Collateral (Tier One #6)

USS Donald Cook (DDG-75)

North of the 45th Parallel

The Black Sea

My crew is exhausted, my warship is running low on fuel, I’m surrounded by the Russian Black Sea fleet, and I haven’t had time to take a shit in two days . . . why did I choose this job again?

These were the thoughts running through Dusty’s head as he stared out the bridge windshield at the Ukrainian shoreline. Ukraine had given the Donald Cook permission to enter within twelve nautical miles from land. Ukraine had not given that same permission to the Russian Navy, but it didn’t matter. They were all here together, one big floating happy family covering each other with missiles, guns, and torpedoes . . .

One must never forget about the torpedoes.

“Captain, are you okay?” said a voice beside him, shaking him out of his fugue.

He turned to his Battle Stations Officer of the Deck, Lieutenant Levy. “Say again?”

“Is everything okay, sir?” she said, meeting his gaze with anxious eyes.

“I don’t know,” he said earnestly. “I just have this feeling . . .”

When he didn’t finish his thought, she said, “Yes, sir, me too.”

He thought back to the conversation he’d had with the CMC after crossing the forty-fifth parallel south, during that oh-so-brief moment of respite before the powers that be decided to send his ship back into the lion’s den. And as he replayed the words in his head, he knew what he needed to do.

“Lieutenant, I want you to hail the Admiral Grigorovich on the bridge-to-bridge. Tell them I want to talk to Captain Ruskin on a secure channel. Give them the ship’s satellite phone number. Tell him to . . . no, scratch that, request that he call me at his earliest opportunity.”

“Sir?” she said with a quizzical expression.

“No, I didn’t misspeak, Lieutenant,” he said with a tired smile. “You heard me right.”

“Yes, sir,” she said and did as ordered.

He listened as she dialogued with her male counterpart on the Russian guided-missile frigate, and when she was done, he said, “Good work, OOD. I’m going to Combat. Just keep turning racetracks at this bell.”

“Aye, sir,” she said.

He walked out of the bridge and straight to Combat.

“Captain in Combat,” a sailor announced the second Dusty stepped inside.

He paused a moment for his eyes to adjust to the low-level light, then walked over to where the XO and TAO were talking.

“Captain,” the XO greeted him.

“XO,” he said with a nod, then, “Anything for me before heading to the bridge?”

She thought for a second, then said, “I’m assuming you’ve decided to give our Russian escorts a heads-up about our defensive tasking, hence the bridge-to-bridge call to the Admiral Grigorovich?”

“That’s correct,” he said.

“You know, some parties on our side might construe that decision as a flagrant violation of OPSEC.”

“Indeed . . . some parties might,” he said, meeting her gaze. “What about you?”

“I think in this scenario, communicating our intentions only furthers our ability to execute our mission. If we were tasked to launch an offensive salvo, it would be a different story. But in this case, we’re a defensive contingency plan. Probably not a bad idea for the Russians to understand this.”

“Good to hear we’re of the same mind on this,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” she said with a nod and headed off for the bridge.

As if on cue, the ship’s satellite phone rang. Brewster answered it, and after a brief exchange with the caller, he handed it to Dusty. “Captain Ruskin of the Admiral Grigorovich is on the horn for you.”

Dusty accepted the sat phone and raised it to his ear. “Captain Ruskin, this is Commander Townsend,” he said.

“I must tell you, I am surprised by your request to talk,” the Russian captain said in a crisp, even tone. “Are you calling to coordinate the safe return of our pilot?”

“No,” Dusty said, “but I do have an update for you on that topic. Your pilot is out of surgery and in critical but stable condition. He suffered multiple fractures and injury to internal organs, but the doctors tell me that he is expected to live. We will make every effort to return him to you when he is in condition to travel.”

“Thank you for this information, but if this is not the purpose of calling, tell me what is?”

Dusty inhaled sharply. Okay, here goes nothing.

“Captain, I’m going to be honest with you. I’m breaking protocol by having this conversation. In fact, if my superiors hear about this, I will probably be stripped of my command . . . but I believe that’s a chance I have to take.”

“I understand,” the Russian replied.

“Captain, we have intelligence that a rogue entity may have taken possession of a short-range ballistic missile transport vehicle in southeastern Ukraine with the intent of targeting either Russian or American forces in Mariupol. Maybe both. Efforts are in play to prevent this launch from happening, but in the event those efforts fail, the Donald Cook has been tasked with shooting down those rogue missiles with our SM-3 antiballistic missiles. I am informing you of this because I do not want any misunderstanding in this scenario.”

