by Stephen Makk
If I remember Stonewall’s words correctly, the business of a soldier is to fight. Armies are not called out to dig trenches, to throw up breastworks, and live in camps. But to find the enemy, and strike him; to invade his country, and do him all possible damage in the shortest possible time.
Commander Blake, go and do as he said. Good luck and good hunting.”
“Sir.” Nathan left to oversee the preparations; he knew Lieutenant Commander Sayers would already be getting her ready for patrol.
NORTH PACIFIC.
ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY miles west of the Columbia River. Oregon.
THE VIEW FROM THE FLIGHT deck was grey and impenetrable, like staring into a fog. Down at fifteen hundred feet, the P8-Poseidon was in the thick of cloud base.
“That’s it, number six,” said Le-Saux. They’d just dropped another line of sonobuoys. These would float and listen for any subsurface acoustic contacts, and relay the information back to the P8-Poseidon anti-submarine warfare aircraft. The P8 is developed from the Boeing 737 short to medium range airliner. Le-Saux sat in the main fuselage of the aircraft, looking into his information display screen to one side of cylindrical space. He spoke to the flight crew via his headset.
“Personally I think we’re too far north to catch her,” said the pilot, Lieutenant Holly. “She’ll be high tailing it out into the central Pacific, running back to the Dear Leader.” He pushed the throttles forward for more revolutions, and the twin CFM-56B’s roared as the P8 gained altitude.
“That’s what he wants us to think, but I can smell him out there,” said Le-Saux.
“Your call, mission leader. I bet you’re all playing Call of Duty back there anyhow.”
Le-Saux laughed. “Yeah, I’m on level three now. The SS is losing the Battle of The Bulge.” Holly turned the aircraft into a lazy orbit over the northernmost line of sonobuoys. For thirty minutes they circled as the mission crew looked into their screens, analysing sounds from the Pacific deeps. Many were biologics, some the far-off sounds of surface ship’s props.
“Hey Curtis,” said Holly. “You gonna take in the Seahawks game on Sunday?”
“Yeah,” said Le-Saux, “never miss. The Cowboys are in town this week. A win should put us second in the standings.”
“Right, we’re away at the Browns I....” He cut himself off, mid-sentence and listened, there it was again.
“Wait one. Contact, contact. Line one, SB 3. Heading North,” said Le-Saux.
“Crystal?”
“Subsurface prop. Maybe one hundred and sixty feet. Slight hint of cavitation, Sir.”
“Keep me in the loop.”
The minutes ticked by.
“Contact is a Sub,” said Crystal.
“Designate contact as Tango one,” said Le-Saux.
“Depth one hundred and sixty or below,” said Crystal, “speed twelve knots. I have good blade count, zero ID. It’s not a NATO boat; Russian library still analysing.”
“What’s your feel, Crystal?” asked Le-Saux.
“I think it’s him.”
Could it be? He was taking a chance by being up here. Most others had taken the more obvious westerly escape routes. But the North Korean skipper would know those would be searched first, and he might just be trying the unexpected. It could be him.
“Russian library reports negative ID.” Le-Saux would call it in.
“Flash, flash, flash. Fisheye two. I have unknown subsurface contact at 46.93 north -126.81 west. Heading north, speed twelve knots.”
Two minutes went by.
“Fisheye two, fish eye two. This is COMASWFORTHIRDFLT actual. You are weapons free, repeat. You are weapons free. Over.”
“Fisheye two. Copy, weapons free. Over.”
Shit, thought Le-Saux. We’re going to do it.
“Selecting Mk 50.” He selected the airdropped torpedo. “Tango one is bearing one five five degrees, range eighteen miles.” The P8 turned to its target.
“Range five miles,” Holly scanned the instruments, checke the weapon selector, “descending to launch altitude. OK, at launch altitude, range three miles.”
“Opening bomb bay doors,” said Le-Saux, “master arm on. Spinning up gyroscope. Setting for top amidships strike.” The torpedo could be set to hit the target from above, below, port or starboard. Fore, amidships or aft. This strike would be from above, amidships.
“Mk 50 arm selected. Fish is now armed and active. Run the bird in for release.”
