Collateral (Tier One #6)

USS Donald Cook (DDG-75)

Nine Nautical Miles North of the 45th Parallel

The Black Sea

Dusty gripped the railing on the port bridge wing with both hands. He watched as the Russian fighter pilot’s parachute hit the water and collapsed into a flat orange wrinkled disc on the surface three hundred yards off the port beam. He contemplated slowing, the man-overboard rescue instinct strong in him from two decades of conditioning.

No, he thought, shaking his head. The helo can get him.

He grabbed a headset from the bridge wing station and slipped it on his head. “Growler One, this is Donald Cook actual,” he said, hailing the MH-60 that he’d ordered airborne before crossing the forty-fifth parallel.

“Go for Growler One,” the helo pilot, Lieutenant Harts, came back.

“Did you see what just happened?”

“Watched the whole fucking thing, Captain,” Harts said. “You guys okay?”

“No casualties here, but I doubt the pilot survived. Looked like he did try to eject, however. I saw a parachute splash down off our port side.”

“We saw it. I’m repositioning into a hover over the splash zone now. Want us to conduct search and rescue or leave him for the Russians to pick up? That frigate back there is closing fast.”

“Scoop him out if you can and bring him back to the Cook. Anything we can do to look like the good guys in this scenario only works in our favor,” Dusty said.

And it would be nice to have a bargaining chip in my pocket, too.

“Roger that, Captain,” Harts said, and after a brief pause added, “Well, he’s not dead, ’cause there’s movement under the chute . . . Looks like he’s trying to clear it.”

“Captain, TAO—the other Russian fighter is bugging out,” Brewster reported from Combat.

“Copy,” Dusty said. “Do we have new bogies inbound?”

“Not yet.”

“Roger that. You let me know the second that changes.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Growler One, SITREP?” he asked, leaning over the railing to look aft. They were steaming at flank speed, and the splashed pilot was well in their wake now.

“He’s clear of the chute and waving at us. We’re dropping the rescue sling. We’ll see if he takes it . . .”

“Captain, XO—we’re getting an alarm on the SLQ-32 operator console. We think the Su-30 must have clipped the starboard ESM antenna assembly when it hit us.”

“Shit,” he said. Of course he did. Why clip the railing, or the deck mount, or the hull when you can hit an antenna . . . “All right, secure power to the starboard ESM until we can look at it. The last thing we need is an electrical fire.”

“Secure power to the starboard ESM, aye,” she said.

“Captain, Growler One—the Russian pilot’s in the sling,” the helo pilot reported. “We’re winching him up.”

“Nice work, Growler One. Return to ship once he’s secure and give us a heads-up on his injuries so I can have medical standing by.”

“Copy all,” Harts came back.

“Bridge, Combat—we are tracking two new surface contacts inbound,” Brewster reported. “Romeo-27, bearing zero-seven-nine, has a sonar signature matching the Admiral Grigorovich-class guided-missile frigate. Romeo-28, bearing three-five-five, has a different signature. We believe it is a Project 22160 patrol ship, but that is unconfirmed. Both vessels are on intercept courses.”

“Wonderful,” Dusty murmured. He hung up his headset and made his way back inside the bridge.

“Captain, do you want me to slow for helo recovery?” the Conning Officer asked, catching his eye. “We’ve got a helluva squat at this speed.”

Dusty blew air through his teeth. His OOD was right; helo recovery at this speed was a risky maneuver. “Slow to twenty knots for the recovery, but keep the speed on until Growler is ready for his approach.”

“Aye, sir.”

He walked to the captain’s chair, slid his right ass cheek up onto the cushion, and grabbed a headset. Just taking a little weight off his feet—which were barking mad—felt damn good. He was about to tell the CMC to take a look at the starboard ESM antenna assembly and see what he could see when the XO hailed him from Combat.

“Captain, XO—I’ve got the CO of the Oak Hill on chat,” she said. “You wanna swap?”

“Copy,” he said, then quickly added, “Hey, XO, make sure we get a quick turnaround on SAR ops. It should practically be a touch-and-go—offload the Russian pilot, then back in the air.”

“Understood, Captain,” she said.

He removed his headset, departed the bridge, and walked aft to Combat. Upon entering, he was hit by a blast of dry, chilled air and the sterile odor of electronics and vinyl.

“Captain in Combat,” the closest sailor announced the moment he crossed the threshold.

He paused to let his eyes adjust to the low-level light in the overcrowded information hub. The space he’d just come from compared to the one he’d just entered was, literally and figuratively, night and day. For Dusty, entering CIC felt like stepping out of the real world and into a video game. If not for the rocking motion from the waves, he could easily forget he was on a ship. Most of the sailors within sat at workstations in front of flat-panel monitors lit with graphic representations of data streams from the Cook’s myriad sensors. Others manned various weapons control panels, navigation displays, or communication equipment.

