by Stephen Makk
Benson took his headphones off and went around to the Conn. He looked at the image and stared in shock. “Fuck me sideways.”
The spinning prop of the huge ship was just five metres away. USS Stonewall Jackson had under-hulled the cargo vessel. She could ride, undetected, shielded by the noise from the ship’s prop. She had her free pass to Mischief Reef. The crew above would be totally unaware that the very thing they dreaded, 4,000 tons of hostile submarine, was just a few feet below them.
“XO, CAN YOU DO A SPELL at the Conn?”
“Yes sir.”
It was hard work keeping station just behind a spinning prop.
Nathan sneaked a look at her, the ponytail bouncing around her shoulders as she worked. He tried hard not to, but had to look again. Those eyes, wow. Stop it, you damn fool.
“Kaminski, what does the guessing box tell you about our position?”
He referred to the backup inertial navigation system, accurate if recently updated, but the accuracy dropped off over time.
“It has us south east of Mischief Reef, but it’s been a while since an update. We have turned east then north so we must be on the way in. Sir.”
“CPO Benson?”
“Sir, echoes from the ship's props are indicating a shallowing sea. I’d say less than 100, but that’s a wild assed guess.” He’d give it another few minutes.
A few minutes later.
“That’s it, ease back on the revs,” he watched the monitor as the prop disappeared. He kept an eye on the speed; when it was three knots he’d risk it.
The speed bled off. They were still at periscope depth. He set the controls for a pop up and 360 scan. The scope raised its eye above the surface, panned around and slid back beneath the surface. It was visible for just six seconds.
“Take a download of the 360, Kaminski.”
Nikki worked for a minute. The cargo ship and its escorting Destroyers converged. They were heading for an entry channel into the lagoon.
“Ok sir, I’ve a satellite fix and, comparing that with building and radome heights, we’re just about point six of a mile to the entrance to the Reef. Our target is bearing three four eight degrees; range two miles.”
“Steer three four eight, maintain periscope depth, speed seven knots.” Nathan turned to the XO. “Larry, go and tell Innes and Alves to get ready. We’re two hours from Infil.”
Fifteen minutes later he set up the periscope for a sweep from zero to seventy degrees. The scope broke surface did a quick seventy-degree scan and retracted below and out of sight.
He was headed for a narrow channel into the lagoon; this was where the communication cables lay. Surveillance satellite records of the bases had picked up their position during construction.
Nathan would wait for darkness.
“COME TO THIRTY DEGREES, speed three knots.”
“Thirty at three Aye Sir.” After five minutes, Nathan set the periscope up for a sweep from zero to forty five degrees scan. He looked at the monitor, it was now in night vision mode.
“All stop. XO, you have the Conn.”
Nathan walked back to the main companionway. Innes and Alves stood wearing diving suits and full rebreathers, and a bug lay on the deck wrapped in some kind of bag. Two seamen stood ready to assist.
“All set, men?”
“Aye sir,” replied Innes. Alves nodded.
“You’re about one hundred yards from the entrance. The bearing to datum one is six three degrees.” They both set their compass bezels to the bearing.
“Off you go, and good luck.”
Innes opened the lower hatch and climbed up, Alves followed. The seaman passed the bug up to them and the hatch was sealed and wheeled shut. Two taps followed by two more was the signal. The rating opened a valve to let seawater into the chamber.
INNES AND ALVES SWITCHED on their helmet lights, the red light filling the chamber was washed out. They were already waist deep in seawater, and they held the bug vertical resting on the lower hatch. Equipment checks had already been carried out in the boat’s main companionway.
