Hellfire c-20 Read online

  Hellfire

  ( Carrier - 20 )

  Keith Douglass

  While testing a top-secret missile defense system in the middle of the Pacific, the U.S.S. "Jefferson" accidentally targets the Russians. Their retaliation is swift and they have no interest in diplomacy. Now the Carrier Battle Group Fourteen must defend itself without provoking a full-blown war.

  Keith Douglass

  Hellfire

  ONE

  Sunday, June 29

  Admiral Kurashov

  Mid-Pacific

  0300 local (GMT-9)

  Russian General Vasily Groshenko dreamed. He was in the hills, bivouacked with his men. He was a junior officer, one only recently trusted off on his own, and this was his first mission in command of his company. He had been careful, so careful, in his planning — every detail examined, every potential problem anticipated. Or, at least he’d thought so.

  It wasn’t like he was entirely on his own, not like he would be on a real mission. Certainly, he had radio contact with higher authority, and could call for a helicopter should a medical emergency arise, or some other unforeseen incident. Unlike the earlier days of the Soviet Union, today’s Russia had the luxury of training time. In fact, it was almost all they had. Less money, less fuel — the only thing they had was time and terrain.

  Overhead, the stars were blinding. He had never seen them so close or so bright, large pinwheels of light against the blackness. There was no moon, no light from a nearby city. Just complete, utter blackness and the stars reaching down at him.

  The camp was practicing covert operations and all lights were extinguished. Even the sentries depended on their night-adapted eyes to find their way around, the flashlights hanging unused at their sides. The training was a valid tactical objective, but its secondary purpose was conserving the few batteries they had.

  Although the general could not see them, he could hear his men around him. Hear their breathing, the occasional muttered expletive of a sleeper disturbed by dreams, a mournful groan as another tried to find a comfortable spot on the ground. The sleeping bags were Arctic issue, shaped like a shroud, with attached hoods to go over the occupants’ heads. They were too hot for the season, although the general had not noticed it earlier. It was only recently that he became aware of the sweat running down his sides and dampening the liner of the sleeping bag. He knew a trickle of frustration, that he could plan everything else so carefully and still have the men bring the wrong equipment for the climate.

  But now it wasn’t the sleeping bags. It was the stars. They were moving closer, almost so close he could touch them now, their hard fiery heat beating down on him. The light was blinding, so blinding. It illuminated every crack of the landscape, drawing harsh shadows in seemingly random directions, making a mockery of his carefully practiced darkened camp procedures.

  A cluster of stars from one constellation moved together, merging into a single blinding mass. It hovered directly above him, the heat almost unbearable now. His eyebrows were singed and his skin bubbled as the fire penetrated through fragile flesh to sear his bones. He tried not to scream, tried not to give away their position to the enemy who was surely watching nearby. With all his will, he bit down on his lower lip, screaming inside as his flesh charred away from his bones. Finally, unable to bear it any longer, he let a scream rip out from the corner of his mouth, a sick keening sound that no human should ever make. In that one note, he knew that all was lost. The guns were centering on him now, bearing down just behind the light of the stars. He had betrayed them all.

  With a start, the general awoke. His sheets were clammy with sweat, twisted into strange forms around him. He took a few moments to remember where he was, disoriented at the abrupt transition from dreams to wakefulness. In the first second that his eyes were open, he thought he was in a coffin. It was dark, so dark, an enclosed space. He started to scream again, not sure he was even awake, and then reality crashed in on him.

  Not a coffin. A ship. Perhaps the equivalent for an army officer, if truth be known.

  Now fully oriented and awake, he slid back down on the bed, peeling back the top sheet to allow the sweat to dry. He was clad in an undershirt and boxer shorts, the former being a new habit ever since the nightmares — night terrors — had started.

  He held still for moment, waiting for his heart to slow down. Finally, when it was beating at a normal pace and his breathing had slowed, he swung his feet over onto the cold linoleum.

