Chapter 2: Chain of Command
Military Terminology Glossary
_ADCAPs_: ADditional CAPability. The second generation of the Mark-48
torpedo. It has better active sonar, and is faster than the original
Mark-48 torpedo.
_AEGIS_: Advanced Electronic Guided Intercept System. The AEGIS
fighting system is a combination of computers and a phased-array radar
used to defend battle groups against air attacks from airplanes and
missiles.
_CAG_: The commanding aviator onboard a carrier. This person is in
charge of all of the aircraft on the carrier, and overseas all the
aviators onboard. The acronym stands for "Commander, Air Group", even
though the navy now calls it an Air Wing.
_CAP_: Combat Air Patrol. This is a defensive measure. A group of
aircraft fly in a pattern in the sky to protect either a particular
object, or a particular area.
_ _
_GUARD frequency_: This is not an acronym. I do not know why it is
usually fully capitalized. "GUARD" frequency is the emergency radio
frequency.
_LAMPS helos_: The acronym means Light Airborne Multi-Purpose System.
It is a suite of electronics that helps the helicopter navigate and
function.
_nucs_: Anyone who works on a nuclear submarine.
_ _
_ROE_: Rules of Engagement. The rules that the military personnel have
to follow concerning when they may shoot at an enemy.
_RIO_: Radar Intercept Officer. The person in the back seat of an F-14.
Their job is to handle all of the electronic equipment used for
tracking and intercepting enemy aircraft.
_SLAM_: Standoff Land-Attack Missile. A missile that has both Land and
Sea strike capability, and a range of over 200 nautical miles.
Chapter 25
Chain of Command
The flight across the Atlantic had been turbulent and
unsettling. Ron and his family were now in Sweden, after a very long
flight with lousy food and a boring movie. It had been three days
since the death of Mike McGavin and the Committee. Ron had gotten very
little sleep in that time. That, as much as anything else, explained
why it happened.
They had not been met, so Lars led them to the home of the
SkuggDrakarna, the ancient psionics guild of Europe. Lars spoke
briefly to the guards, and the group was admitted into the Great Hall
of the Dragon’s Heart, the leading body of the SkuggDrakarna. There,
they waited. For two hours, they waited for the Dragon’s Heart to
arrive.
Finally, the council entered the Great Hall and was
seated. Dressed in blood red robes, they kept the hoods up to cover
their faces. The head of the council wore a breastplate over his robe,
made of what looked like silver. It had two dragons intertwined on it,
one dragon bright and shiny, while the other dragon was a subdued
color. The dragons appeared to be fighting.
Ron’s train of thought about the breastplate was
interrupted when the leader spoke.
“Nå, Lars, ni har slutligen fört honom till oss.” */“So,
Lars, you have finally brought him to us.”/*
“Ska sanningen fram, Ers nåd, så är det han som har ansökt om detta
mötet.” */“Actually, My Lord, it is he who has requested this
meeting.”/*
“Jag förstår. Och vad är det pojken vill?” */“I see. And what is it
that the boy wants?”/*
Ron wasn’t about to stand and listen to a conversation he
couldn’t understand. <*Lars, what the hell is going on?>*
Lars responded, <*They want to know what you want.>*
<*Then why the fuck don’t they just ask me?*>
Lars looked at Ron for a moment, and motioned him forward,
as if to say, “Go for it.”
Ron took a step forward, looking around at all the other
psionics that had entered the Great Hall just before the council had.
He cleared his throat as he began his appeal to the Dragon’s Heart.
“Sirs, I come to you today to tell you of something about
which you may not be fully informed. I know that you are aware of the
plans and ambitions of the Russian organization we believe is called
the Filitov Council. I am sure you are also aware that they have made
a great number of strikes into the United States already.
“What you may not be aware of yet is that the Filitov
Council has, just three days ago, destroyed the CAMP Committee inside
our own compound. With this single act, the Filitov Council has
effectively declared war on the American psionic community. And they
have shown no hesitation at killing any normals that might happen to
get in the way.
“It is our belief that this Russian organization has
world-wide ambitions. I am not aware of attacks on psionics in other
countries, but I would not be surprised by them. Perhaps you have
information on this issue that I do not. In any event, I am requesting
your assistance in fighting these people, before too many innocent
lives are lost.”
There was a stir in the room as Ron stepped back with the
others. The members of the council bowed their heads, and Lars told
Ron that they were conversing telepathically. Ron waited as patiently
as he could while they spoke amongst themselves for the next ten
minutes. Finally, they raised their heads and spoke.
But not to Ron.
”Lars, du var tillsagd att föra honom hit för att förena
sig med oss i insatts mot den där Amerikanska organisationen, CAMP.
Varför har du fört honom framför oss med andra mål i sinnet?” */“Lars,
you were told to bring him here to join with us in an effort against
this American organization, CAMP. Why have you brought him here with
any other goal in mind?”/*
”Ers nåd, han är villig att förena sig med oss, men ämnet som är
tillhanda är förståeligt me viktigt för honom för stunden.” */“My Lord,
he is willing to join us, but this issue is understandably more
important to him at present.”/*
”Vi har inget intresse att delta i något krig, Om vi hade lagt oss i
alla små trivial små despyter som minskliga rasen någonsin haft så hade
vi aldrigt fått någon ro.” */“We have no interest in fighting a war.
If we were to involve ourselves in every petty squabble the human race
started, we would never have any peace in our lives.”/*
”Ers nåd, vi talar inte om någon normal liten konflikt.
Detta är en konflikt mellan psionics. Om vi inte kommer att visa
ledarskap vid ett sådant här tillfälle , vad gör vi då här?” */“My
Lord, we are not talking about any normal conflict. This is a conflict
of psionics. If we are not going to show leadership in such a time of
crisis, what are we here for?”/*
Ron had withstood all of this that he could take.
“Somebody want to start speaking English? Remember me? The guy you
are supposed to be dealing with?” The annoyance in his voice was quite
evident.
The council was somewhat rocked by what they perceived as
his impertinence. Their leader spoke to Ron. “You have no rights to
speak in this forum. We allowed you to speak earlier only because our
Hunter insisted. You will remain silent from here forward.”
Ron’s fury boiled over at this point. “Kiss my ass,
buddy! You know, I may not speak Swedish, but I can tell you aren’t
willing to help. You know what? That’s just fine. I wouldn’t want a
coward like you fighting on my side anyway. When the fighting starts
right here in your back yard, then maybe you’ll know we were right.”
Turning to Lars he said, “We’ll be waiting out in the hall.” He
stormed out of the Great Hall, with his family trailing behind.
Lars turned to the council. “He’s right. You have shown
great disrespect to the leader of another guild. How can you profess
to believe in our rules, when you break them so readily?”
“Our actions are not your concern, Hunter. You will return
to your duties.”
“No, I don’t think so. See, I’ve been out in the world.
I’ve seen what’s going on. And, you know what? He’s got it pegged.
It isn’t just America. Everywhere I’ve gone, I’ve heard about these
Russians. Sooner or later, they *will* come here. At that time, I
hope you can manage to fight them off.” Lars removed the ceremonial
tunic he had put on for this meeting, and laid it on the stone table
before him. Without another word, he left the Great Hall.
Lars had apologized profusely on their way back to the
airport, but Ron had remained silent, brooding. Even Nikki had not
been able to pull him out of it, and the rest knew just to let him be.
