The AOR Peoria, a second UNREP vessel, carried petroleum for the rest of the battle group, 160,000 barrels of it, enough for over a month of cruising for the CBG’s non-nuclear vessels.
But if the tense political situation turned into outright war, fuel use would go up dramatically as the carrier’s aircraft tripled or quadrupled consumption, and the non-nuclear vessels were forced to travel farther and faster each day. A worst-case scenario could see the Peoria and the Amarillo both emptied by the battle group’s maneuvers within the next week.
And if either reprovisioning ship was sunk or badly damaged during that time, CBG-14 could be crippled within a matter of days.
He turned and walked the width of the bridge back to his leather swivel chair, stenciled “CO” and set near the port wing where it overlooked the flight deck. To the west, the sun was setting in a glorious burst of golds and reds that spilled across the horizon. Despite the still-heavy seas, the dirty weather appeared to be breaking up. The meteorologists down in the OA division had scrutinized their satellite photos and promised clear weather for the next forty-eight hours.
There’d been no further threats from the Indians since the previous evening’s attack. That didn’t mean the danger was over, but the immediacy of the crisis seemed to have eased somewhat. An hour earlier, CINCPAC had reported over Jefferson’s satellite com-link that the diplomatic exchanges were continuing in Washington. Perhaps they were going to find a negotiated way out of this confrontation.
In any case, it was out of his hands. He was on station and on full alert. There was nothing else to be done until someone else pushed the button.
To the west, Fitzgerald could make out the familiar, boxy mass of the Vicksburg’s superstructure. Somewhere beyond the Aegis cruiser, well over the horizon, the Commonwealth task force was steaming on a northerly course parallel with CBG-14. Fitzgerald still wasn’t certain what he thought of the orders to join the two squadrons into a single, international task force. Even if he trusted the Russians — which he did not, as yet — there would still have been an endless list of details to be worked out before the two forces could act together. And Kontr-Admiral Dmitriev, Vaughn’s opposite number aboard the Kreml, had so far shown little enthusiasm for integrating the two fleets. SOVINDRON was steaming north in a tight-packed bundle, seemingly oblivious to the American ships out around them across a hundred miles of ocean. Nor did the Russians seem willing to make the exchanges of codes, call signs, and radio frequencies necessary for allowing U.S. and Russian ships and planes to work together.
The IFF codes alone were already causing considerable confusion in the fleet. Each aircraft in Jefferson’s air wing possessed a transponder that transmitted a coded signal when it was touched by radar beams from an American ship or plane. The system, called IFF for “Identification Friend or Foe,” caused American radar displays to show the flight number of each U.S. plane in the air. The Russians had the same system, but with different codes responding to different radar wavelengths. So far, Russian planes flying above the Kreml were tagged as unknowns when they were painted by U.S. radar … just the same as the Indian aircraft during the attack the night before. If the joint squadron was attacked now, before IFF codes and protocol could be exchanged, the battle would very quickly become an unmanageable free-for-all.
What would Moscow think if some of their Naval Aviation Migs were downed by American Sea Sparrows? Fitzgerald didn’t even want to think about the consequences.
“Admiral on the bridge.”
Fitzgerald slid out of his seat and turned to face Vaughn. “Good evening, Admiral.”
“Captain.”
Vaughn looked terrible. There were circles under his eyes, and he looked pale. He was chewing on something — an antacid tablet, Fitzgerald decided — and his eyes were focused past the bridge windscreen on something in the distance. The Russians. Of course.
“Any problem with the replenishment, Captain?”
“Not a thing, Admiral. Everything’s going smoothly. First stage refueling should be complete before it’s fully dark.” Because of the late hour, it had been decided to transfer fuel in two batches, one this evening, the rest the next morning. The dry stores and refrigerated supplies ticketed for the Jefferson, less critical at the moment than the JP-5, would be swayed across with the second refueling.
