affairs between the United States and Turkey, neither Rabies nor the copilot would be inclined to believe the Turkish submarine had friendly intentions, lurking as it was in the trail of the American aircraft carrier.
When Rabies finally made out the silhouette of the submarine, he sucked in a hard breath. He’d been prepared to worry over a Turkish Kilo, but what he saw bothered him even more. Not because of the capabilities of the submarine, though that was cause for concern as well. No, what this classification meant this close on the trail of the aircraft carrier was about to throw a wrench into every bit of tactical planning that had gone on to date. He turned to the copilot. “You’d best get Homeplate on the circuit. That there is a Juliet?an old Russian ship-killer. She’s capable of over-the-horizon linking with surveillance aircraft, and she’s too damned close to our carrier.”
“A Juliet?” The copilot leaned forward as though getting closer to the glass would improve his vision. “You’re right?Juliet, no doubt about it.”
During the Cold War, the old Type II Juliet-class diesel submarine was a mainstay of the Soviet Union. It alternated anticarrier operations in the Mediterranean with other SSG duties with the then-new Echo II nuclear submarine.
In the last decades, the Juliets had been increasingly reluctant to stray far from home port. Age and poor maintenance had rendered them virtually unseaworthy. For this one to be here in the Mediterranean, lurking outside the entrance to the Black Sea, must have required a major maintenance and resupply evolution. “Turkey doesn’t have any Juliets,” Rabies said over the ICS. “Do they? Anybody know different, you speak up.”
“No.”
Harness’s voice was crisp and clear. “They were sold to several nations around the world, but the only countries who still have operational ones are Ukraine and Russia.”
“Then what in the hell is this boat doing out here?” Rabies demanded.
“From her position on the stern, it looks like she’s herding us, like a sheepdog.”
“I don’t know, but I don’t like it,” Sara said. “Hold on, Homeplate’s talking.”
They all listened as the directions came from the aircraft carrier.
Hunter 701 was to maintain close contact on the Juliet, pinning it down inside a barrier of sonobuoys including active sonobuoys that would hold it even if it went sinker. In addition, two SH60-B helos were being vectored off the aircraft carrier for coordinated antisubmarine operations with the S3. The S3 was to maintain tactical control of the situation. Weapons free was authorized if the Juliet approached within three thousand yards of the carrier.
“Weapons free,” Rabies said quietly. “Oh, deep holy shit. Weapons free.”
“There it is. Get closer.” Pamela’s voice was harsh and demanding.
Her cameraman glanced at her uneasily and then stepped away from her as though to distance himself from what he suspected she was about to do.
An uneasy murmuring arose from the crew. The cameraman held up one hand as though to quell protests, listened, and then turned back to her.
“They don’t want to get very close to the carrier. It is not good seamanship, they say. The carrier, it is so heavily laden, it cannot maneuver to avoid them should they run into problems.”
“We’re not going that close. Circle around to the other side.” Pamela had spotted the rescue helicopter making lazy orbits on the starboard side of the carrier.
“We’ll pass astern,” the captain said.
“Fine, fine?just hurry up and do it.” Pamela kicked at the gunwales of the battered fishing boat. The engine roared to life, a good deal more steady and satisfying than she would have thought possible, given the outward condition of the boat. The boat picked up speed, traced a parallel course to the carrier, then pitched and bobbed as it steamed over the massive vessel’s wake.
Finally, as the waves died down on the leeward side of the ship,
Pamela saw the helicopter again. She waved her arms at it, trying to attract the pilot’s attention. There was no indication that it saw her, although she was certain the helo’s crew members were checking out every one on deck on the vessels near the carrier.
Frustrated, she reached down at her sides, grabbed the edges of her white pullover, and yanked it over her head. Stunned silence, followed by a low chorus of appreciative wolf whistles, greeted her as her head popped out of the sweater. She put her hands on her hips, glared at the fishing boat’s crew members, then turned back to the helo.
Raising her right hand holding the sweater, she began vigorously waving the new signal flag at the helicopter. She saw it stop in midair, change course, and vector toward them.
She grinned, thinking how horrified Tombstone would be if he knew his stories about the predilections of sailors on watch on both ships and helicopters had inspired her.
She waited until the helicopter was almost directly overhead, certain that its crew was watching her. She turned to the cameraman. “Have them come to a dead stop. Then you get the hell out of here. Explain it to the crew if the captain doesn’t. If he doesn’t clear the area at his best possible speed, there’s a good chance his boat will be impounded when he returns to shore. He needs to get lost?and you make him understand it. Now give me your camera.”
“What?”
The cameraman started to say something else, but his words were lost.
“The camera,” she repeated. She reached out and snatched it from his hands, silently thanking the powers that looked down on reporters that he’d had the foresight to bring the waterproof camera. Field offices had been bitching about the extra cost for combat undersea-hardened equipment for years, but it always paid off in the end.
She slung the camera strap around her neck, then looped her belt over it to hold it close to her body. Then she stepped up onto the gunwales, balanced carefully for a moment, and executed a perfect racing dive into the calm waters.
The chill in the water took her breath away immediately, but she stroked determinedly underwater, trying to put as much distance as possible between herself and the churning screws of the fishing boat. Finally, when she could stand the oxygen deprivation no longer, she clawed her way gasping and coughing to the surface. She treaded water, still feeling the chill seep into her bones, and scanned the ocean around her.
The fishing vessel had evidently taken her advice. It was rapidly leaving the area, its wake from powerful twin three-bladed propellers churning up the water in a rooster tail behind it. Pamela treaded water, watching the helo now closing in on her, hoping and praying the United States Navy was as chivalrous as it claimed to be.
“Look at that crazy bitch!” The helicopter pilot followed that comment with a string of obscenities. The woman in the water had gone from being a pleasant, welcome source of free entertainment to being part of his job. “Get Mother on the circuit?we’ve got a problem here.”
The carrier’s reaction was immediate and predictable. The helicopter was equipped for sea-air rescue, which was why it was assigned as the angel helo during flight operations. The pilot was ordered to execute a standard SAR mission on the woman in the water.
“Now this is something different,” the rescue diver murmured as he shrugged into his harness. He looked at the other flight crew member standing by the winch. “Course, it’s all business with me. You know that.”
The other man eyed him sternly. “You start copping feels on the way up, you’re gonna hear about it later. Who knows who the hell that crazy bitch is?”
The diver affected an offended look. “Who, me? You think I’d do that just because some broad takes off her shirt and dives into the water just to meet me? Hell, all the trouble she’s gone to?I don’t want to disappoint her.”
But his serious face belied the smart-ass comments. Both men were completely focused on their mission. Too much could go wrong during any sea-air rescue, as well they knew. Sometimes the downdraft from the helicopter overwhelmed a struggling swimmer, or an unexpected cramp took the victim beneath the waves before the rescue crew could get to him.
That meant hours of heartbreaking searches underwater, trying desperately to recover a body?hopefully,