  The prospect of another two months on board the ship, and continuing nightmares, was almost more than he could bear. Yes, he had wanted this. Yes, it was necessary that he supervise all phases of the operation. The nightmares, the cramped quarters — all necessary evils, as was the gear located in two special trailers located on the aft deck.

  Special equipment — such an innocuous name. Intellectually, he knew that it was the source of his nightmares. Somehow his subconscious mind was convinced that the anti-satellite targeting laser contained in one of the trailers were targeted at him.

  How had it come to this? It was not Russia’s fault, not this time. No, the Americans were responsible for this. Their determination to build a missile defense shield, beginning with one deployed at sea, had destabilized the entire balance of power so carefully worked out during the decades of relative peace. Why had they done it? Hadn’t they realized what would happen?

  No matter. That was for the politicians to decide. His mission was simply to demonstrate to the Americans, in no uncertain terms, just how dangerous their actions were. If they deployed the system, made it operational, then Russia had to be prepared to retaliate. From what he understood, the diplomats had made that point eminently clear in the carefully worded statements that were the diplomatic equivalent of hardware. It had had no effect. A more explicit demonstration was necessary.

  Tomorrow night. It will all be over tomorrow night. And then, perhaps, the nightmares will stop.

  Did Captain First Rank Pietro Bolshovich have nightmares? It was possible, he supposed, although he doubted it. The officer commanding the amphibious transport seemed to be a stolid, rather dull man. Or perhaps that was just his way of expressing his displeasure at having an army officer on board and in tactical command. For whatever reason, he had struck Vasily as somewhat dense. Not the sort of man given to fanciful imaginings about stars and lasers.

  Tomorrow, the demonstration. A short one, just to show the Americans that no matter how well their system worked, Russia was ahead of them. Again. Like Soyuz and the first man in space. Like the development of tactical nuclear weapons. Russia’s planning process linked civilian and military assets and resources into a potent developmental force. The nation had one focus, one priority, unlike the United States, splintered by profit motives and self-interest.

  The American forces at sea would see the Russian laser spiking the heavens, although Vasily doubted that they’d be told what it was. They hadn’t a need to know — Russia intended the message for those higher up the chain of command.

  The demonstration, then a few weeks of monitoring the American tests, watching for weaknesses and vulnerabilities. Those would be long hours, not only for the scientists on board but for the more mundane sailors as well. Keeping within range to monitor the Americans while maintaining a safe distance and observing international safety-at-sea conventions would take some precision navigation. Then a few more weeks at sea to return to their home port. When he thought about the weeks ahead of him, marooned on this ship with only naval officers such as Bolshovich for company, the general’s spirits sank.

  While Groshenko had overall responsibility and authority for the testing program, Bolshovich was responsible for the safety of his ship and crew. The Russian naval officer had ordered the ship to
an increased state of readiness, and planned to be prepared for immediate retaliation by American forces. The general thought that unnecessary, but he demurred. It was, after all, the captain’s ship.

  Could Bolshovich really be as dull as he seemed? Was it possible to be stupid and rise to command of a ship of this size, much less be entrusted with the testing of Russia’s missile defense system? Perhaps, but traditional Russian paranoia demanded that the general consider the possibility that he might have underestimated the captain.

  The general paced the small compartment for a bit, letting the heat leach out of his body through his feet on the cold linoleum, then he washed his face and tried to clear his mind. He changed his T-shirt and was comforted by the clean, crisp feel of fresh cotton against his skin. Finally, he lay down on top of his blanket and pulled it around him, avoiding the clammy sheets. Like all good ground troops, he was capable of making use of almost any opportunity to sleep. Old habits kicked in, his mind stilled, and he drifted back off to sleep. His final thought before he fell asleep was to wonder if Bolshovich was sleeping, too.

  TWO

  Monday, June 30

  ACN Headquarters

  0700 local (GMT-5)

  Pamela Drake’s first thought upon meeting Cary Winston was that her boobs couldn’t possibly be real. Nature simply didn’t make them that rounded and jutting. Nor did nature, in Drake’s experience, ever couple that attribute with exceptionally translucent skin, sky blue eyes, and gold hair. Nature wouldn’t: it simply wouldn’t be fair.