Arriving at the airport, they found a small group waiting
for them. From their style of dress, Ron could tell they were part of
the ShadowDragon. His defenses immediately went to full strength. The
energy he was radiating actually made them back up physically. The
leader of this small band was a woman, about 5’9” tall, with flowing
blond hair that reached her waist. She was dressed in warrior garb,
reminiscent of medieval times, but made of newer materials. Her pale
blue eyes widened upon feeling the power of Ron’s defenses wash over
her. She bowed politely.
“Sir, you have nothing to fear from us. My name is
Kimberly. I am an Adept of the Fourth Order, *formerly* of the
ShadowDragon.”
Lars continued for her, “Kimberly is… *was* my deputy.
What are you doing here, Kimmy?”
“Sir, we Hunters have seen a lot. The rest of the
SkuggDrakarna may not believe you, but we know better. We will follow
you wherever this leads.”
“This is going to be dangerous, Kim.”
“What worth doing isn’t?” she responded. Turning to Ron,
she said, “Sir, I know you have no reason to trust us. We accept that
you need proof of our intentions. We would ask only that you give us
the opportunity to do so.”
“How many of you are there?” Ron temporized. He wasn’t
sure what to say to this lady.
“There are fifty of us, ready to follow your lead.”
“Very well. Lars, can you take charge of them, and get
them back to my house? We need to get all the troops together to try
to plan something out.”
Lars came to attention, and bowed his head slightly. “It
will be done.” Then he walked off with the group of Hunters to find
the rest.
Ron and his family boarded another airplane for home. Ron
was asleep before the wheels left the runway. He knew he was going to
need all the rest he could get.
The *USS Nimitz* was patrolling in the Northern Atlantic,
just west of Ireland. It was a calm, clear day, the sun glinting off
the ocean. Captain Charles Farraday was lounging in his bridge chair,
enjoying the morning, and keeping an eye on his crew. It was easier
for him than most captains: Captain Farraday was a psionic.
“Sir, AWACS is reporting an unidentified surface group
approaching, 200 miles out and closing,” reported a junior officer.
“Number of vessels?” inquired the XO for the captain.
“The Hawkeye doesn’t have a clear count because of
distance, sir, but at least ten.”
“Captain,” said the XO, “I think we should send some
aircraft over there to check it out.”
The XO saw that faraway look the captain sometimes got just
before making an important decision. He waited patiently for the
captain’s orders.
Finally, the captain said, “You’re right Bob. Air Boss,
send the two S-3s to check out that surface group.”
“Aye aye, Captain!” replied the officer.
Though the captain outwardly settled back into his chair,
appearing relaxed, he was very nervous. The surface group was too far
away for him to read its intentions psionically. Either that, or
someone was blocking his attempt. That would be really bad news. He’d
gotten the message, through the grapevine, that there might be trouble
coming. That would explain why the *Nimitz* was patrolling so far
north. Well, if the Russians wanted to get frisky again, Farraday knew
he could knock them down a peg. But if there were psionics involved,
just what would that mean?
The captain passed the following fifteen minutes in a
building dread. Something told him there was going to be trouble.
Without any warning at all from anywhere, the captain turned to his XO
and said, “Bob, let’s bring the group to general quarters.”
Though somewhat surprised, Commander Bob Maxton had learned
not to question his captain’s motives; he was right far more often than
he was wrong. “Aye, sir.” Maxton gave the orders to the bridge crew,
who began to carry out those orders. All of the ships in the battle
group came alive as personnel hopped out of their bunks, or put down
their cards, and rushed to their battle stations.
The radio crackled with the report of the lead S-3 Viking.
“Mother Hen, this is Jackal Lead, we have tally on fifteen, repeat
one-five surface vessels of Russian origin. These are warships, Mother
Hen. They are at full steam, and heading right for the carrier group.
Requesting instructions, over.”
The radio officer turned to the captain expectantly. The
captain said, “Tell them standard ROE is in effect, but to keep
themselves between the two surface groups. Bob, I think it’s time we
head down to CIC.”
Maxton followed his captain down into the ship, where the
Combat Information Center was located. The room was dark, with red
overhead lighting, to make the displays on the screens easier to read.
As soon as the captain had arrived, he requested an update.
“Sir, as you know,” began the intelligence officer, “The
Russians no longer have a functional carrier. However, we are close
enough to their turf right now that they can easily do in-flight
refueling to get bombers and fighters down from the mainland. The
group ahead of us, according to the pilots in the Vikings, are mainly
cruisers and destroyers. A few frigates, but no battleships or
carriers. However, the S-3 pilots also report that they are in battle
formation, sir. It looks like they are looking for trouble.”
“If they want trouble, they’ll get trouble,” interjected
the XO, speaking aloud the sentiment of the entire crew.
“Let’s get the fighters up and fueled, and let's load the
Harpoons onto the Hornets. I want every working aircraft in the air.
If this becomes a shitstorm, I don’t want to have our pilots on the
deck. Radio Washington and let them know what is going on. Tell them
we have launched a full alert, but that we are not advancing to meet
the other surface group. You have the birds form a CAP around the
group at fifty miles.”
“Aye, sir!” chimed the officers.
“Pull that first flight back into the CAP. I don’t want
them to be able to say we provoked them into something. If this is
going to happen, I want to make damned sure they get the blame for it.”
“Aye, sir. Captain, should we put the AWACS in EMCON?”
The officer was referring to Emissions Control, a way to deny the enemy
information about yourself.
“No. It’s obvious they already know where we are.
Probably satellite photos.”
“Yes, sir.”
Aboard the Russian vessel *Zhdanov*, Captain Beriya was
extremely unhappy. He also knew that there was little he could do to
change that. He had been given his orders by this... whatever he was.
He was told, "call him Putin", but nothing more. He disagreed with his
mission, but, as if this were the days of the old Soviet Empire, he was
told that his opinion was not important, that this mission was good for
the *Rodina*, that he would do as he was told.
*As if the people of Mother Russia would approve of a
direct assault on the Americans in this way! This is madness!*
"Watch your thoughts, Comrade Captain," said Putin,
startling Beriya out of his thoughts. "They may have a negative effect
on your performance, and you wouldn't want that."
"Understood, Comrade Putin." Comrade. That was another
return to the "Good Old Days" of the Union. What was happening to his
Motherland, his *Rodina*? And how did this Putin seem to know what he
was thinking all the time?
Igor Putin sat back in what should have been the Captain's
chair, watching the first major operation of the campaign unfold. He
had arrayed before him the largest battle group in the Russian Navy. A
fleet of fifteen warships, with a group of fleet replenishment vessels
on the way. His air cover would be there when he needed it, and he
knew that the submarines were lurking in the area around the American
battle group. His was the greatest power. Though he had never served
a day in the military, he was now acting as Admiral, overseeing this,
the first battle of the New Great Patriotic War. They would return
Russia to power, to prominence. That he and his brothers and sisters
of the Filitov Council would rule permanently shouldn't trouble the
citizens greatly. *After all,* he thought, *they were used to the
czars once. They can get used to anything.*
"Begin the attack, Captain Beriya," he commanded.
"Bring the battle group to general quarters," ordered
Beriya. "Begin the launch procedure now."
The radio signal traveled from ship to ship, and missiles
flew from the five cruisers in the fleet, one a minute, for the next
eight minutes. A total of forty SS-19 missiles were launched at the
*Nimitz* battle group.
