Arabian Storm (The Hunter Killer Series Book 5)

by George Wallace

  Wilson immediately replied, “Proceed to periscope depth, aye, sir. Raising number one photonics mast.”

  Wilson was reaching for the button on the command console as Chief Schmidt called out, “Speed six.” It was safe to raise the mast. Again, unlike older submarines, the George Mason did not have traditional periscopes, like those in most submarine movies. There was no shiny, vertical steel tube cutting through the control room. Nor did the OOD have to peer through an eyepiece as he paced a slow circle with the periscope. Instead, a mast in the sail slid upward. A series of video cameras fed images to a large-screen monitor in the middle of the control room. The OOD controlled the mast with a hand-held device that looked very similar to an Xbox controller. Most everyone had the same view as the cameras.

  Chief Schmidt reached up on his control screen and touched the button to go to what was still called “periscope depth.” The ship control computer took over from there, commanding the bow and stern planes, even pumping and flooding water from the depth control tanks to maintain trim—keeping the boat under control—as the sub moved up to the surface.

  Wilson and Edwards watched the deep blue on the large-screen display become a lighter turquoise as the mast cleared the surface just as the submarine leveled off. Wilson spun the camera around in a complete circle before calling out, “No close contacts.”

  “Conn, Radio, request you raise the HDR mast,” a voice on the 21MC intercom system squawked.

  LTjg Wilson ordered, “Co-pilot, raise the HDR mast and prepare to ventilate.”

  The co-pilot, Chief Lonnie Wedge, who sat next to Chief Schmidt, reached over and touched two buttons. One raised the high-data-rate antenna and the other aligned various ventilation valves and dampers around the ship.

  “The HDR mast indicates raised and the ship is ready to ventilate,” the co-pilot reported.

  Wilson ordered, “Raise the snorkel mast and commence ventilating.”

  Chief Wedge grabbed the 1MC microphone and announced, “Commence ventilating.” Then he pushed a button that raised the snorkel mast up out of the sail and into the clear evening air on the surface of the sea. As soon as the mast indicated raised, he pushed another button that started the low-pressure blower, a large fan that sucked the warm, clean Indian Ocean air into the boat.

  “Captain, Radio, high precedence message traffic for you.” The announcement came over the 21MC speaker. Brian Edwards pursed his lips as he stepped over to the command console and pushed a couple of buttons, typed in his user ID and password, and read the message that appeared on the screen.

  The skipper flexed both hands and stood up straight. It was clear to everyone that something had just changed.

  “Officer of the Deck, secure ventilating, secure periscope depth operations, come to four hundred feet, course two-seven-zero, ahead flank.” Edwards’s orders came quickly, firmly. “And get the Nav up here.”

  The sub was already sliding into the depths—and every man aboard could feel it, sensing some urgency—as Edwards started punching new coordinates into the ECDIS control panel. The Electronic Chart Display and Information System began spitting out the best course to Diego Garcia.

  That was when Lieutenant Commander Jim Shupert, George Mason’s navigator, ran into the control room, still rubbing sleep from his eyes.

  “Captain?”

  “Looks like this little voyage just got a hell of a lot more interesting.”

  12

  A hot, dry wind blew the dusty smell of the parched desert across the broad, shallow harbor. The setting sun held little hope of relief from the arid heat. Arman Dirbaz squeezed the damp towel that rested on his neck and shoulders, trying to conjure up even the tiniest bit of cooling moisture.

  “Chabahar may be the city of four spring seasons, but all four are woefully hot,” the man muttered, mostly to himself. The chief engineer stood up high on the bridge wing of the tug Ilhyat. He watched as the boat pulled the ballistic missile submarine Boz-Manand away from the shipyard pier. The sub was a great source of pride for Dirbaz. Much of his career—indeed most of his life—had been spent designing, building, and proving the worth of this mighty submarine.

  And this would be the day that she would taste the open sea for the very first time.

  Vassily Godonov, Dirbaz’s old friend and Russian mentor, grinned as he watched the younger engineer pace anxiously around the tiny space.

