John Schettler - 9 Days Falling, Volume I

“I’ll want our Vipers up, and ready immediately,” MacRae said to Dean, who relayed the order loud and clear. “CIC, activate forward deck Sea Viper system and standby”

“Aye, sir, Vipers up and ready. Sampson reports hard lock and steady track on all contacts.”

“Con, Top Seven! I have additional contacts inbound at low altitude.” There were suddenly seven more Su-24’s inbound, and behind them another seven, and now MacRae knew the gloves were finally coming off.

“Mister Dean,” he said. “What are we looking at in terms of Russian naval air power out here.”

“Sir, I checked that this morning. Their 43rd Independent Naval Shturmovik Air Assault Squadron in the Crimea was listed as having twenty-two SU-24s. Four of those are tactical recon variants, but these have to be the strike squadrons.”

“And they thought they were going to bother my Sampson system with a forty year old radar seeker?”

The Sampson air defense radar system was perhaps the best in the world. In trials and war games it even exceeded the capabilities of the US AEGIS system. US naval officers had commented that the British air defense destroyers were no less than awesome, capable of tracking up to 1000 targets at any one time.

The situation had taken a sudden and dramatic turn. The Russians were trying to launch a surprise attack, and his tankers were just sitting there like big fat ducks, still tethered to their loading buoys and hoses.

“What will those strike planes be carrying?”

“Sir, this isn’t a dedicated naval strike plane. It’s a ground attack aircraft, but that said they might be using a variant of the Kh-58 in an anti-shipping role. Or else this is just a SEAD mission to get after our radar before their fleet gets into it.”

It was indeed. Air Alert One called out a barrage of fourteen incoming missiles, followed within seconds by a second barrage. The Russians had taken advantage of the nebulous thin border zone at the edge of any impending conflict to get in the opening salvo. It was ingrained in Russian military thinking—fire first.

“Sir!” said Ensign Boyle. “I have Captain Williams of Iron Duke on a secure channel.”

MacRae reached for the overhead handset and thumbed it on. “We’re going hot,” said Williams. “Just thought I’d let you know.”

“We can hear you singing, Captain,” said MacRae, “and we’ll squeeze the pipes for you.”

“Very well, Argos. Good shooting.”

The Argos Fire and Fairchild & Company were now at war. Everything that came before was mere posturing and bluster. Missiles inbound on over two million barrels of oil were another thing entirely.

“Well lads,” said MacRae. “We’re in it for certain now. Air One, prosecute your contacts, and be quick about it.”

“Sir, aye sir!”

Where there had once been a flat and empty deck forward of the stealth turret Argos had raised earlier, there was now a series of open hatches harboring deadly Sea Vipers, the Fairchild modified version of the Aster 30 SAM. It was fast at Mach 4.5, and extremely agile, being capable of 60-G maneuvers. Argos Fire had a battery of 60 of these missiles, more even than the standard British Daring class destroyer would carry. They were going to need them.

The action was short and violent. The Iron Duke’s advanced Sea Ceptors were quick to their targets, and she had four times her old air defense firepower with a single quad-pack occupying the space that one of her older Seawolf missiles might have taken. They were able to find and swat down the two anti-radiation missiles that led the attack, and the plane that fired them died soon after.

The Sea Ceptors had a limited range of only 25 kilometers, but within that envelope they were fast and deadly. The Russian planes had fired and were not sticking around to do any battle damage assessment. The SU-24 Fencers made an abrupt about face and were racing north again for their base in the Crimea, too far away to be bothered by Iron Duke’s missiles. But the doughty frigate was firing furiously at the incoming barrage of Ka-58s. The British built systems were a generation or more ahead of the attacking ordnance. Of the twenty-eight missiles fired, Iron Duke got eighteen and the Argos Fire downed the rest. Not a single missile got through.

“What was that all about?” said Commander Dean. “It was too damn easy.”

“Don’t be surprised that our missiles perform as advertised, Mister Dean,” said MacRae. “But all things considered, I know what you’re saying.”

“I would have coordinated that attack with their surface action group,” said Dean. “That was nothing more than a shoot and scoot.”

MacRae, folded his arms, one hand raised to his chin as he considered what Dean was saying. “Well the thing is this, lad. They lost one plane and a few old missiles, but everything we sent up after them was a nice, shiny new missile. All the Russians did is rush in and flash their kilts at us. We’re just two ships out here, and there’s only so many missiles under that forward deck. We just fired ten Sea Vipers , by my count, and we’re a long way from home. My guess is that those planes will be back again soon. They pulled a few teeth, then, didn’t they?”

The bridge phone rang, and MacRae turned to see it was line one, the executive offices. “That will be her majesty,” he said to Dean, smiling. “She’ll want to know what we were shooting at. Let’s get the Argonauts home at once and wind this operation up.”

Before he had a chance to take the call his Sampson air alert system was calling out a new threat. “Sir, I have incoming missiles, high and slow.”

Dean looked at the readout, raising an eyebrow. “SA-N-27 Sizzlers ,” he said. “They’re the only missiles with the range to hit us down here. Well they won’t be high and slow for very long. Get them now, during their sub-sonic cruise approach phase. They’ll come down on the deck for their terminal run and accelerate with Mach 2 or better, dancing like faeries the whole way in.”

MacRae nodded as he picked up the handset, quickly explaining the situation to an anxious Miss Fairchild.

“I understand, Captain. Defend the company, and may God be with us. But I have another request—I’m afraid I’ll have to make it an order, Gordon.”

That was unusual for her to call him by his first name on the ship’s internal comm system. She usually reserved such familiarity for the sanctity of her offices.

“Madame?”

“Those helicopters we have in the Caspian…Can they fight?”

“That they can, Madame, but I was considering bringing the lads home, seeing as though the situation here is changing rapidly, and not for the good. We’ll need to move west as soon as possible.”

He listened, surprised by what he heard next, his features set and serious. There had been a call to the executive offices—a very special call. It had come in on the secure red phone that was answered only by Elena Fairchild herself, though MacRae knew of its existence. He also knew that when “special calls” came in from time to time, they were always followed by “special orders.” Yet what he heard now was going to complicate his life in ways he could not possibly imagine.

“That operation in the Caspian Mack Morgan was fussing over,” she said. “Well we’re going to pay them a little visit. Come to my office when you can and I’ll discuss the matter further.”

“Very well,” said MacRae, hanging up the phone with the shake of his head, completely nonplussed.