Aboard the *Nimitz*, things got hectic in a hurry. Captain
Farraday ordered all ships into air-defense mode. The first missile
would hit in just under nine minutes. No one yet knew exactly which
ships were targeted. The aircraft carrier would be the biggest prize,
and so it was most likely the main target. Farraday's options were the
same in any case: bring the fleet to air-defense readiness, and launch
a counter-attack.
"Bob, launch the SLAMs."
"How many of them, sir?" his XO inquired.
"All of them," he responded solemnly.
"Sir?"
"Bob, the Russian missiles will be here in less than 9
minutes. It'll take our missiles more than 20 minutes to get there.
If we don't launch them all now, we may just have a bigger boom.
Launch them all. And tell the air wing to follow them in. I want
these cocksuckers doing the dog-paddle home."
"Aye aye, Captain!" The XO relayed the orders to the radio
officers, who didn't question their orders, but found them highly
unusual nonetheless.
Aboard the *USS Monterey*, 2000 yards away from the
*Nimitz*, Captain John Sizlig found his orders most unusual. But he
knew Farraday, and he knew what he was thinking. "Missile crews,
prepare the SLAMs for launch. Your target is the Russian fleet. When
ready, you will fire all, I repeat, *all* of our SLAMs."
He leaned against a bulkhead as he received confirmation
from his missile crews. Their motions appeared frantic, but were well
organized, and the first SLAM left the rails in under a minute. It
would take over three minutes to launch all twenty of them. He knew
that the same action was happening aboard the other cruiser in the
group, the *Normandy*, as well as aboard the three destroyers, *Stout*,
*Mitscher*, and *Ross*. He wondered if he'd be alive long enough to
find out if his missiles hit anything.
In the skies above the battle group, Captain William
"Shaggy" Barnes was flying the lead Tomcat of the squadron. He was CAG
aboard the *USS Nimitz*, responsible for every aircraft flying off the
deck. He received his orders, and quickly assembled his battle plan.
"To all flights, this is the CAG. Your mission is to
follow in the SLAM missiles, and take out any Russian fleet vessels
that they miss. Homer, you take lead. The F-14s will fly high cover,
in case they've got air support hiding somewhere." He continued his
brief, outlining mission objectives and a brief chain of command. He
thought to himself, *This is supposed to be done in a ready room, not
at fifteen thousand feet.* Once his briefing was finished, the
aircraft broke into their elements, and moved off to the north, toward
the enemy.
"Any trouble back there, Scooby?" he asked his RIO, his
back-seat officer.
Martin Scobes had been with the fleet for exactly two
months. He had gotten paired with the CAG because Shaggy didn't have a
RIO at the moment. Given his name, and CAG's callsign, his was
inevitable.
"Everything's fine up here, Shaggy," he answered, "But I
wish they could've waited until after dinner."
"I hear ya. And I forgot my Scooby Snacks." The running
joke did little to ease the tension. What were the Russians up to? No
Russian fleet had opened fire on an American in longer than he could
recall. What had changed?
Four hundred feet below the surface of the Atlantic, the
next element of the operation circled, maneuvering at only five knots,
the *Politovskiy* was nearly silent, and almost impossible to detect.
It had been circling this area for days, waiting for the American fleet
to come to this spot. The captain aboard the *Politovskiy*, Aleksandr
Torpoyev, knew that American sonar was far too good for him to stalk
the fleet. But his ship was truly undetectable at this speed, and
since he knew where the Americans were going, he simply got there
first, and stopped, waiting for them to pass over his head.
This they did, and now he would be allowed to do the thing
for which he had trained his entire life. He would show the world that
the Americans were not unbeatable. He would show them that Russian -
no, *Soviet!* - naval power was just as strong. He did not understand
the reason for his orders any more than his colleague Captain Beriya
did, but, unlike Beriya, Torpoyev yearned for this day, and was
reveling in the emotions.
His sonar officer announced, "The carrier has just passed
over us, Captain. They are at 300 meters and opening."
"Very well. Torpedo room, load all tubes. Open outer
doors."
With satisfaction, he noted that his actions were carried
out quickly and efficiently. The torpedoes were ready to fire in well
under a minute. "Range to target?" he asked.
"1500 meters and opening, sir! Bearing three-three-six!"
"Match bearings and fire," he ordered calmly. He was
settling down now, he was becoming what he had been trained to be: a
fighting machine.
The submarine shuddered as the four torpedoes were ejected
into the water by high-pressure air. Two officers were guiding them in
to the American carrier. The running time for the fish was barely over
a minute.
This, the *Nimitz* was not prepared for. A frantic call
erupted across the CIC. "Torpedoes! Torpedoes in the water bearing
one-five-six! Range is *close*! Less than fifteen hundred yards!"
"All ahead flank!" ordered Farraday, knowing it was almost
a futile action at that distance. He didn't need to ask how the sub
had gotten that close: obviously this was a coordinated plan.
"Activate all countermeasures! Get the Vikings, and the LAMPS helos,
looking for that sub! Sound collision alarm!"
As crewmen rushed around to follow the captain's orders, he
knew, in the kind of certainty that seamen have, that his ship was
doomed. *If only my Ability were stronger, I might be able to stop
them!* Captain Farraday had never had an opportunity to train himself
in the psionic ways, and so was not able to turn away such a swiftly
moving object. It would not have mattered in any case, for the Russian
psionics were prepared for such an attempt.
There were now seven helicopters and two jet aircraft
sweeping the waters around the carrier, looking for a submarine. The
*Politovskiy* slid silently down into the depths, sliding below the
thermocline, the boundary between warm surface water and colder deep
water. This boundary reflected the active sonar waves of its pursuers
back up to the surface, and so they felt they were safe.
It was not the fault of the sonar crew that they didn't
hear the *Seawolf*.
Aboard the *USS Seawolf*, Captain Brad Simmons was pissed.
He had just been informed that a Russian submarine had fired torpedoes
at an American aircraft carrier. *Mother-fuckers! So, you want to
play in our pond, do you? We'll see about that!*
"Spin up the ADCAPs! I want that boat sunk."
"Aye, sir! Working on a firing solution now, sir!"
"Very well, inform me when you have it."
Captain Simmons rested in his chair. Though not a psionic,
he'd been warned about the coming troubles from his brother. *And I
thought he was out of his mind at first. Just the loss of his daughter
sending him over the edge... But how else to explain this? Shit, I
hope all of what Bill told me isn't actually going to happen.*
His fire-control officer interrupted his train of thought.
"Sir, we have a firing solution, distance to target six thousand yards,
run time on the ADCAP will be four minutes."
"Fire tubes one and three, and reload." The submarine
quivered as the torpedoes left their tubes. The sonar officer in
charge of tracking the torpedo kept a running commentary as the fish
closed on the target.
"Comrade Captain! Torpedo in the water! No! Two
torpedoes in the water! They are in acquisition mode, they do not yet
have us!"
Captain Torpoyev asked calmly, "Bearing and distance?"
"Two-two-four at fifty-five hundred meters!"
"Come right to zero-nine-zero, ten degrees on the rudder.
Make your depth two hundred fifty meters. All ahead flank speed." The
control room crew marveled at their commander's calm demeanor. Inside,
he was enraged. *How dare they fire on my ship! Do they not know that
we are the leaders of the new order? We shall teach them a lesson they
will never forget!"* He walked back into the sonar room. "Do you have
a bearing on the submarine yet?"
"Comrade Captain, I am not tracking a submarine.
Obviously, he's out there, sir, but he does not show on a single
scope. I can go active, if you wish..."
