Red Tide, стр. 13

The fleet drones were still online. And, as video appeared on-screen, Ryson found himself looking down at a large ship with five smaller escorts. “That looks like a cruiser,” Sterling observed, as she zoomed in. “Yup, here we go … That sucker is an 87.2 percent match with the cruiser Omsk.”

“And the Omsk is Admiral Belkin’s flagship,” Ryson mused. “He can see how fucked up we are, and he’s coming down to play.”

“So it would seem,” Sterling agreed.

“Show me the Black Sea chart,” Ryson said.

The video morphed into a chart. Ryson was well aware of the fact that his squadron was blasting north at 52 knots, while the Russian battle group was traveling south at something like 26 knots, which meant he had very little time in which to make a decision. The squadron would fight. That was a given. But how?

Ryson scanned the chart looking for something, anything, that might offer a way to slow the oncoming behemoth down. If Squadron 3 could accomplish that, perhaps Canby could send some tin cans to lend a hand.

But a head on collision with a cruiser and five escorts would be nothing less than suicidal. Especially after losing 25 percent of his command. A sick feeling seeped into the pit of Ryson’s stomach as Sterling stared at him. He could imagine what she was thinking. Make a decision god damnit. That’s what they pay you for.

According to the chart the Black Sea was empty. No islands. Unless you were willing to count the nameless rock off the coast of Romania as an island. It was marked with a capital “K,” the letter that stood for rocks, wrecks and obstructions. But, so what?

Then a thought occurred to him. A stupid thought most likely, but a thought nevertheless. And something was better than nothing. Ryson thumbed his mike. “This is Six. I know you can see the battle group that’s coming our way. Boats 1 and 4 are going to try and slow it down. Meanwhile boat 3 will proceed to the only rock on your chart. Get in as close as you can, drop the hook, and prepare to fire missiles on my command. Over.”

The acknowledgements came in quick succession as the Altostratus turned east and cut speed. “The Russians will assume the three boat is having mechanical problems, and will focus on us,” Sterling said. “Plus, the Alto’s radar image will merge with the blip from the rock. So maybe the Ivans will forget about her.”

“That’s the plan,” Ryson admitted. “Send a message to the fleet. Tell them that the enemy is north of us, and Squadron 3 will engage. Request air support.”

Ryson saw the subtle change in Sterling’s expression. She knew they were going to die. “Aye, aye, sir.”

The sun was peeking through scattered clouds, and the wind was starting to pick up, as the distance between the American boats and the Russians continued to dwindle. The enemy ships were well within range of the PHMs’ Harpoon missiles, and the reverse was true as well. Yet neither party had chosen to launch.

Ryson knew why he hadn’t chosen to fire, and assumed that Admiral Belkin was thinking the same thing. By closing with the enemy, the travel time for each missile would be shortened. And that meant less time for the enemy to respond with anti-air measures. The difference would be a matter of seconds, but that’s what modern warfare was about.

According to Aunt Ida the Mammatus had six Harpoon missiles remaining, and the Pileus had all eight, for a total of fourteen. Each of which could be individually targeted.

So, which was best? Should Ryson spread the love around? And put a couple of missiles on each Russian vessel? Or go all in, and try to stop the Omsk?

Ryson decided to pursue the second strategy on the theory that the cruiser was the most significant threat to the fleet, and that if seriously damaged, the Omsk’s escorts would be forced to stay and defend her.

The horizon was about twelve miles away, so Ryson couldn’t see the enemy with his eyes, but they were on the plot. And after choosing a strategy Ryson wanted to draw first blood. He turned to Sterling. “Contact the Pileus. Tell Hanson to put all of his missiles on the Omsk. And we’ll do the same. Sixty from now.”

“What about the Alto?”

Ryson glanced at the plot. The three boat was nowhere to be seen. “Tell them to hold their fire but to be ready.”

The ensuing sixty seconds seemed to last forever. What if he had waited too long? What if Russian missiles blew his boats out of the water before they could launch?

Finally, the moment came. The Mammatus continued to speed along as the missiles raced away. The full ECM (Electronic Counter Measure) package was on by then, decoys were in the air, and the deck began to tilt as Po put the boat into a hard turn.

“Incoming from the north,” Deen said phlegmatically. “One, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 missiles.”

Ryson closed his eyes, but opened them again, as a series of explosions were heard. The last was like a clap of thunder.

“The Pileus is no longer on-screen,” Deen said.

Ryson felt slightly nauseous. Fifty percent of his command had been destroyed. A male voice interrupted his train of thought. “Shag and Digger in from the west with missiles and guns. There are six Ivans north of your location. Smoke is pouring off the big boy … But he’s still underway. Your wish is our command. Over.”

Ryson felt a sense of elation. Some of the Harpoons had struck home! He thumbed his mike. “Welcome to the party, Shag. See if you can stop the big boy. Then, if you have something left over, put it on the escorts.

“Be advised that we have a boat to the west with a full load of eight Harpoons. Once you’ve completed your run give me an assessment. Then we’ll put those missiles where they can