Beyond the Sea

1

Rear Admiral Jon Andersson, the Dutch commander of the immense NATO operation Reforger IV, sat in his command chair aboard the aircraft carrier USS Nimitz and pursed his lips as the mighty warship sank deep into a trough and then fought her way back to the surface. His eyes watched the northern seas as the storm increased in size and ferocity.

Andersson was extremely proud to have been chosen as task force commander for the largest seagoing war games in the history of the NATO alliance. The task: escort a living lifeline of over two hundred transport ships from Norfolk, Virginia, to the NATO base at Scapa Flow in Scotland. The Games and Theory Department and NATO intelligence were concerned that in the ever-increasing standoff with Russia and her new aggressive posture around the world, NATO could not act fast enough to a wartime crisis by getting vital supplies and war matériel to Europe in a rapid enough response time, which would ensure the fall of NATO forces before the full might of America’s military could come into play. This Reforger mission was to prove that no matter the timing, the NATO navies of the world could meet the challenge.

His thoughts about the increasing size and suddenness of the storm were interrupted by the captain of the USS Nimitz, Charles McAvoy. He handed the admiral a flimsy from communications. Andersson read the communiqué and frowned.

“My reaction exactly,” said McAvoy as he reached out to steady himself as the Nimitz once more went on an elevator ride to the bottom of an immense trough.

Both men quietly sweated their anxieties until the forward flight deck finally rose from the sea.

“Orders?” McAvoy asked as he watched the concerned look on the tanned face of Admiral Andersson. He liked the Dutch task force commander. The man was no-nonsense and understood his duties and responsibilities of guiding the most powerful battle group in the history of the North Atlantic. He knew the man would make the right decision.

“Okay, Chuck. That does it. Let’s get the civilian transports turned around and order them back to the coast. Get a coded message off to NATO Maritime Command — Operation Reforger IV has been scrubbed due to heavy and dangerous weather concerns.”

“Aye,” McAvoy said. “You’re doing the right thing, Admiral.” The captain of the Nimitz was about to leave the command wing but hesitated when he saw the admiral was still mulling something over as he watched the heavy seas continue to batter the giant carrier.

“We’ll give the transports thirty minutes to start for home and then get our boys out of here also. Have the Houston hold station until all command ships are clear of these seas. Also, have the frigate De Zeven and the cruisers Shiloh and Bunker Hill standing by with the Houston. All will hold station until the fleet’s egress maneuver is complete.”

McAvoy noted the admiral’s orders. They were in essence leaving a rear guard of the Dutch Provinciën-class frigate De Zeven, the US Navy’s Ticonderoga-class cruisers USS Shiloh and Bunker Hill, and as a guard to the smaller asset, the navy’s Los Angeles — class attack submarine USS Houston. All would form up together to keep an eye on the Russian Red Banner Northern Fleet steaming only two hundred miles to the northeast. The rest of the battle group, consisting of German, Dutch, American, and many other ships of the NATO northern command, would make a slow turn in the heavy seas and follow the transports back to Virginia. McAvoy saw the angst in the admiral’s face. He dreaded seeing the final portion of script on the fleet action report of Operation Reforger IV: Mission Failed.

The admiral remained silent as the seas rose and fell once more. The weathermen under his command had been surprised when the strange storm suddenly turned without warning. Even Norfolk was taken by surprise. He knew he was acting prudently, but that did not make the mission failure any more palpable. He knew the Reforger battle group would have, could have, fulfilled their mission in a time of actual war, but this fact would still be lost on NATO command, and even the Russian Navy would declare NATO assets in the North Atlantic weak in comparison to their mighty Red Banner Group. The humiliation and second-guessing would be silent, of course, but his career would still take a hit. Ridicule, and crap, to put it mildly in his estimation, rolled downhill.

“Lord, look at those seas. I would hate to be those boys on the frigate and cruisers. I don’t think they’re going to be too enthusiastic about chow tonight,” Captain Roger Thorne said as he removed his eyes from the periscope and then turned the sail cameras and monitors on throughout the ship for his crew to see what the surface navy was currently battling. “One MC, please,” he said as the chief of the boat, MCPO Harry Hadland, handed the microphone over to his commander. “All hands, this is the captain. We’ll be holding station for the next eight hours. We’ll keep Houston as shallow as possible during that time, so we’re still going to get some roll. During this time, there will be no hot meals, so saddle up to the salad bar, ladies and gentlemen; it’s going to be a long ride.” He was getting ready to hand the chief of the boat back the mic and then clicked the button once more. “It could be worse; you could be up top with the surface boys. So let’s keep the bitching to a minimum, and don’t eat all the ice cream.”

The young sailors around the control center chuckled, relieving the tension of the impending hurricane they found themselves surrounded by. The captain, satisfied that his crew was up to the task, went to the navigation console and leaned over the projected map.

“Captain, the latest plot shows the surface fleet and transports are clearing the storm just to the south of Greenland; they will soon slow and take shelter in shallow seas. The Nimitz and her group are only an hour from getting to calmer waters. Only one fire and four injuries reported from the fleet. The task force got off lucky. Why didn’t anyone pick up on this weather? We could have had some serious issues here.”

Captain Thorne looked up from the navigation plot and rubbed his eyes, and then he winked at his second in command, Lieutenant Commander Gary Devers. “According to CINCLANT, there’s hell to be had with the meteorologists about storm predictions. I suspect a few boys will be reassigned soon to Iceland, or at the very least Alaska.”

Both men laughed but soon became serious as the huge attack sub took a sudden pressure dip from the waves above them.

“Feels like the entire Atlantic is knocking on our door,” Devers said as he grabbed for the console until their stomach-churning roll was stopped.

“I’d take her deeper, but with a frigate and two battle cruisers in harm’s way, I want to be able to go to rescue stations at a moment’s notice.”

“Understood, Captain.”

“Well, I think I’ll get some of that salad,” the captain said as he stretched. “First officer has the deck.”

“Aye, first officer has the deck.”

“Conn, sonar.”

Lieutenant Commander Devers took the mic so the captain could go eat. Thorne hesitated anyway. “Sonar, conn.”

“We have an unknown signature bearing three-two-seven degrees, north, eighty miles out. We missed it because of the high swells, but we have a solid fix now.”

“Roger,” Devers said as he and Thorne simultaneously leaned over the plot board. “Okay, three-two-seven degrees. Those aren’t our boys up there,” Devers said as the captain increased his frown.

“With the Russian battle group here”—Thorne pointed to an area three hundred nautical miles from the Houston—“and with us, the two cruisers, and the frigate here.” His finger moved to another spot on the chart. “That leaves us an unknown in our vicinity.”

“Sonar, course and speed of target?” Devers asked into the mic.

“Speed is, well, she’s not moving as far as we can tell, sir. Still hard to get a good fix because of the high seas, but her course is erratic. Sir, she looks dead in the water.”

“It has to be Russian,” Devers said as he watched the captain use his grease pen to trace a course to the target area.

“Gary, get to sonar and get me a precise fix. Also, get off an extremely low-frequency message to Nimitz and explain the tactical situation. Tell command we will attempt to investigate.”

“What about the frigate and cruisers?” Devers asked.

“Tell them to stand by and not to sink until we return.”

Devers chuckled and then left control. Thorne took the mic and then faced the men in control who were watching with concern. “Sonar, size estimate of target?”

“Undetermined at this time, Captain. Best guess is possible heavy cruiser displacement.”

“Civilian traffic?” he asked.

“Nothing but the Ruskies — excuse me, Russians, sir, just to the north.”

“Mr. Cartwright, let’s bring her about. Take her down to two hundred, all ahead flank.”

“Aye, Captain. Steering three-two-seven degrees, all ahead flank. Give me two hundred feet in depth.”

The USS Houston turned her massive, blackened, sound-baffling bulk toward the unknown target eighty miles away that was braving one of the worst storms in North Atlantic history. The Houston’s crew felt the sharp angle of the bow dip low in the sea, and the increased reactor noise tripled as the huge warship started to speed her way into the unknown.

For what seemed like the first time in years, the director of America’s securest and blackest operational group in federal service toured the expansive facility situated 1.5 miles beneath the sands of Nellis Air Force Base just outside of Las Vegas, Nevada.

Dr. Niles Compton had come a long way from the days when he had been recruited from MIT and Harvard by a man who, if the country had known existed, would be one of the most beloved and celebrated Americans in the history of the country. For fifteen years since taking over for that very man, Dr. Niles Compton had tried to live up to former senator and onetime general Garrison Lee. After years of trying, it had been Garrison Lee’s longtime assistant and close confidante, Alice Hamilton, who set him straight—“Be you, Niles,” she once told him. “Garrison recruited you for your talent, not because he needed talents like his own.” Niles smiled in remembering her talk. “Garrison was a military man, but he always believed this group needed civilian control and oversight, and civilian freedom to maneuver, not a man bound by military correctness and order. He needs you, Niles.”

As Compton limped through the curved plastic-lined hallways of the underground complex, the men and women of the Group nodded and greeted him. They still had not become used to seeing this man out of his offices on level seven. Lately, to the surprise of the six hundred — plus men and women on the Group’s roster, the director was found at all hours visiting and greeting his people in their laboratories, engineering departments, and the many classrooms, where the continuing education of all members of the Group was a major priority.

The Group had come to be more comfortable around the brilliant man from MIT — even the black eye patch covering his damaged and now useless right eye or the limp he now suffered with because of the attacks from deep space during the Overlord operation were now a commonplace sight among the halls and vaults of the Group. Most — behind his back, of course — now compared his infirmities to those suffered by Compton’s mentor, Senator Garrison Lee, right down to the eye patch and scarring on the right side of his face and his limp.

Compton strolled into the immense cafeteria at 3:30 A.M. and went directly to the kitchen and the men and women doing the day’s baking. He sat with them and had coffee and talked about their routine. After he left, the bakers and cooks exchanged looks of disbelief that the director had sat and spoken with them.

Niles sat at a corner table as one of the night bakers brought him a fresh cup of coffee. Niles thanked her and then contentedly looked around him. Five people, from the looks of them all engineers, were speaking in soft tones as they ate an early breakfast. These people looked over, and they nodded at the director. Niles noticed Master Chief Jenks at the head of that table acting like he was holding court. He stood and, with his white lab coat floating behind his ample bulk, made his way to the table where Niles sat.

“Mr. Director, mind if I have a seat?” the gruff lifetime navy man asked.

Niles eased a chair out with his foot and nodded.

Harold R. Jenks, master chief petty officer, and one of the more brilliant mechanical engineers Niles Compton had ever met, seemed to be settling into his duties well at the Group. He had completely reorganized the Group’s engineering departments into far more effective subgroups. He accomplished this by convincing Assistant Director Virginia Pollock to allow her Nuclear Sciences Division to accept men and women from his department and integrate his mechanical engineers into hers. The move was paying off nicely as the cooperation between the two competing sciences settled into a comfortable and affable routine.

“Master Chief, up late with your people, I see.”

Jenks looked at the four men and women as they stood with their breakfast trays and moved off. “Nah, busy moving quantum theory out of engineering and placing it where it belongs, with those eggheads in nuclear sciences. It makes Ginny happy, I guess.”

“I imagine Virginia is indeed happy. She’s getting thirty-two new bodies.” Niles smiled. “You seem to be accepting of your personnel losses with dignified grace.”

Jenks finally sat. “Dignified grace? Yeah, have you ever really sat down and tried to argue with that woman? Surrender was the better part of valor, I assure you. My people were acceptable casualties in an ongoing war Dr. Virginia Pollock always seems to be winning.”

“Surrender with honor is one of my favorite sayings around here when arguing with either Virginia or Alice. Welcome to the surrender club, Master Chief.” Niles smiled and sipped his coffee.

Jenks looked around. At three thirty in the morning, there was now no one in the cafeteria. Niles watched the stubborn man, frightening to all, squirm, adjust his lab coat, and then squirm again. Once more he looked behind the serving line at the front and the open kitchens beyond. Niles sat patiently waiting. He folded his fingers on the tabletop and smiled once more with a raised and scarred brow over the eye patch.

“Maybe just start at the beginning, Master Chief.”

“I guess surrender is what I want to talk about.”

Niles just sat and continued smiling, waiting patiently. Last year at this time, he would have grown frustrated and unhappy with someone wasting valuable time in sitting and stuttering in meaningless conversation. Now Compton relished these moments. After the loss of so many personnel the past few years, he had learned a valuable lesson — the job was never more important than his people.

“Oh, hell, Sparky.” He saw Niles didn’t even flinch at the nickname he had heard Jenks was using behind his back. But he remained silent. “Sorry, Niles. I didn’t mean that. In my short time here, I have learned one immutable fact of life; I have seen why you command so much respect around here. To lead with honor and by example is the quality more leaders need in today’s messed-up world.” He looked away guiltily. “Myself included.”

“Master Chief, this particular biscuit doesn’t need the buttering as much as you think.” Niles sipped his coffee and then fixed Jenks with his good left eye. “Is this about Virginia?”

The color in Jenks’s face dropped out so fast that it looked to Niles as if the lights had suddenly been turned off.

“You know?” Jenks asked, incredulous that the director knew the small details of life at the complex. “Ginny said she’s told no one.”

Niles laughed. “And she has told no one. Do you think anyone in this group can ever get anything past the security department? Since Will Mendenhall and Jason Ryan have been filling in for Jack and Carl, they have become rather good at dealing with secrets, even those involving relationships between active Group members.” Niles exhaled. “Pardon the pun here, but I tend to turn a blind eye toward these rules about fraternization. My people lead lives most in this country could never fathom. They are lonely people involved in work they cannot discuss even with their closest relatives. Sometimes I suspect they need each other. You and Virginia are no different.”

“Then you don’t have a problem with me and… Slim?”

“Go get some sleep, Master Chief.”

“Yes, sir.” Jenks started to stand and then stopped and faced Niles. “I don’t say this as often as I should, Mr. Director, but in the short time I have known you, well, hell, you’re a good man.”

“Thank you,” was all Compton said as Jenks huffed and then tossed a dead cigar into the side of his mouth, cleared his throat, and then abruptly left.

Niles watched him go and shook his head. Regardless of his lack of tact, he liked the master chief as much as he liked anyone. You would never get a hesitant answer from him, that was for sure.

Niles decided he had had enough and pushed his coffee cup away and was starting to leave for his quarters when he saw the new deputy director of Computer Sciences, Xavier Morales, wheel himself into the cafeteria. Niles pursed his lips and then slowly sank back into his seat. Xavier saw Niles and sped over in his old-fashioned wheelchair, which the boy clearly refused to part with even though Master Chief Jenks and Virginia offered him a model that would have shocked most of the known world in its sophistication. But then, that’s one of the reasons Xavier had become so likable so fast. He was truly grounded in computer sciences, and that was all he ever concentrated on. Without really knowing it, Niles had placed all his confidence in the young genius far faster than he had intended.

“Europa said you were here and not in your quarters,” Xavier said as he wheeled up, accidentally bumping the table and spilling what remained of Compton’s coffee. “Sorry.”

Niles only smiled as he used a napkin to clean up the spill. “Doesn’t anyone get any sleep around here anymore? I have Master Chief Jenks and Virginia acting like star-crossed lovers in a soap opera and a computer genius who has never been caught sleeping in his room.” Compton placed the cup farther away and tossed the wet napkin into the saucer. “Now, before I order you to your quarters for some sleep, what’s up?”

Xavier removed a large boxlike device from his lap and placed it on the table. “It’s finished.”

Niles’s eyebrows rose. “Ah, the Europa link laptop,” Niles said as he sat up to look at the stainless steel box. He opened it, and his lips made an O as he looked over the new system.

“Of course, junior here doesn’t have 99.99 percent of Europa’s computing power, but this link can outthink anything in commercial or private use as far as memory. A field team no longer has to link directly with Europa’s mainframe to get answers. Odds are this little baby can answer anything they need. The only thing the user cannot do is tie into the mainframe. It is secure and Group-member-voice activated. If anyone tries to use this closed-looped system by voice command or even keypad use, the system will blow up in their faces.” Xavier patted the laptop, which was about ten inches thicker than a normal system.

“Good job,” Niles said. “This will lessen the need for direct contact with Europa by field teams.”

Xavier liked to see a pleased director. He smiled and then looked around the empty cafeteria.

“Uh, the real reason I stopped in is not for telling you something you probably already knew about Europa Jr. here.” He closed the top and then moved the system away. “Europa received one of those burst transmissions at 0220 hours. The transmissions are clouded in code for your eyes only.”

“Thank you, Xavier.”

Morales lingered and was tapping his fingers on the tabletop.

“Something else?”

Xavier didn’t know how to continue without invoking the director’s wrath.

“The transmissions are coded for a reason, Doctor. I am not a spy and would never circumvent policy in regard to sending illegal communications.”

“I would never even think that,” Xavier started to say in protest.

