Part 1 (1/2)
Ghost s.h.i.+p.
by Diane Carey.
Chapter One.
The SERGEI G. GORSHKOV moved through the water as though the sea had been made solely to carry such s.h.i.+ps. As every sailor knew in his deepest soul, there had been no ocean before there were s.h.i.+ps, and the ocean had only gotten so large because s.h.i.+ps of such bulk came to chase its farthest sh.o.r.elines, to push its hem forever back, to conquer its lengths and breadths with their intrepid spirit. The s.h.i.+ps, ever bigger, ever more powerful, ever more majestic, were the badge of spirit for mankind.
At least ... sailors think so.
For bakers, it's the bread that rises in their ovens that mankind should pay attention to.
Point of view.
Arkady Reykov unb.u.t.toned the dark blue overcoat of the Soviet navy and shook the heavy outerwear from his shoulders. His petty officer was there to catch the coat and store it away. Reykov did not acknowledge the service, but simply strode onto the bridge, coatless, authority intact. Today the eyes of the Politburo were on him and this vessel.
His executive officer met him immediately, with a dogged reliability that Reykov found slightly annoying but somehow always welcome. The two men nodded at each other, then turned at the same moment and the same angle to look out over the stunning landing deck of the Soviet Union's second full-deck carrier. The s.h.i.+pbuilding facility at Nikolayev was far behind them. Before them lay the open expanse of the Black Sea. Around them in a several-mile radius, the carrier support group plunged through the sea, barely out of sight. There were four heavy cruisers and six destroyers in the carrier group. The tanker force would catch up tomorrow.
Reykov was a large man, straight-shouldered and inclined to staidness, the type of Soviet man that appears in comedy-dramas when typecasting is necessary to the story, except that he didn't have the obligatory mustache. Executive Officer Timofei Va.s.ska was thinner, fairer, and younger, but both were handsome men-which, truth be told, didn't come in very handy in their particular vocation. But at least it was easier to get up in the morning.
One wanted to look good when one piloted a s.h.i.+p like this, this nuclear mountain upon the sea. It had taken a long time to store up the expertise to build a carrier. No one could become a naval architect just like that, and even if he could, where would he get the economic structure to support his knowledge? It takes a vast technology, ideas, factories, machining, measuring, weighing, thinking, knowing, production, and counterproduction even to make a ballpoint pen. And a carrier is a little more expensive.
Reykov was proud of this Lenin-cla.s.s Gorshkov. She was big, and the Soviets liked big. And she carried a weapon that was the first and only of its kind. Their pride and joy. Something even the Amerikanskis didn't have.
Reykov inflated his chest with a deep breath. His s.h.i.+p. Well, he could pretend it was his.
He felt the pulses of the five thousand men in his crew, throbbing with metronome steadiness beneath him as he stood on the bridge in the carrier's tower.
”Approaching maneuver area, Comrade Captain,” Va.s.ska said, his voice carrying more lilt than those words required.
Reykov acknowledged him with a quick look. ”Signal the flight officer to begin launching the MiGs for tracking practice.”
He felt a little s.h.i.+ver of thrill as he gave that order, for it was the first time the new MiGs would be launched from an aircraft carrier during an actual demonstration for dignitaries. Until now, only military eyes had seen this. The Soviet Union had finally learned how to work t.i.tanium instead of steel, and now there was a new cla.s.s of MiGs light enough to be used on carriers. For years the motherland had sold its t.i.tanium to the U.S. while Soviet planes were still made of steel. Too heavy, too much fuel. It was with great pleasure that Arkady Reykov watched as the MiGs sheared off the end of the flight deck and took to the sky, one after another-seven of them.
”Have the fighters go out fifty miles and come in on various unannounced attack runs at the s.h.i.+p. Prepare for demonstration of laser tracking and radar to show we could knock out each of the fighters as it appears. And advise the political commissar to get the dignitaries out of their beds. They'll want to be red instead of green today for a change.”
Va.s.ska put up a valiant fight as he dictated these orders to the appropriate stations, but despite himself his cheeks turned rosy and his shoulders shook. ”They have been green, haven't they, Comrade Captain?” he muttered toward Reykov, keeping his voice low and his eye on the other bridge officers.
The captain smiled. ”And tell them to be sure to get dressed before they come out on deck. Those American satellites can count your leg hairs.”
”Haven't you heard the latest intelligence?” Va.s.ska tossed back. ”Bureaucrats have no leg hair.”
Reykov leaned toward him in a manner so natural it had almost become unnoticeable after their years together. ”They should put the bureaucrats in a gulag. Then things might get done.”