"No, that would make it far too easy to track on us. Keep
working on it." He headed back into conn. "Fire control officer,
prepare a shot down the reciprocal bearing of the two torpedoes."
"Aye sir!"
"Match generated bearings and fire one and two."
Once again the vessel trembled as the torpedoes were
launched.
The *Seawolf*, however, was nowhere near the direction that
the torpedoes had been fired. As soon as their own fish had left the
tubes, Capt. Simmons had ordered the wires cut, and he had maneuvered
clear. He still had the enemy sub on sonar, and he could fire more
shots if necessary, but this was obviously a war situation, and he did
not wish to waste more torpedoes if he didn't have to. The Mark 48
ADCAP could just as easily find the other submarine on its own.
On the surface, it took only moments before the torpedoes
closed the distance to the *Nimitz*. The torpedoes had spread out, and
struck the ship from bow to stern, mortally wounding one of the largest
ships in the world.
Captain Farraday was back on the bridge now, giving orders
to the helm. "All stop!" He saw that his orders were being answered,
and he turned to the 1-MC public address system. "All hands, abandon
ship! Repeat, all hands, abandon ship! The *Nimitz* has taken
multiple torpedo strikes, and is rapidly taking on water. All hands to
the lifeboats!" He clicked off the system, and looked to the bridge
crew, still staring at him in stunned silence. "Well? What are you
waiting for? Get your asses in gear! Get to the lifeboats!"
As all the officers began to leave, the helmsman noted that
the captain was not leaving. As young as she was, and as new as she
was, she had no place questioning her captain, but she couldn't *not*
say something. "Captain? Captain, aren't you coming?"
He looked at her in sympathy. "No, seaman. This is my
ship, and I'll be damned if I'm jumping off her just because somebody
put holes in her. Now, go! That's an *order*!"
"Aye, aye, sir!" she replied, with a not-so-small lump in
her throat. She raced for the door, and looked back, to see the
captain standing, staring out the huge bridge windows at the sea. She
turned her back on him for the last time, and raced for the nearest
life boat.
Captain Farraday had no illusions about going down with the
ship. If he thought for certain that the boat was irreparably damaged,
he'd have jumped ship like everyone else. But, he did have his
Ability. And he had, he hoped, enough strength to keep the ship afloat
until he could either get her to shore, or until someone could come
repair her. He had to at least make sure that everyone else made it
off safely.
Shaggy saw the inbound missiles as he passed over them.
They were screaming in toward the fleet at nearly Mach 2. He whispered
a silent prayer for the fleet. He radioed in to give them his visual
report. That was when he found out that his carrier was sinking.
*Bastards!* Unfortunately, his F-14 was not equipped to handle
anti-ship weaponry. He passed the message along to the other flights.
He considered keeping it from them until after the attack, but he knew
that they would need to be aware that they would have to make a run for
the UK as soon as the attack was over, and even then some of them might
not make it.
Aboard the *Monterey*, the radar officer warned, "Time to
impact, one minute."
Captain Sizlig ordered, "Put the system into automatic."
The officer in charge of the AEGIS defense system on board
the *Monterey* lifted a cover and flipped a switch. The computer was
now in charge of the defensive systems onboard the cruiser.
Aboard the *Zhdanov*, Putin was in the wardroom with the
two other psionics on board. They were concentrating very hard. One
of them, Bugayev, said, "About a minute to the first missiles, Ivan."
"Very well. Boris, you and I will take down the computer
systems, with help from those on board the *Plotkin*. I will signal
them. You begin your attack."
There were now five psionics focusing their powers on the
battle group. Their psionic abilities reached out, searching for
electronic pathways.
"Thirty seconds to impact, sir! System is fully
operational!" Sizlig was just about to acknowledge that comment when
every system aboard the cruiser flared. Some of the panels actually
sparked, and then everything aboard went dead.
"Sir! All defense systems are down! All radar systems are
shot to hell! We have no way to track the missiles now, let alone
shoot them down!"
"Oh, fuck," muttered the Captain. He knew his next order
was cowardly, and that, if he survived, his career was probably over.
But the lives of several hundred crewmen were in his hands, and he
couldn't live with their deaths to make a show of it.
"Abandon ship! All hands, abandon ship! Head for the
lifeboats!" He unknowingly echoed the orders of his colleague on the
carrier. "Let's move out, people!" He made sure he was the last to
leave the Combat Information Center, but he *did* leave. He made his
way to the nearest available life-raft. His raft hit the water just as
the first missile struck his ship.
Aboard the *USS Normandy*, similar things were happening.
However, the captain of that ship chose to stand his ground. The crew
onboard felt this was madness, but they would not question their
orders. Captain Carl Andreeson had served them well for several years,
and they would not desert him now. He had determined that their vessel
was not targeted in either of the first two waves of missiles, and that
gave them some time to get the systems back up.
"Any luck at all?" he asked the nearest technician.
"Not yet, sir. I'll let you know if we get anything,
okay?" He was nervous, and showing it, and the captain's interest
didn't help any. Andreeson backed off.
Captain Farraday was holding it together so far. He was
using most of his energy to keep the ship afloat. With what other
strength he had, he was propelling it forward at a meager speed of five
knots. His attention was too focused to notice the incoming SS-19s,
and there was nothing he could do about them, anyway.
They struck fore and aft of the superstructure, where he
was standing. The missile warheads exploded, ripping the flat top of
the flight deck apart, and destroying the supports for the
superstructure. The entire island began to topple over. Farraday was
thrown through the bridge windows, his face and body lacerated by the
broken glass. He fell nearly a hundred feet before hitting anything at
all. When he did impact, he could feel bones breaking. The pain was
intense. Pieces of the superstructure landed on top of him, pinning
him to the deck. He knew that his body would not live much longer, and
the ship was a complete goner.
He reached out with his mind, and found Commander Bob
Maxton.
In the life raft, Bob Maxton was asking the helmsman, "You
just *left* him there?"
"He ordered me to leave, sir. What was I supposed to do?
Drag him out kicking and screaming?"
"I suppose not. Very well, take it..." His statement was
cut off by the explosion of the two missiles on the carrier. "Heads
down!" he screamed, grabbing the helmsman, and shoving her roughly to
the floor of the lifeboat, throwing himself on top of her to protect
her from flying debris. Neither of them moved until the explosions
died away, and he was the one who rose. He looked at her for a moment,
worried that she had been injured, but all of a sudden, some force
tried to rip his brain in half.
Charles Farraday's last conscious act was to send a message
to the world. But before he did that, he gave his best friend and
first officer a parting present.
Bob Maxton was flung to the floor of the raft with the
sheer immensity of power that had flowed through his mind. He had
almost grasped the message that his captain had sent out to
God-knows-who. He knew that something else had happened, but he could
not yet grasp it. What he really knew was that he now had a splitting
headache. He looked down, and he saw that the helmsman, whose name he
recalled was Rita, was moving. He helped her up, and looked her over
for injuries quickly. She appeared okay. Together they stared as
their ship sank slowly beneath the waves of the North Atlantic.
"Sir?" she said tearily.
"We'll get the bastards, Connelly. I promise you that."
"Yes sir," she managed, before letting a sob escape her
throat.
*<WE SHOULD HAVE BEEN READY!>*
In the plane, flying over the Atlantic Ocean, Ronald Marcus
Chaffey sat bolt upright in his airplane seat out of a dead sleep. His
head was throbbing with the message that had carried itself around the
world, and had probably awakened several dead people with its
forcefulness. He wished Karen were here now, so he could verify that
he had not dreamt it, but she was with Lars now. Linda, who was
sitting beside him, noticed his sudden agitation.
