Collateral (Tier One #6)
: Part 2 – Chapter 25

USS Donald Cook (DDG-75)

Ten Nautical Miles South of the 45th Parallel

The Black Sea

October 1

1045 Local Time

Commander Dustin Townsend adjusted his ball cap and walked over to the nav plot on the bridge to check the ship’s position. Almost time, he thought, looking at the rapidly closing distance between the Cook and the forty-fifth parallel. He checked his watch and was about to ask the OOD for a status report on the ready helo when she beat him to the punch.

“Captain, Growler is in the air,” the Officer of the Deck, Lieutenant Levy, said. Dusty had ordered the MH-60R Seahawk in the air twenty minutes ago and was beginning to think the flyboys had gotten lost trying to find their way from the wardroom to the stern. Evasive maneuvers were impossible to conduct with the Seahawk sitting on the helo deck, and he needed her antisubmarine warfare capabilities to locate the Russian Kilos he knew were lurking out there.

“It’s about damn time,” he said, and then, with all eyes on him, he gave the order everyone had been waiting for. “Officer of the Deck, man battle stations.”

“Man battle stations, aye, sir,” the OOD said and turned to the Boatswain’s Mate of the Watch. “Boats, sound general quarters.”

“Aye, aye,” responded Boatswain’s Mate Second Class Smith, reaching for his pipe and the long whistle that informed the crew to immediately prepare for action.

The ship sprang to life. What would have looked like total chaos to an outsider was actually a well-rehearsed sequence of events. The clanging of the alarm, the sounds of doors and hatches closing, the thrum of hundreds of boots on the decks as sailors ran to their battle stations.

Over the 1MC loudspeaker circuit the order rang out: “General quarters, general quarters, all hands man your battle stations, down and aft to port, up and forward to starboard. Now set material condition Zebra throughout the ship. Now general quarters!”

A flurry of activity ensued, actions drilled into the crew until they’d become like muscle memory: watertight doors dogged shut to mitigate the impact of flooding, the ship’s propulsion system and engineering spaces shifted to the most optimal and reliable configuration, damage control teams assembled and dressed out in PPE, and all personnel assuming the watch stations where they were most capable and effective. Reports flowed to the bridge as subordinate stations rigged their spaces and reported compliance.

Three minutes and forty-five seconds later, Donald Cook was ready for battle in all respects and the OOD reported to Dusty. “Captain, the ship is rigged for battle stations. DC Central is manned and condition Zebra is set throughout the ship.”

“Very well, Lieutenant.”

“Captain,” the ship’s Navigator said. “Crossing the forty-fifth parallel, entering contested Russian waters.”

“Very well, Nav,” Dusty said and turned to the OOD. “Inform the crew we are crossing into contested waters.”

Keying the 1MC, Levy said, “Good morning, Donald Cook, the ship is crossing into contested Russian waters and will remain at general quarters until the threat condition changes.”

She unkeyed the mike and looked at him, ready for the next order she knew was coming.

“Officer of the Deck, deploy the Nixie,” he said. “Spool two thousand feet of tow cable. But I want personnel standing by to cut the cable on my order. God only knows what type of maneuvers we might be required to conduct.”

The AN/SLQ-25B Nixie’s torpedo-shaped TB-14 vehicle was dragged behind the ship on a tow cable. Its primary purpose was to act as a torpedo countermeasure by emitting simulated broadband noise, propeller signatures, and engineering frequencies to provide a false signature to lure an incoming enemy torpedo away from the ship. It was a fantastic countermeasure, but it also came with a serious tactical constraint. Ordering a backing bell while the Nixie was deployed risked entangling the tow cable around the ship’s propellers. It was for this reason that he’d specifically ordered that personnel be standing by at the winch station to cut the cable in an emergency.

The OOD acknowledged the order to deploy the Nixie, then informed the appropriate crew. Moments later, a report came in from the ship’s Combat Information Center over the dedicated Net-15 comms circuit between the bridge and CIC.