The chamber filled, the water level rose to cover their masks, then finally, it was full. Innes reached up and turned the wheel, then stepped up a couple of rungs and lifted the hatch. Outside was a black void. Innes swam out into it, Alves followed, and they pulled the bug out behind them. Alves turned the bug horizontal, reached into the bag, and opened an inflation valve until the bug reached neutral buoyancy. Innes took the left hand side and Alves took the right, and gripping the two handles, they took a bearing and kicked off. Their buoyancy was slightly negative so they drifted down the seabed. It wasn’t silty, there was the odd filter feeder and starfish. Some thin, kelp like green fronds waved to and fro. Innes checked the depth, 110 feet. The only sound was their breathing and the hiss and pop of the feed and return valves of the CIS Lunar rebreathers.
The rebreathers were a fully closed circuit and gave no bubbles off, it re-used their breath and removed carbon dioxide. Electronics made sure the divers always got the right mixture of gas for their depth; the required Oxygen level was lower when they went deeper.
Alves shouldered the rebreather. Inside the shell on the divers’ backs, was a large cylinder to the left and plastic tube of some powder substance with a smaller cylinder below it.
He checked the two cylinders carefully. In the larger tank was the diluent, Trimix. Helium, oxygen and nitrogen. The small tank held oxygen.
Alves remembered his training. A diluent was nothing exotic, a non-diver breathes a diluent: the nitrogen in the air.
Oxygen was added to the trimix when told to by the computer. As well as breathing, Alves knew the mix provides buoyancy gas to the bags on the diver’s chest. This gas is also breathed in and out. The powder scrubbed out the carbon dioxide.
Alves knew Innes and him were in their equipment’s hands. Rebreathers provided them with a much extended dive time and depth, and of course no bubbles; ideal for a covert Infil of an enemy’s harbour or other facilities.
He ran his hands over the tank on his chest. They each wore a seven litre bail out tank with its own breathing regulator. This was just in case the rebreather failed. It was filled with Nitrox thirty six; that is thirty six percent oxygen, sixty four percent nitrogen, so reducing the decompression time.
They finned towards datum one, a wall at the north side of the channel, if all went well they’d cross the cable.
Their whole world was just the five or so yards around them. Outside that was a black void. It was fin, fin, breath in, fin, fin, breath out. On and on into the void.
Innes suddenly stopped finning. No. Shit. Alves continued on regardless. Innes reached over and pulled him back. He could see Alves frowning through his mask.
Innes reached out in front of himself and indicated something and Alves moved forward to see. There it was, a nylon line about eight inches above the seabed. Innes knew this was a trip line. They could activate mortar fire from a nearby shoreline, unlikely in this case due to proximity to the cable. But it would alert the base’s security teams that a potential penetration was underway. They’d have to rise above it, taking care not to activate it with their fins. Innes had seen tricks like this before. He shone a torch upwards, carefully studying the water column. There was another, twelve feet above the first. Sneaky bastards. They were hoping if the bottom line was detected, the infiltrator would move up and activate the higher line. Innes pointed and waved his torch and Alves gave him the ok sign. They both added gas and moved higher and in between the two wires. They pressed on towards their sixty three degrees bearing. Once they swam by the line, they sank back down and finned on, keeping a careful watch. Alves spotted the next one. He stopped Innes and pointed. This one was at an angle to the seabed. Innes hadn’t seen that done before; it started low to the left and went high to the right. He raised his palms to Alves and shrugged. Alves pointed up the line, indicating curiosity as to what was up there.
Innes nodded. They moved up the line. As
they ascended, they came across another line stretched from high left to low right. Innes wondered what the hell was it? They carried on up the diagonal line. Finally, a shape loomed out of the midwater blackness that sent a chill through both men’s stomachs.
Chapter 5
FEDEXFIELD. LANDOVER, Maryland.
“YEAH, OK DAD THANKS. An iced tea and a dog. Onions, no mustard. And be quick, you know I hate the Cowboys, they’ll be back on soon.”
Stockhaisen climbed the steps and walked down into the concourse.
He walked once more towards Taco Bell. There, leaning against the wall, with a beer and another one for him, was Paul Wicks.
“Hi, you got anything for me?”
“Here’s a beer.”
“Thanks,” he took the beer. “Well?” he looked at his CIA contact with raised questioning eyebrows.