“I’m heading to the bridge,” the XO said, scooting past him on the right. Swapping command locations was their default protocol. Even in peacetime, they rarely occupied the same space at the same time. Physical separation accomplished two important objectives: first, it prevented a single incident from incapacitating or killing the ship’s #1 and #2 in command at the same time; and second, it distributed the command presence.

He nodded at her and she was gone.

“Over here, Captain,” Brewster said, gesturing to a laptop set up on the TAO’s desk.

Dusty sat down at the keyboard to message with the CO of the Oak Hill, Commander Needham. Thankfully, this was not the first time the two men had worked together. Hey, Josh, you still on the line? he typed.

Several long seconds later, the reply came. Hey Dusty, FYI—we are underway and steaming south.

Dusty nodded to himself but knew that wasn’t the whole story. Both ships’ positions were being tracked, communicated, and updated in real-time to each other’s CIC computers, as well as to the Task Group Commander on the Ford. This statement was simply prelude; Needham was touching base about something else.

All good. How is that rust bucket you call a ship? he fired back.

Seaworthy . . . you guys okay?

Dusty laughed and then typed, We’re one itchy trigger finger away from somebody, or a whole lotta of somebodies, getting blown up.

We’ve been watching. Looks like our friends in Sevastopol are not making life easy.

Shit no. The sooner we rendezvous, turn around, and start steaming south together, the better.

About that, Needham typed. As a courtesy, I wanted to let you know that I really appreciate you walking into the lion’s den to escort us out.

This comment piqued Dusty’s interest. “As a courtesy”? Huh? Sure, when everything was said and done he’d fully expected a thank-you call from Needham, but to take time to message about it now . . . No, the Oak Hill’s CO was trying to tell him something else.

As a courtesy? he typed, prompting.

Yes, all 402 souls aboard the Oak Hill are in your debt.

His mind instantly did the math. Four hundred and two souls? That’s ship’s complement. What about the 400+ embarked Marines they were carrying? Holy shit, they left the Marines behind in Odessa! Those sneaky grunt bastards . . . Talk about big brass balls.

Thanks for the heads-up, Dusty typed. And I want you to know it wouldn’t matter whether you had 400 or 800 souls aboard—Donald Cook has your back. See you soon, Captain.

You too, Captain, the CO of the Oak Hill wrote, then logged out.

“Everything all right?” Brewster asked.

“Not sure,” he said, his gaze going to the middle distance. “The Oak Hill departed without her Marines aboard.”

“On purpose?” Brewster asked, his eyes going wide.

Dusty nodded.

“Well, that can’t be good.”

“Yeah, we’ll see,” he said, then added, “I’m heading back to the bridge. Keep a close eye on those incoming Russian ships.”

“Yes sir,” Brewster said. “Always.”

Dusty moved with purpose out of CIC. The moment he exited, he was hit by a wave of warm, humid air and was instantly light blind. Squinting hard, he quickstepped to the bridge, where he found the XO and the OOD both wearing headsets and talking together.

“You have something for me?” he said, noting their serious expressions.

“Yes, sir. Sonar just reported an active ping from bearing one-seven-zero,” the XO said.

A lump the size of a golf ball materialized in his throat. “The Admiral Grigorovich?”

“No sir, Romeo-24 bears one-eight-two,” the OOD said.

“Is the helo in the air?”

“Not yet, sir.”

“Why the fuck not?”

“Um, as I understand it, the pilot needed to, uh . . . you know,” Levy said.

“No, Lieutenant, I don’t know.”

“He needed to take a shit, sir,” she said with a tight-lipped grin.

“So, we have a Russian Kilo ranging our stern and our helo pilot is in the head?” He turned from Levy to the XO. “XO, what part of touch-and-go was I not clear about? If that Kilo launches a torpedo and I turn this boat, we’ll dump that Seahawk overboard.”

“I understand and I apologize, Captain. I was just whipping that horse when we got the report from sonar,” the XO said, her gaze downcast.

Hot with anger, he grabbed the 1MC. “Lieutenant Harts, this is the Captain. You have ninety seconds to get your ass back in your Seahawk or it is taking off without you. And if that happens, then report to the bridge immediately for lookout duty.”

“Oh snap,” the helmsman said under his breath, and chuckled. “Cap’n’s pissed.”

Dusty turned to Lieutenant Levy and said, “OOD—green deck!” Giving the order to launch the helo immediately.