Niles held up his hand to stop the computer man from continuing.

“Xavier, maybe it’s time I brought you in on this since you’re good enough to see a pattern in these classified transmissions. My assistant director doesn’t even know, and I would like to keep it that way. Understand?”

“You want to keep Dr. Pollock out of the loop?”

“For now, yes. In case I… well… die or something, Europa has been programmed to deliver all this information to Virginia, only if it becomes necessary.”

“Sounds mysterious,” Xavier said politely with raised brows.

“It sounds treasonous is what you mean.”

Xavier only smiled, knowing that the outward appearance of impropriety was a mask used by Compton.

“Is the new laptop link capable of red-one communications?”

“Of course. She wouldn’t be much good if we couldn’t get new orders out to field teams.”

“Of course,” Niles said as he pulled the large box over to him and then used his voice to activate the ghost of Europa’s mainframe. “Europa, Compton 22361. Initiate contact with Farmer John, please. Clearance code, Lion in the Dale.”

“Contact cleared and initiated,” came the Marilyn Monroe voice pattern from the laptop.

Xavier winced and looked around as Europa’s voice echoed off the empty cafeteria walls. He reached out and lowered the volume. “Sorry.”

“Hey, at least it works,” Niles said with a smile.

As they watched, a series of lines appeared, and then the picture on the screen went to snow and then cleared, and then a series of bright flashes started flowing through.

“This is by far a communications standard I am not aware of,” Morales said as he watched the strange series of flashes.

“It’s communicating with a not-well-known satellite system. Instead of code names and voice security, some friends designed this system to make use of light patterns to initiate contact. Secure beyond belief.”

“I thought that was only a theory.”

“Well, it was a theory until the Overlord mission, then it became apparent that cooperation between mirror agencies in other governments, in this case only one other, dictated we have a form of communication that professional politicians have no clue exists.” Niles smiled. “Politicians come and go, but real-world problems will always remain. Excuse me. This may get a little touchy.” The light patterns on the screen started to rotate and then steadied, and as both men watched, a face appeared on the screen.

“Did I catch you sleeping, old boy?” came the accented voice from the man on the screen. He was balding like Niles and wore a tweed suit with a large and very bright bow tie. His half-moon glasses were perched jauntily on his nose.

“Hello, James. No, not sleeping.”

“Niles, old man, do you have someone there with you?”

Niles saw concern etch the face of the most brilliant intelligence officer Compton had ever heard of. They had known each other since being introduced by their mutual friend Garrison Lee back in 2001. With Durnsford, himself, and their little green alien friend, Matchstick Tilly, they had devised the Overlord plan years in advance. The two men trusted each other far more than their governments would care to hear about.

Niles cleared his throat. “Yes, I am afraid our little game has been discovered.”

“Don’t tell me, that little wheelchair-bound boy you got off the street? I should have known, and you should have, too, old man. Our dossier on Dr. Xavier Morales is far more extensive than even I was led to believe.”

“Thus, there are now three of us.”

Xavier started to say something, but a quickly placed guided missile of warning stopped him. There would be no discussion between Durnsford and Xavier Morales.

“It’s close to be morning teatime over there, so what concerns you enough to delay that?”

“Niles, old boy, you won’t believe this, but our little suspicion about our friends in Eastern Europe has now been confirmed. We here at MI6 have received word of our man being placed on some form of alert for movement into the North Atlantic — what for remains to be answered. Is there any word on your end of anything out of the normal happening there?”

Niles pursed his lips and thought a moment. “From my security brief this morning, all I know is that NATO is currently conducting Operation Reforger IV in that area, but that’s it.”

“Yes, we have the same data. Why would our hidden group put their best man on alert for the North Atlantic? It can’t be to observe a war game that has been scheduled for three years. It has to be something else.”

“I agree. I’ll start checking on this end.”

“Good show. Now, if we do find a reason for this man of theirs to show himself for the first time since the Ukraine, it has to be for something that scares them or would lead to their hidden agenda.”

“What do you propose?” Niles asked as Xavier became more confused as the two powerful men spoke.

“Since we have verified that it is indeed our suspected man leading the mission there, we will need someone to verify his identity.”

“There is only one man who can do that on a purely visual basis, and he’s on another assignment at the moment.”

“Niles, old chap, we need that murderous man identified. Can you divert your asset in case we discover the reasoning behind this sudden Russian interest in the North Atlantic? I just don’t like the smell of it.”

“I’ll see what can be done without blowing more than just his cover on an ongoing operation in the Middle East.”

“With that man, I would love to hear about his adventures, I really would,” Durnsford said.

“Yes, I bet you would, James, but even friends must keep some secrets from each other.”

Durnsford laughed. “Indeed, old boy, indeed. Secrets must be kept.”

“Go have your tea; I’ll see what can be done for here. But if it is necessary, James, you have to handle it on your end. I don’t like dealing with our asset on any level. He has yet to earn my full trust.”

“I understand completely. I have never met a man who I couldn’t understand like that gentleman. Talk soon, Niles.”

The screen went blank, and then the Europa laptop made a squelching noise, and then she shut down.

Xavier wanted to say something, but Niles again held up his hand to stop the query from being voiced.

“Suffice it to say we have a new relationship with a friend after Overlord, and we and that new friend have worries about who is really in control inside Russia. It’s suspected that they have an agenda we have yet to figure out, and both of our governments have yet to catch on. All our combined intelligence services are drawing a blank on this mysterious group. Now we may have a lead that can change all of that if we can prove this man who was just placed on alert for action in the North Atlantic works for this mysterious entity without President Putin’s knowledge.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Good.”

Xavier watched as Niles stood up and, without a look back, left the empty cafeteria. He took up the new laptop and then smiled.

“I love a mystery.” Xavier left the room and decided that he would know what needed to be known by the end of the day. “Come on, Europa. We have some digging to do.”

The crewmen inside the large control center felt the heavy roll as Houston came shallow. She was in a trough, and the view through the periscope was swamped momentarily. Captain Thorne rubbed his eyes as he switched the scope to night vision, an ambient-light-viewing system that utilized existing light from stars, the moon, and sometimes just stored heat energy to illuminate the darkness of the world without sun. There it was — Thorne just caught a brief glimpse of the raised portion of the target’s large upper pagoda-style superstructure.

“Damn, she’s a big bitch.” He slammed the scope’s handles to the up position. “Gary, take a look at this,” he said as the Houston rolled slightly to port. The storm was increasing in size and volume.

The first officer stepped up and brought the stainless-steel handles down and then gazed into the scope. He waited as the high seas broke over the sub’s sail tower and then peered into the scope again.

“Jesus.” He turned and looked at Thorne. “Captain, she has two massive barreled gun turrets, one forward and one aft.”

Thorne slapped a sailor on the back. “Get into the computer library and match that silhouette against existing warships. Gary, send his station a picture, will you?”

At the scope, the first officer clicked a button with his thumb and snapped several pictures as the sea rode low enough to get good shots. He then relinquished the periscope back to the captain.

A specialist at his station started typing into the computer keyboard while the pictures were fed into the system for identification comparison. It was a program that not only matched existing silhouettes of warships all over the world but also had their power-plant noise recordings and screw-propeller signatures for the newer ships.

“Okay, that thing’s moving too damn much. Take us down to one hundred and hold station as best you can. We don’t need her rolling over on top of us.”

“Aye, Captain. Okay, gentlemen, let’s get out of this surface clutter. Give me thirty degrees down bubble. Take her to six knots and come parallel to target and hold station.”

“Communications, anything on VHF?”

“Conn, radio, there’s nothing, Captain. Target is cold black on electronic or voice communications.”

“Sonar, conn, anything else out there besides our phantom?”

“Conn, sonar, negative. We’re clear at this time.”

“Damn, this is strange.” Thorne saw the technician running the silhouette program stop typing and then turn white-faced to his captain. “What is it?” he asked.

“Sir, we have a hit on the silhouette index. But it was identified through historical records, not from active naval rolls.”

“Well?” he asked impatiently. He was disappointed that his crew may have been affected by this unknown. Their reactions in the past were fast and to the point.

“She’s Russian, Captain.”

“Gary, bring Houston to general quarters, please,” he said with an angry look at the technician. “Battle stations — submerged.”

“Aye, Captain.”

As the warning tone and announcement by the chief of the boat sounded throughout the cavernous interior, men ran to their battle stations.

Thorne stepped up to the technician but stopped by his first officer. “Gary, let’s get two fish into tubes one and two. I don’t want to take any chances with this lone wolf.”

“Aye.”

“Now, what else have you got from the historical records?” he asked as he leaned over and examined the technician’s computer screen.

“The nomenclature is coming up now, Captain.”

The screen started flashing with the silhouettes of hundreds of surface combatants around the world. Every ship was identifiable through this trusted system detailing any vessel that sailed the world’s oceans.

“Oh, man!” the young blond-haired tech said, exhaling. “Sorry, Captain,” he said after his nonprofessional exclamation.

The captain read and the words scrolled across Thorne’s glasses, and then the captain straightened. He had to read it again and leaned over the station once more. He was feeling a fluttering in his stomach over the strangest situation he had ever encountered at sea. The captain picked up the 1 MC mic and addressed his crew.

“Crewmen of the Houston, here is what we’re tracking. We have a Russian warship seven hundred yards to our starboard beam. She is an original Soviet Kirov-class battle cruiser. Not the modern Kirov class. I repeat, she is not part of their modern Kirov class.”

The men in the control room exchanged uneasy looks. The captain saw this and decided to let them in on the whole story. The technician already knew, so there would be scuttlebutt ringing throughout the boat if he didn’t address the situation now.

“She’s a fat one,” he said, trying to ease their minds with humor. “Forty-three thousand displaced tons. This monster is also packing six sixteen-inch rifled guns situated inside two turrets you could fit the Lincoln Memorial into.”

Again, the men and women inside the control center looked uneasy. Sixteen-inch guns was what caught their attention. What ship in the world carried that size armament anymore?

“Okay, I want scuttlebutt kept to a minimum, and maybe, just maybe, you’ll have a great ghost story to tell your grandkids someday.” He was smiling but saw that his crew was not. He again spoke into the 1 MC mic. “She’s the Simbirsk, a battle cruiser. Launched, 24 November”—he paused as his eyes met those of his first officer and then roamed to the men and women under his command—“1939.”

The crew in other spaces of the giant sub stopped what they were doing. Even the forward torpedo room came to a momentary halt before being harangued back to work by their weapons supervisor in loading the expensive and delicate Mark 48 torpedoes.

“She was reported sunk in 1944 by German U-boat U-521. Now, until we know what’s happening here, we will remain at battle stations — submerged. More information as we get it. That is all.” The captain clicked off and then looked pointedly at his first officer. “Gary, bring us shallow. We need to get off a coded ELF message to Nimitz. We’ll let them pass this one up the line.” Thorne placed the mic back into its holder and then faced Devers once more. “I don’t care to be explaining to the chief of naval operations just how and why we are tracking a ghost ship reportedly sunk over seventy-five years ago.”

“I guess you’re right about one thing, Skipper: this will be something to tell the grandkids.”

“Let’s hope. Weapons, I want a rolling fire solution. Be ready for any target aspect change. Set safeties on both fish to seven hundred yards. I want to be able to respond quickly enough if that phantom is more alive than what she’s showing.”

“Aye, safeties set at seven hundred yards,” came the response.

As if to say that’s not all you have to worry about, the seas started to scream, and the wind picked up by forty-five miles per hour in just the past three minutes. What they thought was a tropical depression became officially known as Hurricane Tildy, at 0435 hours.

The ghost ship was bringing the dark and stormy night along with her.

2

One of the largest warships in the world, and also a class of vessel named after the mysterious phantom the Americans were now tracking, the modern Kirov-class battle cruiser Peter the Great made her way north and home after receiving word from Red Banner Northern Fleet headquarters that the NATO Reforger IV exercise had been canceled, much to the relief of giant missile cruiser’s captain, Viktor Kreshenko. He sat high on the raised chair just inside the enclosed bridge wing. He was a proud captain whose brother was recently lost on board Peter the Great’s sister ship, the Pyotr Velikiy, lost to enemy alien fire off the coast of Antarctica during the Operation Overlord campaign.

Peter the Great was now exiting the storm-tossed seas west of Scotland with her two escort vessels, the Slava-class missile cruiser Marshal Ustinov and the smaller Udaloy-class destroyer Admiral Levchenko. The two fleet Akula-class attack submarines had exited the area five hours ahead of the smaller section of the battle group. The rest of the fleet had disbursed when it was confirmed that NATO command authority had called a halt to their aggressive war games.

Peter the Great slammed her heavily raked and aerodynamic bow into the last of the deeper troughs caused by the storm that had now been reclassified as a hurricane and named Tildy by the American National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration. The giant warship eased her beautiful bow up and out of the water, shedding the sea like a mythical giant whale. The new warship was one of the more respected missile cruisers in the world, and NATO had the highest regard for her prowess at destroying other surface ships. Yes, she was the mightiest ship the rebuilding Russian Navy had on her books.

First Captain Viktor Kreshenko smiled as his men held on to stanchions and rigging as they happily made their way out of the storm area.

“Captain, a message from Red Banner Northern Command, sir,” a young communications runner said as he stood at attention.

Kreshenko held out his hand without removing his eyes from the seas ahead. He again smiled when he saw the sailor weave and then almost stumble as he came onto the enclosed bridge wing.

“If you can speak, son, read it to me,” the burly, bearded captain said without moving.

“Sir, it’s for captain’s eyes only.”

His hand shot out, exasperated that he would be contacted at all. He knew the pencil pushers in Moscow had never tried to maneuver one of the largest warships in the world out of the path of a hurricane. Now, what did they have to tell him that only he could understand? The runner placed the yellow flimsy in the captain’s hand and then made a hasty retreat. Kreshenko read. Then he read the communiqué again, and then again. He hissed a curse and then slammed his hand down on the intercom. “Second Captain Dishlakov, come to the bridge wing, please.”

The captain waited. While he did, he reread the orders again, and he felt his stomach turn over. Now, the young sailors he was laughing at earlier for being seasick and for not having sea legs weren’t so funny anymore. Even in the tossing seas, Kreshenko heard the pounding of feet up the outside stairs. The wing door opened, and a very wet second captain, Peter the Great’s first officer, stepped into the dry space. He removed his hat and then used his right hand to shed some of the seawater from his short-cropped blond hair.

“Captain, you wished to see me?”

Kreshenko held out the message flimsy. The younger man, destined for great things in the surface navy, read the orders. He too reread them two more times. The captain knew this kid to be bright and good at his job, and he was pleased to see that these new orders scared the hell out of Second Captain Dishlakov as much as they did himself.

“Has someone in Moscow gone completely mad?” Dishlakov said as he gave the message back and then removed his rain slicker. He angrily tossed the wet plastic coat into the far corner of the bridge wing.

The captain held a finger to his lips as a mess steward brought in tea. They remained silent while their hot tea was poured. The second captain took a seat next to his commander. The steward left.

“Not wise to show your emotions in front of the crew, my young friend. It doesn’t pay to let on that the new Russian attitude in Moscow has completely gone off the deep end. We’ll keep that little fact to ourselves. Lord only knows the crew will catch on soon enough.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Now, what in the hell do you suppose they mean by loiter in the area, await passengers and large contingent of special operations personnel?”

“All I see is that Moscow thinks holding station on the edge of a powerful hurricane is child’s play, Captain. Do they understand the risks?”

The captain laughed and then sipped his glass of tea. “God, this tea is getting worse and worse.” He made a face and then set the glass in its pewter holder down. He watched the level inside the glass roll to one side and then the other. “As to your question, my friend, no, they do not know, nor do they care. We have been, and always will be, expendable.” Kreshenko looked over at the innocent face of his first officer. He knew that the brother lost weighed heavily on his mind and colored his judgment on higher authority. “And it seems even more so the past few years with our fearless leadership. It seems our people in Moscow have never learned the more valuable lessons on aggression. We seem to be backsliding, and there is nothing a mere sailor can do about it.”

The first officer got up from his heavily cushioned seat and then dogged the hatchway. They would not be disturbed.

“Captain, perhaps it’s not well that you speak so openly about the current leadership in this manner. You know I have the same opinions, but my family is in a far better position to protect me than your family is you. I believe the official position is that the Pyotr Velikiy was lost due to your half-brother’s careless actions upon taking command of his ship. Regardless of the official lie, you seem to be a target lately.”

“Yes, my family was also in on the Gorbachev debacle. We helped bring down the Soviet regime; I know the stories. But this message with no explanation? It’s just typical of the way things are being run now.”

“Orders, Captain?”

“Inform the Ustinov and the Levchenko of our orders. We will hold station at the edge of the hurricane and await our passengers.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

“Crazy sons of bitches. Has the world gone completely insane?”

The mighty Russian battle cruiser heeled sharply to starboard as she and her two escorts started steaming in a circle, awaiting their destiny and a voyage into seas they could never have imagined.

