A hundred yards from the cruise ship, the noise was significantly reduced. Gaspert shouted, “Astern!” and pointed toward the aft end of the ship. That would be the mustering point. His boat led the way, and the others followed, moving slowly and keeping a safe distance between them. There was no point in surviving abandon ship only to collide with each other.
As they reassembled astern, the radio reports started coming in. One by one, each boat reported a full and complete muster. As he listened to the numbers rolling in, Gaspert felt sick. Not a single boat had everyone on it that it was supposed to.
Overhead, helicopters were on the horizon, a string of them making a beeline for them. Gaspert breathed a prayer of thanksgiving then turned to the navigator. “Assign each boat a sector. I want every square inch of this water searched, consistent with safety. And get me Jefferson on the radio.”
From the moment the decision was made to go to EMCON condition Echo, an odd silence settled over in TFCC. The religious were praying, and everyone else focused his or her thoughts on just one objective, offering it up to whoever might be in charge of things, if indeed there was anybody. Both the religious and nonreligious pleas and prayers were remarkably similar.
Please, please, don’t let it hit the cruise ship. Let it be a dud, a typical example of Russian engineering. Let there be a fishing boat, anything, but please, please not the cruise ship.
The prayers went unanswered, as did the pleas and threats. Deprived of its rich, tempting target radiating energy on so many bands, the seeker had cast about until it found another source. Not nearly as enticing, certainly. A meager meal compared to the aircraft carrier and her escorts. But, approaching the missile equivalent of starvation, the secondary target would have to do.
It did not require much of a change of course for the missile to intercept Montego Bay. It twitched slightly in that air, tipped over, descended to barely above the waves and bore in.
“Flight deck, TAO! Set flight quarters for rescue-at-sea operations!” Hanson rapped out a series of orders to the other ships, turning them toward the cruise liner and ordering them to flight quarters.
“Jefferson, this is the captain of Montego Bay,” a tightly controlled voice said. “I am preparing to abandon ship. We’ve taken two hits in our stern. We have a main space fire out of control. I estimate I have approximately ten minutes to get everyone off the ship and into the water, one way or another.”
The admiral picked up the handset. “Roger, Montego Bay, copy all. I have all units en route to your position to render assistance. Just get them in the water, sir — we’ll take care of you.”
Just then, a rough foreign voice broke in. “We, also, can help.” Hearing the Russian accent froze everyone’s blood.
“That will not be necessary,” the admiral replied, ice in his voice. “If you attempt to interfere with rescue operations under my command, we will open fire. And if we do, it will be far less despicable than attacking an unarmed cruise ship. Now clear this circuit before you get more people killed.
“Montego Bay, Jefferson. We’re deploying rescue helicopters with SAR swimmers, as well as small boats, in your direction. Estimate the helicopters overhead in approximately five mikes. The small boats are proceeding at flank speed and estimate fifteen mikes. What other assistance can we render at this time, sir?”
There was no immediate answer, although a cacophony of commands, screams, and shouts came over the circuit. Evidently the captain had keyed the mike but could not yet take the time to speak to them.
Finally, Gaspert said, “We shall expect you shortly, then. Request you search the area for individuals in the water while I organize the lifeboats into some form of convoy. Suggest one of your small ships stay upwind to create a lee for lifeboat launches. When we’ve got them all in the water, we’ll proceed in your direction at best speed.”
“How long to get the platform deployed?” the admiral asked Hanson.
“Twenty minutes, maybe less.”
“Make it ten.” The admiral turned his attention back to Gaspert. “We will be prepared to receive your boats when you get here.”
“Medical teams, casualty teams,” Gaspert continued. There was more background chatter over the circuit, and from what the admiral could gather, the damage control efforts were being abandoned completely. “We are leaving the circuit, will contact you from the radio in the lifeboat as soon as possible. Montego Bay, out.”
The Russian returned to the circuit. “We did not intend to fire on the cruise ship.”
“Nor on us,” the admiral said acidly. “Funny, that doesn’t make it any better. Now clear the circuit, sir, or I will open fire.”
SIX
For once, the president heard about a military disaster from his joint chiefs of staff rather than CNN. It was an unusual situation, one that allowed him several moments to gather his thoughts and formulate a response without a camera staring him in the face. His first reaction was to use the secure hotline to grant the president of Russia the same breathing space before CNN picked up the story. Surely there was some explanation other than a Russian fighter firing on a defenseless American cruise ship. But as he reached for the hotline, a pointed little cough from the chairman, JCS, brought him up short.
“What?” the president demanded.
“Mr. President, that would be premature.” The chairman, a man noted for his bluntness, had nevertheless proved to be an excellent chairman. No, he was not a political creature, just an old artillery man who had come up through the ranks the hard way.
“And you believe this because…?” the president said, leaving the sentence unfinished.
“Because I believe we’ll find those bastards are at fault.”
The president took his hand off the hotline and leaned back in his chair. Reflexively, he started to interlace his hands behind his head, but he immediately felt a surge of inchoate discomfort at having his midsection unprotected while the chairman was in the room. He dropped his arms back down and rested his hands on the desk, annoyed at his own reaction.
Just why the hell did the chairman make him so nervous? Yes, he had picked the man, and had kept him in the position after his last term. And he’d come to rely even more on the general’s advice during the last two years. And yes, if he was reelected — not that that seemed improbable, but one never knew — he would ask this man to continue on, or at least to give him some advice on a successor.
Despite all that, there was something in the chairman’s bearing and the way he spoke and the way he carried himself that made any other man just a bit uneasy about exposing his midsection too much. Because no matter how civilized he was, how immaculate his uniform or courteous his bearing, you never, ever had any doubt that the chairman could kill you in a New York minute. Not that he would, of course. And still, as uneasy as the general’s deadly air made the president, it was the one thing that he really liked about the general as well. You always knew where you stood with him.
“Regardless of whether they are or not,” the president said carefully, “we will have to talk to them sooner or later. Taking the offensive”—the chairman was always big on taking the offensive—“means we get to select the terrain. Right?” There was a shade more of an actual question in the president’s voice than he would have liked, but the chairman ignored it. When it came to matters of military tactics, the chairman had few compunctions about treating the president as though he were the junior captain he had been when he left the Army.