  “Arman, my friend, you must be calm. You are not birthing a son this night,” he said with a chuckle. “It is only the sea trials for a floating hunk of iron.” Godonov waved toward the submarine, only now being separated from the pier. “But I will admit, it is a rather impressive hunk of iron.”

  Dirbaz grasped the bridge rail and watched intently as the line-handlers on the submarine cast off the last ropes connecting the Boz-Manand to the land. He felt the tug’s powerful diesel engine rev up and the big screw bite into the harbor water as the Ilyhat obediently pulled the submarine out into the channel.

  Finally, Dirbaz responded to Godonov’s comments.

  “I’m not sure which is more difficult, birthing a son or a submarine. I do know that standing here on the tug and not on the Boz-Manand is most frustrating.” The engineer gazed longingly at “his” submarine. “I would feel much better if I were now observing the fuel cells. I still have concerns about that overheating.”

  Godonov shook his head. “My friend, you must trust Russian technology. It is proven to be the best in the world. And besides, should anything happen, you will only be a few hundred meters away.”

  The tug towed the submarine out into the center of the channel before stopping. As the pair of engineers watched silently, the deck crews cast off the big submersible. When the last line slid off the new vessel’s rounded deck, the tug’s whistle sounded a prolonged blast, welcoming a new denizen to the deep. The submarine swung around until it was lined up with the center of the channel and then proceeded downstream, at last bound for the open sea. The Ilyhat loyally floated in behind to follow her, playing the dutiful escort.

  Lights blinked on around the broad shallow bay. Over to the east, Chabahar City, the sprawling new metropolis, brightened the sky, as if basking in the central government’s attention as Iran’s only deep-water port on the Arabian Sea.

  Finally arriving out in the center of the bay and into the major ship channel, the two vessels came around to the south and headed out into the deep waters. The open ocean swell gently rocked them. To the southeast a dhow beat its way into port, its holds presumably filled with fish for Chabahar’s bustling market. Otherwise, the sea appeared to be empty of any other vessels.

  The Boz-Manand signaled that all was normal with the boat’s operation so far and they would begin a high-power surface run. Since he had approved the sea trial’s engineering tests, Dirbaz knew that this portion involved a complex series of high-speed runs, rudder throws, and backing bells. For the Ilyhat to play mother hen now would be exceedingly dangerous. The slightest hesitation, miscalculation, or miscommunication would result in a disastrous collision. The engineer reminded the tug’s master yet again to stay well clear of the submarine for the next couple of hours. Now, as Dirbaz proudly watched, the Boz-Manand leapt ahead, white water surging high up on the submarine’s towering sail before crashing back down in a frothy maelstrom.

  Meanwhile, unbeknownst to anyone on the new boat or the tug, one hundred and fifty feet below, on the bay’s muddy bottom, an acoustic sensor recorded the submarine passing overhead. The digitized acoustic recording flashed across the fiber link to a communications node several miles out, in deeper water. From there, the data was uplinked to a geosynchronous satellite hovering twenty-three thousand miles over Central Africa and then instantly relayed back down to a secure terminal in a nondescript building in Dam Neck, Virginia.

  Analysts working there now knew not only that Boz-Manand had begun her sea trials but also knew, well before the Iranian engineers even had a chance to collate their data, that a cooling pump on
the vessel would soon need a bearing replacement.

  “Salam, Mohandes Doktor,” the tug’s master said in greeting as he stepped out onto the bridge. Almost exactly two hours had passed since the submarine’s maneuvers had begun. “The Boz-Manand signals that the surface power runs are completed with no problems. All systems are performing within parameters. They request permission to dive and to begin submerged trials.”

  Arman Dirbaz nodded and smiled as he listened to the report. The test schedule was going very well. As far as he could tell, the submarine was performing extremely well for a brand-new design.

  “Very well,” he responded. “Signal Boz-Manand to submerge to periscope depth and conduct initial submerged tests. Report tests completed before going below twenty meters depth.”