“Bridge, Combat—radar holds a surface contact, designated Romeo-24, bearing three-zero-two, range twelve nautical miles,” Lieutenant Commander Brewster reported. Brewster, the ship’s Combat Systems Officer, was standing watch as the Tactical Action Officer. Just like the OOD was the CO’s representative on the bridge, the TAO fulfilled an analogous role in Combat, managing the tactical employment of the ship’s combat systems and communications. “Sonar has identified the vessel as having two screws,” he continued. “Acoustic profile is similar to a previous recording of the guided-missile frigate Admiral Grigorovich. Romeo-24 is making twenty-eight knots and is on an intercept course.”

“Combat, Bridge, aye. Any ES?” Levy replied.

“Bridge, Combat—negative ES.” The new contact wasn’t emitting any electronic signature, perhaps trying to hide or delay detection.

“Well, that’s not a good sign,” Dusty said, with a sideways glance at Levy. “Why announce a blockade and then run quiet . . . unless you’re setting a trap?”

“It is odd, sir,” she said through an exhale.

“Nervous?” he asked, his voice quiet enough that only she could hear him.

“I’d be lying if I claimed otherwise,” she said, then added a belated, “sir.”

“And I’d be worried if you weren’t. The key, Lieutenant, is to swallow the fear but harness the adrenaline. They’re going to try to intimidate us. We cannot let them.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, and he watched her stand up a little straighter.

“I’m going to take a look outside,” he said and grabbed a pair of binoculars.

He walked behind the helmsman steering the ship and passed through the hatch and onto the port bridge wing. He inhaled as he stepped into the sea breeze and the mélange of odors it carried. Today, the Black Sea was serving up a stale, salty tang with a sulfurous undertone. He looked skyward. The October sun was already high in a faded blue-jean sky with barely a cloud in sight. He scanned for aircraft and didn’t see any.

But that didn’t mean they weren’t up there.

The ship’s Aegis Combat System was presently monitoring dozens of aircraft, both civilian and military. The heart of the ACS was the AN/SPY-1 radar and MK 99 Fire Control System, capable of tracking well over one thousand targets with radar cross-sections as small as a bumblebee at ranges over a hundred nautical miles. Nothing above the surface of the water could sneak up on an Arleigh Burke, not even Russia’s stealthy fifth generation Su-57 fighter. He took comfort in that thought while his gaze drifted to the blue-green water all around him, where half a dozen silent, invisible killers lurked only God knew where. On its best day, the Donald Cook was no match for a Russian Kilo submarine lying in ambush operating on battery. A single Kilo could launch six torpedoes without reloading. Even with the Nixie and all other countermeasures deployed, escape was virtually impossible when faced with a salvo of sixty-five-knot, active-homing Fizik torpedoes.

He set his jaw and pushed the thought out of his head.

His more immediate concern was what to do with Aegis, his ship’s most formidable asset. The Black Sea wasn’t that big, and the Russians knew exactly where he was. If they weren’t tracking the massive electronic signature generated by the SPY-1, which they were, then they certainly had him on satellite. The time for stealth had long since passed. The conundrum now was whether to operate ACS in manual or full automatic. In full auto, the system could detect an enemy missile launch, track it, generate a fire control solution, and shoot down the incoming ordnance without any human interaction or input. This capability was critical because at the current range of the Russian frigate, no human could think and react quickly enough to perform these functions and protect the ship. From a belt-and-suspenders perspective, going full auto was a no brainer. But shooting down a legitimate incoming threat wasn’t the only thing an Arleigh Burke CO had to worry about.

Donald Cook had a history of being harassed by Russian fighter jets making high-speed passes at dangerously close ranges. If past was prologue, then Russian Sukhoi 27s or 30s would be on him within the hour. Having ACS in full auto when that happened could be an unmitigated disaster. In full auto, odds were over ninety percent that Aegis would miscategorize the Russian fighters as incoming missiles and shoot them down.

Dilemmas, dilemmas, dilemmas, he thought with a heavy exhale. Address one problem, create another . . . I refuse to be the guy remembered for accidently starting World War III.

“Combat, Captain,” he said over Net-15 via handset. “Confirm ACS is in manual.”

“Captain, Combat—confirmed, ACS is in manual,” came the reply over speaker.

“Captain, I got something on the horizon, ten o’clock position off the bow,” the lookout said. “Good viz today, sir.”