The man with blond hair knew this was not a regular police procedure; as a matter of fact, he was well aware through his informative friends that these men were not regular police at all. These imposters failed to even abscond with the right uniforms. The five had the clothing of the local Alexandria Police Department. The uniforms were all ill-fitting, and one of the embroidered patches on the shoulder of one looked as if it had been stitched on in a hurry with the wrong-colored thread. The man suspected he had hit the mark and was now in the custody of their antiquities police, the highly secretive Pharaoh’s Guards Regiment formed after the riots of 2015 in order to protect Egypt’s heritage from vandals. He knew them to be a new, supposedly counterterrorist unit of the Egyptian government brought to fruition to protect Egypt’s history from being destroyed or stolen. But he knew their work was geared more toward the theft of their own national heritage for secretive sales to the highest of world bidders. Interpol knew them to be the men behind the terrorists’ attacks on their own unsuspecting people who dealt with ancient Egyptian works. Right now, the man handcuffed to a steel chair would have taken the terrorists or even Interpol. This was one situation he was not going to make it out of if certain men were even a few minutes off on their slim timetable.

“Who do you work for?” the man sitting in a chair in a darkened corner asked for the fifth time.

“I work for myself. My business card is still in your hand. Just because I came into possession of the object in question before you gentlemen could steal it does not mean I’m not who I say I am.”

“Yes, Mr. Klaus Udell, of”—the man held the business card up to the light—“Dresden, Germany.”

“Yes, I run a fashionable antique shop on the outskirts of—”

Whack. The open-fist blow to the side of his head made his vision find that ever-elusive tunnel that usually preceded being knocked the hell out. The man shook his head and stared at the black-bearded man who had delivered the sneak attack. This thug he would remember.

“If you insist, I admit it’s not that fashionable a shop.” His blue eyes never left those of the bearded man, who now moved to the side of the chair. That irritating smile was still etched on his dark features.

“Humor. I’m so glad that you have some. You are going to need it, my friend. The days of Europeans pilfering our heritage are over. An example must be made.” The man finally stood, and the official identification was made. This was the gentlemen you see on the Discovery Channel and National Geographic. He was famous inside and outside of Egypt. Dr. Hasan Mobbari, national director of the antiquities bureau for the government of Egypt.

“Well, I see you have made enough fame and fortune to fool your bosses into thinking you’re looking out for their best interests. Smuggling antiquities from your own people and department must be pretty lucrative.”

The small man laughed. “Very lucrative.” Mobbari walked over and faced the handcuffed man. “Why do I get the sense that my presence here and my nefarious outside interests have not come as a surprise to you?”

The man in the chair only smiled with blood staining his lower lip. Then he looked toward the man who had hit him. The smile eased off.

“In case you have not noticed, I am a thief. Thieves know certain details about life in our game. You are one of those details. I am what is called an opportunist, a veritable black sheep in the antiquities world.”

“Black sheep?” Mobbari asked, confused.

“It’s an American turn of phrase. I sometimes hang out with some, well, let us just say, shady and despicable individuals.”

Mobbari actually flinched back a step when the man had raised his voice when he said the word despicable.

The smaller man quickly regained his composure.

“It makes little difference just who your thieving friends are; they cannot help you at this time. We are very secure here in the museum. It is Sunday, we are closed, and the security department, well”—he laughed again, more heartily this time—“they’re mine also.” He lifted the blond-haired man’s chin up. “Now, let us speak on the subject of the crown of Ramses II.”

“Is that something you have misplaced? For a fee, I could possibly put out some feelers and assist in finding this, well, whatever it is you’re looking for.”

This time the blow was straight into the side of his jaw. His head burst with stars, but that didn’t stop the handcuffed man from turning and facing the bearded attacker. His eyes were intense and filled with malice as he took the brutish man in.

“This facetious attitude will not help you avoid the pain that is coming your way, my German friend. All this talking is meaningless anyway. I am afraid your filthy ilk, your partners in crime as it may, have betrayed you.”

The knock came loudly on the steel door. The sound echoed off the walls as if they were in a huge cave system. One of the uniformed men went to the door and slid a small door back and looked. He closed the viewing port and then turned to face the head of Egypt’s antiquities department.

“Two museum staff with a small crate.”

“Ah,” Mobbari said, smiling as he leaned down and into the face of his guest, “opportune timing, I must say. My German friend, it has arrived.”

The blond man looked up as the smile on the face of not just this arrogant fool but his minions also became larger. It was if they all had a secret that he wasn’t privy to.

“Let them in. I’m sure Mr. Udell would be interested to see what we have recovered.”

The two men in white coveralls were allowed in. They had a small wooden crate between them. They set it on a table and then began to open it with small crowbars. Mobbari and his men were involved and excited as they watched the object being uncrated, enough so they paid no attention to the deliverymen. The top of the crate came off and then the sides. The two large men stepped back as all eyes went to the straw-filled case.

Hasan Mobbari reached into the crate after donning white cotton gloves and pulled out a magnificent headpiece designed and built over 3,400 years before by the brilliant artisans in the court of Ramses II. The crown was white and had an inner crown of red; there was the golden cobra in its most menacing posture on the front — ready to strike. All this detail culminated in the most famous crown in history. The two differently colored parts indicated the kingdoms of Upper and Lower Egypt. Mobbari held it up to the light and then toward the blond man sitting in the steel chair.

“Magnificent piece!” Mobbari exclaimed.

“So, you were just torturing me for the pure enjoyment of doing so?” the man asked as he spit another mouthful of blood onto the cement floor. His eyes once more went to the bearded face of his assailant, who only nodded with pleasure and smiled even wider.

“Not at all. It is and will be far more fun,” Mobbari said as he finally lowered the crown. “You see, I have contacts inside your world also. The men who turned you in, Herr Udell, informed on you when my rather extensive net was closing in around them. Not only did we recover the crown in your fifth hotel room — very resourceful, by the way — they also gave us your real name and profession — Mr. Henri Farbeaux. Or should I address you as Colonel?” Again, the irritating laugh. “Without even knowing it, we have captured a man wanted in nearly every country in the known world.”

The five other men laughed also. The two larger men in the coveralls did not. They had removed the silenced dart guns so fast that the men were still laughing when the .22-caliber Phisolene anesthetic — filled glass darts slammed into their necks, chests, and even one man’s forehead.

“Oh, shit. That had to hurt,” a blond man said as he removed his baseball cap and his museum overalls. “The instructions from Pfizer said don’t hit anyone above the neck.”

The other man, this one with black hair, eased over to Mobbari and removed the crown from his shaking hands. “Well, I told you for years I was a better shot than you, Swabby,” the dark-haired man said.

“Who are you men?” the antiquities director asked in as a defiant voice as he could muster after seeing his men fall to the cold flooring.

“Who they are makes no difference, you traitorous thief.”

All eyes turned to the door as ten men, followed by one in a black suit, entered the room. The ten civilian-attired personnel started kicking at the downed men and began removing them from the room, not too gently either, the handcuffed man noticed with pleasure. He also noticed they left his bearded attacker behind because of his sheer size.

The dark-haired man who was still wearing the white coveralls placed the crown of Ramses II back into the crate and then placed the wooden sides and top back on. He faced the man in the black suit as he in turn placed a set of handcuffs on Dr. Hasan Mobbari.

“General, thank you for the cooperation.”

The tall, thin Egyptian pushed Mobbari to the floor until the portly man was on his knees, and then the newcomer held out his hand.

“Knock it off, Jack. We’ve come too far for that kind of formality.” The man looked around at the unconscious men being removed and then over at the air gun Carl was still holding. “Although I must learn where it is you get such fantastic equipment.”

Colonel Jack Collins shook the general’s hand with a smile. “We have an extensive toy box.”

General Hasne Shamakhan, Egyptian Homeland Security, smiled again and then lifted Mobbari to his feet. “Thanks for this, Jack. We’ve been after this scum for quite some time, but we never could gather enough proof.” He looked down at the visibly shaken television star. “This bag of refuse has pulled the wool over our eyes for far too many years. Now, he will pay for his thievery and murder. Is that how you say it—wool over the eyes?”

“Yes. But most times wool is easily stripped away.”

The other man walked over to the chair and the angry prisoner sitting there glaring at the three men looking at him.

“Hey, Henri. What’s up, man?”

“I find it difficult to see how my battering at the hands of these men is worth a few industrial diamonds,” Henri Farbeaux said as he wiggled his hands that were still cuffed behind his back, indicating it would be nice to have them removed. “And the next time there is a change in plan, I would appreciate being informed of such.”

“Oh, you knew all along the deal wasn’t going to turn out like you wanted.” The man leaned close to Farbeaux and whispered so the Egyptians couldn’t hear. “We let you keep the blue diamonds from the displacement machine. Your service to the United States was well rewarded. All that money just for a few whacks to the old jaw, sounds like a hell of a deal to me.” Captain Carl Everett, US Navy, smiled again as he produced a small silver key. “Want out of there?”

Jack smiled at the Egyptian general as Carl and Henri once more began their back-and-forth of mutual hate and respect.

“Thank the president on my behalf, Jack. Now that this is done, I must ask the inevitable question: Why is the US Army taking an interest in foreign antiquities?”

“Let’s just say we were in the region and were asked to help out a friend. Don’t get used to it, though; this was a onetime favor. As for the president, he’s always willing to loan out people like us; it’s his way of keeping us out of trouble at home.” Jack stopped smiling and then looked at an angry Henri Farbeaux. “But I must state it was Henri here who took the biggest chance. By the way, he made your security look rather foolish inside the museum.”

“Yes,” the thin man said as he pushed the antiquities thief toward the open door. “We’ll have to thank Colonel Farbeaux another time for pointing that little flaw out.” The Homeland Security director turned and smiled at the Frenchman as his cuffs were removed. “After today, Colonel, your days of stealing within the borders of my nation are finished. At any rate, thank you for your assistance.” He became as serious as he could in warning. “The next time we will not be so welcoming, grateful, and friendly.”

The three men watched as the general left with his prized prisoner, stepping over the still prone form of the bearded man who had assaulted Henri and who was in the process of being cuffed by one of the Egyptian Homeland Security men.

“Gentlemen,” Farbeaux said, still rubbing his wrists from the chafe the handcuffs had given him, “you have fallen to the lowest order of men. You have taken advantage of my good nature and deep sense of gratitude for my earlier freedom from the American authorities in Brooklyn.”

“Knock it off, Henri. You owed us for those blue diamonds you stole from the Wellsian Doorway. I think a payment worth $17 million is quite sufficient for your services in regard to assisting us in bringing Mr. Everett back from history, and for your expertise in your field of endeavor in recovering the crown of Ramses, and for helping us recover this.” Jack reached into his coveralls and pulled out a small object. It was a large piece of Americana stolen years before from the Smithsonian. Jack held the original surrender note from the pen of Lord General Cornwallis, asking General George Washington for terms of surrender of his British forces at Yorktown during the American Revolution. The old paper was in a plastic case and had been inside the offices of one Hasan Mobbari. Niles Compton and the president of the United States saw no need to explain their real intent to the Egyptian authorities. The president — nor, for that matter, Niles Compton — didn’t care for red tape all that much. This theft of American property was not something to take public.

“I am so pleased to have assisted you in getting that little piece of history back into your hands. The diamonds were still not worth the humiliation of being slapped around by brutes with the IQs of a jackal. You could have also made your appearance somewhat earlier into my torture session.”

Jack laughed and patted Henri on the shoulder as the Frenchman finished rubbing his wrists. “Come on, Henri. We’ll give you a ride out of here. You never know about the Egyptians; they could have a change of heart about allowing you to leave.”

Farbeaux turned away from Jack and faced Carl. “I really don’t like you, Captain.” For emphasis on his words just as the last Egyptian was standing the bearded man up to escort him out, Farbeaux kicked the beast in the groin, doubling the man over. He fell, and then Henri kicked him in the side of his jaw. He then straightened and calmed himself.

“Ah, but I thought we were becoming close friends, Froggy?” Carl said, but his attention was also drawn to the inherent temperament of the Frenchman when it came to vengeance. “Now, we have a plane to catch.”

Colonel Henri Farbeaux turned to face Collins, and then with a wary eye on Carl, he said, “I’m sitting next to you, Colonel.”

3

First Captain Kreshenko stood on the expansive bridge of Peter the Great and faced the window that looked out over the stern. The helipad on the swaying deck looked to be a mile away. Kreshenko frowned just as the giant warship dipped her prow into the heavy seas. He couldn’t imagine what it was like even a hundred miles closer to Tildy. His ship was taking a pounding, and he was nowhere near the killing swirl of the hurricane. He watched through his binoculars as the heavy-lift helicopter, the Mil Mi-26, NATO designation Halo, hovered shakily over the stern. His crewmen were battling the seas, trying to guide the giant helicopter down to the pitching and rolling deck. Thus far, in three attempts, they had come close to crashing the hovering behemoth into the superstructure all three times.

“Are they insane?” Second Captain Dishlakov said as he slammed his fist down upon the reinforced window frame. Both officers watched as the Halo came in for its fourth attempt. “Fools!”

Kreshenko hissed as the huge helicopter’s tail rotor came close to striking the radar boom at the uppermost top of the mast. The tail boom spun crazily, and the captain thought to himself that he was possibly about to lose his ship to a fool’s stunt. He cursed as the Halo finally straightened and then rose once more into the rain-filled black skies.

“That’s it. Tell whoever that is to get the hell away from my ship. RTB immediately. This is not only going to cost those idiots their lives, but we could lose this ship. I’m not having it. They can throw me in the deepest Gulag in Siberia. I’m not losing my ship because some brass-hat son of a bitch has a wild hair up his ass. Call them off, Dishlakov!”

Peter the Great rolled to port, and the dark seas crashed over onto the helo deck. As the radio call went out, Kreshenko was satisfied when the giant helicopter started to rise and turn away.

“Thank God the pilot has some common sense.”

“Should we clear the landing party from action stations, Captain?” Dishlakov asked.

“Yes, I’m sure those boys are wet enough. Let’s—”

“They’re coming back!” called one of the bridge lookouts.

Kreshenko was stunned as he turned back to the window, and through the wash of rainwater, he saw the Halo Mi-26 returning to the battle cruiser. This time, the captain took up the microphone. “Communications, order that bird away from my ship! If they attempt to land, I will shoot them out of the sky.”

“Sir, the Halo is flashing command override on your order. They say they are coming in.”

The captain cursed, and then, to his shock, the Halo came low once more over the fantail. He then saw ropes shoot out from the open doors of the air force bird. His eyes widened when he saw men rappelling down these ropes to the helo deck below. Several of these brave fools landed hard on the steel deck, but they kept coming. They streamed from both sliding doors of the Halo. He turned to his first officer as he watched this insanity through his binoculars. Dishlakov had noticed the same thing as the captain, and as he lowered his glasses, they exchanged worried looks. Each of the first fifty men to the deck was heavily armed. Finally, as they turned their attention back to the badly swerving helicopter, four men in different clothing rappelled down the rubber-treated ropes to land softly onto the pitching deck.

“Second Captain, go below and bring the commander of this band of fools to my cabin, take the others to the ship’s mess, and station a marine guard on them until I get some confirmation on just who these idiots are.”

The captain watched as the Halo, with her belly empty of men and equipment and after the last large bags of gear were lowered down, rose back into the black sky and then made a sharp turn to the north. Kreshenko slammed his fist onto the windowsill once more and then stormed off to his cabin.

Two hurricanes were about to explode into the North Atlantic that day, and one was about to happen on board his ship.

It took the captain thirty minutes to finally get to his quarters after securing flight operations. His men were battered and seasick, and after he made sure they got something hot into them, he stormed into his cabin.

The big man was dark haired and was using one of the captain’s towels to dry his head. He didn’t even notice when Kreshenko burst through the cabin’s door. He stared angrily at the man wearing black Nomex battle BDUs, the uniform commandos the world over were now wearing. In place of the Russian Federation flag was a Velcro patch depicting a black camouflaged star. The captain looked on his bunk and saw the belt with the holstered weapon. His eyes went from the bed to the newcomer, who seemed to be making himself at home.

“Ah, First Captain Kreshenko. Is it too much to ask if you have a drink anywhere close by?”

The captain watched the man as he smiled and then simply tossed the towel onto the tiled deck. Kreshenko closed the door and retrieved the towel as Peter the Great rolled to starboard. As the captain tossed the wet towel into his private head, he turned to face the stranger. He saw the man wore no rank on his collar and that he was one of those film actor types that always seemed to walk out with the women after the drinking establishments closed. The captain had seen his ilk his entire life and despised the breed.

“I don’t have alcohol in my cabin. I try to shy away from it at sea.”