  “Hi.” Cary’s voice was low and warm. “What an honor to meet you, Miss Drake. I’ve been a fan of yours since grade school. And now to have a chance to work with you — well, it’s more than I could have ever dreamed.” Winston fluttered her improbably long lashes at Drake, her expression one of complete awe.

  “Thank you, I’m sure,” Drake murmured, seething. Since grade school. And that would imply precisely what? That Drake herself had been knocking around different parts of the world since before Winston was potty trained?

  “I hope you don’t mind if I’ve got a lot of questions,” Winston continued, apparently oblivious to the effect she was having on Drake. “Gosh, I don’t even know where to start.” Her blue eyes looked up with hero worship shining.

  But it was true, wasn’t it? Winston had been drafted deep from the ranks of regional news programs in the Southwest, after only two years’ experience on network. Two years, plus four for college, plus four for high school — yes, ten years. She could easily have been in grade school, or at least middle school, when Drake had started at ACN.

  “Of course,” Drake said, not allowing her emotions to show in her voice. She was acutely aware of the rest of the newsroom crew watching, and could almost feel the effort it was taking for them to choke back snorts of laughter. Winston may not have known what impact her remarks had, but none of it was lost on the rest of the cynical, world-weary reporters there.

  Or maybe, Drake thought, scrutinizing Winston more closely, the young woman did know exactly what she was doing. She couldn’t be a completely brainless idiot, could she? Not and have risen that quickly through the ranks of regional news organizations. No, she had to have more on the ball than Drake was seeing right now.

  Give her some time and see what develops. Maybe it’s just nerves.

  Then again, if the bitch was going to declare war on anyone, she’d better watch out. Drake had not survived in this bastion of male superiority without developing a few guerrilla combat techniques of her own. And foremost among them was niceness.

  “Anything I can do to help,” Drake said, her voice suddenly sweet. She put one arm around the younger woman’s shoulders and gave her a warm hug, only accidentally throwing her off balance in her high heel shoes. “Of course, it was such a long time ago that I was as — well — new as you are, wasn’t it?” Her green eyes ringed with gold bore in on Winston’s blue ones, and just for a moment, the new reporter looked shaken. “And there is so much to learn, isn’t there? The technical information, how to get around in the world — not to mention contacts. Even learning to get along with the rest of the staff can be a challenge, don’t you think?” Drake stepped up the intensity of her stare that was quickly turning into a glare. “After all, it’s all a matter of teamwork, isn’t it?”

  Winston smiled uncertainly. “Of course. And with all your experience—” she started, evidently setting up for another jab, but Pamela leaned forward and accidentally stepped on her toe. Winston yelped and drew back. Pamela reached across her to pick up a catalog. She handed it to Winston and smiled. “Oh, I’m sorry. I do hope I didn’t hurt you.”

  “Not at all.” Winston drew herself up to her full height, her face hard. The steel beneath the attractive exterior was now showing.

  “Because the smallest injury can really set you back,” Pamela said, her gaze locked on the other woman’s eyes. “I mean, a broken toe or something — well, it’s not like you can do much traveling if you can’t run, is it? The sort of places we go, you never know when you’ll need to get out of the way.”

  “I wouldn’t let a broken toe slow me down.”

  Drake shook her head, amused. “Ah, no. You wouldn’t. But first off, Hank would never allow you out of the country until you had medical clearance. And second, even if he did, it would be very dangerous. You never know when the shit is going to hit the fan and you have to be able to run for your life. If it comes down to it. And it sometimes does.” She turned back to survey the other reporters, now watching them enjoy the interaction. “Isn’t that right, guys?” A chorus of nods and agreement answered her. Sure, they were enjoying the tiff, but they knew which side their bread was buttered on. Drake was a powerhouse and Winston was just the new kid on the block.