“Copy, running in,” Holly glanced out of the cockpit windows, all ok.
The Mk 50 would fall into the sea and run in at forty knots. The warhead was one hundred pounds of shaped charge high explosive, it would blow a gaping hole in Tango one.
The submarine had less than four minutes to live.
Chapter 2
FLUSHING NYC.
“HI HON, LOOKING FOR it? I got lot, for you I got plenty. Sucky sucky, you like.” The Asian hooker pouted.
“Not tonight.”
She persisted. “Come on Hon. You cocky, I docky.”
The President’s National Security Advisor, Stockhaisen, was there to meet a man. A man who was a conduit to a rival power. They held too many cards to be ignored. He’d come to Flushing disguised; it was one of those quiet, under the table meetings.
The whore pushed it further still, beginning to irritate him.
“I suck you, fuck you. You need no more, you come. Me promise. No come, no pay.”
“Look, I said no,” he snapped. “I fucked plenty of slopes in Nam. One more ain’t gonna cut it. Fuck off.”
She smiled back at him and stood straighter. “And I thought you were here to see Charlie Victor one five one.”
He stared at her, his eyes bored into her. His contact used that name. “You know where he is? He hired you?”
The Hooker smiled. “How do you know that Charlie is a man?” She looked him in the eyes, her gaze deadpan. “I’m Charlie. We have things to discuss. Let’s eat.” She led the way to Joe’s Shanghai on 37th Avenue.
They sat in a private booth, the waiter had seen this kind of thing before a man and his piece of ass. He knew to keep it private and discreet; the tips were good if you let them be. They ordered the meal and drinks.
“Are you really Charlie one five one?”
“Would I tell you?” she smiled. She was a looker, about thirty he thought. You could see that she wasn’t rough at the edges like most whores were.
“I may be young, but I do have an office at Xiyuan, Haidain.” He knew that was the Headquarters of the Ministry of State Security in Beijing. China’s CIA.
“Look Charlie, your sick puppy in Pyongyang has gone too far this time. It’s time you pulled on his leash.”
“There are complexities in his leadership, now isn’t the time. Let him play in his sandpit for now. His time will end, but not yet. Your President needs his leash pulling in. It could get out of hand.”
“Out of hand? That fuckwit Kim, is out of hand.”
She sighed, then opened the bag she carried and took out several papers, then laid them on the table. “Copies of contracts from AFD Inc for armoured fighting vehicles to equip Thailand’s army. These are two agreements that Mace Inc holds with Kenya and Tanzania for the shipping of minerals to the People’s Republic of China. A big shareholder wouldn’t like to see these contracts thrown away. Especially a big shareholder running their holdings from offshore via Panama.” She gave him a knowing smile.
He stared at the contracts, horrified.
“And then there’s the lovely Peekaboo.”
“What? What about her?” his mind was spinning, struggling to keep up.
“Why, your estranged daughter, backpacking in Vietnam. She’s having a good time over there. You can’t blame her really. Although she doesn’t speak to him, her Father spent time in Nam. Why shouldn’t she?” She placed three pictures on the table of a fair-haired attractive girl in her twenties, laughing with a Vietnamese girl in a market. Stalls sold grains, tropic
al fruits and rice. “I’m sure Peekaboo Stockhaisen is safe. It’d be a shame to jeopardise that safety.” Her voice became suddenly firm and forceful. “Stockhaisen, pull back on your boss’s leash, that’s all we ask. I must be off, for now, we’ll speak again.” She kissed him on the lips and left.
He looked at the pictures of Peekaboo. The bastards, the downright dirty bastards. The money would have hurt badly. But his daughter?
He sighed. “Oh, shit.”
USS STONEWALL JACKSON left Pearl Harbor at dusk and turned to the west in Mamala Bay. Nathan stood in the sail with his binoculars, to starboard the lights of Ewa Beach were turning on. The landmass was still plainly visible behind the strip. People would be out that night down the coast around Ko Olina he knew, he’d been one of them back when he was a Weaps, a Weapons Officer on board USS New York City. It seemed an age ago now. He never imagined then that he’d have his own boat so soon.