“Ah, I had heard that you were a prudent man, Captain. Thank goodness I always come prepared,” he said as he retrieved his bag and produced a bottle of very expensive vodka. “Thank goodness it survived the flight.” He held the bottle up so the captain could view the label. “This was a gift from old Putin himself, the moron,” he said as a way of telling Kreshenko to be careful in his approach about his visitor endangering his precious ship.

Instead of commenting, the captain walked to his desk and came back with two glasses.

“You see, I knew you were a man of action, Captain,” the stranger said as he tore the protective plastic from the cork and then poured two glasses. “Just as your brave brother and his crew.” He held a glass up and then toasted, “To the new Russia.”

Kreshenko remained still, not moving for the glass. Finally, in deference to the toast, he nodded. The man acted as though he hadn’t noticed Kreshenko’s small displeasure at the term new Russia or the mention of his dead brother, but Kreshenko knew that the man had. It was in this man’s cold eyes, and the captain knew immediately this visitor was no military person, or at least hadn’t been one for many years.

“What are you doing on my ship?” Kreshenko asked as he pushed aside the glass of vodka, which was still untouched.

The other man smiled, his eyes moving from the captain of Peter the Great to the still-half-full glass. He reached out and took the glass and drank the fiery liquid down. He closed his black eyes momentarily and then let out a satisfied breath. He then tossed the empty glass to the captain, who fumbled with it and then secured it before it crashed to the floor. The stranger unzipped his BDU top and then pulled a large envelope from its dry place.

“You endangered my ship and crew with that little stunt.”

“Yes.”

The captain looked at the envelope and then grudgingly accepted.

“May I assume my men are being dried and fed?”

“Your men are being taken care of,” Kreshenko said as he sat at his desk and broke the wax seal on the package.

“Perhaps to speed things along, go to the last page and examine the signature on the bottom.”

Kreshenko, with his eyes firmly affixed to the man he had instantly taken a dislike to, flipped through the sixteen pages, and then his eyes settled on the last name and signature, the commander in chief of the Russian Navy.

“Okay, you have impressive credentials. That still gives you no right to endanger my ship.”

The man laughed once more and then retrieved the bottle of vodka and poured again. He drank and then sat upon the captain’s bunk without asking.

“Captain Kreshenko, from this moment on, your ship will be in constant danger. So will the other two vessels of your rather small battle group.”

“Just who in the hell are you?” he asked, not bothering with the set of orders. He had seen that this man’s name had been blacked out on the official copies.

Once more, the glass was filled, and the stranger drank deeply. He started untying his boots. “Why, I’m the man who’s ordering you to turn Peter the Great, the Ustinov, and the Admiral Levchenko around one hundred and eighty degrees.”

This time, Kreshenko recovered far more quickly than the newcomer thought possible. He sprang to his feet, slamming the orders down on the desk.

“Back into the hurricane?”

“Yes, back into the hurricane.”

“Once more, sir, who are you?”

The man pulled off a wet boot and sock and then fixed the captain with a cold look. “I am Colonel Leonid Salkukoff; I am the assistant director of internal historical studies from Odessa. And I am here to repair a mistake from many, many years ago. A mistake we have well benefited from, but it has now run its course and its usefulness.” The tall man stood and faced the captain. “And you, my good captain, your crew, the other two warships, well, they are expendable in that endeavor. Now, shall we get Peter the Great turned around to meet our destiny?”

Kreshenko was feeling ill as he reached for the phone on his desk. “I want a flash message sent to both Red Banner Fleet North and to Presidential Command Authority in Moscow.” The captain held his hand over the phone as the radio room scrambled to make the connection. “We’ll see if President Putin is as accepting of the consequences in sending his prized flagship of the Red Banner Northern Fleet into danger as cavalierly as yourself.”

Kreshenko was stunned when the man completely undressed and was preparing for a shower when he stopped and smiled.

“President Putin has no say in this, Captain. The sooner you learn this harsh fact, the better off you will be.”

“You’re telling me that the president has no authority to order this ship back to home waters?”

Again, the irritating smile. “Captain, let me explain something to you,” he said as he wrapped a dry towel around his muscled hips and stopped in the doorway leading to the captain’s private head and shower. “Beyond certain offices in our government, the office of the president of Russia has never existed. Since the so-called fall of the Soviet State, the presidency, nor even the politburo, has been in charge of our country and never will be.”

“What are you saying?” Kreshenko was starting to become furious, but at the same time, a sick feeling of knowing struck his guts. He and his dead brother had spoken about it in private times, but they always thought it nothing but a conspiracy theory to scare the progressives in their country.

“You’ll learn more in the orders, but suffice it to say, Captain, playtime in the world is over. I’m afraid the average person won’t be able to recognize Mother Russia in the next few years. The arrogant fools in the West will learn that the cold war was not lost by us. We won it the day we convinced them we lost it. Now, get this ship turned around or I’ll have you shot and turn it around myself.” The man calling himself Colonel Leonid Salkukoff lost his humorous smile as he ducked into the private head and the warm shower that awaited him.

Captain Kreshenko placed the phone down and then grimaced as he hit the intercom to the bridge.

“Second Captain Dishlakov, let’s get Peter the Great and our two escorts turned around. We’re going back into the hurricane. Let’s get all three ships buttoned up tight and prepare for rough seas. Set storm warning conditions throughout all three ships.”

As he sat and read the extraordinary orders he had ever been given, the captain felt the bulk of Russian advanced weaponry heel hard to starboard as she turned away from home and back into danger.

It had been four hours since the message containing the Houston’s mysterious bogey had gone up the chain of command from Nimitz to Norfolk and then finally to Washington. In that time, Captain Thorne became convinced that CINCLANT and NATO command had totally lost their minds.

“Boat’s at a hundred feet and holding,” said officer of the deck Jacobs as he called out the depth. There actually had been no need to do so because the closer the submarine got to the surface, the fiercer the rolling of her bulk became. “I take that back. We’re rolling. Thrusters starboard!”

Thorne looked at the young lieutenant JG and slightly shook his head, wanting the young officer to calm down for the benefit of the crew. The man acknowledged that he received the captain’s silent advice and visibly settled.

Captain Thorne examined the orders he had received via ELF, the low-frequency method of communicating that was coded and protected from snooping ears. He shook his head as the Houston’s first officer joined him. He was tucking in his shirt as he approached Thorne and the message flimsy he held. The captain handed Lieutenant Commander Gary Devers the flimsy.

“You have got to be—” The first officer was cut off by a sharp roll as Houston actually breached the surface with her sail tower, exposing her numbered designation to the early morning sky. Number 713 stood out in all its white-painted glory before dipping back into the dark green tumult. They had gone from one hundred feet to almost nothing in one swell of the rough seas. “Jesus, that was embarrassing. Thank God we don’t have to hide from a warship at these shallow depths. Exposing ourselves like that would be a good way to get a Russian missile sent our way,” the first officer said as Houston finally settled.

“Up scope,” Thorne said as he held tightly to the periscope stanchion. As Thorne looked around him, he saw the anxious faces of the mere kids watching his every move. When the scope was up, he peered into the eyepiece. “Gary, let’s give the old girl a goose. Give her a shot of air, will you? Bring her as shallow as you can without exposing that damn sail to the elements again.”

“Aye, Skipper. Make your depth seventy-five feet.”

“Aye. Blowing negative to the mark. We’re coming shallow to seventy-five feet,” the chief of the boat repeated.

Throughout the length of Houston, loud pops were heard as the hull relaxed as she came to a shallower depth.

“There she is,” Thorne said as the scope cleared the high seas for the briefest of moments. The captain started using his Morse lamp high upon the radar antenna. Houston rolled hard to port as the men were heard cursing as they fought for handholds.

Through the beeping of the Morse signal, Devers could read: Disabled vessel, this is USS Houston, a United States submarine off your starboard beam. Are you under power or do you need assistance? I repeat, this is a United States warship. Do you need assistance? Finally, he pushed a button on the periscope, and although he knew he couldn’t hear it inside the thick-hulled sub, he had just sent out a blast of air through his warning horn affixed to the sail.

“Captain, we’re drifting right toward that hunk of junk,” Devers called out from the plotting station.

Thorne slammed the handles up and then lowered the scope. He reached for the intercom. “Communications, keep trying on all frequencies until she responds.”

“Conn, radio, aye.”

Thorne leaned against the navigation console and then looked at the plot. “How soon until the De Zeven, Shiloh, and Bunker Hill arrive on station?”

“An hour, give or take five minutes. They’re having a far rougher time with Tildy than we are.”

“I imagine,” Thorne said as he examined the plot on the navigation board for what seemed like the thousandth time. “Plot the hurricane against the last weather report and prediction, will you, Gary?”

The first officer designated the edge of Tildy and then plotted the estimated position of the hurricane’s eye as close as he could with the information the boat’s computer had. The virtual reality app made the hurricane swirl as if it were a motion picture animation. The captain placed a finger in the estimated position of the eye, the calmest part of the storm, and tapped the spot.

“There it is. If CINCLANT and the president want that ship boarded, there’s the only place it will be possible. I estimate five hours until the hurricane’s eye if the phantom’s drift remains the same. If not, we’ll have to have one of the heavy cruisers attempt to take her in tow.”

Devers leaned over and silently concurred with the estimate. “Captain, maybe those in power have thought this through, but what if the Russians find out we’re attempting to board that derelict?”

Thorne laughed but immediately regretted it when he saw the anxious young faces of his control room crew.

“I guess at that time we’ll find out just how important this hunk of junk is to someone, won’t we?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Okay, let’s take one more look. Up scope,” he said as the chrome-and-plastic scope rose from the deck. “Damn, that thing is riding pretty low in the water. Either she’s taking on water and foundering or she’s far heavier than her listed displacement tonnage. If that’s the case, we need to—”

The flash in the eyepiece of the periscope sent the captain back hard enough that he almost lost his footing. It was as if the sun had exploded in the advanced optics of the scope.

“Captain, what—”

A pressure wave slammed into Houston, swinging her bow around fifteen degrees before her thrusters corrected her programmed position. She rolled hard to starboard and then to port as she finally started to settle. The captain gained his composure, and then, rubbing his eyes, which felt like they had been burned from his skull, he grasped the handles of the scope again and looked. He closed his eyes once more and rubbed them. He peered through the eyepiece again, expecting to see nothing but flaming wreckage on the surface of the rolling seas. Again, a bright flash and the Russian ship vanished. Before he could say or do anything, another bright flash that lit up the dark skies again wreaked havoc with his vision and the optics. The lens cleared, and then the vessel was back, rolling and pitching and sinking into a deep depression.

Houston suddenly went dark. Not even her emergency lighting came on. All her boards went out along with the overheads. Then, just as quickly, electrical power sprang back to life.

“Electromagnetic pulse?” the first officer asked, concerned when the captain started moving the periscope to the left, right, and then settling once more.

“I don’t have a clue, but that damn ship is still there. Chief of the Boat, I want a damage assessment and diagnostics run on everything.”

“Aye.”

The captain again slammed the handles of the scope to the up position and then lowered it. He looked around the control room at the anxious faces staring at him. He took a deep breath and then nodded at his first officer.

“Okay, take her to five hundred feet and hold station. Use thrusters to keep us even with the Simbirsk. Sonar, conn, I want shifts rotated every thirty minutes. I want fresh ears listening for any untoward intruders to our little drama.”

“Conn, sonar, aye. No contacts at this time other than our three sisters a hundred miles off. We did have a spike in the infrared band ten seconds before power shut down and another spike in radiation output at the same time.”

“From Houston?”

“Negative, conn. It came from our phantom.”

Throughout the boat, the rumors were really starting to fly. It seemed the USS Houston and her surface cronies were about to attempt the boarding of Russian state property, and they knew those same Russians wouldn’t be too fond of that little development. Now, they realized that whatever that ship was, it could possibly have the potential to send Houston and her crew to the bottom of the Atlantic.

The USS Houston went deep with her crew’s knowledge that there was something out there that rattled one of the most experienced submarine skippers in the world.

4

Rear Admiral Harley Dickerson — Scooter to the men and women who knew him best — was waiting outside the national security advisor’s office with none of his staff present. General Maxwell Caulfield, former head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, had been talked into taking the advisor’s job after the Overlord incident the previous year. He saw his old friend as he strolled into his outer office. After greeting his assistants and getting his missed calls, he turned with a curious look toward the man waiting patiently. He read the messages as he smiled toward his visitor.

“Scooter, what in the hell brings you out of that dungeon at the Pentagon? You spooks haven’t had enough after our little alien encounter?”

Harley Dickerson stood and shook his friend’s hand. They had worked together closely during the past three years of dealing with the Overlord incident. Dickerson was a liaison between DARPA, the US Navy, and several other darker entities inside defense circles.

“Max, we need to talk,” was all Dickerson said as he leaned in with Caulfield’s hand still clutched in his own.

The general raised his brow and then glanced at his two assistants. “I’ve got a briefing with the president in”—he looked at his watch—“fifteen minutes, Scooter. Can it wait? We have a developing situation at sea regarding the Operation Reforger IV exercise. We had to cancel the damn thing last night, a little coup for our friends the Russians, but if—”

“Max, make the time — now.”

Caulfield saw the anxiety in the younger man’s face and then simply gestured to his open door. “Liz, no calls for the next few minutes.”

Once inside the small office, Caulfield offered Dickerson coffee, and he refused, opting to open his briefcase instead. Caulfield sat behind his desk. He looked at the pictures of his family and the uniform he once wore. The old marine corps blues were a part of his past life now. Today and forever afterward, Maxwell Caulfield would be wearing what it was he was wearing today, civilian suits from varying Men’s Discount Warehouse stores. And as his assistants both quipped, he had absolutely zero taste in civilian clothing. Yes, he missed the far simpler life of a marine.

Dickerson tossed a small stack of photos and typed pages onto Caulfield’s desk and then sat back down. Max saw the man he knew as unflappable bite on a thumbnail as he picked up a photograph and scanned it. The black-and-white image depicted a very grainy view of a large ship. It was low in a depression inside a deep trough of water, something Caulfield had experienced many times in his career aboard ships. The vessel was in heavy seas.

“One of ours?” he asked, looking up at Dickerson.

“No. This was taken through the periscope of a tailing submerged asset in the North Atlantic last night. This was transmitted this morning to our offices and those of the chief of naval operations.”

“Why isn’t Jim Hardy bringing this to me, then?” Max asked as his eyes bored in at Dickerson. This was a breach of military etiquette. His boss at the Pentagon should have been briefing him personally on anything having to do with Operation Reforger IV.

“The admiral isn’t in this loop, only my department at intel. Besides, by the time I started explaining things to him, this thing could blow up in our faces.”

“What could blow up?” Caulfield asked.

“Max, we have a seventy-five-year-old ship of war out there that was reported sunk before the end of World War II. The name of the vessel is the Simbirsk, a Russian battle cruiser verified as being sunk by the German navy in 1944.”

Before Caulfield could register this shock, Dickerson tossed a file onto his desk after unlocking it from a compartment in his briefcase. Max Caulfield looked up with the photo of the Simbirsk still in his hand.

“And this?”

“A file on a warship of our own.”

“Don’t keep me guessing here, Scooter. I don’t have the time for it,” Caulfield countered.

“A destroyer escort, same vintage as our Russian war casualty. This file is on the USS Eldridge. This is all we have on her. It seems the Department of the Navy, or at least at the time, the Department of War, lost the entire file just after the incident. Many people in my group think it was intentionally lost by the navy department on orders from none other than President Roosevelt. The rumor is the navy boys tried to do something rather extraordinary that had not been cleared with the war department. That was right around the time that Admiral Stark, the chief of naval operations, lost a lot of influence at the White House.”

Max looked at the file and then looked up at his visitor after viewing the second photo. “This another war casualty?”

“No, Max, she wasn’t. She went on to serve the navy well throughout her deployments the rest of the war. We even sold her later to a foreign government. No, she had a very distinguished career.”

“Scooter, this is boring me to death. You bring me a partial file and then claim the rest has been lost. What in the hell is going on here?”

“General, that’s the ship that was the centerpiece of a little-known theoretic application undertaken by scientists from Chicago University and Harvard, jointly with the Department of the Navy. All this took place in 1943, and that experimental application turned disastrous for the navy.”

“What application, Scooter?” Caulfield said with resignation lacing his voice.

“That theoretic application was thought to produce what we would come to know as stealth technology. That theory and later action would be tagged by every conspiracy nut in the free world as the Philadelphia Experiment.”

Twenty minutes later, after his assistants had told him that the president was waiting on his morning security briefing, General Maxwell Caulfield asked for and received a private meeting with the leader of the free world that lasted just thirty-five minutes. In the three minutes after, the United States Armed Forces quietly went to a higher alert status.

The partial file on the Philadelphia Experiment had been read by a sitting president of the United States for only the second time in history.

