Hellfire c-20 Read online

  The fire was already burning through the decks and into the upper compartments, and smoke was billowing out of the stacks. On the fantail, a first few seconds of stunned silence gave way to immediate panic. As the sea poured into the hull and the ship took on a list, men and women clad in swimsuits crawled over each other in a mad stampede to move forward.

  Jack and Erica, who were inside the ship at the time of the impact, were thrown against a bulkhead. The stampede of people now coming down their passageway was an angry, panicked mob.

  Gaspert was operating on reflex, as any sailor must do in the first few critical seconds in order to prevent complete disaster. He shouted orders to damage control teams and ordered the rest of the crew into their preplanned roles in controlling the passengers and preparing for abandon ship. But it was difficult to round them all up and get them to their assigned lifeboat stations, much less ensure that they all had their safety gear on. Ninety percent of the passengers were in one of the three dining areas, and some were five decks away from their life preservers — even if they had remembered how to use them after the quick five-minute brief by their assigned abandon ship crew member.

  Gaspert got on the ship’s intercom and tried to head off the hysteria. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a serious problem on the ship. No one is injured, but you must remain calm and follow the orders of my crew exactly as they are given in order to ensure your own safety. Please stay where you are. Senior crew members, take charge and execute general plan number two.” Plan two was the contingency developed to cover just this situation. It involved an immediate flood of crew members to break up groups of passengers into smaller, more controllable elements. Regardless of their assigned damage control station, the passengers would be dispatched to one of several areas.

  Montego Bay was listing hard to port now, and the officer of the day was rapping out an oral message over the distress channel, informing all vessels in the area as well as Coast Guard stations in California and Hawaii of their exact situation. They were closer to Hawaii than California, but not by much. In fact, their nearest source of assistance was the Russian battle group, followed closely by the American one.

  As the ship lurched hard to port, Gaspert finally accepted the inevitable. They were going to be abandoning ship. The operations officer on the USS Jefferson came on the distress channel and they began coordinating rescue operations.

  Admiral Kurashov

  2220 local (GMT-9)

  The general stared aghast at the screen. The disaster was all too evident, especially given the call over the marine circuit from Jefferson to Montego Bay.

  “What have you done?” he shouted at the captain. “A civilian ship!”

  “You interfered with our operations,” the captain responded. “This is your fault, General. Do not expect me to take the blame for this.”

  Gorshenko stared at the screen, his gut churning. Finally, he said, “I think there will be enough blame to go around, Captain. Now contact the Americans and offer your assistance.”

  SS Montego Bay

  Lifeboat Number 10

  2225 local (GMT-9)

  Gaspert ran aft down the starboard weatherdeck, pausing briefly at each lifeboat station to make sure that his crew had the situation in hand. There was surprisingly little panic. His crew had been firm, confident, and forceful. The passengers were assembled, in most cases already loaded into the boats, and a few were already in the process of being lowered to the sea.

  The damage to the stern was too severe to permit him to cross to the other side of the ship, so he returned forward, and cut through the main stairwell to the other side. There, the situation was a bit more difficult, since that side of the ship was high. The angle made it difficult to lower the lifeboats without banging into the side of the ship, but again, the crew was managing astoundingly well.

  Finally, convinced that he could do no more, Gaspert returned to his own lifeboat. All the passengers and crew were loaded, and they were waiting for him. He took his place, then activated the winch that would lower them to the sea. Once that was done, he turned to the next senior man present. “Report.”

  “Twenty on board, three slightly injured, two seriously. One unconscious, having difficulty breathing. I think it may be a heart attack. The other serious is a broken leg.”

  Gaspert surveyed the passengers and saw pale, frightened faces staring back him. One man was stretched out flat on his back, eyes closed. A few of the passengers who knew first aid were hovering over him, apparently ready to start CPR.

  The boat hit the water, coming down harder than it should have. Gaspert and another crewman cast off the lines and shoved the boat away from the dying ship while the engineer started the engines. Within moments, the engine sputtered and caught and they were under way. All along the starboard side and, Gaspert hoped, on the port as well, the other boats were doing the same thing.

  A series of explosions rocked Montego Bay and rained debris on them. Gaspert shouted, but the noise was deafening. Between the fire and the explosions, no one could hear him.

  That was when the real value of the training became apparent. No orders were necessary — the helmsman simply jammed the throttles forward and turned them at right angles to the ship, putting as much distance between them as possible. The other boats followed his lead, and soon they were far enough away that they could resume trying to navigate.

  A hundred yards from the cruise ship, the noise was significantly reduced. Gaspert shouted, “Astern!” and pointed toward the aft end of the ship. That would be the mustering point. His boat led the way, and the others followed, moving slowly and keeping a safe distance between them. There was no point in surviving abandon ship only to collide with each other.

  As they reassembled astern, the radio reports started coming in. One by one, each boat reported a full and complete muster. As he listened to the numbers rolling in, Gaspert felt sick. Not a single boat had everyone on it that it was supposed to.