THE USN HADN’T OPERATED a diesel-electric submarine for decades, so when reviving a lost art it would make sense to cooperate with an ally. Arguably, the best diesel-electric boat out there was Japan’s Soryu class, capable of diving to 3000 feet. The Soryu’s drawback was its relatively limited range, but the US enjoyed the privilege of having a worldwide network of bases and allies, largely negating this. A development was the addition of Lithium-ion batteries, providing stealth and endurance. This combination proved too hard to ignore and a joint development effort was undertaken.
Thus the USN’s new class was a development of the Soryu class, with key improvements. She had a range of 7,200 miles and a complement of 65 Officers and crew.
The USS Stonewall Jackson’s armaments included three vertical VPM launch tubes with seven Tomahawk BGM-109 cruise missiles in each. Mk 48 CBASS wire-guided torpedoes and low-level anti-ship Harpoon missiles were launched by four tubes.
General Jackson himself had said it was necessary, “to move swiftly, strike vigorously”.
His namesake was more than capable of bringing unreasonable force to bear.
NATHAN STOOD IN THE sail and looked out into the darkness. It was a privilege and a burden, command was a lonely place, he’d read about that, but now here it was. You had to keep a distance, but not too much of a distance. It was a fine balance. You didn’t always get it right. He’d thought Captain Franks of the NYC was a bit too distant, but now Nathan had a feel for what it was like. Franks had taught him a lot; with hindsight he’d allowed him to grow and develop. But he’d given him an earful more than once. He’d been a mentor and Nathan often thought, what would Franks do?
The warm breeze blew over his face. A few minutes later he breathed deeply, and took a last look at the string of lights along the coast.
“That’s it, it’s time we were away.” He climbed down the first few rungs of the ladder, closed the hatch, and spun the dogs shut. He climbed down and closed the inner hatch, and he then climbed down to the deck and entered the control room.
The crew stared into monitors or marked the chart, and he nodded to the XO.
“Flood forward. Open and trim vents fore and aft. Dive, dive, dive. Planesman, down angle twenty, make your depth two hundred and sixty feet. Speed twenty three knots.”
“Twenty three at two hundred and sixty, aye Sir.” The deck tilted down to the bow, and finally levelled out.
“Zero bubble, Sir,” called out the Planesman. The boat was now level at two hundred and sixty.
“Navigator, plot us a course to the Northern Sea of Japan.”
“Aye, Sir.” Kaminski worked on her chart.
“Three zero four Sir.”
“Come to bearing three zero four.” An hour later, he was sitting at the conn, completing his log entry.
Sayers returned from a tour of the boat.
“Sir, I’ve done the rounds and all’s well, even the back aft A-gangers are quiet.”
Nathan smiled. “They haven’t brought any aboard, have they?
“Sir?”
“I mean what class of drugs are they on?”
They were the conventional machinist’s mates, working on machinery such as scrubbers and burners, or the diesel engine. They were universally famous as knuckle-draggers, and unashamedly, the most profane individuals on a submarine. They could take cursing to levels undreamed of by most of the crew.
The XO smiled. “Off the scale Sir.”
“XO, it’s time for a war committee.” Nathan thought for several long seconds. There comes a time for promising young officers to step up. He knew this was such a moment. “Kaminski.”
“Sir?”
“Come to the wardroom.” He nodded to the XO then aft to the wardroom.
The three of them entered and sat.
“Kaminski, this will be the first war committee you’ve sat on. We’ll plan the patrol and discuss the forthcoming action.”
Nikki Kaminski was amazed to be invited to join in; Lieutenants weren’t normally part of these sessions.
“I operate this as a Chinese parliament. It’s a Royal Navy term I got from when I was on NYC. We all pitch in and get our say, rank doesn’t matter. If you disagree with what’s said, then say so. You’re here for your ideas and opinions. If you think I or the XO are wrong then say so, nobody will jump down your throat. Ok with that?”
“Yes Sir.”
He smiled at her. “In the war committee, we’re Nikki, Larry and Nathan. Got that?”
“Yes, Si... Nathan.”