“I’ve got something I can let you read but not take away.” He handed Stockhaisen a copy of a document he’d photographed while Zhi Ruo was doing her face in the bathroom. The first part was in Chinese, and the second part was the translation.
He skimmed it. “Give it to me verbally.”
“The PLA are positioning a new weapon in the Paracels and the Spratlys. It’s a wing-in ground-effect cruise missile, capable of flying three feet over the sea’s surface with a 2,000 pound warhead. That’d give a carrier a very serious stomach ache. They’re low drag too, so 750 miles plus range. It rides a cushion of air at that altitude by staying so low throughout its flight, so this missile-drone is harder to detect than higher-flying missile systems, as it can hide from radar among the reflective clutter of the ocean's surface.”
“That’s all the fucking South China Sea?”
“Yeah, it’s worse than that,” said Paul, “all the way to Singapore, all of Taiwan and maybe the southern Islands of Japan. All from the Spratly Islands.”
“Your source?” Paul tapped the side of his nose.
“Humint.”
“Ok, I understand. I’ll be getting back.” He drank his beer and turned to leave.
“How are the FBI getting on with that MSS agent in DC?” asked Paul, trying to sound casual.
Stockhaisen turned. “They’re closing in. They don’t think it’ll be long now. Actually, they sent me a photo fit they’ve had done of her. I think I still have it on my phone.” He took out a cell phone and touched some parts of the screen. “Yeah this is it.” He held up the phone to Paul. “Bit of a looker isn’t she?”
“Yeah.” Paul retained his composure somehow; but he was mortified. A strong likeness of Zhi Ruo stared out at him.
“Gotta go and watch the Cowboys get theirs. See ya, Paul.”
“See ya.”
Paul shook his head. This was getting real bad. He knew he had to think of something, he couldn’t just let her be just picked up by the Feds.
AS PAUL WAS DRIVING home, it hit him. He pulled over and called someone who owed him one.
“Vicky, it’s Paul Wicks. I’m good thanks. You too? Great. Look, I need a favour....”
SHE KNOCKED ON HIS door at seven.
“Come in.” He held the door open. Zhi Ruo smiled, put her arms around his neck and kissed him. Then she stepped back and kicked her shoes off.
“Traffic. Took me ages today, the goddamn beltway. How do you cope, Paul?”
“I grew up around here, I suppose it helps.”
“Maybe.”
“You want a red wine?” He poured two glasses of her favourite Chilean Escarlata.
She looked at him teasingly. “Not yet, hon. You’d do me a great service if you’d put us both into your bath. We can drink them there.”
As they laid at opposite ends of the bath he watched her sip the glass. “Zhi. I’ve got an idea.”
“Oh?”
“Someone owes me a favour. I called them today and asked if I could borrow their vacation home. It’s a great spacious place in West Virginia, in the George Washington and Jefferson National Forest, about 120 miles away. I’ve stayed there before. It’s a great place, outdoors, forest, wildlife, rivers. We could go for the weekend and you can stay on longer. I can get there at the weekends, and sometimes during the week. It’s got an internet line, you can still write.”
She smiled. “That sounds great! I think I’m a country girl at heart, yeah, let’s do that! But first...”
She stood up in the bath, water dripped from her gorgeous nakedness.
“I need a rubdown, and she,” Zhi pointed to her mound, “is very hungry. It’s feeding time.”
MISCHIEF REEF.
INNES STARED IN HORROR. He’d never seen an underwater trip line like this. At the diagonal line’s end was a frame rising up from the seabed. Mounted on it were two cocked spear guns pointing back down along the line. Trip it, and you’d have a harpoon in your belly. There must be another at the end of the other angled line. This place would be riddled with them. This was worse than a minefield. It was a harpoon infested 3D spear fishing range, and they were the fish, right in the middle of it. Innes found himself breathing faster. Slow down, slow down. Just take it carefully.