The conference room was full. All sixteen departmental heads were present. Alice Hamilton was even there, popping in for meetings on a regular basis. Alice had been a part of the Group since 1947. She read the report filed by Jack and his excursion into Egypt. He reported the sting operation in cooperation with Egyptian Homeland Security had gone off without a hitch. Alice looked up and smiled as she saw the visible relief in the faces of Jack and Carl’s two replacements, Jason Ryan and Will Mendenhall. They were both still put out that the colonel had not included them on the mission, anything to get them out of the complex and into the field where they thought they belonged. Alice then flipped pages of her notes and then faced Sarah McIntire, who was sitting next to Master Chief Jenks.

“We have a report from Captain McIntire and Ms. Korvesky on their investigation into the expansion of the level forty-seven vaults.”

Sarah wanted to roll her eyes as she stood and reported on the granite strata she knew would not support further expansion in that area of cave system. Before she could finish, the double doors of the conference room opened, and an air force security officer allowed the new head of Computer Sciences into the room. Dr. Xavier Morales used his powerful arms to propel his old-fashioned wheelchair inside. He rolled directly to the head of the long table and Director Niles Compton. Sarah gratefully gave the twenty-four-year-old computer genius the floor. She was happy not to be spouting geological formations that no one but herself fully understood. Anya, for her part, winked at Sarah, being grateful herself for the respite.

Just as Morales stopped, another man was allowed into the room — Professor Charles Hindershot Ellenshaw III came in and held up a file so Xavier could see. Charlie nodded and then took his place at the table, excusing the young lady who had been substituting for crazy Charlie and the Cryptozoology Department. Morales waited until the doors were once more secure. He handed his own file to the director.

“Doctor, you have something more important to share with us than Captain McIntire and Ms. Korvesky’s report on the unstable rock strata of our complex?” Niles smiled and then opened the file folder. Morales had it marked as Director’s Eyes Only. Compton read. The straight line on his mouth told Alice Hamilton and the others in the meeting that he didn’t like what it was that the Computer Sciences director had brought him. Ryan and Mendenhall exchanged looks, as they had yet to see the young Mexican American excited about anything other than his new love affair with the world’s most powerful computing system, Europa.

“How did you come across this information, Doctor?” Niles asked as he handed the folder over to Alice, who perused it very quickly. The other department heads were left wondering.

Morales looked around, somewhat apprehensive about his answer.

Niles took a deep breath and then patted the closed file with his fingertips.

“Okay, I’m going to have to place this meeting on hold until the same time tomorrow. Sarah will enter her strata report into Europa and copy all departments on its content. Thank you. Drs. Morales, Ellenshaw, and Pollock and Alice, I need a moment, please.”

The room slowly emptied, and Niles stood and made his way over to his desk and then sat. Alice took her customary place to his left with her electronic notepad ready. The others took seats in front of the large desk once used by Garrison Lee, and General George C. Marshall before that.

“First, Dr. Morales, when you insert Europa’s influence into another Blue Ice system inside government circles, it has to be cleared with either myself or Virginia first.”

“I understand that, sir. The computer break-in was not initiated by me or anyone in the complex. Europa herself initiated it after receiving several keywords from flagged communications that she routinely monitors with your endorsement, sir.”

“I’m not following,” Virginia said.

“It seems someone with A-1 security clearance programmed Europa to seek out certain keywords from government communications. The keywords in this case were Eldridge, Simbirsk, phase shift, and a few others. In this particular case, she hit on all the words coming from the White House and the Pentagon.”

“Two are the names of ships. The other is an advanced theory on the implementation of redacted covert cover — stealth technology, or in this case, phase shift. It’s the ability to hide the radar signature from prying eyes. The other keywords mentioned in the order to Europa were Operation Necromancer and Schoenfeld. I know because I was there when then director Garrison Lee, myself, and Pete Golding placed them there in 1997.”

Xavier looked shocked, as did Charlie Ellenshaw. As for Alice and Virginia, they were both confused. Then it was Alice who closed her eyes and remembered something from the past about Garrison Lee and the one event he could not get out of his thoughts, an event rarely spoken of by the former director of Department 5656. Whatever it was buried in that memory, Alice knew it had scared the hell out of Garrison, a man who feared almost nothing in life.

“Does this have to do with what happened in Philadelphia in ’43?” she asked Niles.

“Yes,” Niles said. “It seems our friend and mentor was an eyewitness to the event.”

“May I ask what in the hell you are referring to?” Virginia asked.

“The Philadelphia Experiment. And yes, it really did happen, much to the regret of many a young sailor.”

“Why would Senator Lee be interested in the so-called Philadelphia Experiment after the fact?” Virginia asked, trying to grasp what was being implied.

“He was a witness to the results of that failed experiment. It scared him enough that he and Pete Golding made sure Europa kept an eye out for any hint of the government starting up that program again.” Niles pursed his lips as he thought about his earlier call from Lord Durnsford.

Without another word, the director hit a small switch on his desktop, and a monitor rose from the wood. The screen was a solid blue in color until a flash and the seal of the president came on. Niles waited.

“Can you excuse me for a moment, please?”

The four people got up and left the conference room.

Niles sat and listened to the president, his friend of many years, explain his side of what was developing in the North Atlantic. Then Niles explained his earlier conversation with his asset inside Great Britain, whom the president never asked about but could have guessed as to the asset’s identity. Niles went into detail about their concerns over an operative inside the Russian authority who was even now making his way to the area in the North Atlantic in question. A decision was made, and the presidential meeting was over. Niles closed the screen and then moved back to the conference table and waited as the others came in. They quickly settled. Charlie still held his file folder and was awaiting his turn to put in his two cents.

“I just finished with the president, and he has confirmed that we have something brewing in the North Atlantic. I will explain later. For now, let’s start with Virginia. Place your nuclear sciences division on the highest alert.”

“The entire department?” she asked.

“Xavier, get with communications and liaise with the air force. We need Colonel Collins and Captain Everett rerouted. Stop them in London and get them to report to RAF Station Ramsfield for possible transport and sea drop. As I said, we don’t know much, but I want us ahead on whatever the president decides to do. I also have a friend of our government who needs a word with not only Jack but Colonel Farbeaux also.”

“What are we speaking of here, Niles?” Alice asked.

“The president was informed that the navy has come in contact with a derelict vessel inside the hurricane zone where a resupply war game was scheduled. It seems one of those keywords Dr. Morales spoke of and Garrison Lee warned us to look for has shown its face. The president has ordered that this ship be taken in tow and claimed as salvage. The US Navy brass wants that ship, and now, so does the president. Unfortunately, the Russians have an eye toward their property and want it back. CIA and MI6 in London have reported a very unsavory character is heading out there now. This department is currently liaising with our friends in Great Britain on this Russian character who is someone of high interest. That’s all I have on that. But our friend Henri Farbeaux is a key to a point the British have made, and our French asset will be needed on this little excursion.”

“I hope there is a sea lawyer available to the president, because the Russians will take exception to us boarding their ship,” Virginia said, knowing something about sea law.

“And it seems they are heading full steam back into the area. I imagine they may want that ship badly enough that they are willing to risk the lives of close to a thousand sailors to get it. Our naval assets in the area have three warships bearing down on them at high speed while battling a hurricane. They are taking this seriously. And”—everyone looked up at the and—“when the president spoke to our friend Vladimir Putin, he says he knows nothing about this. NSA and CIA concur that he isn’t lying. It looks like we have something going on here that doesn’t include the official Russian government. We and the Brits are very anxious to learn more about this specialist the Russians are sending out there.”

“Do you think we are dealing with a rogue element inside that government?” Alice asked with concern.

Niles smiled, as he knew Alice would be the first one to see the link. “We just don’t know enough yet. Now, Professor Ellenshaw, I have something for your department also.”

The crazed white hair of Charles Hindershot Ellenshaw III perked up.

“Get with Dr. Morales and file everything we have on the phase shift experiments of the ’30s and ’40s, also all we have on the ships involved. I want this information coded and placed into the new laptop system Xavier here just developed. Virginia, give them a hand on the physics aspect of converting light to energy; it may come in handy.”

A confused Virginia nodded.

“Okay, Charlie. What have you got there in that file?”

Ellenshaw slowly handed the file over, and Niles opened it. He pulled a wrinkled, weatherworn page that looked as if it were torn from a book. It depicted a pirate with a long, curly and flowing beard with sword held high as he and his band of pirates attacked some unsuspecting ship. The second item he pulled out was a black-and-white photo. Niles pursed his lips and let out his breath as he handed the photo and the picture over to Virginia and the others.

“Those were the only items filed under the Philadelphia Event in ’43. I suspect they were placed there by Director Lee sometime after he took command in 1947.”

Virginia and Alice were both stunned by the photo and even more perplexed by the colorful picture of pirates.

“The photo is what came back with the Eldridge after the phase shift accident. According to Garrison, there were more than fifty of these creatures on board, protected from the effects that killed all the exposed crewmen by being inside when the ship returned from wherever it had been. That picture of pirates was found in the pouch of one of the attackers.”

“Attackers?” Charlie asked, pushing his glasses back onto his nose.

“Yes, it seems while the Eldridge was away, she had been boarded by whatever those creatures are. The color picture is from a licensed Russian reprint of Treasure Island, published in Moscow in 1934. How and why this creature had this on its person is not known.”

“Amazing,” Charlie said.

“I’m glad you find it fascinating, Doctor, because you’re on the makeshift field team.” Niles turned away from the stunned Ellenshaw and faced Virginia. “Inform Master Chief Jenks that his engineering skills will also be needed.” He held up a hand to Virginia before she could voice her complaint. “No, you can’t go. The master chief is far more versed in naval applications than you, and his engineering is off the scale. Get him all the information you have on the theory of phase shift so he has it available. Also get Commander Ryan. He’s going also. And tell Will Mendenhall no also. He has duties here.”

“Do you want to inform Sarah and Anya their homecomings with Jack and Carl will be delayed?” Alice asked as she closed her electronic notepad.

“No, this is now a closed event. Only the people mentioned as team members and those in this room are to have operational knowledge of this. Thank you.” Niles closed the meeting, as he needed the time to think about just what he was sending Jack and Carl into. He looked up as Xavier was close to being through the door.

“Doctor, make sure that Europa terminal is functioning correctly. They’ll need her out there.”

“It’s working, sir. I’ll double-check it.”

“Thank you.”

The director was left alone. He stood and made his way to the large credenza in the corner and poured himself coffee and then returned to his chair and sat heavily into it. He picked up his phone and then hit one number. Through a series of screeches and bleeps, his call was finally connected. The face was the familiar one with the exception of his dress and his missing bow tie. Lord James Durnsford looked sleepy as he came fully awake.

“Niles, old man. Unlike you, us old sots like our sleep.”

“It’s officially on, James. The president has approved your request and my mission. I’ll leave it to you to deliver the bad news to Colonel Collins and our French friend.”

“Oh, delightful.”

Henri was looking at both Collins and Everett as if they had set him up for another fall as the trio was directed from the airstrip toward the command center of Her Majesty’s Naval Base in Portsmouth. They had been led into a very comfortable room and told to wait. When asked for what and for how long they had to do so, the Royal Navy marine guard just raised his brows in a your guess is as good as mine look.

“Maybe a little reward money for old, bad man Farbeaux?” Henri said sarcastically, not looking at either American.

“Relax, Henri. We already tried to ransom you off to any of them — MI6, Scotland Yard, the Rolling Stones — but alas, none were interested, so take it easy,” Carl said with his ever-present smile.

“If it’s any consolation, Henri, this was for you,” Jack said as he slapped a folded ticket onto Farbeaux’s arm.

The Frenchman looked at the ticket and then took it and opened it. It was a first-class British Airways ticket to his home in Tuscany. He looked from Jack to a grinning Everett.

“So, at least for that part of your little Egyptian sting, you were telling the truth,” Henri said, shaking his head. “May I use this now?” he asked with hope of excusing himself from the company of two men he admired but disliked very much.

Jack looked at his watch. “I don’t think that’s up to us any longer. It seems we have been diverted.”

Farbeaux let out an exasperated breath, and Jack decided to explain something the man needed to know.

“Henri, imagine that if Dr. Morales and Europa can find out just what it was you were up to in Egypt, how long would it be before the police in Alexandria, or even”—here, Jack looked around the room with its British Union Jack staring them down—“if MI6 caught on? You were there to steal something that wasn’t yours, and we just happened to need the cover of your enterprise in our recovery of American property.”

“The Egyptians hadn’t caught on because they don’t have the computing power that little maniac does at your little prairie dog burrow in Nevada.”

“Objection! Argumentative,” Carl said as he stretched his long legs out before him. “We like to think of it as our underground insane asylum.”

“For once, I agree,” Henri mumbled. “So, may I assume your little operation has hit somewhat of a snag, since we find ourselves virtually under arrest?”

Before Jack could tell Henri to relax once more, the door opened, and a familiar face poked in. Henri’s brows rose in worry as he saw it was Lord James Durnsford, the head of MI6. He stood and greeted the man they had met during the Overlord operation.

“Lord Durnsford, what brings you to Royal Navy jail?”

After taking Jack’s hand, the career intelligence man looked around the room, not understanding. Then he smiled and then chortled at Collins’s American humor.

“Royal Navy jail. Very good, Colonel, very good. But as you can see, just a boring little office filled with boring little men.” The portly nobleman nodded at a curious Everett and a suspicious Farbeaux. “I see our help in the recapture of this scallywag has paid off handsomely?” he said, smiling toward Farbeaux.

“Yeah, but in all actuality, Colonel Farbeaux holds a special place in our president’s heart, and ours also.”

“Yes, it seems we all owe a debt to many men and women — you and the captain here being two more of them. Gentlemen,” he said as he walked over and sat down in a chair and folded his fingers into themselves as he smiled uncomfortably. He reached into his coat pocket and produced a message flimsy and handed it to Jack. “That message explains to you the little mess science has recently, or not so recently, gotten us into.”

Collins exchanged looks with Carl and Henri. They both appeared to be listening, but both were also suspicious of one of the more brilliant spies in world history. One just never knew where it was Her Majesty’s intelligence services were coming from.

“Mess?” Jack asked.

“Yes, a rather big mess we haven’t quite figured out yet. Now, we here at MI6 know you are on detached service, Colonel, and you will never divulge your real duties to your country, but let’s just say we have suspected for quite some time who and what government entity you really work for.”

“I’m in the army, he’s in the navy, and he…” He paused when Henri smiled at him, waiting. “He, is, well, he just is.”

“Yes, of course you are.” His smile faded as he became serious. He leaned forward to emphasize what it was he was about to say. “What would you say, Colonel, that if we were to go digging into files from the old Soviet regime, and even in today’s rather aggressive Russian administration, we here in British intelligence may possibly have discovered an outfit that, not unlike the one you claim not to work for, and one that even rivals my own entity in this country, is quite active within the Russian government and has been for over eighty years? An entity run completely autonomously and without fear of Russian leadership?”

“I would say MI6 knows a little too much about friendly governments and not enough about the aggressive ones.” Jack didn’t care for British intelligence’s rather extensive guesswork on the Event Group.

“Good show, old boy. Good point.” He lost the smile. “Now, what would you say if one of the leadership of this mysterious group was now on his way to the very spot where the NATO resupply exercise Operation Reforger IV was just canceled, and they were heading there at high speed with one of the more lethal commando teams the world has ever seen in their company?”

“I would say let them fly off. What are they going to find, dumped garbage from the warships that had been in the area?” Carl chimed in, but he did sit up in his chair a little more erect.

“Normally, we would just observe, but this is not a normal situation as described by your president and your think tank under his leadership that is buried in some godforsaken desert somewhere, and the United States Navy, and all of NATO Northern Command.” Lord Durnsford stood up from his chair and placed his hands behind his back as he faced the Frenchman. “The president of the United States is calling in that favor, Colonel Farbeaux.”

“You mean calling in that favor for the fifth time in three years?” Henri said with a dirty look at Jack. “Owing him or any of these people is like owing money to the American mob: you never pay off that debt.”

“Yes, very good, Colonel. Now, it seems the security leadership of this mysterious Russian group, based somewhere we believe in the deepest, darkest, very much frozen wastelands of Siberia, has encountered you on more than one occasion. It seems you were even in this group’s custody at one point. Perhaps you know of whom I speak? Please, share what you know with Colonel Collins and Captain Everett. It may just come in handy.”

Henri allowed his breath to escape with a hiss as he angrily looked at the British intelligence man in his tweed suit and bow tie. He knew exactly who this man was referring to, and he didn’t like the memory of the man at all. He faced both Jack and Carl.

“There are rumors around which the United States, Great Britain, and Russia, possibly Germany also, have a deep closet of historical secrets. Maybe you have heard these rumors?” He looked at Collins with a crooked grin. “I can clearly state that the Russian element is in fact a reality, among other groups, that is.” He looked from Jack to Lord Durnsford. “This group, unlike the rumors toward others, is a ruthless entity and is a smaller part of a whole. The intelligence services of the United States, Great Britain, France, and Germany have long suspected that the whole is in charge of the parts. In other words, gentlemen, this group of men, from their varying departments within the government, actually runs the Russian state and have for the past eighty years, more so as perestroika moved forward. The freedoms the Russian people thought they were getting were all a sham.”