"Is something wrong, Ron?"
"Yes, I think there is."
"What..." she started to ask, but could see that Ron had
entered one of his "states", and wasn't going to be disturbed for a
simple matter of curiosity.
Ron was searching for the source of the message. He soon
found it, in two different places. Though this confused him, the two
points of origin were very close together, and both were in the midst
of a pack full of trouble. Ron saw the overall picture, and he
realized that he was too far away to help everyone. *How do you choose
whom to save?*
Ron came to his decision by a simple matter of numbers. He
was too far away to try to take out the missiles directly. He could
only protect one location. While attacking the Russian ships was
desirable, that would only kill people, and not save anyone. This
would save the lives of American sailors. It was the best he could
manage.
Back underwater, the *Politovskiy* was fleeing for its
life. Captain Torpoyev had tried every maneuver he could think of to
escape the closing torpedoes. Nothing had managed to shake the Mark
48s. He was resigned to the fate of his submarine. He had taken out
their most vaunted carrier, but it would seem that the devil would have
his due. Their triumph would cost them their lives. He had but one
last duty to perform for his crew.
"Surface the ship, emergency rise. All up on the bow
planes!" His orders were confirmed and carried out swiftly. There was
the chance that rising back through the thermocline layer would confuse
the torpedoes, but it was a slim chance at best.
The torpedoes followed the *Politovskiy* up to the surface,
and they contacted the sub just as its bow cleared the water. The
explosion actually pushed the submarine farther out of the water, but
this only made things worse. With so much of the sub out of the water,
the impact when it fell back was too much of a strain for the
already-damaged hull. The ship split in half, and quickly filled with
water. Not a single crew member made it to safety before the halves
slid back beneath the waters for the last time.
"I have two explosions, captain, and then some tearing
noises. They made it to the surface just as the fish got there... No
hull crush noises, but engine sounds are gone."
Captain Simmons easily restrained his enthusiasm. He had
to make sure the sub was actually dead, and not waiting on the
surface. "Periscope depth." His ship rose slowly up from the depths,
not surfacing, but only close enough so that the ship's periscope could
be raised out of the water. The captain made a quick sweep, and then a
slower one. He slapped the handles on the periscope up and said,
"Lower periscope." Turning to his crew, he said, "There's no sub on
the surface, so I think we can call that a kill." He quashed the
beginning celebration with his next sentence. "The *USS Nimitz* is
also not on the surface." Silence filled the room as this bit of news
sank in. "XO, surface the boat. There were life rafts up there, and
we have a duty to those sailors. Sonar, this is the captain: keep your
ears open for anything that doesn't belong."
Bob Maxton was looking in the wrong direction when the
*Seawolf* surfaced. He heard a cry from one of the other lifeboats,
and turned to see what that was about. Never had he seen a more
welcome sight than the large, black sail of the submarine rising up
from the ocean's surface. *I take back everything I ever said about
nucs.*
The missiles were racing in now, and Captain Andreeson was
just about to order the crew to the lifeboats. The missiles were mere
seconds from impact, and he feared that he'd left evacuation too late.
He was about to turn and give the abandon order, when he saw a bright
flare of light from the direction of the missiles. The lookout
standing next to him gasped in surprise, and then had his binoculars
yanked away by the captain. What he saw was completely impossible: the
missile had exploded in mid-air. Nothing had contacted it, and his
ship could do nothing to stop it. Incredulously, he focused in on the
remaining missile targeted on them. Just as he managed to find it, it
too exploded without warning. *Now what do I do? Do I abandon ship?
Or do I stand my ground and hope like hell that whatever is stopping
those missiles holds out?*
*<STAY PUT!>* The answer to his question was surprising
for two reasons: first, he had not expected an answer, and second, it
was not his voice that he heard in his mind. He was so startled by the
event that he didn't question the wisdom of the voice.
"Get everyone inside! Everyone under cover!" If the
missiles exploded any closer in, someone could get caught by the
blast. "All right, folks, something is stopping those missiles from
getting to us. I don't know what it is, but, by God, we've got a
chance now. Any luck with the electronics?"
"No, sir. Sir, these are going to require an overhaul to
repair. Every circuit is fried."
"Very well. Get to your damage control station. Situation
report?"
"Sir, the *Monterey* is sinking, the *Mitscher* is gone.
Both *Stout* and *Ross* are damaged, but still afloat. Neither of the
frigates has been targeted with a missile. Sir... *Nimitz* has also
been sunk." That statement silenced the entire room. They had
failed. Whether they survived this mission or not, they had failed to
protect the carrier. It was their job, and they had not done it, and
the only redeeming fact was that the crew had gotten off. That, and...
"Sir, we have contact with the *USS Seawolf*. She reports
having sunk the sub that fired on the carrier. They are presently
doing rescue ops for the carrier crew. They report that they do not
have room for all the survivors." That was, at the same time, good and
bad news. The good news was that there were that many survivors. The
bad news was that the weather in the North Atlantic was notoriously
bad, and storms were scheduled to arrive in several hours. They would
have to find a way to collect several *thousand* crewmen from the water
before those storms hit.
"Put a call in to the British navy. Tell them if they've
got *anything* in the area that can haul a large number of people, we
need it."
"Aye, sir!" That response was punctuated by the sound of
three more explosions, two to their front, and one behind them.
"The last explosion was a missile hit on *Ross*, sir.
She's going down. All hands have abandoned ship. The two to our front
were intended for us, but exploded like the others."
"Well, at least whatever *that* is, is holding out. Keep
me informed."
"Aye aye, sir!"
Ron was sweating profusely in his airline seat. He had not
ever had to work this hard from such a distance. The stewardess,
alarmed at his appearance, reached to rouse him. Linda stopped her.
"Don't. He'll be okay. But, could you bring me a wet
towel for his forehead?"
"Is it contagious?"
"Huh? Oh, no, he's not sick... he's... concentrating.
Please, just bring me the towel."
The stewardess complied. But Ron saw none of it.
Shaggy Barnes passed the last of the inbound missiles, but
could no longer reach any of the ships of the fleet. Finally,
broadcasting on the GUARD frequency, he reached one of the frigates,
just to be informed that, except for the *Normandy*, all of the main
ships of the fleet were either damaged, sinking, or sunk, and that the
*Normandy* was unreachable.
"Very well, *Simpson*. We've passed what appears to be the
last of the inbound missiles. We are still fifteen minutes from our
target. All friendly missiles appear to be tracking well. Can you
tell me why the *Normandy* has managed so well?"
"Sorry, Turkey Lead, we don't understand the phenomenon
involved. No missiles have been able to get through to the
*Normandy*. It hasn't even had a near miss."
"Very well, *Simpson*. We will continue our profile, and
then bingo to the United Kingdom. Can you call ahead and let them know
we're coming?"
"Already done, Turkey Lead. There will be Texacos in the
air waiting for you."
"Understood, *Simpson*. Thank you for that. Turkey Lead,
out." To his rear-seater, he said, "Well, that eliminates *that*
worry."
"Yeah, great, Shaggy. Now we just have to worry about
whatever else can go weird on this mission."
"I hear you, Scooby. Keep your eyes on that scope."