  Besides, Drake was right. The cameramen would have enough to do with getting their own gear clear of trouble without worrying about a reporter with a bum leg.

  “So, for starters,” Drake said briskly, her point made, “you need more comfortable shoes for around here.” She tapped the catalog she’d given Winston. “I ordered from these guys. Spring for the steel-toed field shoes — they come in handy, particularly if you’re on a ship.”

  “Thank you, I will,” Winston said. For a moment, all the fight seemed to have gone out of her. Then her temper flared again. “So tell me, Miss Drake — Pamela — is there any truth to the rumor that you’ve picked up where you left off with Admiral Magruder? After all, I understand he’s available now.”

  There was a moment of shocked, appalled silence, and Winston immediately saw that she’d overstepped her bounds. But there was no way to recover, not with the entire newsroom staring at her. Drake herself was a model of icy composure.

  “First off, as you should know, he’s no longer an admiral. He’s just a civilian now. And no, I am not quite ill-bred enough to, quote, pick up, unquote, as you put it with a man whose wife is missing in action.”

  “It’s been a year,” Winston said. “Surely he’s preparing to go on with his life and accept the inevitable. After all, she hasn’t been heard from at all since she was shot down.”

  Pamela did not move. “A parachute was sighted when she ejected. While the conclusion that she was killed in action may seem the only correct one to you, I can assure you that all of us — and I mean all of us — are hoping and praying that she is eventually found. To do less would be rather despicable, don’t you think?” Behind her, the rest of the newsroom murmured its agreement.

  Winston considered that for moment, then a flush crept up her cheeks. “You know,” she said, a new note in her voice, “I wonder if I could ask you an enormous favor. Just this once.”

  Drake shrugged, her anger boiling white hot inside her. “Besides advice on your footwear?”

  Winston nodded slowly. “Yes.” She was still speaking loudly enough for everyone in the newsroom to hear. “I seem to have this really awful tendency to make a complete and utter ass out of myself when I first meet people.”
Her blue-eyed gaze locked on Pamela’s, the eyes calm but with a hint of defiance. “I think that’s something I need to get over. Perhaps you could give me some pointers.”

  Drake regarded her for a moment, her expression softening only slightly in the face of the other woman’s apparently sincere embarrassment. She could sense the mood of the newsroom swinging behind Winston now, and to hammer Winston again in the face of an attempted apology, however oblique, would be to concede the round to her.

  “I think I just did,” Drake said calmly. She stuck out her hand, taking the sting out of her words with a genuine smile. “Welcome aboard, Cary.” This time, her words were warm. “What are you doing for lunch today?”

  USS Jefferson

  0300 local (GMT-9)

  Mid-Pacific Ocean

  Airman Lance Irving enjoyed midwatches. It was the only time he was certain he would be left alone.

  The USS Jefferson was steaming through the warm night air. Irving knew they were somewhere between Hawaii and San Diego, but he wasn’t sure exactly where. The other Navy ships and commercial vessels were mere specks of light on the horizon, the Navy ships in the battle groups spaced out around the carrier at twenty-mile intervals, the civilian ships wandering in and out between them, oblivious to the formation. In a few hours, the opening evolutions of an exercise known as Kernel Blitz would begin.

  Irving saw the lights of the USS Lake Champlain shift slightly. The cruiser was the closest Navy ship to the carrier. From what Irving could see, it was changing course slightly to move away from a cruise ship blazing with lights, lit up like a carnival. Smart move. If the cruise ship was dumb enough to be in the vicinity of a naval exercise, then it was probably dumb enough to collide with the minimally lit Lake Champlain.

  Irving was reasonably certain that the operations specialist in CDC would have already noticed the change in the cruiser’s course, but standing orders called for him to report his observations. With all the electronics and link systems in use, the Navy still relied on the old Mark One Mod Zero eyeball for a sanity check on radars and computers. Irving keyed his sound-powered phone. “Surface Plot, Port. Aspect change on the cruise ship.”