the skippers and senior staff of several of the other ships in the squadron, including those of MEU-25. Steve Marusko was there, as skipper of the Guadalcanal, as was Colonel Winston Howell, the commanding officer of MEU-25’s Marine detachment. Admiral Collins was conspicuous by his absence. He was still aboard his flag, the Guadalcanal, and had delegated his interest in the planning session to Howell. In a way, Coyote thought, that was good. They could brainstorm some rather wild possibilities here, without being immediately overruled by the conservative MEU commander.
“At ease, gentlemen,” Brandt said. Walking to his accustomed place at one side of the chart table, instead of Admiral Tarrant’s usual spot at the head, he nodded to the others in the room. “Okay, people. We’ve had to endure a lot of sudden changes, and chances are this is just the beginning. I’d like to tell all of you, before we set out, that I have no idea how I’m to fill Admiral Tarrant’s shoes. I’m not half the man he was, not half the strategist, and I’m feeling a bit out of my depth. I’m counting on each and every one of you here to see me through this thing, to help keep me from making an ass of myself and putting this battle group in jeopardy.”
He paused a moment, looking from face to face. “Okay. We’re here, as you all know by now, to discuss our options. I don’t need to tell any of you, I’m sure, that our situation as of this morning is not very promising. Some of us have been working on the various alternatives that have presented themselves, however.
“Let’s hear from you first, CAG.”
Coyote hesitated. It was the first time anyone had referred to him officially by that unfamiliar title, and he still wasn’t very comfortable with it.
Of course, he thought, Jeremy Brandt must be having the same problem with his new role as admiral and CO of the whole battle group.
“Our major problem,” he told the others, “isn’t tactical. We’re more or less hamstrung until we get definitive orders from Washington, and it could be a day or so before that happens. In the meantime, all we can really do is button up and maintain our own operational security.
“We are, however, maintaining full CAP coverage, and we’re continuing to fly ASW patrols. We are also beginning to make plans for some sort of operation aimed at getting CAG ? Captain Magruder, I mean ? and the rest of the Americans ashore out of hostile territory.” He smiled. “We’ve code-named it Operation Ranger, after John Paul Jones’s ship.”
“I thought that was the Bonhomme Richard,” Commander Barnes, the Air Boss, said.
“Just for his big I’ve-not-yet-begun-to-fight engagement,” Coyote said.
“Before that, his ship was the Ranger.”
He pointed to the large chart, which showed the Crimean coastline.
Jefferson and the other ships of the CVBG, along with the vessels of MEU-25, were all plotted, along with the current CAP tracks and ASW patrols. A number of points had been marked in red, extending in a ragged arc along the battle group’s perimeter. “Our principal tactical problem is the Russian overflights, of course,” Coyote continued. “Their attempted overflights. In the past five hours, our aviators have carried out seven interceptions of various Russian naval aircraft, ranging from Mig-29s to a Badger-G attack plane.”
During the bad old days of the Cold War, encounters between Russian reconnaissance aircraft probing both the material and psychological readiness of the American carrier defenses had been common. Most aviators had treated it as a kind of a game, a way to show off to the Russians and even pick up a souvenir or two. There’d been plenty of cases of trades arranged by sign language or radio between bomber and Tomcat crews ? a Russian fur cap for a copy of Playboy, for instance. For the most part, though, the Russian bomber pilots had tested the American defenses, noting how soon they were intercepted by the Tomcats and how far they could press the Tomcats before being forced to change course. There’d been several accidents during the closest of those encounters, but no cases of missiles or gunfire exchanged.
The situation was far more uncertain here, with the Americans completely in the dark about Russian intentions. Any of those approaching aircraft could be loaded with ship-killers intended for an all-out assault on the Jefferson. Each had to be met and, if possible, turned aside.