  Overhead, helicopters were on the horizon, a string of them making a beeline for them. Gaspert breathed a prayer of thanksgiving then turned to the navigator. “Assign each boat a sector. I want every square inch of this water searched, consistent with safety. And get me Jefferson on the radio.”

  USS Jefferson

  2226 local (GMT-9)

  From the moment the decision was made to go to EMCON condition Echo, an odd silence settled over in TFCC. The religious were praying, and everyone else focused his or her thoughts on just one objective, offering it up to whoever might be in charge of things, if indeed there was anybody. Both the religious and nonreligious pleas and prayers were remarkably similar.

  Please, please, don’t let it hit the cruise ship. Let it be a dud, a typical example of Russian engineering. Let there be a fishing boat, anything, but please, please not the cruise ship.

  The prayers went unanswered, as did the pleas and threats. Deprived of its rich, tempting target radiating energy on so many bands, the seeker had cast about until it found another source. Not nearly as enticing, certainly. A meager meal compared to the aircraft carrier and her escorts. But, approaching the missile equivalent of starvation, the secondary target would have to do.

  It did not require much of a change of course for the missile to intercept Montego Bay. It twitched slightly in that air, tipped over, descended to barely above the waves and bore in.

  “Flight deck, TAO! Set flight quarters for rescue-at-sea operations!” Hanson rapped out a series of orders to the other ships, turning them toward the cruise liner and ordering them to flight quarters.

  “Jefferson, this is the captain of Montego Bay,” a tightly controlled voice said. “I am preparing to abandon ship. We’ve taken two hits in our stern. We have a main space fire out of control. I estimate I have approximately ten minutes to get everyone off the ship and into the water, one way or another.”

  The admiral picked up the handset. “Roger, Montego Bay, copy all. I have all units en route to your position to rend
er assistance. Just get them in the water, sir — we’ll take care of you.”

  Just then, a rough foreign voice broke in. “We, also, can help.” Hearing the Russian accent froze everyone’s blood.

  “That will not be necessary,” the admiral replied, ice in his voice. “If you attempt to interfere with rescue operations under my command, we will open fire. And if we do, it will be far less despicable than attacking an unarmed cruise ship. Now clear this circuit before you get more people killed.

  “Montego Bay, Jefferson. We’re deploying rescue helicopters with SAR swimmers, as well as small boats, in your direction. Estimate the helicopters overhead in approximately five mikes. The small boats are proceeding at flank speed and estimate fifteen mikes. What other assistance can we render at this time, sir?”

  There was no immediate answer, although a cacophony of commands, screams, and shouts came over the circuit. Evidently the captain had keyed the mike but could not yet take the time to speak to them.

  Finally, Gaspert said, “We shall expect you shortly, then. Request you search the area for individuals in the water while I organize the lifeboats into some form of convoy. Suggest one of your small ships stay upwind to create a lee for lifeboat launches. When we’ve got them all in the water, we’ll proceed in your direction at best speed.”

  “How long to get the platform deployed?” the admiral asked Hanson.

  “Twenty minutes, maybe less.”

  “Make it ten.” The admiral turned his attention back to Gaspert. “We will be prepared to receive your boats when you get here.”

  “Medical teams, casualty teams,” Gaspert continued. There was more background chatter over the circuit, and from what the admiral could gather, the damage control efforts were being abandoned completely. “We are leaving the circuit, will contact you from the radio in the lifeboat as soon as possible. Montego Bay, out.”

  The Russian returned to the circuit. “We did not intend to fire on the cruise ship.”

  “Nor on us,” the admiral said acidly. “Funny, that doesn’t make it any better. Now clear the circuit, sir, or I will open fire.”

  SIX

  Wednesday, July 2

  The White House

  1345 local (GMT-5)

  For once, the president heard about a military disaster from his joint chiefs of staff rather than CNN. It was an unusual situation, one that allowed him several moments to gather his thoughts and formulate a response without a camera staring him in the face. His first reaction was to use the secure hotline to grant the president of Russia the same breathing space before CNN picked up the story. Surely there was some explanation other than a Russian fighter firing on a defenseless American cruise ship. But as he reached for the hotline, a pointed little cough from the chairman, JCS, brought him up short.

  “What?” the president demanded.

  “Mr. President, that would be premature.” The chairman, a man noted for his bluntness, had nevertheless proved to be an excellent chairman. No, he was not a political creature, just an old artillery man who had come up through the ranks the hard way.

  “And you believe this because…?” the president said, leaving the sentence unfinished.

  “Because I believe we’ll find those bastards are at fault.”

  The president took his hand off the hotline and leaned back in his chair. Reflexively, he started to interlace his hands behind his head, but he immediately felt a surge of inchoate discomfort at having his midsection unprotected while the chairman was in the room. He dropped his arms back down and rested his hands on the desk, annoyed at his own reaction.