“Yes sir,” she said, but before she could utter the order, the XO piped up.

“Hang on—deck crew says the pilot’s running onto the flight deck now . . . All right, he’s in the cockpit.”

Dusty shook his head. “Fucking aviators. Next time, I bet we’ll find him in crew’s mess getting autodog,” he said, and then imitating the pilot’s laid-back Kentucky drawl: “Relax, bro—I was just getting some fro-yo.”

Everyone on the bridge laughed at that, including the CMC, which was saying something. A little comic relief to break the tension before they got blown up was probably a good thing.

“Growler’s in the air,” the XO said and handed him her headset, preparing to return to Combat. “The pilot’s asking for you, Captain.”

“Before you go, there’s something else,” he said, dropping his voice to a whisper. “The Oak Hill departed port without the 26th MEU. They must have offloaded all the Marines last night before the ship got underway.”

She blew air through pursed lips. “So what does that mean for us? Are we going to have to go back and pick the Marines up if things get worse?”

Dusty thought for a second and said, “Probably the opposite. Unless this thing winds down in a hurry, I have a feeling they’ll be in Ukraine for quite some time.”

She nodded. “Any strategic adjustments you want to make?”

“Depends on what happens when the other frigate and patrol boat show up,” he said. “And if their submarines keep pinging us.”

“Roger that,” she said, and departed for Combat.

He slipped the headset on over his ball cap. “Captain on the line.”

“Captain, Growler One,” the helo pilot said. “I figured I had a minute while EMS was offloading that Russian pilot. Looks like I figured wrong.”

“While you were taking a crap, Harts, we got pinged by a Kilo. If that sub-boat captain had decided to launch a torpedo at us during that window, I would not have been able to execute torpedo-evasion protocols. The ship can’t maneuver with your bird on her back.”

“Understood, sir. Won’t happen again . . . So, uh, you want me to go find that Kilo for ya’ll? Drop a couple sonobuoys on his ass?”

“I think that’s a great idea,” Dusty said. “Just watch out for that frigate behind us. I suspect he’s not so pleased with us at the moment. Happy hunting, Growler.”

“Roger that, sir. SITREP to follow when we have something, Growler out.”

“Combat, Bridge—any more pings from the Russian submarine?” he asked, looking out the starboard door at the water.

“No, sir,” Brewster said. “Too bad, too, otherwise we’d be able to pinpoint his location. As it is, one ping only gives us a line of bearing.”

“You scanning for periscopes with the SPY-1?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. I have a radar operator dedicated to it and sonar is doing their best, but with us hauling ass in a straight line, sonar is pretty much useless. So long as the towed array is stowed, it’s gonna be impossible to hear, let alone locate, a diesel submarine operating on batteries.”

Dusty pressed his lips together. Brewster was telling it straight. Hunting submarines required patience, frequent maneuvering, and a speed and configuration that did not diminish sonar performance. The helo was dropping sonobuoys, but his gut told him there were multiple Kilos tracking him right now and there was no way Growler could find all of them.

A lone thought occurred to him that suddenly made him feel a little bit better, if only momentarily. “Well, TAO, so long as we’re surrounded by the Russian Black Sea surface fleet, I don’t suspect the Kilos will be firing any torpedoes in our direction. But if our Russian escorts suddenly bug out and we find ourselves alone in open water . . . well, that’s when we need to start worrying.”

“I tell you what, Cap’n—it ain’t easy being an Arleigh Burke alone in a Russian swimming pool. They can kill us from the air, from the sea, and from below. I don’t even want to know how many cruise missiles and torpedoes are pointed at this ship right now. Hell, never in a million years did I think I’d say this, but if I had the choice between driving on the surface or being on a sub where I can submerge and disappear, I’d pick the sub.”

“Yeah, but then all your sperm would be irradiated and you’d be shooting blanks for the rest of your life. Trust me, SWO is the only way to go.”

Brewster laughed at this, and so did a few others listening on the line—the first levity on NET-15 in hours.

“Nav, how long until we rendezvous with the Oak Hill?” Dusty asked.

“We’re making thirty-one knots and she’s making twenty-four. At this rate, we’ll intercept her track in forty-two minutes.”

“Good,” he said. “Any new airborne threats?”

“Not yet, Captain,” Brewster said.

“What’s the status of our Russian pilot?” he said, realizing he’d not received a status report from the Corpsman on their “guest” and probably should have by now.

“Captain, we’re being hailed by the Admiral Grigorovich,” the OOD said. “Captain Ruskin is on the bridge-to-bridge. You want to talk to him?”

“Damn,” he grumbled. “Somebody tell the Corpsman to get his ass to the bridge with an update on the pilot.”