“We’ve met each Russian approach and turned it aside without incident, but it’s forcing us to use our aircraft fuel reserves at a rather alarming rate. We’ve been putting aircraft off our flight deck nonstop now for, let’s see…” He checked his watch. “For two hours, now. It seems likely, to Ops, at least, that the Russians are deliberately forcing us to expend our fuel reserves. They blocked the straits in the first place. They know we’re not getting any more fuel. Now they’re trying to get us to expend what we have.”
“Setting us up for an attack, CAG?” General Howe asked.
“Maybe. Or maybe just to leave us helpless. Without air, of course, we’re just so much gray-painted metal.”
“What about our UN assignment for keeping the peace?” Marusko wanted to know.
“That’ll be up to Washington, Steve,” Admiral Brandt replied. “The transfer of control to the UN didn’t legally take place this morning. Washington might want to take that as an excuse to back out now. On the other hand, we could get a directive anytime telling us to start bombing Sevastopol until the bastards yell uncle.
“In any case, our first priority, after the security of the battle group and MEU, of course, is to get our people off the beach.” Brandt looked at Coyote. “You said you’ve been discussing this with CA-with Tombstone.”
“Yes, sir. We’ve discussed several possibilities. One urgent note. We need to get the wounded out, including Admiral Tarrant. Stoney was wondering about subs, or a quick helicopter in-and-out.”
“I don’t want to send our subs that close inshore. Not in Ivan’s backyard.” Brandt looked at Marusko. “How about it, Captain? Can you get them off with your helos?”
“If Coyote’s people could give us air superiority, both over the beach at Yalta and in a secure corridor all the way back to the battle group, certainly. A piece of cake. If not, well…” He shrugged. “We all know what happens when helicopters tangle with interceptors.”
The attempted joke fell flat in the room, eliciting no more than a forced chuckle or two.
Brandt looked at Coyote. “How about it, CAG? Can you deliver on that air superiority?”
“Well, sir, we’re not going to manage it without a fight. While they’ve been probing our defenses, we’ve been probing theirs, seeing how close we could get to the beach. Every time we get within, oh, forty, fifty miles of the coast, though, we find ourselves facing Migs. Lots of them. It’s kind of a standoff right now, you see. If they try to force our defenses, we open fire and we’re in a shooting war. Same for us, if we try to force our way through to the beach. And until we get clear orders from Washington…”
Brandt nodded. “I think we’re all aware of that particular handicap. I had quite a long session with Admiral Scott this afternoon. He tells me there’s a special briefing of the President’s advisory staff scheduled for this morning, Washington time, and they’ll be going over their alternatives. But he also told me that the atmosphere back there is a bit panicky. No one in the administration wants to get into a fight with the Russians. At least, no one wants the responsibility of being the one who gives the order. We may be on our own out here for quite a while.”
Brandt paused for a moment, as though gauging the feelings and attitudes of each of the men standing around the Flag Plot table.
“I do not happen to believe, however, that we should be sitting around on our hands just because Washington is. I want each department represented here to begin working up a list of working options, based on the possibility ? no, belay that, the probability ? that we’re going to have to fight to get ourselves out of this damned mess… and to evacuate our people ashore.”
“Getting out of this,” Commander Jeffries, the senior Air Ops officer, said thoughtfully, “could require something other than fighting Russians.”
“Who’d you have in mind, Bill?” someone asked, and the others laughed nervously.
“The Turks, actually, since they’re the ones who aren’t letting us into their waters or airspace. Has anybody considered the possibility of putting the MEU-25 Marines ashore at the mouth of the Bosporus?”
“Write it up,” Brandt told him. “All of you, I want a major brainstorming session out of each man here. Let’s see exactly what our options are.”
“I vote we dig a canal through Turkey,” Lieutenant Commander Arthur Lee, the head of the CAG Department intelligence team, said.
“Nah,” Barnes said, arms folded, shaking his head. He nodded toward the chart. “Dig it through the southeast corner of Bulgaria and that little bit of northeastern Greece. Shorter distance. We’re out sooner.”
The others laughed, and some contributed their own outrageous suggestions, including sinking the entire