The admiral grunted, still staring at the western horizon. “So. What about the Russkies?”
Fitzgerald shook his head. “They don’t seem to be in much of a hurry, do they, sir? Captain Krylenko sent me personal greetings a while ago.
And I gather we’re due for a joint conference tomorrow morning.”
“Yeah. More damned socializing and politicking. Useless crap. These vodka-swilling bozos aren’t going to be any help to us at all.”
Fitzgerald studied the admiral, controlling his own growing worry. There was something about Vaughn. He groped for the right word. Irrational?
No … that wasn’t right. There was nothing wrong with the man that Jefferson’s captain could put his finger on. But he did seem preoccupied, his attention unfocused, and his derisive and egotistical attitude during that morning’s briefing had not helped matters.
Perhaps it was just Vaughn’s fear. Fitzgerald could smell it, could see it in the nervous way his eyes flicked back and forth as he studied the horizon, could hear it in his terse words and harsh judgment of the Russians.
There was no irrationality in fear. All of them were afraid, every man in the squadron, and there was no shame in that, not when tomorrow could find them in a war unlike any that had been fought in history.
But Vaughn’s manner worried Fitzgerald. It was almost as though the man was trying to line up the excuses before his failure, find a way to divert the blame. “It wasn’t my fault because the Russians were no good.”
“It wasn’t my fault because I wasn’t given the intel I needed.”
Fitzgerald shook himself mentally and tore his gaze from Vaughn’s face.
He would get nowhere thinking thoughts like that.
He signaled to an enlisted watch-stander nearby. “Have some coffee, sir?”
“Eh? Oh, thanks. Thanks. Everything else quiet?”
“Absolutely.” He kept his tone light, confident, and unworried. “I’d say our Indian friends have decided to bug out. Maybe the skirmish yesterday made them think twice about all this. Or maybe it was the Russians joining us. Attacking us now would be sort of like taking on the whole world, wouldn’t it?”
“No, Captain. No, it’s not like that at all.” Vaughn spoke softly, his eyes still on the horizon as though he were trying to reach out and touch the mind of Admiral Dmitriev, out there on the bridge of the Kreml. He accepted a mug of coffee the sailor handed him without looking away. “Those bastards will be back, and from where we’re sitting, it’s going to look like World War III.”
“How do you know that, sir?”
“Logistics.” He blinked, then turned away from the window. He seemed to really see Fitzgerald for the first time. “The laws of logistics, Captain. The guy with the longest supply line has his head in a noose.”
“Oh, I think we’re set all right. Peoria and Amarillo are with us now.
They have enough bullets, beans, and black oil to keep us going for quite a while.” But he knew the admiral’s thoughts were traveling the same ruts his own mind had been circling a few minutes earlier. Lose the UNREP ships and the squadron was crippled, their mission … The realization hit Fitzgerald like a blow. It was the mission Vaughn was worried about … and his image back in Washington. That fit with the little he’d heard about the man prior to his assignment to CBG-14.
He was worried about what would happen to his career if the carrier group failed to carry out its mission.
“A drop in the bucket,” Vaughn said, responding to Fitzgerald’s comment about the UNREP ships’ provisions. He raised the mug and sipped noisily. “You know as well as I do how quickly we’ll run through that stuff once the shooting starts, hey? Hell, we’re twelve thousand miles from home. Twelve thousand miles! The Russians are five thousand from their nearest port, and they don’t have our experience in long-range blue-water ops. The Indians’ supply bases are right over the horizon.
We’re dangling on a limb out here, Fitzgerald. And the Indians are going to whack it off.”
“Hell, I thought that dangling was what we’re here for, Admiral.” He laughed, trying to make it sound like a joke. “We’re what the President calls for when he needs to reach out and touch someone.”
Vaughn’s mouth quirked in what might have been a smile. “Well, we’d better hope the President decides in favor of talking instead of touching. You know damn well we can’t match the Indians plane for plane.
