. A couple were frigates, and the other three looked like destroyers. All were armed to the teeth.
The American destroyer on the edge of the formation gave way to the Russians. On they came. Now you could see the red flags at their mastheads as dots of color and tiny figures on the upper decks, like ants.
“Big storm coming,” McCoy said, never taking his eyes off the Russians. “Up from the southwest. Be here this evening.”
Jake looked aft, at the carrier’s wake. It was partially obscured by parked aircraft, but he saw enough. The wake was straight as a string. He turned his attention back to the Soviet ships. About that time the collision alarm sounded on Columbia’s loudspeaker system. Then came the announcement: “This is not a drill. Rig for collision portside.”
The Soviet destroyers veered to pass ahead and behind Columbia but the cruiser stayed on a collision course. Now you could plainly see the sailors on the upper decks, see the red flag stiff in the wind, see the cruiser’s bow rise out of the water as white and green seawater surged aft along her decks, see that she was also rolling maybe fifteen degrees with every swell.
But she was a lot smaller than the carrier. The American sailors on the flight deck were well above the Russians’ bridge. In fact, they could see the faces of the Russian sailors at the base of the mast quite plainly. The Russians were hanging on for dear life.
The Russian captain was going to veer off. He had to. Jake jumped into the catwalk so he could see better as the cruiser crossed the last fifty yards and the carrier’s loudspeaker boomed, “Stand by for collision portside. All hands brace for collision.”
The Soviet captain misjudged it. He swung his helm too late and the sea carried his ship in under the carrier’s flight deck overhang. The closest the two hulls came was maybe fifteen feet, but as the cruiser heeled her motion in the sea pushed her mast and several of the radar antennae into the underside of the flight deck overhang. The Russian sailors clustered around the base of the mast saw that the collision was inevitable only seconds in advance and tried to flee. Two didn’t make it. One fell to the cruiser’s main deck, but the other man fell into that narrow river of white water between the two ships and instantly disappeared from view.
The top of the mast hit the catwalk forward of the Fresnel lens and ripped open three of the sixty-man life raft containers. The rafts dropped away. One ended up on the cruiser and the others went into the sea. The Russians’ mast and several radar antennae were wiped off the superstructure and her stack was partially smashed.
Then the cruiser was past, surging ahead of Columbia with her mast trailing in the water on her portside.
Jake bent down and stuck his head through the railing under the life raft containers so that he could keep the cruiser in sight. If the Russian captain cut across Columbia’s bow he was going to get his ship cut in half.
He did cut across, but only when he was at least six or seven hundred yards ahead, still making twenty knots.
The Soviet ships rejoined their tight formation and continued on course, pulling steadily away.
An American destroyer dropped aft to look for the lost Soviet sailor as the air boss ordered the flight deck cleared so he could launch the alert helo.
The helo searched for half an hour. The destroyer stayed on the scene for several hours, yet the Russian sailor wasn’t found.
By evening a line of thunderstorms formed a solid wall to the southwest, a wall that seemed to stretch from horizon to horizon. As the dusk deepened lightning flashed in the storms continually. Jake was on deck watching the approaching storms and savoring the sea wind when the carrier and her escorts slowly came about and pointed their bows at the lightning.
The ships rode better on the new course. Apparently the heavies had decided to sail through the storm line, thereby minimizing their time in it. Unfortunately the weather on the back side of the front was supposed to be bad; heavy seas, low ceilings and lots of rain. Oh well, no flying tomorrow either.
When the darkness was complete and the storms were within a few miles, Jake went below. This was going to be a good night to sleep.
The ringing telephone woke Jake. The Real McCoy usually answered it since all he had to do was roll over in his bunk and reach, and he did this time. The motion of the ship was less pronounced than it had been when Jake and Real went to bed about 10 p.m., during the height of the storm.
“McCoy, sir.”
Jake looked at his watch. A little after 2 A.M.
After a bit, he heard his roommate growl, “This had better not be your idea of a joke, Harrison, or your ass is a grape…Yeah, yeah, I’ll tell him…In a minute, okay?”
Then McCoy slammed the receiver back on the hook.
“You awake up there?”
“Yeah.”
“They want us both in the ready room in five minutes, ready to fly.”