“Yes, sir,” Levy said, then nodded to a subordinate watch stander to make the call.

Dusty exhaled loudly and took the bridge-to-bridge call. “This is Warship Seven-Five, over.”

“Captain Townsend,” the Russian skipper said, his voice equal parts irritation and self-righteous superiority. “You are making many very bad decisions. If you are not being careful, you might find your ship on the bottom of the Black Sea.”

The fact that his Russian counterpart had called him by name pissed Dusty off. Yes, that sort of information was open source, but making things personal just escalated the tension. If this asshole started mentioning his wife and kids by name, shit was gonna get real serious, real fast.

Using the most condescending and sarcastic tone he could muster, he said, “Russian frigate, this is United States Warship Seven-Five operating in international waters with due regard for international law. Request you state your intentions and maintain safe distance, over.”

The Russian didn’t respond for a long moment, before finally saying, “You have taken prisoner a Russian pilot and officer. We want him back.”

Dusty rolled his eyes. “Warship Seven-Five has conducted search and rescue operations in international waters while proceeding on duties assigned. The status of any persons located adrift is a matter for the international courts. I recommend you contact the United States government through official channels if you’d like to know more. I am not at liberty to discuss the status of any persons under my protection.”

In his peripheral vision, Dusty could see that the ship’s Corpsman, Chief Donovan, had arrived on the bridge and was making his way over.

“Unacceptable,” Ruskin said, dispensing with call signs and radio protocols. “We will be sending our helicopter to retrieve our comrade.”

“Russian frigate, this is Warship Seven-Five. My flight deck is not certified for Russian aircraft and I cannot ensure the airworthiness of your helicopter. I have already observed the quality of your airmanship during the previous engagement, which risked serious damage to my vessel and harm to personnel. Warship Seven-Five, out.”

Dusty removed his headset and turned his attention to the Corpsman. “What’s up, Doc? How is our Russian pilot?”

“You want it in layman’s terms or doctor speak?” Chief Donovan asked.

“English, please.”

The doc nodded. “Well, Cap’n, he’s pretty fucked up. I don’t know how fast he was going when he hit the water, but he hit hard. To be honest with you, I don’t know how he got himself into the rescue sling. Bunch of broken ribs, broken right arm, broken right leg . . . he’s got feeling in his toes, but I think his spine is broken.”

“Geez, that doesn’t sound good,” Dusty said.

“No, and that’s not even the worst of it. He’s bleeding internally. His BP is dropping and his belly’s getting bigger, and as you know, I am not properly equipped to operate on him. If we don’t get him to a hospital soon, he’s not going to make it.”

“Hmmm,” Dusty said, rubbing his jaw. “Can he make it four hours? Because that’s about how long it’s gonna take us to meet up with the Oak Hill, turn around, and clear this Russian blockade.”

The doc blew air through his teeth, then shook his head. “I don’t think so, Cap’n.”

“Shit,” he said and crossed his arms against his chest.

“Maybe we need to give him back to the Russians,” the CMC suggested.

Dusty shook his head. “Then we lose our leverage.”

“But if he dies on our watch they’ll blame us.”

“I know,” he said, oozing with frustration. “I’m gonna talk to the XO; she’s good at coming up with solutions to impossible problems like this.” He grabbed a headset and walked her through everything he and the Corpsman had just discussed. “So, what do you think?”

“What if we split the baby?” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“We could fly him to Mihail Kogălniceanu Air Base in Romania. Didn’t the Marines send an FRSS team there in addition to staging the F-35s? They could operate on him there and, technically, he’s still in American custody.”

“Not a bad idea . . . but then Growler would be out of pocket for the remainder of our transit. I don’t like the idea of giving up our only ASW asset.”

“Good point, but doesn’t the Oak Hill have a helo? We could keep Growler engaged and use their bird for the CASEVAC.”

“Nice,” he said but hesitated.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Well, it’s just that if we send him to MK, in effect we’re transferring our leverage. As long as he’s aboard, the Russians are gonna think twice before engaging us.”

“Okay . . . what if we dress him up in one of our uniforms and put a helmet on him so even if the Russians are watching they don’t know what we’re doing? We squawk about some other reason why the Oak Hill’s helo is jumping around. Personnel swap or something like that.”

“So sneaky. I love it,” he said, his mood suddenly supercharged as she clicked the last puzzle piece into place. “You’re a genius, XO, thanks.”

“Anytime, Captain,” she said, clearly pleased.

With a crooked smile, he turned to the CMC, the Corpsman, and the OOD, who were clustered around him with expectant eyes. “All right, people, here’s what we’re going to do . . .”