They moved by and found another similar trap. Someone didn’t want them here. More slow progress, another diagonal wire. They had to rise carefully and pull the bug with them. Another six slow yards and there it was: the communications cable to the reef. And it was unshielded this close inshore. They were through the network of death and were clear. They placed the bug twelve feet to one side of the cable and its transporting buoyancy bag was removed. Alves unscrewed one end of the bug to access the arming system. Innes undid the tap like end to lay the cable thirty feet away, picking a position at 45 degrees away from the cable. He pulled out the line leading it away from the bug, he used care but wanted to position the cable nice and straight, the weight of the tap would keep it taut. He felt it before he saw it, and Innes froze. He shone his torch around: there was the nylon line, and it was against his head. He pulled slowly back, not wishing to send any sudden movements to the line. All the time he could imagine two harpoons aiming at him, waiting to be released. He was away now. He breathed again. Carefully, he completed the cable lay, then turned on to the reciprocal bearing and slowly returned to the bug. Alves was covering the bug with sediment mud and local plant life. It blended in quite well. They exchanged ok signs and began their return. They’d have to use care to get through this nest of harpoons, and at all costs avoid rushing. Innes tried his best to look assured and calm, when in truth he knew they were in deep trouble. He felt the sweat running down his back. After long slow minutes, the bulk of the boat arose in front of them. Innes let out a sigh of relief. They swam up the sail, and down into the hatch. Innes closed it and turned the wheel shut. Alves knocked three times on the lower hatch, paused, then knocked again. The water level started falling, and their weight returned. Then there was a wait as they were slowly ‘brought up’ by the pressure being reduced. Decompression stops were added to allow excess nitrogen to off gas. This prevented the bends, or decompression sickness. Finally, they opened the lower hatch and climbed down where two seamen were there to help them. As they stripped off their diving sets, Nathan showed up from the control room.
“How did it go?”
“It’s there sir, three yards from the cable,” said Alves, “once we got it through a cat’s cradle of defensive lines. Innes picked up the first one sir. They were armed with spear guns.”
“Nasty, very nasty. So we’ll have to instruct Cuckoo Fish to stand off?”
“Yes sir, it should be able to read the bug from outside the nest of thorns.”
“Well done guys, well done. I t’s mid rats soon. Get yourself whatever you want from the galley, then get some rest.”
Midnight rations were usually one thing, not like a regular meal. It wasn’t diet food but it filled the hole. Ravioli, enchiladas or some such. They gave the cook a grin.
“We’re privileged tonight. Tacos. Just what you want after a midnight swim,” said Innes.
&
nbsp; “You guys just been outside?”
“Yeah, we’ve been out to Uncle Ho’s island.” They sat down.
The cook came out with a plate of grated cheese and more tacos.
“Good work you guys, you’ll want these.”
THE BOAT WAS ON SIX-hour watches. Six hours in your bunk and six hours on duty. Most who haven’t done it think you won’t sleep, in fact you’re out like a light. Nathan’s alarm woke him. He took breakfast in the galley and then walked off to the control room.
“Captain’s on the bridge,” announced the COB.
“Sir, all secure,” said the Weapons Officer, “we’re on the way to Johnson’s Reef, no boats issues. Civilian trade contacts only.”
“Very good Weaps.” Nikki Kaminski walked, in yawning.
Nathan smiled. “The bunk pulled today?”
“Yeah, I’ll be ok sir.”
“Ok, do you need a pop up?”
Nikki nodded. “That’d be great.”
“Planesman, take us to periscope depth, rig trim to ascend fore and aft one, two thirds. Speed four knots.”
The deck angled up as the boat ascended.
“At periscope depth sir.” Nathan set the scope controls for two 360 sweeps. This would give time for the satellite acquisition to happen.
“I’ve got a position update sir,” said Nikki Kaminski.
“Sir, we have a message from COMSUBPAC,” said Lieutenant Commander Lemineux.
“Flood one, make your depth eighty. Open and trim vents fore and aft. Make for depth. Speed six knots.”
