_Chapter 2: 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,
towards 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 towards 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 boat 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 focussed 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 towards 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 awake 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 cruiser, 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.