Dusty nodded and lifted the high-powered binoculars to his eyes to scan the port forward quadrant. The effective visual range from the bridge elevation on an Arleigh Burke was about ten nautical miles, which meant that any minute the Russian frigate should break over the horizon. Just as the lookout had reported, he could make out the main mast of the converging Russian frigate at the ten o’clock position.

He lowered his binos and turned to the lookout. “It’s Rogers, right?”

“Yes, sir,” the young Seaman Apprentice said.

“Well, Rogers, things are about to get real here in a few minutes. The pucker factor is probably gonna hit eleven, if you know what I mean,” he said, meeting the young man’s eyes.

“Yes, sir, I hear you.”

“This bridge wing is your post, but that doesn’t mean you can’t take cover if taking cover is warranted.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” the lookout said.

Dusty nodded and lifted his binoculars again. He could now see all of the Russian frigate and the frothy white bow wave it was pushing. He watched it for thirty seconds, and when he lowered his binoculars again, the OOD was standing at his right side.

“You think he’s going to try to cut us off?” she asked.

“I think he’s playing a game of chicken,” Dusty said. “He’s gonna stay on this zero-bearing rate vector, force us to slow or turn, and then harass us until we reverse course and hightail it south of the forty-fifth . . . but that’s not gonna happen.”

“We’re the stand-on vessel,” she said. “Rules of the road dictate he has to give way.”

“Yeah, well, I suspect he doesn’t give a shit about the COLREGS, Lieutenant.”

The OOD nodded. After an uncomfortable pause, she said, “And if he doesn’t alter course?”

“Then I’m afraid we’re both going to have a very bad day,” he said with fatalistic finality. Turning on a heel, he said, “C’mon, time to get my headset on.”

He walked back to the bridge with the OOD in trail, and donned a headset so he could talk freely with Combat. “Combat, Captain—cover Romeo-24 with birds and prepare for a three-round salvo of warning shots fifteen hundred yards off our bow with guns. No mount movement without my approval.”

“Birds” was Surface Warfare Officer speak for missiles; Cook could fire either the antiship or antiballistic variety. “Guns,” of course, referred to the ship’s five-inch, 54-caliber deck-mounted cannon.

“Captain, Combat—I just want to make sure I understand. Prep a three-round salvo fifteen hundred yards off Romeo-24’s bow, or off our bow?”

“Off our bow—bearing zero-zero-zero relative,” Dusty said. “I don’t want any confusion. We turn the mount toward him and he’s going to assume we’re aiming at him. We shoot straight ahead, then hopefully the message is clear—we’re going straight, so don’t get in our way.”

“Aye, sir. Covering Romeo-24 with birds and prepping guns for a three-round salvo fifteen hundred yards off our bow.”

“Be ready to fire rounds sequentially on my mark. We’re going to show this guy we’re plowing straight ahead and what will happen to him if he gets in the way.”

“Officer of the Deck, Nav—Romeo-24 is now at eight nautical miles still bearing three-zero-two.”

“Very well,” the OOD acknowledged.

Tension on the bridge was so thick, the air felt heavy, with all eyes fixated on the Russian frigate on a collision course. Minutes ticked by and the sleek-looking Russian warship loomed larger and larger off the port bow.

“Captain,” Levy said, turning up the speaker on the bridge-to-bridge radio. “We’re being hailed.”

“US Navy warship, US Navy warship,” a voice said in Russian-accented English. “This is Russian frigate Admiral Grigorovich. You entered Russian territorial water. Turn around. Proceed south of forty-five degrees latitude, immediately.”

“Officer of the Deck, respond in accordance with international law,” Dusty said.

“Yes, sir,” Levy said and issued the following response:

“Admiral Grigorovich, this is United States Warship Seven-Five, conducting transit passage on the high seas in accordance with international law. As the stand-on vessel, I intend to maintain course and speed in accordance with international law. Request you alter your course immediately and maintain a safe distance from my ship.”

A few seconds passed. “Bridge, Combat—no change to Romeo-24’s speed or heading,” the TAO reported.

“United States Warship Seven-Five,” came the Russian reply, “you have entered Russian territorial water. Turn around. Turn around . . . Proceed south of forty-five degrees latitude, immediately.”

“Captain, range to Russian warship is twelve thousand yards. Time to collision: ten minutes six seconds,” the Navigator announced.