The Russian fleet was aware of the incoming missiles, but,
unlike the Americans, they had no system readily prepared to deal with
it. They had to resort to anti-aircraft weaponry better suited to
bringing down a bomber than a missile.
In the wardroom of the *Zhdanov*, Putin and his associates
were keeping an eye on the missiles. Bugayev reported the incoming
Alpha Strike of aircraft and missiles. Putin sent off a telepathic
message. He had been waiting for this.
While jamming an AWACS radar is next to impossible, Mikhail
Borodin had learned how to maneuver the radar energy away from its
receiver. It had never occurred to him that this technique could be
used on visible light as well, or he would have made his plane
invisible altogether. It was enough that he had masked his flight of
forty MiG-29s from the American radar systems. He acknowledged Putin's
order, and radioed his comrade pilots. It was time to show the
Americans who this part of the world's oceans belonged to.
Five minutes later, all of the Russian missiles had
finished their flights. The last group had focused solely on
*Normandy*, and the last of the five had come dangerously close to
hitting them. Now, they had to help their friends who were in the
water.
"Let's begin recovery operations. And thank the Lord, or
whoever it was, for stopping those damned missiles."
*<You're welcome.>*
The response startled him half out of his wits. He
certainly had not expected a response to *that* statement. Once again,
it was not his voice. He dared not mention it to the crew; they would
surely think he'd gone mad.
The *USS Normandy*, last remaining major surface combatant
of the *Nimitz* battle group, steamed toward the nearest group of
survivors, those from the *Mitscher*. He hoped they would get help
soon.
The MiG-29s came down from above. As they reached the
target area, Borodin could not keep up his diversion of the radar
systems, as he was too involved with flying his aircraft. The AWACS
controller took immediate notice of three dozen new blips on his
screen. He sent a panic call to Shaggy.
"Turkey Lead, Turkey Lead, this is Hummer-2. We have
inbound bogeys at your two o'clock! Angels four-zero and descending
rapidly! Distance seven-five miles! They appeared out of nowhere,
Turkey Lead!"
"Roger, Hummer-2. Okay, Turkey Flight, this is Shaggy.
Time to do our jobs." The flight of eight F-14 Tomcats increased
speed, and gained altitude. It was their job to protect the
strike-fighters on this mission. The MiGs were already within Phoenix
missile range, and the Tomcats locked on quickly. Soon, twenty-four
Phoenix missiles were heading for their targets at over Mach 3.
The lock-on signal was immediately recognized by the
Russian MiGs. They began jinking to avoid the incoming missiles, but
they could not be too evasive, as they had their own targets to
destroy. If the MiGs didn't take out the cruise missiles, the Russian
fleet was going to be a sitting duck. Borodin gave the commands, and
the MiGs dove for the wavetops.
The SLAM missiles were traveling at subsonic speeds, a
little over 500 knots. They were within six minutes of hitting their
targets when the MiGs descended on them. As slow as they were, they
were also miniscule radar targets. While an infrared missile could
take one out, that was still an iffy thing at best. And the thought of
a Phoenix missile bearing down on their aircraft did not improve the
Russian pilots' accuracy. Of the 100 missiles launched, only twenty
would be dispatched by the fighters.
The Phoenix missiles would fair better. Twenty-four
missiles fired, and seventeen planes were hit. Two of those managed to
run for the mainland, but the other planes were well and truly gone.
That still left twenty-three MiGs, however, and now they were heading
for the strike aircraft.
Shaggy sent a warning to Homer as they launched another
twenty-four Phoenix missiles. The distance between the two flights was
closing rapidly, and the Phoenix missiles passed just over the strike
fighter groups on their way to the Russian targets. Head-on, the
Phoenix had a lower kill rate, and only ten of the remaining MiGs were
splashed. However, the MiGs and the F-18 Hornet strike-fighters were
now in range of each other. But thirteen MiG-29s against 36 F-18s and
the eight Tomcats really wasn't much of a match. In the ensuing
furball, the Russians managed to down four Hornets, while the Americans
splashed all but one of the MiGs, which turned for home rather than be
blasted from the sky. Forty American planes and eighty SLAM missiles
were now rushing headlong toward the Russian fleet. An unstoppable
force, or so the Americans thought.
Putin was not entirely surprised that Borodin and his
pilots had been so easily defeated. He had anticipated the
possibility. Borodin had signaled their defeat as he raced his plane
as far out of harm's way as possible.
To the others, Putin said, "The missiles are our first
concern. Take out any missile targeted on our vessel."
"What about the other ships?" Bugayev asked.
"Fuck the other ships," responded Boris. "They're just
normals."
"I will signal the *Plotkin*. They will be responsible to
defend themselves. Now, get to work!"
The Hornet drivers were stunned as they followed the
missiles in, to see several of them drop into the ocean, seemingly at
random. They could not know that those twelve had been the only ones
targeted at two specific vessels within the fleet. They watched as the
rest of the missiles homed in on their targets flawlessly.
Aboard the *Zhdanov*, Captain Beriya was near panic. There
were missiles inbound to his fleet, and he had little in the way of
defense. Putin told him this would not happen. He told him that this
would not be a problem. *Damn him!*
Putin appeared at the captain's side just then. "You need
not worry about these missiles, Captain Beriya. None of them is
targeted on your vessel."
"And how do you know this?" Beriya asked.
"It is my job to know such things. I will be on deck if
you need me."
Beriya thought that madness in the middle of a missile
attack, but if the man wanted to commit suicide, Beriya wasn't going to
stop him. He also was not going to blithely sit by and watch missiles
come in and pound his fleet. "Ready the guns! Take those missiles out
if you can! NOW!"
The gunners aboard the Russian ships made a valiant effort,
but there simply was little chance of them killing off all of the
missiles inbound for their vessels. In short order, all but two of the
Soviet ships were sinking quickly beneath the surface. The two
remaining vessels, the *Zhdanov* and the *Plotkin*, had no missiles
even attempt to hit them.
Henry "Homer" Simpson took note of that, but also realized
it didn't matter. He radioed his fellow pilots, "Dragon Flight, this
is Dragon Lead. We've got two targets left. Launch the Harpoons,
NOW!" As he completed his sentence, he saw the briefest flash of light
from below.* Were they firing on us?* The next thing he saw was his
wingman's plane exploding not fifty yards away. He banked away from
it, and, in doing so, saved his own life as he saw another blast of
blue-white energy flash by and impact an airplane behind him. *What in
the fuck is this shit?* "Dragon Flight, break and run! Let the
missiles do the job, we do not have the fuel for an extended fight!"
The Hornets were falling rapidly, as the blasts from below
seemed to come with greater frequency. Homer jinked and rolled to
avoid them, but jinked one too many times, and he found his aircraft
exploding about him. His last thought was that he had no idea what had
killed him. *Doesn't that just suck?*
Shaggy Barnes was aware of what was happening to his
friends in the Hornets. He also knew that he had absolutely no way to
help them. "Scooby, what say we get the hell out of here?"
"Well, my fun meter is pegged, boss. I'm with you."
With a muttered curse, William "Shaggy" Barnes turned his
Tomcat eastward, and headed for the United Kingdom and safety. *Or, at
least it was safe yesterday. Who knows today?* His biggest concern
was how he was supposed to tell over fifty families that their sons,
and six daughters, he reminded himself, would not be coming home,
ever. *Shit.*
The psionics aboard the two remaining Soviet vessels were
able to disable all of the incoming Harpoon missiles. A good many of
them had never been launched because of the timing of their energy
attacks. One missile had splashed into the ocean a hundred yards away,
but Putin took little notice of that. This, the first battle of the
New Great Patriotic War, had been a victory. A costly one for the
normals, but that was not Putin's concern. Not a single psionic life
had been lost, or so he thought. He did not know about Captain
Farraday. And, in truth, it would not have mattered to him anyway.