“You mean Putin and the politburo aren’t in charge?” Carl asked as if Farbeaux were joking. He could tell by Lord Durnsford that Henri’s words had the spark of truth behind them, which made Everett’s normally strong body feel ill. “I mean, in general conversation, why didn’t you ever say anything?”

Farbeaux looked at Carl with a questioning glare. “Just what would have been the benefit to myself for doing so, Captain?” He said the word Captain as if it left a bad taste in his mouth.

“The head of this Russian group’s intelligence, their security arm, is a man whom you may have met, Colonel Farbeaux. A ruthless individual who was trained by the true leadership cast of this underground organization to this group, and one man in particular whom we have yet to identify. We here at MI6 believe he is responsible for this mirror group and acts as the internal security for all of them combined.”

“I don’t know his employers or this mysterious group’s governing body you speak of. But a Russian I once heard of murdered an entire town in the Ukraine for hiding state artifacts after the fall of the Soviet Union. If it’s the man I am thinking of, yes, I did meet him once. In deference to my two American friends here, the man is the most capable killer and guardian of Russian history and state secrets I have ever heard of. He will kill children to keep the world from knowing what it is they know. Yes, he is a man who makes the world a ruthless and hateful place. And also a man I care never to meet again.”

“The very gentleman of whom it is I speak. Colonel Farbeaux, I’m afraid I have some bad news for you, sir. The president, in conjunction with the British prime minister and NATO command, has activated your temporary military status to active duty, and said status has been affirmed by Paris. You are now, once more, attached to the United States and British armed forces. You are to accompany Colonel Collins and Captain Everett on a joint NATO mission to recover something this mysterious Russian group may have lost. You will have no trouble finding this lost item, since your navy has just now begun to take her in tow in the North Atlantic. Your specific orders, Colonel, are to identify this man for Captain Everett and Colonel Collins during their mission to observe naval assets in the area and the mysterious circumstances surrounding what is now happening.”

The three men remained quiet as Lord Durnsford smiled down at the seated officers. Another message flimsy was produced by the British master spy. This one he again handed to Jack. He read.

“Are you joking?”

“We here at MI6 never have developed that sense of humor you Americans so readily ascribe to. No, no joke, Colonel.”

Jack handed the message to Carl.

“Proceed by military transport to confidential location and recover war matériel currently in NATO possession. Said war matériel is a derelict, and NATO has declared provenance and has initiated salvage rights over its discovery. You and your selected group will proceed to said undisclosed location, investigate, and determine if this war material should be considered a threat to the national security of NATO treaty nations.” Carl looked up from the flimsy. “Signed, Compton, advisory board chairman to the president on military and international affairs.”

None of the three men made comment about the disguised cover for their own director.

“Okay, what’s up, Lord Durnsford?” Collins asked as Henri stood and paced, not liking where this thing was going. “And why Henri? We could just get a description and go from there.”

“Colonel Farbeaux’s one job is to identify this man for our governments, and if at all possible, one of you three will kill him. Circumstances as to why this assassination is necessary will be readily apparent upon meeting this psychopath. I stress, Colonel Farbeaux, only if you can identify this man as the Butcher of Kharkov.”

“And us?” Everett asked.

“You, Captain and Colonel, will be in charge of a boarding party that will secure said war matériel. The final part of your instructions is to make sure Colonel Farbeaux follows his orders and, if need be, fulfill the directive as described in your orders.”

“You said this matériel was just taken in tow. Are we speaking about a ship?” Jack asked.

“Yes, we are, Colonel. A very large and even stranger ship than you could ever believe. A ship that was sunk during World War II and is now making a reappearance in the North Atlantic at a most inopportune time.”

“And why would this Russian murderer be there?” Everett beat Jack to the burning question.

“Because”—Lord Durnsford grinned broadly—“this particular ship belongs to the Russian Navy, and they have sent their number-one killer and his mysterious group to recover it. All our little puzzle pieces have now fit together somewhat nicely thanks to some highly questionable purloining of information from a very inquisitive source and his equally criminal computer somewhere within your national borders.”

“Oh, that’s just great,” Carl mumbled as he sat down. He didn’t go on to say they were now headed into danger thanks to a twentysomething kid and his maniacal new girlfriend named Europa.

“Yes, yes, it is great, Captain, as that may be the most important ship ever to set sail in the history of the world.” He smiled broadly. “You see, we believe, as do your own higher management, that this ship is only the second vessel in history to have gone to, and returned from, another dimension.”

The three men exchanged looks. After what they had just gone through to return Carl to this world, they had no doubt that this older scientific achievement had really taken place, and that was the reason why they all felt ill at that very moment.

“Gentlemen, the rest of your team will join you here shortly. They are taking a very fast aircraft and will arrive on time. Once you’ve breached Tildy, you can join the fun there with a squad of Her Majesty’s Royal Marines traveling with you.” Lord Durnsford walked to the door and opened it to leave.

“Who is Tildy?” the Frenchman asked.

“Why, it’s only the bloodiest, most hair-raising hurricane in the past five years. Good luck, gentlemen.”

Henri sat hard into a chair.

“My distaste for you has grown exponentially with every experience I have ever shared with you two… gentlemen.”

5

After the mission briefing explaining what it was Compton expected from the security man, the cryptozoologist, and the engineer on what their duties were to be once they joined with Jack and the others, none of them were feeling very perky after the supersonic flight from the western United States to Washington. Master Chief Jenks was beside the hangar, throwing up his early morning breakfast. Charlie Ellenshaw would wince every time the engineer heaved. He shook his head as he turned to face Jason Ryan, who was saying farewell to the second pilot to have flown them from Nellis Air Force Base in Nevada to the East Coast. Those two aircraft and the speed at which they got to Washington were the reasons for Jenks’s upset stomach. Ryan looked from the second pilot, after shaking his hand, to the F-15E Strike Eagle he had used to fly the master chief supersonic over the continental United States. The double-seat fighter had made life rough for Jenks. As for Ellenshaw, Ryan had learned that nothing of a mechanical fear ever entered into the cryptozoologist’s mind.

Ryan slowly pulled his flight suit off, and Ellenshaw did the same. He looked at Jenks and smiled.

“Ready for round two, Master Chief?”

Jenks wiped his mouth and then unzipped his flight suit. “What do you mean?”

At that moment, a large hangar door started to slide open. The bright sunshine of the dying evening illuminated an amazing sight as the giant aircraft was rolled out of his hidden lair.

“Oh, shit,” Jenks mumbled. “You flyboys and your damnable toys.”

“Wow,” was all Charlie could manage.

Ryan, disappointed that he wouldn’t be flying on this leg of their journey, was just as stunned as his companions when he saw the supersonic bomber as it rolled free of the hangar. The B-1b Lancer bomber was an evil-looking aircraft if Ryan had ever seen one. Its sleek design made her identifiable to any aggressive nation that this bird meant serious business.

“Gentlemen, our ride awaits. We should be in England in under two hours.”

Over the sound of the Lancer’s engines spooling up, they once more heard Master Chief Jenks as he again dry heaved in anticipation of another record-setting flight — this time over the Atlantic.

The closer Houston got to the hurricane’s eye, the calmer the seas became. That was the break they had been waiting for as Captain Thorne looked at the video screen whose picture was being provided by their own periscope. Technically, he was in command of this maneuver, and he was watching with fear etched on his face as the Aegis battle cruiser USS Shiloh fought the diminishing swells as they battled with the somewhat calmer eye of Hurricane Tildy. He watched nervously as the eight-man rigging team had scrambled aboard the derelict Russian vessel Simbirsk. The team had successfully managed to get the tow cable attached with only one moment of sheer terror involved when one of the Shiloh’s crewmen almost went overboard when one of the larger swells of green sea had swept over the deck of Simbirsk. Thorne exhaled as did most crewmen on the bridge as the two ships were finally mated.

“XO, send out the order again to Captain Johnson on board Shiloh. The riggers are not to enter the interior of the ship. They are to await our team arriving from England.”

“Yes, sir.”

Thorne turned back to the video monitor and spied the activity aboard the Russian ship. It looked as if the cable had been strung and the Shiloh began the slow move from the perimeter of Tildy to its exact center. The eye of the hurricane would protect them well enough if the course of the bad weather didn’t suddenly change. He saw on the monitor the powerful turbines of the Shiloh spring to life. His eyes went to the other two escorts as they took up station in front of and behind Shiloh.

“Okay, let’s button her up and observe. Chief of the Boat, take her down to two hundred and get us on a pace with our surface assets.”

“Aye. Give me ten degrees down bubble and bring her up to four knots.”

The command was passed, and Houston once more went deep. Thorne took the 1 MC mic from the stanchion.

“To all crew, this is the captain. For the duration, we will be running silent. We fully expect company on this little foray, and we don’t need to let them know that we are here. Sonar, conn.”

“Conn, sonar,” came the reply.

“I fully expect any visitor to come from the northeast. They may have a submerged asset accompanying them. Keep your ears sharp, no surprises.”

“Conn, sonar, aye.”

“Chief of the Boat, as soon as we settle in, I want Houston to belly up to the Simbirsk and get real cozy with her underside. I figure it’s a good place to hide. To the rest of the crew, we will be deep for the next hour, so let’s get some hot food in our bellies and some rest.”

As the deck angled sharply downward, the crew of USS Houston knew they wouldn’t have the appetite for the hot food nor the rest the captain had just ordered.

Apprehension of Russian warships bearing down on them through the raging temper of Hurricane Tildy had dulled their sensations of hunger and weariness.

Dr. Niles Compton waited outside the classroom. He looked at the digital clock in the hallway and then felt Will Mendenhall beside him. Niles nodded at Will and then gestured by his nod toward the classroom directly across from the one he was standing next to. Will went, and he too waited.

A soft chime sounded, and the classrooms along the long and winding corridor opened, and associates of the Group exited. The military and civilian personnel smiled and conversed in soft tones until their eyes fell upon the director. It was as if high school students suddenly came upon the principal. Most hurried past with a worried glance back. Will Mendenhall smiled at the effect the director had on the newer people. He was rather intimidating with his eye patch and glasses that covered only his good eye. He was scary before with just the knowledge of his brilliance; now, it was both his appearance and his brain.

Niles waited until the classroom was empty and then strode inside. Sarah McIntire was there putting her teaching materials into a briefcase when she saw the director walk in.

“What brings you down to level eighteen, Doctor? A little brushup on geologic formations?”

Niles placed his hands into his pants pockets and smiled. “Unless it has something to do with the cave system around us caving in, I’ll leave the expert stuff to you.”

Sarah smiled and then snapped the clasps to her case closed.

“You have a minute?”

Sarah tilted her head, and then a curious look crossed her face. “Don’t tell me Jack’s already in trouble,” she said as she left the classroom and stepped into the elevator.

Compton smiled just as both Will and Anya Korvesky stepped inside. Anya was also carrying her teaching aids in a case on her Introduction to Surveillance 101. She looked at Sarah with the question written on her face.

“Level seven, please,” Niles said to the Europa-controlled elevator.

All three waited while Niles watched the digital display of the floors passing by when he suddenly stopped the elevator’s progress. The air-cushioned ride stopped.

“Look, Virginia had to know because of her position as AD, so she was brought in on a loop the president wanted kept to a minimum. I wanted to tell all three of you the truth of what’s happening, both in the North Atlantic and of our suspicions in Russia. Jack and his team have been diverted to the situation I referred to in the Atlantic; reasons will be explained later. I wanted to explain this to you because for the next day or so, I will be working with Dr. Morales on a research assignment ordered directly by the president involving suspicions with our Russian friends. I will not have the time to take with you three asking questions. Yes, the assignment Colonel Collins is on is dangerous. They will be in harm’s way. You’ll just have to trust me when I say it will be explained when this is all confirmed. For now, leave Dr. Morales alone to his work. Bite the bullet. Personal relationships aside, this is business of the most serious time.”

Sarah started to say something, but Niles cut her off by ordering the elevator to continue. Sarah got the hint and shut up. The doors opened, and Niles stepped out without a word, and the doors closed again. The three occupants stood there not knowing what had just happened. The elevator started to move downward on its silent, air-cushioned ride.

“Well, I guess our boys are in trouble again,” Will said.

“And we were left out of the loop.”

Sarah looked at Anya. “Is there some light you can share on what the director was referring to when he brought up the Russians?”

Anya shook her head. “Wasn’t my area of expertise, and getting anything out of Mossad, as you know, is difficult at the best of times. No, I have nothing.”

“All I know is Jason and Charlie are now moving to the East Coast by supersonic transport,” Will replied.

“And?” Sarah said, looking at Mendenhall.

Anya smiled. “He’s mad because he doesn’t get to play with the other kids.”

Will frowned and hit the floor button instead of using the voice command.

“You’re damn right I am. Bastards.”

The sun was an hour away from broaching the skies to the east when Jack, Carl, and Henri were driven to the farthest reaches of the British naval base at Portsmouth. The United States Marine guards were silent as they pulled up to a large dock area. Jack glanced back at Carl when they saw the inordinate amount of navy shore patrol. It was also noticed that none of these patrolmen had their standard sidearms and nightsticks. They were fully armed with British-made L85A2 IW standard assault rifles. Collins counted no fewer than thirty-five of the naval security men. The marines remained quiet and offered nothing other than a “Good morning” to the three men as they stepped from the American-made Humvee.

The three found themselves looking around at the mass of personnel but, with the heavy roll of fog in the area, couldn’t see anything much beyond the pier they stood upon.

“Colonel Collins?”

Jack turned at the sound of the voice. A tall man in a green flight suit stood with a clipboard in his hands. He saw the Union Jack in a lighter shade of green on the man’s shoulder. Next to him were two other men dressed similarly. These two carried four large duffel bags.

“I’m Collins,” Jack said as he stepped forward.

“Sir, I am Flight Lieutenant Daniel Killeen. These are for you and your men, Colonel.”

The two men standing next to the Royal Navy officer stepped forward and handed three duffel bags to Henri and Carl. One other they sat next to Jack.

“I believe we were able to accommodate everything that was requested by your State Department.”

Jack exchanged another look with Carl. The mention of the State Department was a surprise. They quickly deduced that Niles was running a game on somebody. It was the never-ending song and dance in regard to covering up anything and everything about the Event Group. Jack knew it was wise not to comment on the observation. He leaned over and unzipped the bag at his feet. His brows rose as he spied the contents.

“The M4s and ammunition are from the stores of USS Breckenridge. She’s a destroyer escort visiting Portsmouth. My boss says your boss felt you would be more comfortable with American arms rather than British.”

“No offense meant,” Everett said as he lifted one of the small M4s from the bag and examined it.

“None taken, Captain.” The Royal Navy man then reached back, and one of his men slipped a parcel into his hand. “Also, this was forwarded through your embassy for delivery to you. I have instructions that say to tell you it’s a gift from a Dr. Morales.” A confused look crossed the officer’s face. “He states you may need Marilyn Monroe’s advice at some point. He said in his instructions to you that it is a closed-looped system and is not attached to the rest of her body. I hope you understand what that means, because we, sir, do not, which was obviously intended.”

Collins smiled as he took the larger-than-normal laptop computer from the British officer.

“Thank you. It does make sense.”

“I’m beginning to believe that kid knows his stuff,” Carl said as he and Jack again exchanged amused looks.

Lieutenant Killeen looked at the wristwatch under his rolled-up sleeve. “The other members of your party will be arriving shortly. They are currently en route from London. It seems at least one of the new arrivals was extremely unhappy about their flight accommodations thus far.”

“Jenks,” both Carl and Jack said simultaneously.

“Yes, I believe that was the name your air force crewmen claim. They seem not to like that man very much.”

Henri opened a duffel and pulled out a black Nomex BDU. He held it up to Collins with raised brows.

“Relax, Colonel, you’ve always looked good in black,” Everett said as he placed the M4 back inside the first bag.

The thump of heavy rotors broke the still of the morning. The fog parted as the British officer again looked at his watch. “Right on time.”

Jack, Carl, and Henri watched as a United States Navy Seahawk helicopter, the naval version of the army’s Blackhawk, slowly pushed the fog away and settled down to the ancient wooden pier. They heard the loud cracking and popping as the large helicopter and her extreme weight taxed the ancient dock. Collins was beginning to wonder just how far out in the boondocks they were if the pier was that old. Someone didn’t want others to even know they were there, or didn’t want prying eyes to see something the British wanted kept hush-hush.

With the four-bladed rotors still turning, the sliding door on the port side opened, and an angry Master Chief Jenks hopped out, pushing the crew chief’s helping hands away. He removed a cold cigar and was about to chew the young man’s head off when Jason Ryan jumped out and got in between them. He was followed by a purely thrilled Charlie Ellenshaw, looking ridiculous in a blue flight suit that had been supplied to him by the US Air Force. Ryan waved at the waiting trio and then gently nudged the angry master chief forward.