Levy looked at Dusty, her eyes asking the question.

“Stick to the script,” he said.

She nodded and keyed her mike. “Admiral Grigorovich, this is United States Warship Seven-Five, conducting transit passage on the high seas in accordance with international law. As the stand-on vessel, I intend to maintain course and speed. Request you alter your course immediately and maintain a safe distance from my ship.”

Another minute passed with the Russian frigate still not altering course, then the bridge-to-bridge squawked with a new voice.

“US warship, this is Captain Ruskin of the Admiral Grigorovich. You enter Russian territorial water. You must turn around. I repeat, you turn around immediately. Proceed south of forty-five degrees latitude.”

Dusty felt his temper building. The Russians were violating international law on multiple counts. He’s baiting me, he told himself. Don’t take the bait . . . Jaw set, he stuck out his hand to the OOD and she passed him the mike.

“Captain Ruskin, this is Warship Seven-Five Charlie-Oscar, I am in international water operating in accordance with international law. I do not understand your intentions. You are the give-way vessel and appear to be heading for an intentional collision. Request you alter your course and maintain a safe distance from my ship. If you do not alter course immediately, I am prepared to take defensive action.”

Dusty handed the bridge-to-bridge mike back to Levy. “Any change in the target’s course or speed?” he asked the nearby radar console operator.

“No sir,” the sailor said.

“Eight minutes, thirty-eight seconds until collision,” the Nav chimed in.

“TAO, Captain—what is the status of the gun?” he asked Brewster on the tactical channel.

“Captain, TAO—gun is up, online, ready in all respects for surface action bearing zero-zero-zero relative.”

“Officer of the Deck, sound five short blasts and verify the fo’c’sle is clear. Stand by for surface action.”

The OOD repeated back the order and carried out his instructions. Then, over the deafening cry of the ship’s whistle, she said, “Captain, fo’c’sle is clear. Range visually clear ahead. Russian warship remains off our port bow.”

“Very well,” he said and issued the order. “Combat, Captain—fire warning shots. Fifteen-hundred-yard offset, bearing zero-zero-zero relative, salvo size one.”

A moment later, the ship shook as the .54-caliber deck gun fired a five-inch round straight ahead.

“Let’s see what they do now,” Dusty said and glanced at the OOD.

“No change to Romeo-24’s course or speed,” the Nav reported. “Five minutes fifteen seconds until impact.”

Dusty felt the nervous tension on the bridge tick up another notch. “Combat, Captain. Fire another warning shot, salvo size one,” he ordered.

A moment later, a muffled boom shook the ship as the big gun lobbed another warning shot dead ahead, sending an unmistakable message: Stay the fuck out of our way or suffer the consequences.

“Still no change, Captain,” the Nav reported, his voice taking on a grim, fatalistic tone. “Four minutes until collision.”

With gritted teeth, Dusty threw off his headset and quickstepped out onto the port bridge wing. The sleek, ghost-grey Russian frigate now loomed large off the port side—the angle of its bow unchanged, still on a collision course.

“Russian frigate thirty-five hundred yards and closing fast,” the Nav shouted. “Three minutes until collision.”

Dusty grabbed a handset and said, “Combat, Captain—fire another warning shot off our bow, salvo size one.”

The MK45 cannon boomed, this time a deafening punch to his ears from his station on the bridge wing. He watched the guided-missile frigate for any response—a change in aspect or bow wake—but the Russian frigate just kept coming.

“Damn it,” he snapped and keyed his mike. “Combat, Captain—turn the gun. Target Romeo-24.”

Maybe this will get that Russian bastard’s attention.

The TAO acknowledged the order, and in Dusty’s peripheral vision he saw the barrel of the five-inch gun swivel to port as the Cook took aim at the Admiral Grigorovich.

“Officer of the Deck, I have the conn,” he shouted over his shoulder to Levy, who was standing just inside the threshold of the open hatch door that separated the pilothouse from the bridge wing.

“Attention in the pilot house, Captain has the conn,” she announced, informing everyone on the bridge that the Captain now had control of the ship’s helm.

“Officer of the Deck, prepare for collision. Do not sound the collision alarm,” he shouted. The ship was already in condition Zebra and at a battle stations; it and the crew were in the optimal configuration for any casualty. He needed to alert them to the danger, but could not afford to have the collision alarm drown out his commands in the critical seconds to come.