Ron slumped back in his chair. He opened his eyes, and
realized that Linda was leaning over him, and that the other
first-class passengers were staring at him. He took the offered towel
from Linda's hands, and smiled at her.
"Are you all right, sir?" the stewardess asked with concern.
"Yes, I'll be fine... I'm just a bit stressed, that's all.
Can I get a soda, please?"
"Certainly, sir."
As the stew hurried off to do that, Linda quietly asked,
"What happened?"
Ron answered as deadpan as he could, "World War Three just
started."
Linda's face went pale, and he worried she would faint. He
reached out mentally and strengthened her vital signs, allowing her to
absorb the information. She turned to him, stable but still pale.
"Will we win?"
"I don't know, Linda. I really don't."
Ron tried to rest throughout the rest of the flight, but
his mind was continually upset with the thoughts that he had to *do
something* about the loss of the *Nimitz*. He stopped the stewardess
on her rounds.
"Ma'am, where are we stopping off to refuel?"
"We're making a quick turnaround at Dulles, in Washington
D.C." she replied.
"Are passengers allowed off at that stop?"
"Yes, sir, we have several passengers getting off there,
but your luggage-"
"I'm not worried about my luggage. I have to get to where
it's going eventually, anyway. But I *have* to get off in Washington."
"Well, sir, that's your choice. Understand that your
ticket won't allow you to go the rest of the way separately, though."
"Not a problem. Thank you -"
"Terry."
"Thank you, Terry. You've been very helpful." She beamed
at him and moved off. He had Linda tell the others that they were
getting off in Washington, and then he leaned back, closed his eyes,
and tried to find Lars.
*<LARS!>* The summons might have popped his eardrums had
it been audible. Karen snapped to attention the same way, having
gotten the echo of the call through her link with him.
*<You called?>* he said with no little sarcasm in his voice.
*<I need you in DC, as soon as you can get there. Meet us
at the airport. And bring a couple of your friends with you.>*
* <Understood. Karen and I are on the way.>*
* <Thank you.> *
* *
* *The plane landed safely and on time at Dulles
International Airport. Karen and Lars stood hand in hand waiting for
Ron and company to get off the plane. Standing behind Lars were
Kimberly, his deputy; and another man of impressive bulk and serious
demeanor. As Ron approached, Lars said, "I hope this was enough, I did
not know what you had in mind. You remember Kimberly, I assume. This
is Stefan. He is an Adept of the Fifth Order."
"This should be plenty... a larger group would only make
things more difficult."
"What do you have in mind?"
"We're going to infiltrate the White House."
The incredulous stares he was getting would have been
humorous if the reason for the statement were not so grim. He plowed
on, not expecting resistance. "Look, I've got to talk to the
President. We just had a battle group slaughtered in the Atlantic
Ocean. I managed to save one ship, and most of the people survived,
but not all of them. And I don't know what they're doing about all the
survivors in that cold-ass water. But one of the captains was a
psionic, and his last message, which I'm surprised you didn't hear,
indicated that they weren't prepared for this war."
Karen said quietly, "We should have been ready." While the
rest just stared at her, Ron nodded.
"So you did hear it."
"Yes, but it was not that strong... although I guess if it
came from the middle of the Atlantic, it was stronger than I thought it
was. I just assumed it was someone's stray thought from the
neighborhood. I didn't take any notice of it."
"Well, I was a lot closer... nearly line of sight, I guess,
and that meant it boomed through my head like you wouldn't believe. He
was max power on that... and there's still something about that
incident that puzzles me... well, we won't go into that now. Right
now, we've got to sneak into the White House... I want to make such an
impression that he'll have to listen to me. Here's what I've got
planned..."
"Sir, we were lucky, the QE2 was in port, but ready to
sail. She was underway in less than 30 minutes, and was on location in
less than four hours. The storms are starting to raise hell with
rescue ops, but they've already gotten aboard most of the survivors."
"What kind of losses are we looking at?" The president
wanted to know.
"We don't have a verified count yet, sir, but here are the
estimates: We've lost five ships: one carrier, the *Nimitz*; one
cruiser, the *Monterey*; and three destroyers, *Stout*,* Mitscher* and*
Ross*. Of the crews on board all of those ships, most of them managed
to abandon before the missiles hit, so we suffered minor casualties
there, unfortunately, one of the dead is Captain Charles Farraday,
commander of the *Nimitz*. Of the air wing embarked on the carrier, we
lost three F-14s and sixteen F-18 Hornets. That totals twenty-two men,
sir. Our total casualties were light in personnel because of some
quick thinking by our captains."
"They'll be well rewarded, Admiral. What else?"
"Well, the *Seawolf* managed to sink the sub, we think an
Alfa class Russian attack sub, that hit the *Nimitz*. The *Normandy*,
the second cruiser in the battle group, remained untouched throughout
the missile strike. The report from our commander onboard states that
missiles headed for his ship exploded mysteriously before hitting the
target. We have no explanation for that."
"I do."
"Who said that?" the president demanded. Everyone looked
around, but the voice had seemingly come from nowhere.
"I did," replied Ron, who materialized right before the
president's eyes. Secret Service agents immediately attempted to move
to interdict the intruder, but were held in check by unseen forces.
Their guns were removed from their holsters, and disappeared into thin
air.
"Who-who are you?" the president requested apprehensively.
"I am Ron Chaffey, Mr. President. I am an American
citizen, and I mean you no harm. I have come to help you understand
the events occurring in the Atlantic Ocean this afternoon. You see, I
witnessed most of them."
"I'm calling security to get this punk kid out of here..."
The Admiral froze in his tracks suddenly, not able to move. Ron was
not really putting forth that much effort, but figured it was time to
stop fooling around. The rest of the team phased into existence, one
behind each of the Secret Service agents in the room. His family,
consisting of Nikki, Linda, Sandra and Megan, was gathered in a group
behind him. Nancy and Cindy had been left to take care of the house.
"Mr. President, we can do this the hard way, with me
forcing you to listen to me, or we can do it the easy way. The easy
way is better for everyone concerned, I assure you."
The President of the United States was not used to taking
orders from a teenager, but it was obvious to even the dumbest person
in the room that this was no ordinary teen. "Very well, Mr... What did
you say your name was?"
"Chaffey, sir. Ronald Chaffey."
"And, what is your affiliation? Your agenda? Why are you
here?"
"I am affiliated with..." he almost said CAMP, but that was
no longer the truth. He thought quickly and pulled a name from thin
air, "The Provisional Psionic Army of the United States of America. My
agenda is to save the United States from the coming war. I am here to
tell you why the US military is not adequately prepared to face the
Russians."
That was all more than the Admiral, who had been released
from Ron's controls, could swallow. "Just what the *hell* is a
Provisional Psionic Army?"
Ron rolled his eyes, and was about to explain, when an Air
Force lieutenant intervened. "Sir, a psionic is defined as a person
with mental powers. Someone able to manipulate the real world with
their mind."
The Admiral looked at her as if she had sprouted a third
arm. "Are you trying to tell me, Miss Saunders, that these people
think they can do telekinesis and shit?"