Ryan saluted Collins and then shook hands with both Henri and Everett.

“So, how was your little flight?” Jack asked as Charlie joined them.

“I’ll tell you how it was.” Jenks lit a fresh cigar and then angrily looked at Collins. “At times that air force jockey flew so low I thought we hit several seagulls.”

“From my understanding, we’ve lost more B-1s to bird strikes than enemy fire,” Everett said with a smile.

“The flight was good, Colonel,” Ryan answered quickly while looking at Jenks in a successful attempt at shutting his complaining down. “The master chief, like myself, I fully admit, doesn’t like anything he’s not in control of.”

“What in the hell does the air force know about control? That jock was all over the sky!”

“Jenksy, my understanding is that the B-1B Lancer not only had to hide from Russian eyes, but it also had to avoid a little thing called Hurricane Tildy,” Jack said as he started to distribute equipment.

“While almost doing double the speed of sound. It was quite a ride,” Jason said as he accepted a Nomex commando BDU from Everett.

“Yes, positively thrilling,” Charlie agreed as he looked at his new commando BDU. Again, his eyes widened with pure delight.

“Gentlemen, please, we are now officially behind schedule. You may prepare and dress aboard our transport.”

The six men looked around at the rising fog, confused as to their mentioned transportation. And again the British flight officer looked at his watch.

“Ah, listen. Here she comes.”

A whine pierced their ears. The old pier they stood upon shook and rattled, and even more ancient nails popped free of the grip they had at holding the old wood together. Suddenly, an earsplitting sound erupted from the sky, and they all felt the heavy downdraft as a large craft penetrated the remaining fog. The four jet engines easily evaporated the veil of fog closest to the wooden pier as the strange-looking aircraft started to settle.

“My God, I thought she was just a rumor,” Ryan said as he allowed the black Nomex suit to fall back into the open duffel.

“We hope the Russians have a similar way of thinking,” the Royal Navy officer said as he watched the fifty-five-foot airframe settle onto her extensive undercarriage. It looked like a larger version of the American-built Boeing V-22 Osprey VTOL, the vertical takeoff and landing system designed for the US Marine Corps. Instead of propellers, this version held four turbofan jet engines for each engine stanchion at the far edges of the tilt-wing craft. These started to wind down as the newest version of the amazing machine landed.

Jack looked at Ryan, who stood amazed. The aircraft was black and had a Royal Navy bull’s-eye emblazoned in even blacker paint along her fuselage. As she settled, a rear ramp slowly started to open.

“Gentlemen, this is your ride into the Atlantic,” Killeen said as he also examined the aircraft. “This is a joint venture between your Marine Corps and our Royal Marines. There are only four like it in the world — two here and two at Camp Pendleton in California. They are all still going through testing. This one is assigned to us. I give you the V-25 Night Owl. She’s capable of carrying seventy-five fully equipped commandos and introducing them into hostile theaters of war with stealth and speed. She is capable of supersonic flight with her swept-wing delta design. She is one amazing piece of equipment, I can assure you.”

The six men exchanged uneasy looks, and it was of course Jenks who had to voice the concern they were all feeling.

“Okay, that’s a good speech. Now, tell us how many copies have you lost in her testing phase.” Jenks stared at the officer and puffed on his cigar.

“Six.”

Jenks just nodded. “If my engineers had a success rate like that, we would have been out on our asses faster than—”

“Okay, Master Chief, we get it,” Jack said, eyeing Jason as if Jenks’s outburst was somehow his fault.

“Gentlemen, I assure you we will get you to your destination… alive.” Lieutenant Killeen smiled as he slapped the master chief on the shoulder, which elicited a scowl, and then gestured for them to board the amazing-looking aircraft. “Your magic carpet awaits.”

“I remember when the navy actually used ships. Wasn’t that a freakin’ novel time.”

They all smiled as Jenks turned and left for the boarding ramp.

“As much as I hate to agree with that foul little man, I myself have serious reservations about flying into a hurricane with that thing,” Henri said as he too followed Jenks.

Jack swallowed as the V-25 Night Owl started to spool her four wing-mounted engines up. Carl leaned into Collins.

“You okay?” he asked. “Did you bring your music?”

Collins shook his head.

“Well, I’m sure we can dig something up.”

Jack swallowed again as he watched Charlie, Ryan, and Jenks board the Night Owl. Everett took both duffel bags in hand and then gestured for Jack to go ahead.

The assault upon a ship that had become even more famous than the specter of the famous ghost ship the Flying Dutchman was under way.

Tildy’s circling winds were now over 155 miles per hour.

6

The mighty warship rolled heavily to port, knocking most of the crew on the battle bridge from their feet. A one-inch-thick window smashed inward as the green sea poured into the bridge. The large space of bridge was filled with the stench of vomit as men could no longer bear the attack on their inner ears and the motion sickness caused by the merciless rolling seas.

Captain Kreshenko regained his feet with the assistance of Second Captain Dishlakov.

“Seal that breach!” the XO shouted above the roar of the hurricane.

“Hang on!” someone shouted as another forty-foot wave cascaded over the immense deck of the battle cruiser.

Kreshenko cringed as he heard steel being sheared away from their uppermost mast. Electrical circuits shorted out all across the electronic suite of the battle bridge. Fires erupted as Kreshenko calmly replaced his hat.

“Captain, we are receiving a distress call from the Ustinov. They say they have lost their forward missile mounts and are taking on water in their engineering spaces.”

Kreshenko and Dishlakov ran to the aft windows and raised their binoculars to the north. At first they couldn’t see the missile cruiser, and their hearts simultaneously skipped a beat. Then they saw the smaller cruiser’s radio and electronic warfare mast rise above the crashing sea. Their momentary relief was stolen away as they watched an explosion erupt on the forward spaces of her deck. The fireball rose until the raging sea and high winds consumed it.

“She’s going to buckle, Captain!” Dishlakov shouted as more seawater rushed in through the damaged bridge window on their own battered warship.

“Helm, give me twenty degrees to port. We’ll circle slowly and assist as best we can. Have a rescue team ready to take on survivors if needed.”

“Aye.”

“Belay that order, please.”

Both officers turned as a man came through the port hatch, shaking water from his rain gear.

“Helm, bring her around,” Kreshenko again ordered.

“I said disregard that order,” Colonel Salkukoff said as he stripped the rubber parka from his body.

“We have a ship in trouble. Those are Russian sailors out there. We will assist.”

Salkukoff smiled and then nodded toward the Russian marines stationed on the battle bridge. With his nod, both guards pulled out their sidearms. One was leveled at the nineteen-year-old helmsman.

“Captain, it will be you who causes the death of your helmsman if he obeys that order. We are near to breaking through into the eye of the hurricane, so we shall remain on course. Do you understand?”

Before the glaring Kreshenko could respond, Peter the Great heeled hard over to the starboard side. This time it felt as though the giant battle cruiser could never recover. She was close to capsizing.

“Helm, turn her into the roll!” Kreshenko yelled over the din.

Another heavy wave crashed into the ship as the order was given. This time they all felt the pressure as Peter the Great was totally submerged for the briefest of moments before she rose back from the killing seas and took a large imaginary breath of life.

“Captain, we have a distress call from the Ustinov. She has buckled along her centerline mass. She has hull plate separation. They are requesting assistance.”

Dishlakov looked from the two marines holding their weapons on the captain and the helmsman toward the barbarian who was ordering their ship to turn their backs on a sister vessel in distress.

“Captain, we have lost the forward missile-loading hatch. We’re taking on water in the forward spaces.”

Kreshenko cursed as the calls kept getting more desperate and frequent.

“Send out a call to the Admiral Levchenko: assist the Ustinov and take on her crew.”

“No, I want the Admiral Levchenko to form up with us. We will break into the eye together. The Ustinov is on her own. Send a message to her captain and crew; they will never be forgotten for their bravery,” Salkukoff said as blandly as he could.

As Peter the Great went down into another trough, Kreshenko pushed his way past his men to face the Russian colonel. When one of the marines faced him with a loaded weapon, Kreshenko merely batted the handgun away angrily. “Stand down, marine,” he said menacingly. The rest of the bridge crew became aware of the confrontation and watched. Most were ready to assist their captain after the recent order to abandon their fellows had been said aloud, which would have angered any sailor the world over.

“Captain, if you do not follow my orders, I will command your weapons officer to target that cruiser and finish sinking her. Do you understand?”

Kreshenko was silent as he took a firm hold on the helm console when the battle cruiser once more fought her way back to the surface of the roiling seas.

The bridge-wing hatch opened, and ten of the colonel’s commandos entered the bridge. These men didn’t look seasick at all. They all had automatic weapons held at port arms. The colonel never removed his dark eyes from the captain. He was sure his bluff was about to be called when the announcement was made.

“Ustinov just broke her back!” one of the bridge lookouts called.

Kreshenko screamed a curse as he snatched the binoculars from his first officer and focused to the north. Tears of rage and frustration filled his eyes as he fought to see through the ravages of the hurricane. He felt his heart sink as the raked bow of the Ustinov rose high into the air at the same moment her stern section with her proudly proclaimed name in Cyrillic rose and then, astonishingly, the two halves of the ship crashed together, shredding steel and men in one massive action. She had snapped in the middle. A giant wave struck the forward section and slammed it into another advancing wave. Then her stern slipped beneath the waves, and as it did, a tremendous explosion illuminated the dark world in which they had entered. Kreshenko lowered the glasses and angrily tossed them to Dishlakov. He stormed toward Colonel Salkukoff, who stood bracing himself against the rolling waves.

“Captain, Admiral Levchenko is turning to assist,” the radar officer reported with his eyes firmly on the drama taking place only feet away.

The standoff between the Russian colonel and the captain of Peter the Great was a force of wills.

“The Ustinov is gone, Captain,” Second Captain Dishlakov announced as he turned and allowed the binoculars to fall from his hand.

Kreshenko’s eyes never left the colonel’s.

“Helm, resume original course and speed. Radio, send a message to the destroyer — form up on Peter the Great until we breach the eye.”

“Aye, Captain.”

“Most wise, Captain,” Salkukoff said as he gestured for the marines and commandos to lower their weapons.

“Two hundred and fifty-six officers and crew were on board that cruiser.”

“True Russians all, Captain.”

The giant cruiser once more bashed her way into a deep depression and then fought her way back up.

“So, we are back to praising the dead again for their heroic sacrifices? Eighty years of meaningless deaths ordered by men like you was not enough? You wish to return to the days of not being accountable for Russian deaths?”

The colonel gestured for the hatchway to be opened by his men.

“Inform me when we are close to breaching the eye, Captain. That’s when real sacrifices may have to be made.”

All eyes on the bridge watched the man and his men leave. Then their eyes went to the two marines who had sided against their captain. They holstered their weapons and then lowered their eyes. Kreshenko went to the forward windows and stared out into the killer hurricane. He was joined by Second Captain Dishlakov.

“I knew her second in command. He just had a new baby daughter a week ago,” Dishlakov said as he took up station next to his bearded captain.

Kreshenko didn’t respond. As far as he was concerned, his entire crew had just become pariahs in the eyes of the Russian Navy and, for that matter, most other navies around the globe. They had just turned their backs on sailors in peril and allowed them to drown.

“Keep a close eye on Admiral Levchenko. She’s tough, but she’s not as tough as the cruiser we just lost. Tell her to form up and stay close.” His eyes shot to the closed hatchway. “We may need her more than ever if we make it through this hurricane.”

Dishlakov caught the meaning, and then he started giving orders.

Peter the Great, along with her tough little destroyer escort Admiral Levchenko, was only thirty minutes away from entering the eye of Hurricane Tildy.

With the calmer seas, the small task force made a slow circle inside the hurricane’s eye. The Houston was still submerged beneath the four-foot seas while De Zeven, the Dutch frigate, kept station a thousand yards behind the American Aegis cruiser Shiloh and the disabled Russian cruiser Simbirsk.

“Radar, conn,” Captain Thorne said aloud as he peered once more through the periscope, “any surface contacts outside our own?”

“Conn, radar, nothing, Captain.”

“Sonar, conn, any submerged contacts?” Thorne swung the periscope around 180 degrees.

“Conn, sonar, just three whales heading out of here. We’re clear at this time.”

Thorne was about to do something no submarine commander ever ordered lightly.

“Chief of the Boat, surface.”

“Aye, Captain. Blow negative to the mark, fifteen degrees up bubble. Give me full rise on the planes.” The chief hit the alarm warning, and the beluga call was made. “Surface, surface.”

For the five hundred crewmen of both the Dutch frigate De Zeven and the missile cruiser Shiloh, an amazing sight greeted them as the massive, spherical bow of USS Houston broke the surface of the sea. She rose high into the air and then slowly settled back as the calmer waters inside the eye washed away from her sleek black hull. The white numbers on her sail tower shone brightly in the falsehood of sunshine that was the eye of Tildy.

Captain Thorne was the fourth man through the conning tower hatch. His lookouts were posted high on the electronics array as Houston came free of her natural element. Thorne scanned the area and was satisfied that his boat was as safe as it could possibly be for the moment. He turned and scanned every and all areas before he felt he could relax. He reached over and hit his intercom switch.

“Gary, inform De Zeven and Shiloh this is only a courtesy visit. They are to maintain current course and speed with a straight cut across the eye at thirty-minute intervals. If anyone’s watching, that should keep them on their toes.”

“Aye,” came the answer. “Captain, we have a secure communiqué from Fleet, your eyes only.”

“Send it up,” Thorne said, wondering what sort of maniacal order he was now being given.

A boatswain mate popped his head up through the hatch and handed Thorne the message flimsy on a clipboard. He signed for it and then read. He read it again. He let out a pent-up breath and then hit the intercom once more.

“Gary, somebody’s got a real seashell up their ass. Inform Shiloh that she’ll be taking on representatives of National Command Authority in about half an hour. If whoever they are make it through the hurricane, that is. Inform them to make ready helo recovery. Also, inform De Zeven that she’ll have to be close aboard for any sea rescue operations that may have to be conducted.”

“Aye, aye.”

Thorne adjusted his view of the 130-mile wide eye and spied the heavy, roiling clouds that made up the outer fringes of the killer hurricane. It was like they were inside a glass jar with a menacing swirl of twisting black clouds marking the circular boundaries of life or death. His binoculars went to the ancient battle cruiser Simbirsk. He could see the Shiloh’s riggers were still securing her towline and maintaining the strain. The men were having a much easier time of it than they had before entering the eye. Thorne relaxed.

Thus far, they had not had another blast of electromagnetic pulsing as they had before. The Simbirsk sat lazily behind the Aegis cruiser as if she were nothing more than a normal disabled ship being assisted. The darkened silhouette of the Russian warship gave the captain a severe reaction. It was one of fear, and that was something Captain Thorne was not comfortable with. Once more he hit the switch on the intercom as the cool spray of seawater washed over him.

“Weapons, keep a running track on our Russian mystery. If she does something I don’t like, I want to be able to put two fish into her fast. Warm up two ASROCs.”

“Already done, Captain,” Gary Devers called up.

Now, he had not only torpedoes targeted on the battle cruiser, he had the sophisticated antiship missile system targeting the phantom. Still, Thorne didn’t feel safe. His eyes moved to the swirling hurricane. The cylindrical pattern reminded Thorne of a cage. A very violent cage. His eyes settled on a spot to the north. He wondered if there were any surprises waiting to emerge from the dark skies circling around the small grouping of ships.

“Okay, let’s button her up. Dive, dive!”

Within fifteen seconds, the bow of Houston slowly sank beneath the waves.

At twenty-two thousand feet, the ride was rougher than any of the men aboard had ever faced. The Royal Marines were in no better shape, and it made the Americans wonder if they would be any good at their jobs if and when they would be needed. Jack was wondering the same thing about him and his own people. The only ones who seemed to be handling the rough weather well were Henri Farbeaux, Jason Ryan, and Carl.

The V-25 hit a bump in the road, and every man aboard went high in their seats until their safety harnesses stopped their flight to the Night Owl’s roof. They all heard the whine of the turbofan engines as they spooled up to regain the altitude they had just lost. Jack closed his eyes and held his belly pack tighter to his chest. It was Everett who noticed the colonel’s discomfort. Henri did also but kept his eyes neutral.

Everett leaned over and nudged Collins on the arm. “Having a rough go of it?”

Jack looked briefly at Carl and then shook his head. The Kevlar helmet kept Carl from seeing Jack’s eyes, but he knew the colonel had just lied to him. As far as Everett knew, he and Sarah McIntire were the only two people on the planet who knew that Jack had become terrified about flying. The man had over two hundred parachute jumps in his career, with eleven of those combat jumps, and now after all these years, it had finally started to overwhelm the career officer.