“All hands brace for impact,” she announced over the ship’s 1MC. “Collision imminent.”

“One minute until impact, Captain!” yelled Nav through the hatch leading to the bridge wing.

Dusty watched in disbelief as every ship captain’s nightmare scenario unfolded in real life. A wave of fresh adrenaline electrified his body, while at the same time nausea roiled his guts. His mind flooded with a half-dozen thoughts simultaneously, some productive, some not: That stupid Russian asshole is actually going to ram us. Fuck it, I should blow him out of the water right now. You can’t do that, Dusty. Why not? Because hello, World War III. In five seconds, order a flank bell, then try to pivot around his bow. It could work, or it could sink us.

He charged into the bridge, nearly knocking the OOD onto her ass as he barreled past her through the open door. “Helm, all engines ahead flank,” he shouted.

“All engines ahead flank, aye,” the helmsman acknowledged from the ship’s control panel. The engine order telegraph chimed and the nine-thousand-ton destroyer began to accelerate.

“Thirty seconds to impact,” the Nav reported.

“They’re turning, Captain!” the portside lookout screamed.

“Which way?” he hollered, looking left, but in a glance, he answered his own question—as the Russian frigate began to heel over.

“Hard starboard,” the lookout yelled.

“Everybody grab onto something,” Dusty shouted, readying the next order in his mind. If he didn’t time it perfectly, if the Russians countered his maneuver, they would collide. These were big ships, barreling through the water with millions of foot-pounds of energy. They did not turn on a dime. They did not stop on a dime. They did not do anything on a dime.

Clutching the side of the control panel and staring at the bow of the Russian frigate, which was now pointing directly at the bridge and less than a hundred yards away, he made the call.

“Helm, hard left rudder!” he shouted, then keying the 1MC, he gave an order to the ship’s Chief Engineer. “CHENG, set emergency ahead flank. Give me every turn you can make!”

In preparation for command, prospective COs were given a peek behind the curtain to learn the true mechanical and operational limits of the vessels they were about to command. In the case of the Arleigh Burke-class guided-missile destroyer, one of these potentially lifesaving tidbits was that the ship’s main turbine engines could boost power above the regular limit for a short duration. Since he’d assumed command, he’d not ordered a flank emergency bell. Most of the crew probably didn’t even know the option existed . . . but they did now.

As the rudders swept to port, and the twin propellers churned at 110 percent of their rated speed, the Donald Cook heeled over hard to starboard. In the bridge, all potential flying gear had been stowed, but the same could not be said for the rest of the ship. The violent roll to the right dumped foodstuffs from racks, books from shelves, coffee mugs from desks and tables, and everything else not lashed down, bolted to a bulkhead, or welded to the deck. Out the portside bridge windows, Dusty watched the Admiral Grigorovich’s bow angle change from starboard to port as the Cook turned left—toward the Russian frigate—in an attempt to pivot around the nose of the ship about to ram them. Time slowed, and the two massive warships danced in a terrible, awkward dance.

“Oh shit,” someone shouted.

The port bridge wing lookout hit the deck and covered his head.

Commander Dusty Townsend—captain of the USS Donald Cook and custodian of 381 American lives—watched with equal parts horror and wonder as the Russian ship and his ship curled past one another with less than thirty feet separation hull to hull. At such close range, hydrodynamic forces could suck them together for a broadside collision any second.

“Helm—rudder amidships, steady as she goes,” Dusty ordered as their beams crossed. Then, knowing that the Admiral Grigorovich was moments from crossing their wake, he keyed the 1MC and said, “Combat, Bridge, cut the Nixie tow cable.”

Better to sacrifice the TB-14 willingly than have the winch ripped out of its mounts when the Russian destroyer ran over the tow cable and it became entangled in its props.

“Cut the Nixie tow cable, aye,” the TAO replied.

With the rudder eased, the Cook righted herself—the list coming off just as the two warships’ sterns cleared each other by less than ten feet.

“Holy fucking shit,” the CMC said, wiping sweat from his brow. “Nice driving, Captain.”