  Godonov smiled. “You are like a mother hen. You are hesitant to allow your baby chick out of your sight.”

  “Were it only possible to directly observe submerged trials!” Dirbaz responded. His eyes never left the sub’s sail as it began to disappear.

  A kilometer away, the Iranian submarine was sliding below the waves for the first time. And as it did, it passed over a second acoustic detector. The analysts in Dam Neck listened intently in near real time to the noises of the boat diving.

  But then the acoustic data subtly changed. Astern of the submarine, a pair of small UUVs rose from the sea floor and maneuvered so they were less than a meter from the Boz-Manand. At that point, they each fired what looked like small cannons. The 20mm super-cavitating projectile that each one had unleashed used sheer speed and mass to blow a one-inch-diameter hole right through the submarine’s thick pressure hull.

  One of the projectiles then tumbled through a series of electronic switchgears. The other blasted into the crew’s mess compartment, spraying deadly molten shrapnel.

  Seawater, shoved by its own immense pressure, poured in through the two holes at more than a hundred gallons per minute. Electronic equipment, switchboards, and controllers, unexpectedly doused in saltwater, arced and sparked before tripping offline, causing fires to break out. The inexperienced crew, in one awful, unanticipated instant, faced both fire and flooding, the two worst fears of any submariner. In panic, most of them had no idea what to do. So they did nothing but cower hopelessly where they were, waiting for someone to tell them.

  A few of the slightly more experienced—or braver—attempted to stop the flooding or put out the fires. Others tried to help their wounded shipmates.

  The captain, taken off guard as much as his crew, shakily ordered the ship to emergency surface. But he was a half second slower than the chief standing by the control panel who had already hit the emergency surface actuator.

  In seconds, the Boz-Manand bobbed out of the sea. A few seconds later the pumps started. The submarine was no longer in danger of sinking as long as there was power for the pumps. But the fire and water damage had destroyed the controllers for the main motors. The boat sat motionless on the glass-calm sea, unable to move under its own power. Smoke poured out of the bridge hatch as it was opened from inside.

  Shaken and scared, the captain grabbed the radio microphone and screamed, “We are under attack! The Americans have attacked us!”

  Dirbaz stood at the tug’s rail, aghast at the scene playing out a few hundred yards away. He could only watch and wonder what catastrophe had befallen his pride and joy. He slammed his fist against the wood even as he came to the same knee-jerk conclusion as the submarine’s captain. “They will pay! The damned Americans will pay for this with blood!”

  As this drama on the other side of the world played out, the acoustic sensors recorded it all, faithfully and impassively conveying the information back home.

  Ψ

  Admiral Tom Donnegan grabbed the red phone before the second ring. It was never good news when the red phone rang. He listened for a few seconds before exploding.

  “God almighty! What the hell do you mean ‘attacked!’ Who the hell attacked an Iranian submarine on sea trials inside their own territorial waters! Damn! Damn! Damn!”

  Donnegan slammed down the phone hard enough to crack it.

  “But we sure as hell know who’ll get blamed for it,” he muttered. Then, he yelled to his aide, “Get me the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs and SECDEF on the red phone right now!”

  Ψ

  The Motor Vessel Jia Yang, at almost two hundred thousand tons displacement, was a floating, self-contained city. The world’s largest deep-sea research ship, ostensibly designed and operated by the Shanghai Ocean University, the Jia Yang could perform many missions in which knowledge about the world’s ocean depths could be discovered. More than two thousand of China’s brightest, most promising engineers and scientists called the massive ship home for many months at a time, though few knew the full scope of the ship’s responsibilities.

  Her huge, almost five-story-tall diesel engines could drive the ship at better than twenty-five knots around the world without refueling, while her dynamic position-keeping system could hold the Jia Yang over one specific spot on the ocean floor for months at a time. And it could do this to within centimeters of accuracy in almost any sea state.