Va.s.ska smirked at him and gave him a delicate glance. ”You used to be one of those.”
”Yes,” the captain said, ”and they should've gagged me. Perhaps by now you'd be captain and I'd be on the Politburo.”
”I don't want to be captain. When all the shooting starts, I like somebody to hide behind.”
Reykov turned up one corner of his mouth. ”That's all right. It's my secret desire never to sit on the Politburo. Are the drone targets operational for the tests? Have they been checked?”
”Several of them. We sent out two this morning, and one malfunctioned. Let's hope we have better odds for the demonstrations.”
”In the old days,” Reykov commented with his usual dryness, ”there would've been self-destructs on the targets. Just in case we missed.”
The two men shared a chuckle.
”The Teardrop missiles have been checked and rechecked. This batch is probably going to fire as it's supposed to, I hope. All this target practice and nothing to shoot at,” Va.s.ska said as he watched the sea crash past Gorshkov's vast prow.
”Mmmm,” Reykov agreed, his lips pressed flat. ”You know, Timofei, I've served almost thirty years and I've never been fired at even once.”
Va.s.ska straightened, his boyish face tight with a restrained grin. ”Then how do you know you won't break under attack?”
”You've met my wife.”
Va.s.ska clasped his hands behind his back and lowered his voice again. ”What's the situation with Borka?”
”I talked to him ... I got him alone.”
”Did you make progress?”
Reykov bobbed his brows and shrugged. ”He can't be watched every minute. It's those times he's out of sight that make me worry.”
”What have you tried?”
”Reasoning ... threats ... rewards ... nothing works. I'm afraid the time is coming for severe action.”
Va.s.ska nodded sympathetically. ”Be firm, Kady. I wish I could be there. This is what comes from too much permissiveness. Rebellion. Time will take care of it, though. Borka will eventually make his own decision, and then you can proudly say your grandson isn't wearing diapers anymore.”
Even as he said it, Va.s.ska fixed his eyes on his captain's thick dark hair with its tinge of silver just over his left brow, and had difficulty imagining Arkady Reykov as a grandfather. The captain's face was almost unlined, his eyes every bit as clear and vital as the day Va.s.ska first saw him eight-or was it nine?- years ago, while Va.s.ska was still a pilot and Reykov was flight officer on the small carrier Moscow. It hadn't been a bad eight years, at least not after the first two, when they finally believed they could speak candidly to each other. That is a day which in many relations.h.i.+ps never comes at all.
”Be sure there are no other aircraft in the area, Comrade Va.s.ska. Launch the target aircraft and let's proceed with this performance before we all get hungry and can't do our jobs.”
”Shall we wait until the political commissar notifies us that the dignitaries are watching?”
A reed-thin smile stretched across Reykov's face as he measured and tasted each alternative several times before finally narrowing his eyes on his privilege as captain. He leaned toward Va.s.ska for another of those private exchanges. ”Let's not.”
Va.s.ska's cheeks tightened as he imagined the dignitaries. .h.i.tting the ceilings of their staterooms when the gunnery practice began. He made his back straight and firmly announced to the duty officer, ”Signal tracking maneuvers, Comrade Myakishev.”
The performance with live fighters went s.h.i.+ningly well, primarily because it was all ”on paper.” There was no firing of weapons until the unmanned drones were launched to circle out wide across the expanse of the Black Sea and come back to hara.s.s the Gorshkov as had been carefully arranged and rearranged. The dummy missiles were bombarded with a hail of depleted-uranium slugs whose weight alone would be enough to press off an attacking missile if it hit at sufficient distance. There were dignitaries on board, and nothing was being left to chance. There were a few misfires, a few misses, and a few false starts, but while not a perfect performance, it was a performance that could be interpreted as perfect, if the right language were used. Reykov was certain the language would be selected as carefully as a mother clips her infant's fingernails.
That immutable fact about Soviet coverage was little comfort, however, as Reykov turned to Timofei Va.s.ska and quietly spoke words that chained them to their seats. ”Prepare demonstration of the E.M.P.”
With the last hour's weapons' displays still booming in his ears, Va.s.ska's skin shrank from the order, though he let none of his apprehension show. Such a device. The first of its kind to be mounted on a moving unit. Even the stationary ones prior to this one had been nothing more than a few isolated test guns. This one was real, mounted permanently at the center of Gorshkov's gunnery shroud. E.M.P.... controlled electromagnetic pulse.
”Signal the Vladivostok to begin firing dummy Teardrops. And Va.s.ska,” Reykov added quickly, raising a finger, ”be sure they only fire one at a time and give us forty seconds to reenergize the pulse.”