“Thanks, Master Chief, but stay frosty, people, because that was just a warm-up. God only knows what those crazy Russians will do next.”

“Understood,” the CMC said with a grave nod.

“Bridge, Sonar—the Nixie tow cable is cut,” came the report to the bridge.

“Helm, right full rudder, steady course three-five-nine,” he said, then keying the 1MC, he said, “XO to the bridge.”

The helm acknowledged the order and spun the pilot wheel right to get the Cook back on course. Thirty seconds later, the XO was on the bridge, pale-faced and visibly shaking.

“What the hell were they thinking?” she said. “That stunt almost sank us both.”

“I know,” he said. He lowered his voice and walked her out onto the bridge wing, where they both saw that the Admiral Grigorovich was already coming about. “Listen, I think the odds of us getting out of this operation casualty-free are shrinking. We officially just busted their blockade, and I don’t think the Kremlin is going to like that. I’m not going to shoot first, but I will shoot back.”

“Yes, sir,” she said. “We’re on the same page, but technically, you did shoot first.”

Her words were like a bucket of cold water to the face. Yes, technically they were warning shots, but the record would show that Donald Cook, not the Admiral Grigorovich, had fired its gun first. And while the rules of the road were on his side, an argument could be made that the United States had been the aggressor in that encounter.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I suppose I did.”

She flashed him a tight grin but didn’t offer a follow-up comment.

“Is our air support on station?” he said, his brain already thinking two steps ahead. “Because after this dustup, I imagine the Russians will scramble jets to intercept us any minute.”

She nodded. “You can’t see ’em, but two Raptors, call signs Shaker One and Shaker Two, are up there. And we’ve got an EC-8 turning donuts in Romanian airspace coordinating.”

“All right, good.”

“You’re worried about the Kilos, aren’t you?” she said, reading his mind.

“Yeah, I had to ditch the Nixie,” he grumbled.

“I know, but there’s no way you could have anticipated what just happened. Cutting the cable was the smart play. We’ve still got plenty of cable on the reel and a spare TB-14. Want me to have the techs get to work mating it up?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“Captain,” the OOD called from the doorway. “CHENG just reported exhaust high-temperature alarm on 1A GTM, as well as high temps in the reduction gear lube oil and starboard shaft main bearing. How long do you want to stay at emergency flank speed?”

“Shit, I forgot.” He turned toward the open port bridge hatch and hollered, “Helm, make turns for thirty knots.”

“Make turns for thirty knots, aye, sir,” the helm replied.

“Captain, Combat—we have indications and warnings that two Russian aircraft just took off from Sevastopol,” Brewster reported from the old school “squawk box” on the bridge wing. Dusty always found it reassuring that despite the ship’s immense technological complexity, some of the most trustworthy and reliable equipment hadn’t changed in more than seventy years.

If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it . . .

Keying a handset, he said, “Copy.” Then, turning to his XO: “You need to get back to Combat. I want verbal confirmation from each station that all defensive weapons and countermeasures are ready to go.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And I want Tactical Tomahawk missions built for the Sevastopol airfield—runways and parked aircraft only. Do not target hangars, the tower, or barracks.”

“It’s already in the works,” she said with a wry grin.

He smiled back, then said, “Get moving, XO. I’m going to stay here.”

“Yes, sir,” she said and left.

He glanced aft. The Russian frigate had already come about and was now in pursuit. He watched, noting that the range looked to be holding steady. According to Jane’s Fighting Ships, the Admiral Grigorovich was good for thirty knots. He’d know soon enough if the reference book was accurate. When the high temps cleared, he could probably eke out thirty-two knots without alarms, but at this speed he was burning fuel like mad. They couldn’t keep this up forever, and he needed to have gas for evasive maneuvers and to flank if necessary on the return trip with the Oak Hill . . .

Assuming we make the return trip.

He glanced at the lookout, who was scanning the horizon with his binoculars.

“See anything?” Dusty asked.

“Other than that Russian frigate on our ass, no, sir,” came the young man’s reply.

“That was a close one, wasn’t it?”

“Any closer, sir, and I would have shit my pants,” the lookout said.

“Yeah, me too, shipmate,” he said with a chuckle.

Me too . . .

“Captain, CCS reports all propulsion high-temperature alarms clear,” the OOD said, joining them on the bridge wing.