“Commander Townsend, imagine our roles are reversed and you command the Admiral Grigorovich. Imagine your orders are to defend Russia and Russian soldiers. An American warship you are watching has violated Russian sovereign waters. American Marines have invaded Ukraine to attack Russian peacekeeping forces. Then the American warship you are covering launches missiles at an unknown target. How am I to know you are not targeting Sevastopol? Or St. Petersburg? Or Moscow? Remember, Captain, you already fired the first salvo, and I chose not to return fire. I cannot promise to show such restraint a second time.”

Dusty felt a surge of anger. This was the sort of spin-doctor bullshit that sent his blood pressure to the stratosphere. We did not violate Russian waters; Russia blockaded the Black Sea. American Marines did not invade Ukraine; Russian forces did. And for God’s sake, you’re not the peacekeepers; we are! These were the things he wanted to say. He wanted to speak truth to power and put the Russian in his place, but to do so would only cause the little trust and common ground they had built to disintegrate. So instead, he decided to speak from a place of humility, rather than ego.

“You’re right, I did shoot first, but those were warning shots and we both know it. But I didn’t call to debate who was right and who was wrong in the last engagement. I didn’t call to argue about the strategic motives of our respective governments in Ukraine. I called to talk to you, captain to captain. You asked me to put myself in your shoes, to imagine what I would do if I were the captain of the Admiral Grigorovich . . . well, I have. I imagined myself standing on the bridge of your ship. I imagined myself watching the Donald Cook fire missiles without warning, and I imagined me assuming the worst possible intentions and returning fire . . . and that is the reason I called. I realized that the only possible chance I had to complete my mission without mutually assured destruction was to communicate my intentions to you—captain to captain.”

Several long seconds elapsed before Captain Ruskin replied. “I have not received any intelligence on the situation you describe . . . How do I know if what you are telling me is truth or misinformation to help you complete your real mission objective, which is to attack Russian targets? You are asking me to trust you, but you are my adversary. I am sorry, but you ask too much, Captain.”

“I know, but I had to try,” Dusty said. Then, after an exhale, he added, “If launched, the SRBMs will have west-to-east trajectories. The launch will happen in Odessa. I will respond with two missiles, Captain, fired on intercept trajectories. Launched only after our radar system detects a missile launch from mainland Ukraine. No more than two. That’s my promise to you.”

“Launching missiles under any circumstance would be a mistake,” the Russian CO said. “That’s my promise to you. Dasvidaniya, Captain.”

The line went dead. Dusty clipped the sat phone to his belt, bowed his head, and began rubbing his temples.

“That good, huh?” Brewster said.

“Cover all Russian ships with birds,” he said, with a fatalistic grimace. “And put fire control in automatic.”

Brewster acknowledged and executed the order while Dusty paced. Hands clasped behind his lower back, he gazed at Combat’s three command monitors, each displaying different tactical information and constantly updating.

“Captain,” Brewster said urgently. “Intel reports indications of probable ballistic missile launch from northern Odessa. SPY is sectored to that search area.”

Dusty’s breath caught in his throat and he looked at the screen with the Ballistic Missile Defense System overview.

“Captain, ACS has a new track, designated one-zero-zero-one, probable ballistic missile based on speed and trajectory . . . track one-zero-zero-one first-stage booster cutout, missile is confirmed ballistic. Probable impact point is Mariupol.”

“Kill track one-zero-zero-one with Eagles,” Dusty ordered, giving the command to fire the SM-3s.

“Aye, sir. Killing track one-zero-zero-one with Eagles.”

Lights flashed, an alarm sounded, and the ship shuddered.

“Captain, Eagles away, salvo size one. Time to intercept, two minutes fifty-three seconds,” Brewster reported.

In the span of milliseconds, the ship’s SPY-1 radar had detected the Iskander SRBM launch in Odessa, the Aegis Combat System had calculated an intercept solution, and the MK41 vertical launch system had fired a single SM-3 Block IIA antiballistic missile. At a speed in excess of Mach 8, the SM-3 was rocketing toward its target while receiving continuous midcourse guidance from the Donald Cook’s much more capable radar and targeting system. Only during the final phase of the engagement would the missile’s own kinetic warhead take over homing duties and intercept, delivering a 130-megajoule kinetic energy package to explode the target.

