“Contact the Callahan. Authorize one star shell to be fired over the approaching Russian ship when it reaches the fourteen-thousand-nine-hundred-yard range.”
The message was sent to the American destroyer.
CAG Olson slipped into the TFCC and watched the developments. He looked at Admiral Kenner, but didn’t speak.
The chief looked up from his screen. “Fifteen thousand yards, sir.”
Less than a minute later word came on the tac frequency.
“We have fired one star shell from the Callahan above the approaching Russian destroyer. It is red in color. The time is 2242.”
Admiral Kenner touched a bead of moisture on his forehead. He looked at the screen.
“Range, fourteen thousand, seven hundred. The Russian ship is starting a starboard turn, Admiral.”
Kenner could feel the tension break in the TFCC. Captain Olson looked at him, gave a short nod, then left the room.
“Well done, Chief. I’ll expect an after-action report on this incident on my desk by zero-eight-hundred.”
“Yes, sir. Looks like the Russian is doing a one-eighty, Admiral.
She’s probably going back to her screening position with the fleet.”
Murdock didn’t hear about the Russian destroyer probe until the next morning at breakfast. It reminded him of the way the Indian warriors used to harass their enemies in the Wild West when they had someone surrounded. A dozen warriors would ride hard and fast directly at the enemy, then just out of range they would whirl, screech, and yell, and then ride back the way they had come.
It was a chess game here as well, one side testing the other. The star shell was a great response. It showed ability and intent without killing anyone or damaging any hardware.
Murdock checked with communications, but they had no word for him from Washington, D.C.
“When a message comes in, we’ll get it delivered to you at once, sir,” the chief on duty said. “I’ll bring it up myself.”
Murdock opened the door to their assembly room at 0800 and found all of his crew on hand.
“Nothing yet, no orders. I want every man to break down his personal weapon, clean and oil it, and make sure all of his equipment is packed and ready to roll. We might get an hour’s notice, it could be four hours, or maybe fifteen minutes. The more time we can save here means more dark time on the island.”
“If we go,” Colt Franklin cracked.
“We’ll go,” Murdock said. “Stroh guaranteed it.”
“Oh, yeah, now there is a hidebound, genuine, fucked-up guarantee if I’ve ever heard one,” Jaybird Sterling said. Half the men hooted their approval.
After the shouts died out, Jaybird grinned. “Okay, you sad-asses, let’s get at it. Breakdown and cleaning. Go.”
Murdock left, and checked the commo shack again.
Nothing. He stopped by the TFCC, and watched the input from the dozens of radar scanners. One of the techs gave a yell.
“Commander, you better take a look at this,” the chief said to the watch commander. “We’ve got a ship moving down the coast again, just like that hovercraft did yesterday. Not so fast — say, fifty knots — hugging the shore.”
“What’s his range?”
“About fifteen klicks. Nothing firm yet.”
“Keep on it, I’ll call the admiral.”
Five minutes later Admiral Kenner and the CAG watched the progress of the line on the screen.
“Definitely slower,” Admiral Kenner said. “Captain, have one of your cover guys take a look and see if it’s manned this time.”
The order went out, and Tom Two soon reported back from the sky over Kunashir Island.
“This is Tom Two, Home Base. That’s a Roger. Dropping down now to take a snoop.”
In the TFCC, they waited, watching the thin line representing the hovercraft move south along the coastline.
“They can’t think they’re fooling anyone,” Captain Olson said.
“They have their surveillance command-control planes up too. They know we can see the ship.”
“Another bluff maybe?” the watch commander said.
“We’ll see soon,” Admiral Kenner said.
“Home Base, this is Tom Two.”
“Go ahead, Tom Two.”
“Just made a pass over the craft. She’s a hovercraft, all right.
The stern loading hatch is open and I see what looks like a tank in there. She’s covered on top, so can’t be sure if she has more tanks.”
“Take another go-round, Tom Two. Look for troops topside.”
They waited. CAG Olson scratched his head. “Admiral, if they are loaded, and if they do get to a spot where they could make a landing near the captured town, what should we do?”
“That’s an easy one, CAG. If they turn and head for shore, your Tomcats are to splatter six rounds of twenty-millimeter across their bow.”
“If that doesn’t stop them?”
“Then you have another follow-on Tomcat put four rounds into the elevated wind propellers. Put her dead in the water, but with enough power to keep afloat and killing as few Russians as possible.” CAG nodded, and talked to the two Tomcats.
“Tom One and Tom Two. Any more intel on the hovercraft?”
“Home Base, the hatch is now closed so we can’t see the tank. Spot no troops anywhere on the craft.”
“Thanks, Tom One. I have a mission for you.” The CAG gave them the orders. “The second he turns toward shore on a landing run, one of you has to be in position to do the bow firing. First one across gives them the warning shots. If they don’t stop, the second one blasts those stern air propellers with four to six rounds of your best twenties.”
Both pilots acknowledged the orders.
Murdock stood to one side watching it all. At last he spotted the marks on the screen that showed where the Tomcats were flying. Both moved closer to the small town on the Pacific side of the island.
Time crept by for Murdock. He watched the lines on the screen, the blips of the planes. Then he saw the hovercraft line turn toward shore.
“The hovercraft has turned toward shore. You have weapons free on the twenties, Tom One and Tom Two,” the CAG said on the radio.
“That’s a Roger. Tom Two making my warning run.”
Lieutenant Jerome Wilcox lined up his Tomcat F-14 so he had a small lead on the hovercraft, then nosed down and put his finger on the trigger for the 20mm cannon rounds.
He pointed the nose of the F-14 just ahead of the Russian Hovercraft and hit the trigger for a ten-round burst. He saw some of the rounds explode on the water forty feet ahead of the small craft; then he was pulling up the Tomcat less than a hundred feet off the Pacific waves.
“Tom Two. I fired approximately ten rounds in front of the target.”
“This is Tom One, Home Base. Looks like the craft is not changing course. It’s about a quarter of a mile off shore.”
“Tom One, you have weapons free on the twenty-mike-mike rounds.
Hit those aboveboard air propellers if you can.”
“Roger that, moving into position.”
Lieutenant (j. g.) Ronson flexed his fingers and pulled the into a flanking attack on the hovercraft. He felt sweat bead on his forehead.
He’d never fired at a Russian boat before. Hell, he’d never fired at anything that had human beings on it. He could very well kill several men in the next few moments.
He pushed that out of his mind, and flew the bird. He came up on the hovercraft, angled slightly to keep it in his sights, then nosed down and began his strafing run. He’d been the best at this in his squadron on target practice. This was just another target.
His hand gripped the trigger, and he decided to fire on this side of the stern and across it over the four huge air propellers, and then put some rounds beyond just to be sure.
Lieutenant Ronson wanted to wipe sweat out of his eyes. He didn’t.
Then it was time. He nosed down a little more, knowing he was dangerously close to the water. He hit his mark, and pressed the trigger. He saw the first few rounds hit the water on this side of the Russian hovercraft, then rake across the deck and explode on at least the first double set of pusher/puller propellers before he was past the target and pulling out of the dive slowly, yet staying above the spray of the waves below.