“Very well.”

“Bridge, Combat—two Russian fighters are inbound at eight hundred knots, bearing zero-four-two. Radar signature is consistent with the Su-30 platform. ETA sixty seconds,” the TAO reported.

“Combat, Captain—roger. Cover inbound Russian fighters with birds and issue an emergency warning Military Air Distress,” he replied, then turned to the OOD and lookout. “We’ve got Russian fighters inbound from the northeast. Things are about to get dicey.”

“Bridge, Combat—already in progress, Captain. Negative response to queries or warning on MAD and IAD. Inbound fighters, designated Romeo-25 and Romeo-26, are illuminating ownship. Request permission to place SeaRAM in AAW auto mode?”

He didn’t answer and gestured with his head for the OOD to follow him to the other bridge wing.

The inbound Su-30s were Russia’s equivalent to America’s F-15 Strike Eagle. Like the F-15, they could carry a substantial payload of air-to-air, air-to-ground, and antiship missiles. It was the latter he was concerned about—specifically the Kh-31A, a supersonic, sea-skimming missile that could close the distance between them in virtually no time at all. Placing the ship’s eleven-cell SeaRAM defensive missile system in antiair warfare auto would buy potentially lifesaving time in the event the fighters launched missiles at the ship, but Dusty also knew the system could engage the fighters themselves if the Russian pilots’ flight paths too closely resembled inbound missiles.

“I’ve got two inbound aircraft,” the starboard bridge wing lookout said. “Just above the horizon.”

“I know,” he shouted and grabbed a handset. “Combat, Captain—no to SeaRAM in auto. Confirm you are covering aircraft with birds?”

“Affirm, Captain, two engagements on standby in the queue. Salvo size two,” the TAO came back.

“Roger, standby,” he said.

He felt his heart rate pick up, and his pulse was a bass drum in his ears.

The game of chicken he’d just played with the Admiral Grigorovich had unfolded over fifteen minutes. This round could be decided in the next fifteen seconds. He was betting this was a show of force by the Russians, not an attack. If he was right, nothing would happen. If he was wrong, the ship and 300 of his shipmates could be lost . . . He gripped the metal doorframe and watched the twin black dots converging on his ship grow bigger. They were coming in low and hot. He estimated they couldn’t be more than two hundred feet off the deck. The irony of the situation was not lost on him, as Donald Cook had been antagonized by Russian aircraft at danger-close range twice before.

Hopefully, third time’s not a charm, he thought, then felt the surprising and overwhelming urge to order Combat to blow the inbound fighters out of the sky. ACS had radar lock and a firing solution. With the press of a button, a pair of SM-2 surface-to-air missiles would blast out of the forward VLS missile battery, streak through the sky, and the threat would be vaporized. But as much as a part of him desperately wanted to just make the problem go away, he knew he couldn’t do that.

I have to stay the course. Keep a steady hand on the wheel and my eye on the objective.

No sooner had he finished the thought than the Su-30s were upon them. The lead jet was flying even lower than he’d thought.

“Get low,” he heard himself shout at the starboard lookout as the Russian fighters screamed toward them at ludicrous speed.

The first Su-30 streaked across the bow, leading the bridge by less than thirty feet and clearing the deck by less than ten, afterburners blazing. The other Russian jet broke the sound barrier fifty yards off the port bow. The deafening sonic boom and accompanying shockwave hit the ship a split second later, shaking the superstructure with enough force to be mistaken for an actual projectile impact.

Time seemed to shift into low gear as he took in everything: the Conning Officer covering his ears; the starboard lookout on hands and knees out on the bridge wing, eyes wide with fear and confusion; the helmsman clutching the ship’s wheel so tight his knuckles looked like eight tiny snow-covered peaks . . .

“Jesus fucking Christ,” the CMC shouted, spittle flying from his lips. “That asshole almost hit us.”

“They’re coming around for another pass!” the port lookout yelled.

Fists clenched, Dusty charged across the bridge to the port bridge wing. “Where is our goddamn air support?” he shouted as he watched the two Russian fighters banking for their next run. Grabbing a mike, he yelled, “XO, get the CAP on the horn and tell them to step in anytime. Because if they don’t, someone’s gonna die!”

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