  The Jia Yang had been utilizing that dynamic position-keeping system for the last several weeks while operating deep in the Arabian Sea. At fifteen degrees, fifty-four minutes north latitude and sixty-two degrees, twenty-seven minutes east longitude, the Jia Yang was located almost equidistant from Yemen on the Arabian Peninsula and Goa, India. She was almost a thousand miles from either. More importantly to the Chinese, geologic research had revealed strong hints of vast mineral resources hidden in the earth’s crust beneath these deep waters. Despite strong protests from the Indian government through the usual diplomatic channels and impassioned speeches before mostly empty seats at the United Nations, the Chinese economic machine remained doggedly intent on investigating and exploiting this promising find. Jia Yang would not be disengaging her position-keeping system anytime soon as it continued to make measurements to confirm the “advance of global climate change,” its stated reason for being there.

  The ship had actually been dispatched to map the extent and true nature of the mineral find. Her deep-water UUVs and ROVs spread out thousands of fathoms beneath the Jia Yang, sending back petabytes of data and tons of bottom samples for the engineers and scientists to analyze. Just one more notch on China’s Belt and Road Initiative, which had already put its tentacles into more than 150 countries and international organizations in Asia, Europe, Africa, the Middle East, and the Americas under the guise of capital investment and development.

  The attack came suddenly, without warning, a lightning bolt from a clear sky.

  One minute it was a peaceful tropical night beneath the stars. The next the sky was ablaze as drones crashed into the Jia Yang and exploded spectacularly. The night sky was filled with hundreds of the angry hornets, buzzing around and crashing into the now burning vessel.

  The research ship was caught by surprise. Her very meager self-defense systems were immediately overwhelmed. Though it seemed much longer to those aboard, the vicious, fiery attack was over within fifteen minutes.

  The once proud Jia Yang was nothing more than burning wreckage, barely afloat in the warm tropical sea. Those crew who still survived climbed into the bright orange life rafts that dotted the water or clung perilously to floating wreckage, awaiting rescue.

  The PLAN (People’s Liberation Army Navy) command center had barely received and deciphered the panicked pleas for help from the Jia Yang before Yemeni’s Houthi rebels began their assault on social media. They audaciously claimed that their vicious attacks had been launched for the sole purpose of driving the imperialist Chinese and all other brazen infidels out of their Islamic seas. The same fate was promised to any other infidels foolishly trying to steal Allah’s wealth.

  Past history led most of the world to swallow the story without hesitation. And to merely chalk up this travesty as another rabid attack by mad-dog terrorists. Few to
ok time to consider where such a ragtag band of guerillas might have obtained such sophisticated and lethal weaponry. Or the know-how to so effectively employ it.

  The exception was the PLAN. The Chinese Navy leaders did not really care, yet, where the Houthi obtained the means for their attack. That might come later. For now, retribution and vengeance were in order. The Houthis must be taught fear and respect. The Indian Ocean Battle Group pointed their bows west and made best speed. And the Chinese issued an announcement that any vessel or aircraft approaching within fifty kilometers of a Chinese flagged vessel in the Arabian Sea would be treated as hostile.

  13

  Joe Glass read the message on his computer monitor one more time before he sat back, contemplating both the specifics and the implications of the new orders. He absentmindedly ran his fingers through his rapidly thinning hair. One thing was for certain. There was about to be significant planning and considerable hard work, all completed as quickly and efficiently as humanly possible if they were to accomplish Admiral Donnegan’s instructions. Of course, that was precisely what they were trained to do.

  Glass half turned and yelled through the open door down the submarine’s narrow passageway. “XO, grab the Eng and Nav. We need to talk. And right now.”

  Next door, Billy Ray Jones looked up from the pile of papers stacked on the desk in front of him in his stateroom. “What’s the fire, Skipper?”

  “Admiral Donnegan has a hot job for us,” Glass answered. “We need to get out of this tropical paradise ASAP and hotfoot it up north. Chinese task group up that way and the good admiral wants to know what they’re up to.”

  Jones stepped through their shared head and leaned against the door frame. He read the words on the screen over Glass’s shoulder, his brow furrowing the more he took in. Finally, he looked up and rubbed his chin.