  Just why the hell did the chairman make him so nervous? Yes, he had picked the man, and had kept him in the position after his last term. And he’d come to rely even more on the general’s advice during the last two years. And yes, if he was reelected — not that that seemed improbable, but one never knew — he would ask this man to continue on, or at least to give him some advice on a successor.

  Despite all that, there was something in the chairman’s bearing and the way he spoke and the way he carried himself that made any other man just a bit uneasy about exposing his midsection too much. Because no matter how civilized he was, how immaculate his uniform or courteous his bearing, you never, ever had any doubt that the chairman could kill you in a New York minute. Not that he would, of course. And still, as uneasy as the general’s deadly air made the president, it was the one thing that he really liked about the general as well. You always knew where you stood with him.

  “Regardless of whether they are or not,” the president said carefully, “we will have to talk to them sooner or later. Taking the offensive”—the chairman was always big on taking the offensive—“means we get to select the terrain. Right?” There was a shade more of an actual question in the president’s voice than he would have liked, but the chairman ignored it. When it came to matters of military tactics, the chairman had few compunctions about treating the president as though he were the junior captain he had been when he left the Army.

  “Too soon, sir,” the general said shortly. “We’re still at the deception stage. Sure, shots have been fired, but the fog of war is too pervasive right now. We know what’s happened, but they don’t know we know. Sir, lay low for now. See if they make the first move. After all, it looks like they’re the ones who attacked. They ought to be the ones calling us. We stay in our fortress, don’t come outside. Not yet.”

  “I see,” the president said. “Very well, then — what do I tell the media when they start calling? And call they will, you can be sure of that.”

  “Nothing. You tell them nothing.” The general was very firm on the point.

  The president sighed and shook his head. “That won’t work long. It just won’t.”

  “It doesn’t have to work for long, Mr. President. Not long at all. Buy yourself some time to get that gal up in New York to find out what’s going on from her perspective. Never ask the Russians a question you don’t know the answer to.”

  Gal. I wonder if I will tell Sarah Wexler that the chairman of the joint chiefs of staff calls her a “gal.” If I do, I think I’ll make sure I’m out of arm’s reach. Then again, I get the feeling that may be about the highest compliment he ever pays a woman.

  “What you need, Mr. President, is time.”

  “Time to find out what happened, I suppose.”

  To his surprise, the general shook his head. “No, sir. Enough time to get reelected.”

  Now, that was a puzzler! Who would’ve ever thought the general gave a damn about the election? I don’t even know what party he is. Or how he votes.

  But it’s not like I really care.

  “Thank you, sir,” the president said slowly, in the unusual position of being enormously flattered by the compliment he’d been paid. Heady stuff for the young Army captain who was now president of the most powerful nation on the earth.

  “I want what is best for this country,” the general said bluntly. “Right now, that means you sitting in that chair.”

  “This has the potential to cut both ways, though,” the president said, his mind racing. His national security council — he had to have them in on this. “We run the risk of looking soft on this. And that’s the one thing I can’t have happen.”

  “I realize that, sir. And you’ll have people who can better advise you on that point. But I consider it critical that you be reelected next month, and I don’t want this incident to keep that from happening.” The general stood abruptly. “If I hear anything else, Mr. President, I’ll let you know immediately.”

  “Thank you.” The president stood and walked the general to the door. “And I will take your take on this to the security council. I appreciate your candor.”

  After the general had gone, the president turned to his chief of staff and said, “Mike, get Sarah Wexler on the secure line. No, better yet — get her down here. Within the next couple of hours if possible.”

  ACN Headquarters

  1
400 local (GMT-5)

  When Hank Carter stormed into the ACN newsroom, he made his presence felt immediately. Carter was one of the two old-style journalists who’d successfully made the transition to the twin paradigms of computers and international coverage. At heart, he was the stereotype of a hard-drinking, cigar-smoking, out-of-shape, cynical reporter turning out tight, elegant prose on a manual typewriter. But Carter had decided that was not who he wanted to be, and thus he wasn’t. In his early fifties, he was trim, muscular, and in excellent shape. There was not an ounce of fat on his lean body.

  Carter was slightly taller than average, but his build made him look well over six feet tall. His hair was steel gray and close-cut, and tended to spike even without gel or mousse. His face with smooth, deeply tanned, with only a few lines around his eyes. He glowed with good health. His eyebrows were heavy and deep, hanging over a set of piercing gray eyes. The rest of his features were strong, jutting planes and acute angles, with an unexpectedly full and generous mouth.

  Carter was originally from Alabama, and he retained the smooth vowels and consonants of his youth. Whether or not it was an act Drake had never been able to figure out, but she’d seen more than one person underestimate him based solely on his accent. She had never made that mistake herself, and she considered warning Winston against it, but then thought better. Carter had been a prime force in Winston’s hiring, and not just for her looks.

  When Drake had been informed of his decision, she had immediately assumed that he had hired her for appearance only.