"Sir, I am making no claim. He is. And, begging the
Admiral's pardon, sir, but how else would you explain what just
happened here?"
That silenced the Admiral effectively. Ron was beginning
to like Lt. Saunders.
"You seem to know something about all of this, Lieutenant.
Where does your information come from?"
The sheepish look on her face was evident. It highlighted
her straight black hair and big eyes to great effect. "Mr.
President... most of my knowledge of such things comes from science
fiction novels. That's the only place I've ever known psionics to
exist," looking at Ron, she hastily added, "until now." And his
estimation of her went up yet another notch.
The president turned to Ron. "Are you telling me that you
can manipulate things with your mind, son?"
In response, Ron simply reached out with his extension, and
heaved the large conference table in the center of the room a foot off
the floor. "Do you need a further demonstration, Mr. President, or
will this be sufficient?"
The president stood, flabbergasted, at seeing what under
any other circumstances he would have assumed was a magic trick. Well,
it was magic all right, but this was *real*.
"Yes, I... I think that will do nicely... Um, could you
please set it back down, now?"
Ron positioned the table softly on the floor, being careful
not to spill the president's coffee, which sat on the table.
"Well, I have to take you at your word that you are one of
these... psionics... but, what is the Provisional Psionic Army? Are
you part of some militia, here to demand your second amendment
rights?" The president smirked, to show that he was jesting.
"Like I have need of a gun," Ron responded in kind. "No,
sir. The PPA is a group of citizens with abilities similar to mine.
We are organizing now to combat the coming Russian threat. Sir, can we
get back to this afternoon's battle?"
"All right, why don't you tell us what you know?"
"Can I ask a question first? Did we save all the sailors?"
The Admiral, feeling a need to assert himself again,
answered, "The Queen Elizabeth 2 is presently seeing them safely to
port in England."
"Good. I'm sorry, Mr. President, I was too far away from
the battle to save more than the one ship. Missiles moving at... well,
however fast them Russian jobbies were moving, well, they were too much
for me to affect from such a distance. I was able to protect the one
ship... boxy thing, what's it called?"
"The *USS Normandy*, it's an AEGIS cruiser," the
lieutenant offered, to the annoyance of the admiral.
"Thanks. I was able to protect the *Normandy* from harm,
but that was all. If I'd had other psionics with me, I could have
protected all of them, but that just wasn't possible. I'm sorry, sir."
"You've nothing to be sorry for, son. You're not wearing a
uniform, you did right well to do what you did." The president looked
over at the admiral, who was still coming to terms with the idea of a
real-life psionic in their midst. He shrugged. "Go on."
"Well, sir, I didn't see what happened to the carrier. I
wasn't alerted to the battle until after that had been damaged.
Anyway, I saw that the Russian missiles were coming in, and I sensed
that the fleet's systems were down, that the ships couldn't defend
themselves... The ship I saved was the biggest one still floating,
sir, which is why I chose to protect it: I figured it had the most
people on board. I was able to keep the missiles from hitting it, but
the rest of the ships were sunk. I think most of the crews got off,
though."
"Do you know anything about some fantastical energy weapon
that the Russians have now?" The admiral chimed in.
"What did it look like?" Ron asked.
"One of our pilots described a blue-white ball of light,
flashing past his windscreen."
"Lars, you want to do the honors?"
Lars nodded, aimed himself at a blank piece of wall, and
let loose with a high intensity wave of psionic energy. The blue-white
ball smashed into the wall and dissipated, without leaving a trace.
"Satisfactory?" he asked.
Ron nodded. "Before you ask, Admiral, there's no damage to
your wall there because we didn't want there to be. What you just saw
is highly focused *mental* energy. It is controllable, to an extent.
Such a highly charged burst cannot be directed with as fine a control
as a lesser charge, which is why any of your planes survived at all.
If they had been smart about it, you would have lost *every* plane in
the group."
"What do you mean? This was a *dumb* attack?"
"In a way, yes sir. See, the more energy you put into the
attack itself, the less energy you have left to control the attack.
There are exceptions, usually brought on by extreme emotional distress,
but this was not the case here. Had he used a more subtle energy
attack, your planes would have fallen from the sky without the pilots
even having a clue what happened. What I don't understand is why they
didn't do so, when it is obvious that they used such a tactic earlier
in the fight."
The president was confused. "What do you mean?"
"As I said, when I saw your ships, they were defenseless.
All their systems had blown. I took a quick look through the circuitry
after I finished saving the *Normandy*. All the boards had been
fried. *All* of them, Mr. President. Even a lightning strike doesn't
fry everything. This was a concerted attack, not by EMP or anything
else you may be used to, but by a psionic blast. A well focused and
highly controlled, low-energy psionic charge ran through your
circuitry, and shorted it all out."
"How in the hell do we defend against that sort of thing?
Some kind of shielding?"
"The only shielding possible, Admiral, is human. The only
way to fight a psionic is with another psionic. Believe me, I've spent
several months trying to find something that deflects mental energy,
and I've come up completely empty."
"You've known this attack was coming for *months*?" The
president was incredulous. "Why in the hell didn't you warn us?"
"Sir, I didn't know this specific battle was going to
happen, nor when, where, or how. What I'm talking about is something
you apparently still don't grasp. What you saw today was not an
isolated incident, but the first battle of the Third World War. But
this battle isn't going to be fought just with tanks and planes and
ships and guns. This war is going to be fought with psionics. People
like me, and him," he pointed to Lars, "and them," motioning to the
other three. "We are assembling now, to try to fight off the Russian
psionics. Sir, you should know that Russian psionics have been making
small-scale attacks on American soil for months, maybe even years.
It's just in the last little while that the American psionic community
has geared up for the battle. I admit, sir, that we may not be as
ready as we would like to be."
"You're telling me that I have to send our military out,
*defenseless* against these... these psionics?" the president demanded.
"No, sir. You have psionics in the military. I can't tell
you who they are, because I don't know, but they're there. I know
there's at least one, or there *was*, on board the carrier in the
Atlantic. The signal I got from him or her was confused, so I do not
know if that psionic still lives. But where there's one, there has to
be more."
"Well, we're just going to have to put one of you on each
of my ships," proclaimed the Admiral.
"Admiral, we aren't here to volunteer. I'm here to tell
you what's happening."
"We could draft you, boy," the Admiral threatened.
"What will that piece of paper mean when the Russians are
ruling in Washington, Admiral?" Ron answered coldly. "You don't have
the power to enforce rules over us if we don't want you to. You don't
have the ability to win this war without our help. We *can*, if
necessary, win it without your help, but it will be easier if we work
together."
"What do you need from us?" the president asked.
"We've outlined our needs, sir, and here they are..." Ron
continued for two hours, outlining plans, and needs, and projections
and contingencies. Not all of his plans, but some of the very basic
ones.
Six hours later, after endless meetings with people in
uniform, Ron was on a military transport headed for home. His family
was all with him, as well as Lars, Karen, Kimberly, and Stefan. Also
aboard was Lieutenant Shelly Saunders, newly appointed liaison for the
US government to the PPA.
Ron walked in, glad to be home after such a long visit. He
had Cindy show Lt. Saunders to a guest room, and he went and sat down
in his study. He turned on the TV to see the "Special Report" graphic
on ABC. Apparently, the president was about to speak to the nation.
Ron had not bothered to give the president any instructions on how to
deal with the whole issue of the existence of psionics. He hoped the
man had some brains.
He didn't.