“I do get the final say so, I am in command, but I take these sessions seriously. First, can we catch him before he reaches home port?”
Larry shook his head. “Not much chance, too much sea room.”
“The People’s Navy will have a task force out to escort her into port.” Nikki folded her arms on the table and leaned on them.
“Where is home port?” asked Larry. Nikki didn’t look up.
“It’ll be Mayang-Do Island a couple of miles off Sinpo.”
“So,” said Nathan, “she’ll have half the Navy bringing her back in. We are weapons free on all vessels. We could have a good time with them.”
“Nathan, she’ll be tough to get when she’s in port,” said Nikki. “We can’t get her in port, so we have to get her out.”
“Yeah,” said Nathan, “we could ask her if she’s coming out to play.”
Nikki laughed and smiled. “I may have an idea how we could get her out.”
“Go on Nikki, how?”
She grinned. “You’re not going to like it.”
OFF THE COAST OF OREGON.
THE P8-POSIDEN CLOSED on its prey two hundred and thirty below the grey Pacific surface. Le-Saux would wait until they were on top of Tango one before release. It would cut down the time for the Mk 50 to run in, and reduce the time the enemy would have to deploy acoustic countermeasures.
“Two miles to run. The fish is hungry.”
The Mk 50 lay suspended below its hard point in the open bomb bay, its gyro spun up. The onboard computer had Tango one designated as its target.
Through his headset came a communication from HQ ashore.
“Fisheye two, fish eye two. This is COMASWFORTHIRDFLT actual. You are weapons tight, repeat. You are weapons tight. Over.”
“Fisheye two. Copy, weapons tight. Over.”
Shit, thought Le-Saux. What the hell was going on? He deselected the Mk 50 arm selection and spun down the gyro.
“What the Goddamn hell’s going on?”
“Sounds like a FUBAR,” said Holly.
“Yeah, you can say that again.”
“Sounds like a FUBAR...”
“Ha fucking ha.”
Le-Saux frowned. So God damn close. Holly had called it like it was. A FUBAR, Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition.
“You know what,” said Holly, “I’ll bet a dollar to a cent, it’s some political bullshit.”
Le-Saux nodded. “You’re right, has to be. It’ll be some limp dick at The Department of State, trying to undermine some opposition grouping. Or some lo
bbying wonk has scored a hit. Assholes.”
“I think all we can do is maintain contact until we get fuel low,” said Holly.
“We could always give the gooks down there the ass twitches by dropping a few well wide of the target. Better not. We might get chewed out by the Commander.”
“Yeah, well we should be good for another hour and a half on station. Gooks got lucky today.”
NORTHERN SEA OF JAPAN.
“SIGNALS OFFICER, RAISE the communications buoy,” Captain Kwon Hwan of the Korean People’s Navy ordered.
“Sir.” The buoy streamed up to the surface held on its cable.
“What’s our position, Lieutenant Rhee?” The Communications Officer read off the latitude and longitude to the Navigation Officer, who plotted it on the chart.
“Sir, the northern point of Rebun Island is bearing one hundred five degrees, twelve kilometres.”
“Planesman, come to two three zero. Maintain speed.”
Seopung was west of Japan’s northernmost Island of Hokkaido and would commence her run down the Northern Sea of Japan towards Sinpo.
“Notify East Fleet Command, we are running into the rendezvous point. ETA twenty six hours.”
TWENTY FIVE HOURS LATER.
“Sonar Sir, multiple contacts heading our way from the Southwest. Range twenty one kilometres. The leading vessel’s screw count indicates that it’s a Dogsuli class frigate.”
This would be the escort group. Kwon waited until they were five hundred meters away, then raised the periscope and flashed a signal.
“Seopung. Seopung. ID U46X879E. Returning to Sinpo. Over.” The reply was flashed from the Dogsuli.
“Welcome back. Hero boat Seopung. Maintain contact every two hours. Over.”
Kwon flashed an acknowledgement.
CAPTAIN PETER ‘PEDRO’ Gomez slid the periscope down. He sighed and looked at Lieutenant Commander Muntz, his Executive Officer. The SSN USS Key West had been shadowing the escort group since it left Korea.
