“Look at them out there,” the helmsman muttered in disapproval, involuntarily flinching as a wave slammed against the starboard windows. “Standing on the open deck! Crazy bastards.”
“Peterson, why are you talking to yourself?” Captain Tyson asked, hands clasped behind his back. In spite of the inclement weather, the officer was neatly dressed in a crisp uniform, his shoes shiny with polish and his hair freshly cut.
On the wall behind the officer was a line of yellow rain slicks, Veri pistol flare guns, fire extinguishers, a medical kit and a dozen lifejackets.
“What was that, Skipper?” the helmsman asked, checking the course and heading on the dashboard instruments.
“You know the standing orders,” Tyson stated. “There is nobody on the deck, not a soul in sight but you and me.” The captain paused. “And you sure as hell didn’t just call your CO crazy, now, did you?”
The helmsman swallowed hard and turned his face to the rampaging storm again. “Sir, no, sir!” he chanted, tightening both hands on the joystick.
“Didn’t think so,” Tyson muttered, moving to the motion of his cutter. Sonar showed the sea below was clear of Russian submarines, but the radar screen was filled with the storm, the computer unable to recognize a few small dots moving in from the west. They could just be St. Elmo’s fire; there was a lot of that out here. Or it could be MiG fighters moving just above the storm on a recon run.
“Maintain course and speed,” Captain Tyson said, looking out the windows at the squall.
“Aye, sir.” Concentrating on his job, the helmsman switched hands on the joystick to wipe the first one dry on a pant leg. Equipped with autofeedback, the computerized yoke wasn’t loose under his grip, but pushed back at him this way and another as the currents slapped the rudder about. It was exactly like holding a wheel and steering a windjammer. In spite of the mechanical interfacing, the joystick gave a man the feel of the water, and that was sometimes even more important than maps and sonar readings. Sailing was a science, but one that was ruled by art. The poetry of the wind was more than a clever saying; it was a way of life burned into the bones of every sailor.
Especially on this combination rescue vessel and warship. The USCGC Mellon was the pride of the Coast Guard. A Hamilton-class cutter, the craft was 378 feet long, with a crew of eighteen officers and 143 sailors. She boasted both gasoline and diesel engines, along with a flat bottom for faster speeds and the ability to go into amazingly shallow water without damage. The hull was composite armor over an aluminum frame, making the Mellon strong but lightweight. The windows were shatterproof glass, every door a watertight hatchway, and each deck was railed for safety in even the roughest storms. The Mellon could sail through a hurricane and come out fighting back, its crew and passengers alive and safe.
As was standard in the Coast Guard, the cutter came with a 76 mm cannon in a small pillbox at the bow, designed to put a whistling warning shot across the deck of other vessels to make them come about for inspection. However, if the warning failed, the Mellon also boasted two 25 mm Bofors Autocannons, four .50-caliber machine guns and side-launching Mk49 torpedoes.
OUTSIDE AT THE RAILING, McCarter noted the addition of Harpoon missiles to the cutter’s impressive arsenal. Back in 1992 the torpedoes and the missiles had been removed because of budget cuts. After 9/11, the Coast Guard got a massive boost in spending and quickly reinstalled the heavy weapon systems. Basically, it was a pocket battleship. More accurately, the cutter was a PT boat for the twenty-first century.
“David, how many of these does the Coast Guard have?” Manning asked, his face into the wind, hair slicked back from the wash so that he resembled a tango instructor or Mafia capo.
“Twelve!” McCarter shouted in reply. “But they should have a bloody hundred!”
“Preaching to the choir, friend!”
“Rocks!” Encizo shouted, pointing at black shapes looming in the storm. Jagged peaks of stone, the broken cliffs stood defiant in the crashing waves, the pinnacles rising higher than the radio antenna of the listing Mellon.
McCarter grunted, “About damn time.”
“HALF SPEED!” Captain Tyson barked. “Hard to port, two degrees!”
“Aye, sir!”
Shapes rose from the squall, black and imposing.
“Quarter speed! Hard to starboard!” Damnation, the rocks were everywhere! He glanced at the instruments, but they were useless. Too much conflicting data from the storm, rocks and muddy surf.
“Half speed! Hard to port!” More rocks appeared from the rain. “Quarter speed!” A wave crashed across the bow of the turning cutter, and there appeared a wall of black rock straight ahead of them.
“Full speed ahead!” Captain Tyson commanded, his hands clenched white behind his back, but his expression was cool and calm.
“Aye, sir!” the helmsman cried, fighting the joystick. A wave slammed them on the port side, then there came a metallic shriek as something under the water scraped along their hull. The mountain of stone seemed to expand before the cutter as the ship fought the waves. A crash seemed imminent, and then the Mellon entered a calm in the storm, the sections of tumbled-down cliffs forming the imposing breakers soon in their wake.
On this side of the barrier, the force of the storm was noticeably less and visibility was greatly increased. The shoreline of mother Russia was barely visible about four miles ahead. No lights showed along the shore, or in the wooded hills beyond. But that was why this section of the coast had been chosen. Near total isolation. Not even smugglers used the deserted cover because of the deadly breakers and underwater boulders that could rip open the keel of a ship like a soda can being crushed in your fist. And if not for his special passengers, Captain Tyson would never have come to this special little slice of Russian hell.
Breathing a sigh of relief, the captain checked the GPS and the navigational chart, and then the compass just to make sure. Okay, the Mellon was now in the national waters of Russia and most certainly on their radar screens. The storm should kill visual, but at the first sign of anything suspicious, the Russian navy would hit the Coast Guard cutter with infrared, UV and anything else the local boys had. And if those were indeed MiG fighters in the sky…
“Okay, son, full stop. We now have engine trouble,” the captain announced, checking his wristwatch. “Shut her down, and drop the main anchor.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” the helmsman acknowledged crisply, and worked the controls on the joystick, slowing the huge craft with surprising ease until it was relatively still in the choppy North Pacific waters. Overriding the automatics, he gunned the gasoline engines a few times, making them turn over but refuse to catch.
“Keep doing that until further notice,” Captain Tyson said, turning to leave. “But keep the diesels hot in case we have to leave in a hurry.”
“Sir?” the helmsman asked hesitantly. “Do you think that this might be a good time to run a gun drill with the crew?”
The captain nodded at that in appreciation. He liked sailors who thought fast. Smugglers were tough and clever, and only touch and clever CGs could do the job of guarding the shores of America.
“This close to the Bear,” Tyson said, meaning Russia, “that is generally a good idea, but not tonight. We have engine trouble, the crew will all be down in the hold banging on hatchways and pipes with hammers to make as much noise as possible. So that for the Russian sonar can hear us doing, ahem, repairs.”
“Understood, Skipper,” the helmsman said, setting his shoulders as he gunned the flooded