“Give me the music and I’ll have the pilot pipe it in back here,” Carl said as he watched the colonel. Collins shook his head once again. “What, you don’t have any music?”

“Left them all in England,” was all he could say.

Carl looked at Jason Ryan, who was sitting straight across from them next to the master chief and Charlie Ellenshaw. Charlie looked even paler than he usually was, and the mess of vomit at his feet and many others’ attested to the fact that none of them were used to this. Then Carl’s eyes roamed over to the Royal Marines, who were off in their own worlds of misery. He spied them and then made a choice. He unsnapped his harness, and it was Collins who looked at him as if he had lost his mind. The V-25 shook and rose. It then fell and rose again as Everett crashed across the small aisle and leaned into the man he had chosen.

“Any of you men bring any music with you?” he shouted, catching the attention of several others next to the marine.

“Excuse me, sir?” the young white-faced sergeant asked above the whine of engines and the rage of the hurricane.

“Music. Did you men bring any music?”

The sergeant shook his head while his look asked Carl if he had gone nuts.

“I think Blavey has some,” a large man said as he leaned over and faced Everett.

“Who is that?” Carl asked.

“That’s him, sir. He’s a Karaoke nut. Brings his CDs everywhere. Against regs, but he tends to forget about protocol when it comes to his music. He’s a bleedin’ Elvis impersonator.” The large corporal nudged the slight man next to him. Carl saw the kid looked as if he weighed no more than one hundred pounds. What kind of Elvis impersonator was he? “Hey, Blavey. Wake up. The captain wants one of your CDs.”

The boy’s eyes opened wide as if someone had just informed him they were crashing into the sea. He jerked awake fully and focused on the men around him. Everett could see that the kid hadn’t been dozing; he had been praying. With a zombie look on his young face, the kid reached into his pants pocket aligned along the side of his calf and produced several silvery CDs. He held them out to Carl as if he didn’t care one way or the other if he accepted them or not. Carl took one and then handed the rest back to the kid. He took it to Jack.

“Looks like Elvis is all we have,” he said, holding out the one CD he had taken. Jack just stared straight ahead.

Charlie Ellenshaw nudged Jason Ryan, who was busy smiling at all the sick humanity around him. He knew them all well — every one a landlubber. He smirked. Charlie nudged him again, and Jason’s eyes rose to see what had attracted Ellenshaw’s attention. He saw a white-faced colonel and was shocked to realize that the colonel had become terrified of flying. He had suspected it for quite some time, but he and Will Mendenhall had yet to see it for themselves. He was so shocked he wanted to turn away at this very strange sign of weakness that had developed in the man he respected most above all in the world, the bravest officer he had ever even heard of. He silently told Charlie not to look. Now, the reason for the colonel playing music during stressful times became evident. It was his way of taking his mind off his situation.

Jack didn’t seem to hear Carl. He knew the problem was getting worse, and he had been able to hide it for the past few years as it slowly developed, first in his subconscious and then displaying itself in the most inopportune moments. He knew now that flying was quickly becoming a real phobia for him. The Overlord experience he knew had finally cemented his fear in unrepentant terms. It was a fear he would have to deal with upon the completion of this mission. The colonel didn’t notice Carl leave his side and advance toward the cockpit.

Ellenshaw looked at Ryan, and Jason shook his head that he should just stay out of it and watch.

Everett returned and then took his spot next to Jack just as the V-25 took another nosedive toward the raging surface of the sea far below.

“Copilot to crew,” came the call over their helmet headsets. “Five minutes to IP. We will circle and then very quickly make our descent into the eye of the hurricane. Until that time, we have a particularly peculiar request from our American brethren.”

The blast of music exploded into everyone’s ears as the CD that was given to the flight crew came blaringly to life.

“The warden threw a party in the county jail. The prison band was there and they began to wail.…”

Every head of the thirty-five men perked up at the sound of Elvis Presley as he screamed out his hit from a million years before, “Jailhouse Rock.”

Carl smiled over at Jason and Charlie. But it was Henri who guessed as to the reasoning behind the music. He had always wondered why Colonel Collins insisted on rock music before a jump or anything harrowing that had to do with flying. The music actually was therapy for him. He smirked as he realized he had just learned a large secret he could use to irritate the arrogant American colonel as much as possible. His smile grew when Collins perked up, and he nodded as if to himself as his eyes closed and his body relaxed. The music from his father’s and grandfather’s time calmed him, and he had never in his life known the reasons why. He knew psychiatrists would have a field day with him on their couches.

“Now, that’s the way you sing it, Blavey!” the Cockney-accented sergeant said as he nudged the kid next to him in his never-ending tease about his Karaoke. The young corporal took a cue from Jack across the way and visibly relaxed. Most of the men felt the relief the music provided.

That would have to be noted in the past tense, since the V-25 Night Owl took a nosedive for the deck. The signal had been given. It was time to enter the eye of the hurricane.

Tildy awaited the assault team with her open arms.

The Night Owl came into full contact with the edge of the eye, and she nearly buckled. One of her four GE turbofan engines was actually drowned by the inrush of water as she tried desperately to escape the high winds that threatened to rip her from the sky. Inside, every man held on for dear life as the death plunge through the swirling and raging clouds convinced them they were into their final minutes of life. A brief but brutal gust of wind that measured 130 miles per hour slammed into the V-25 and turned her upside down. The pilot fought the controls, fearing he was about to shear off both wings as he brought the hydraulic systems online to invert the stabilizers for vertical flight.

Captain Ezra Johnson, a graduate of Mississippi State University, had fought his way up the naval ranks. His skin color had not been the detractor he had always thought it would be. Instead, the black captain had found out that the only real prejudice in the US Navy was the fact that he and many others were not graduates of the US Naval Academy at Annapolis. Any officer was looked down upon for that little failure in education; despite this fact he had steadily climbed the ladder until he landed his command aboard the advanced missile cruiser USS Shiloh. He had accomplished this through knowing naval operations better than he knew the alphabet.

At the moment, he was cursing the higher command authority that had authorized this crazy maneuver. The British, NATO command, or even his own president had lost their collective minds to try to pull off this kind of stunt in the middle of a hurricane. The weather was still wet and the seas rolling inside the eye of Tildy, but even this was too much to try to land a VTOL aircraft aboard his ship. With the towline connected to the Russian cruiser, it was a maneuver that could spell certain destruction for his ship and crew.

As he stared through his binoculars on the starboard bridge wing, he again cursed his luck at having drawn this command from NATO organizers. While Captain Thorne on Houston was the outright ranking commander of this rear guard group, he was well aware it would be his call on whether or not the landing aboard his expensive missile cruiser would go forward. As of right now, he was willing to call off the whole thing. He swung his glasses to the starboard as the Dutch frigate De Zeven took rescue stations on her starboard beam. He moved the glasses to the towline and then to the forward decking of the Russian derelict in his charge. The line was holding as the ship lightly entered a small swell of sea and then settled.

“Minimal radar contact, Captain, bearing three-four-five degrees north.”

Johnson swung his binoculars around and spied the blackened skies swirling menacingly to the north. He knew whoever was flying this mission had lost their minds. He turned and nodded at his XO. The executive officer then reached out and hit his intercom.

“Stand by to take on aircraft. All stations, the smoking lamp is out. Rescue stations, rescue stations.”

The radar officer aboard Shiloh was a patient man and always allowed his radar men a full range of training. This time, however, his eyes never left the scope of the operator he leaned over. He was watching not just the incoming aircraft but a spot on the screen that had held his attention for the past thirty minutes. It was a solid blip on the scope that was there one minute, gone the next. Then when he thought it was a trick upon his eyes, the officer thought he saw two red blips appear and then vanish. He knew the heavy seas of the hurricane were causing havoc with everyone, including himself.

“Captain, we’re getting an intermittent contact just eighteen miles north of us. The heavy swells may be masking someone out there.”

Captain Johnson nodded. Captain Thorne aboard Houston had passed along CINCLANT’s concern about Russian interference. But he also knew the Russians were very prudent about keeping their capital ships protected at all costs. Unless this signaled a change in Russian naval philosophy, Johnson wasn’t that concerned.

“Keep a close eye out, but concentrate on the job at hand.”

“Aye, Captain. We have our inbound, thirty-two miles out and closing fast.”

Johnson shifted his focus and then quickly spied the edges of the eye. Tildy wasn’t easily giving up her secrets, as he couldn’t see anything other than hell raging across the world. Then he saw the V-25 burst through the clouds at breakneck speed.

“What are those fools doing?’ he asked as his eyes widened when the Night Owl broke into the clear. It looked as though she had one of her four engines smoking and nonresponsive. She hopped, skipped, and jumped as she fought to level out. He mentally pushed the bird down and across the calmer seas of the eye.

It took the V-25 fifteen minutes to cover the calmer air of the now dormant eye of Tildy. They came on fast, as the pilot of the VTOL was anxious to get his damaged bird into its nest before Mother Nature explained to him in no uncertain terms who exactly was in charge.

“XO, take the conn.”

Johnson tossed the XO his binoculars and then went to the bridge wing to oversee the landing operation.

“XO has the deck.”

Ezra Johnson didn’t envy the British pilot in his attempt to get his three-engine VTOL down to the deck. He shot over the three ships three times as he tried to get his bearings on the fantail of the large missile cruiser. The towline in particular was causing the Royal Navy pilot much concern.

“Goddamn, these pilots are nuts!” he shouted above the din of engine and sea noise.

The V-25 Night Owl came in low and fast.

Captain Thorne was drinking a cup of coffee and sitting close to the navigation console. His crew was getting anxious as the radio called out altitude and distance of their new arrival to the area. Every time he heard the words abort landing, he cringed, as he knew how dangerous landing a VTOL could be, especially with a towline close to the helo deck.

“Conn, sonar, we have a close-in surface contact, bearing two-three-seven degrees north, sixty-seven miles out. No, check that. Possible double contact, same bearing.”

Thorne closed his eyes for the briefest of moments when his own hidden fear was announced to his control room crew. He calmly placed the coffee cup down and stood. He took the 1 MC mic and raised it, but before he spoke, he saw the anxious faces of his young crew. He smiled. It felt false to him, and he stopped.

“Sonar, conn, how strong is the contact?”

“Intermittent at times, but course and speed are holding steady. Whoever they are, they’re in a hurry. Engine plant noises indicate cruiser and possible destroyer.”

“Get me as much information as you can. We’ll get you closer; I need detail.”

“Aye,” came the brief answer.

“Okay, let’s play. Gary, all ahead flank, course two-three-seven degrees north. Let’s give this one a wide angle. Okay, let’s put the spurs to her.”

“Aye, Skipper. All ahead flank, give me five degrees down angle on the planes, take her to six hundred. Let’s go get ’em, Chief,” XO Devers called out. He was satisfied when his people went straight into their work, more confident, more relaxed. It was just the fact that they were now doing something other than just babysitting.

“Weapons, with one and two loaded for war shot, we’ll need tubes three and four also. Gentlemen, let’s warm up the Harpoons.”

The Harpoon missile was the deadliest weapon aboard. The crew realized the NATO Reforger operation was no longer a game.

USS Houston sped toward the oncoming threat.

Jack turned his head as he snapped closed the strap to his Kevlar helmet. He saw the brighter skies outside and immediately went into his military role as leader. He nodded his unspoken thanks to Carl, who only winked in return as he adjusted his own equipment. He made eye contact with Henri, who only smirked at him. This made Jack just as uneasy as he had been before the music of Elvis had calmed him. Henri Farbeaux now knew one of his weaknesses.

“One minute, one minute,” the copilot called out as the Night Owl slowly dropped down to three hundred feet. The V-25’s crew chief managed a walk-through and checked everyone’s safety equipment.

The pilot was fighting the debilitating lack of lift on his right side where one of the two wing-mounted engines had died. The Night Owl kept wanting to dip in that direction, forcing him to think about aborting the landing altogether.

Suddenly, a red alarm sounded. Then a piercing scream came into everyone’s ears through the bird’s intercom system. Only Everett and Ryan knew what the warning was about.

“Jesus, we’re being painted!” the copilot shouted out in shock and surprise. “Oh, crap. We have missile lock!”

Above the scream of engines and the rocking of the V-25, every man aboard knew now that there was an enemy out there and they had just made their intentions known.

The NATO salvage mission was now under attack.

“Captain, someone just illuminated the Night Owl. Whoever it is, they have missile lock!”

Johnson turned back into the bridge. “Who has missile lock?”

“Unknown, sir. We have that intermittent target inside the hurricane but nothing concrete.” Johnson saw the operator jerk his head up in shock and surprise. “We have two missiles in the air!”

“Track origin and match bearings. Target ASROC. Get the close-in weaps ready.”

Above deck, the swirl and hum of the close-in weapons system, two Phalanx Gatling guns, one fore and one aft, turned and started tracking the incoming bogeys with the most powerful defensive radar system afloat — the Aegis Electronic Warfare System. The many-barreled gun started rotating, warming up. She was now ready for a gunfight.

Ezra Johnson knew that he was only trying to keep the target ship guessing, as the Shiloh had no lock on the source. All he could hope to do is make the aggressor blink.

As the crewmen of Shiloh, De Zeven, and the unseen Houston watched, the V-25 set off their countermeasures. Chaff — small bursts of aluminum foil that were ejected in packets — and hot magnesium flares exploded from the tail section of the Night Owl. Then another, then another as she laid down a false signal for the enemy missiles to track in a virtual waterfall display of fire and aluminum. The Night Owl veered sharply away from the missile cruiser in the hope they could at least draw fire away from their main asset in the area.

Johnson turned away from the departing V-25 and turned his attention on the area where the incoming hostile threat would emerge. He saw the first of the two missiles free itself of the high winds inside the hurricane. His jaw muscles clenched as one of the large missiles struggled to regain control after breaking into calmer air. He let out a sigh of relief when the missile suddenly took a nosedive and crashed into the sea. Johnson knew they would not have the same luck with the second enemy missile as they had with the first. It came directly at the maneuvering Night Owl.

“Rolling action missiles, lock on and fire!”

In the combat control center, a signal was sent out, and the small, multifaceted missile system came to life. Sixteen extremely small missiles left their tubes and streaked outward toward the incoming threat.

“Get the R2-D2s ready. They’re going to need help!” the captain hissed as he just ordered his only two close-in defensive systems to life.

Johnson grimaced, as he knew the odds were favoring the enemy and that the V-25 Night Owl was going to die.

The Russian SA-N-6 antiair missile dropped low to the sea in its rush toward the V-25. It came close to catching the topmost part of a large swell of sea but hopped easily over it. The American rolling action missiles detonated thirty-five feet in front of it, but the Russian-made system kept coming. The missile then climbed to altitude. It was on a straight line toward the Night Owl. Too late — the Phalanx, a system made by the Raytheon Corporation, acted like a garden hose. One thousand rounds of twenty-millimeter cannon fire greeted the missile. Only one of these struck the weapon as it kept climbing toward the weakened Night Owl. The Phalanx had also failed.

The missile struck the V-25 just below the left stabilizer. The wing immediately buckled as the twenty-five-pound warhead detonated. The VTOL was thirty-five feet above the sea when the wing collapsed, and the Night Owl slid over onto her side and fell into the sea. It hit with a sickening crunch as the fuselage snapped into two pieces. Men scrambled to free themselves from their harnesses as the entire V-25 started to slip very quickly beneath the calmer waters of the eye.

Men and equipment started to float to the surface as the Dutch frigate De Zeven made her way to the crash area. She slowed as men became visible, and the rescue mission started in earnest.

Captain Thorne cursed himself for allowing his surface assets to be fired upon. His weapons officer was reporting that Houston could not get weapons solutions for either vessel entering the eye of the storm.

“Weapons, as soon as those ships clear the hurricane, target two Mark-48s for each. ASROC, prepare to launch.”

Battle stations was the call, and Houston came alive as never before.

Captain Johnson cursed. He slammed his fist into the steel railing of the bridge wing as De Zeven made her run to save lives.

His first officer came out to the bridge wing and handed him a communication. The XO’s face had lost all its color.

“What is it, Sam?” he asked as he reached for the message flimsy.

“What do we do, Captain?” the XO asked.

“Target same area. Get the ASROCs warmed up. Send this to Kreshenko, whoever he is: ‘NATO invites you to come and get it.’”

Johnson knew his anger had overwhelmed his better judgment. Instead of calming things down, he just exacerbated the situation. He watched his XO vanish into the bridge area, and then he turned and examined the spot he thought their enemy would emerge from the outer edges of Tildy. His guess was only off by a mile.

“Oh, my God.”

The largest battle cruiser in the world with another, smaller escort ship broke through the outer edges of the hurricane and into the calmer eye. She made for a spectacular scene as her raked bow cut the seas apart in her race to face the NATO force. Johnson immediately recognized the form of Peter the Great, one of the nastier fears of all Western navies.

The Russians had arrived.