Dusty looked at the flat-screen display showing the two missiles’ positions and trajectory. An odd feeling washed over him as he watched the converging colored lines stretch out on the monitor. The battle being waged was happening at many, many times the speed of sound. Calculations were being performed by CPUs at close to the speed of light and adjustments were being ordered entirely without human input. Success or failure was entirely out of his hands, which meant all he could do was watch.

“Captain, we’re being painted by the Admiral Grigorovich,” a console operator reported.

“Very well,” he said, readying himself for the hell that was coming next. “TAO, confirm only a single launch detected from Odessa.”

“That’s confirmed, Captain. Only one track detected,” Brewster said.

“Combat, Bridge,” came the XO’s voice over NET-15. “The Admiral Grigorovich is repositioning guns—taking aim at ownship.”

“Copy, XO,” he said, grabbing the nearest mike. “Maintain course and speed.”

“Captain, Bridge—aye.”

Brewster looked at him, eyes asking the question: Should we respond in kind and turn the gun?

He shook his head.

The tension in Combat was so palpable, he could practically taste it. The same terrible thoughts tumbling in his head were undoubtedly harassing everyone else in the room. This is not happening . . . Is this really how it’s supposed to end? Dear God, I just want it to be over. He shut them all down and embraced the moment for what it was. He was the ship’s captain, and this was the moment he’d prepared for his entire life. He would not fail his crew. He would not lose his focus.

The satellite phone clipped to his belt vibrated and rang, piercing the silence.

He looked down at it in stunned disbelief for an instant, before moving to take the call.

“Donald Cook Actual,” he said.

“Commander Townsend, this is Captain Ruskin,” the Russian CO said, his voice tinged with an emotion—aggravation, arrogance, urgency?—Dusty could not quite place.

“Yes, Captain.”

“We detected a missile launch in Odessa on our radar. The missile your ship launched is on an intercept course with that missile? Confirm,” Ruskin said.

“That is correct,” he said.

“What is your next move?” the Russian CO asked. “Think very carefully before you answer.”

“We’re going to loiter until I receive confirmation from my people that any additional threat has been neutralized. If a second missile is launched from Odessa, we’re going to shoot that missile down, too.”

“Captain, Mark India!” Brewster boomed, his report indicating the SM-3 was at the intercept point.

“Battle damage assessment, TAO?” Dusty snapped, nerves on fire.

“Assessed as probable kill based on deceleration,” Brewster reported, from where he was leaning over a Fire Control Technician’s console. “Wait . . . we have multiple new tracks on ACS at India. Confirming debris fall, Captain. Good kill!”

A cheer erupted in Combat.

“I’m not sure if you could hear that, Captain,” Dusty said with a relieved smile. “But that was my crew celebrating a successful intercept. We just saved lives, Captain. It’s impossible to say how many—could be dozens, could be hundreds—but what do you say we save some more by keeping this channel of communication open until the rogue threat is neutralized and our respective governments find a way to deescalate this mess?”

“Is a nice plan, but I cannot make any promises as long as your ship remains north of the forty-fifth parallel,” the Russian said. “If your ship were to turn south, however, I would take this as—how you say—a show of good faith.”

Dusty considered the Russian’s request. Commander Casey had told him there were two missiles on the launcher, which meant the threat was still active. Casey had also told him that the Cook was the contingency plan in case the primary intervention failed. Was the primary asset still engaged? How long until he received word about the fate of the second missile? How long until he received new tasking? He played out a series of probabilities and options in his head before finally answering.

“All right, Captain, give me fifteen minutes,” he said, “Just fifteen minutes and you’ll get your show of good faith.”

“Five minutes,” the Russian came back.

“Ten.”

“Ten minutes,” Ruskin said, that strange, inscrutable tone returning to his voice.

The line went dead. Dusty exhaled, clipped the sat phone to his belt, and looked at Brewster.

“Sounds like you reached an understanding of sorts,” the TAO said with a tenuous smile.

He nodded and mirrored Brewster’s expression with a tenuous smile of his own. “I bought us a reprieve, but no guarantee.”

“Ten minutes?”

“Yeah, ten minutes for some spooky assholes in Odessa to stop World War Three,” he said and looked up to heaven. “And I pray to God whoever they are, they do it fast.”