Island Warriors c-18

by Keith Douglass

  The submariner nodded vigorously. “Absolutely. If he’s on passive only, he won’t see us at all. But active—” he shook his head, “even with the special coating on our hull, he’s going to get a return. And as sharp as those guys are, there’s no way we’re going to convince him it’s a whale.”

  “So it might work,” Coyote said.

  “Might. But it’s absolutely a violation of standard operating procedures. Admiral, with all due respect, there’s not supposed to be any friendlies in that sub’s area. None at all. Even if they don’t find our boat, the possibilities for confusion and disaster are endless.”

  “I’ll deal with briefing the sub CO,” Coyote said. “All I want to know is that you’re certain that the Marshall P’eng can’t detect that boat on passive only.”

  “I’m certain.”

  “That’s what I thought. So,” he continued to the TAO, “Tell him now — passive only until I say otherwise. On second thought, get Major Ho in here. I don’t want any misunderstanding about this, so have him make the call in their language. That way, there’s no confusion.”

  Major Ho walked into TFCC, saluted immediately, and asked, “How can I assist the admiral?”

  Coyote regarded him for a minute, still not certain what to make of this young man. “I want you to tell Captain Chang I’m setting a restrictive emissions condition, an EMCON. Passive sensors only subsurface. Do you understand? I don’t mean the radars, of course. Keep those online. And he can stream his tail whenever he wants to. Just no active sonar transmissions. We have some people conducting special operations in the area,” he embroidered on sudden inspiration, “and if active sonar blasted the wrong area it would kill them.”

  Major Ho bowed slightly. “Of course. I understand, and will convey that to Captain Chang.” He glanced up at the display and the area marked off. “But I understand that Captain Chang is attempting to gain contact on the Chinese submarine at this moment. It would be natural for him to go active in order to maintain a perfect firing solution, should he gain contact.”

  Coyote glanced at the submarine officer, a movement that Ho did not miss. “Yes, it would. But so far, they have committed no hostile act. Let’s keep tracking them passively and not give them any reason for assuming we’re preparing to attack.” He clapped Major Ho on the shoulder, as he would have one of his own officers. “Don’t worry, Major. When there’s a submarine to kill, your guys have first shot. I promise you.”

  Major Ho bowed again, then reached for the microphone connecting him to tactical. He made the call up, in English, then switched to Mandarin. “The American admiral, he asks me about your tracking solution,” Major Ho said carefully. “He wonders whether you intend to use active sonar at this point?”

  Captain Chang’s answer came back, also in Mandarin. “I can if he wishes, but I had thought I would not spook the submarine if he is in the area. If I go active, he will know that he has been detected.”

  “The admiral thought that might be your decision,” Ho said, choosing his words so as to convey the slightest disapproval. It was a subtle move, one that he was certain only Chang would understand.

  “Of course, I can go active, if that is what the admiral desires,” Chang responded immediately. “Here — I will demonstrate now.”

  USS Seawolf

  0820 local (GMT +8)

  The single, sharp sonar pulse blasted through the hull of the American submarine, and every man onboard flinched. Normally, this would be the precursor to a torpedo in the water, a final ranging ping to establish a precise firing solution before releasing weapons.

  “What the bloody hell?” Captain Tran said, his voice soft with the slightest trace of a British accent in it. He turned to his XO. “Didn’t that message get out changing our operating area?”

  The XO nodded. “We got acknowledgement from the satellite that they picked it up, too. There’s no question that they got our message.”

  “Then how come I’m getting blasted by some idiot?” the captain demanded. He reined in his legendary temper, and focused on the solution. “We’re going to have to clear the area. How far how can I move off and still maintain some form of contact on the Chinese boat?”

  “Maybe fifteen thousand yards, if we’re lucky,” the chief sonarman spoke up. “Captain, I can find him again for you, but I’d rather not.”

  The captain thought for a moment. The damage had already been done by the active ping. Their cover was blown. Furthermore, the Chinese sub would have heard it as well, and would be doing its best to clear the area.

  At this point, he needed to destroy any firing solution that the pinging platform might have. “Who was it?” he asked the sonar chief.

  “Had to be the Taiwanese,” the chief answered. “We’re not carrying that kind of sonar on our ships anymore.”

  “Then how come — never mind, doesn’t matter.” He’d address the coordination issues in a P4 to the admiral. What they had to do now was get the hell out of Dodge, try to maintain contact on a Chinese diesel doing the same thing, and then reacquire the contact if they lost him. A pain in the ass, but that’s the way the game was played.

  Marshall P’eng

  0821 local (GMT +8)

  “Captain!” The sonarman’s voice was slightly quieter than normal. “Captain, I have two subsurface contacts—two!” The sonarman looked up at him, confused. “But there is only one Chinese submarine in the area, Captain. I’m certain of it.”

  Chang thought for a moment, then his face cleared. Perhaps this was the admiral’s way of expressing confidence in Marshall P’eng, of revealing to him secrets that he was not otherwise allowed to. The captain smiled slightly in pride. He had not thought the American admiral so subtle.

  And if this was a test, then what was he expected to do now? As he paused, Major Ho’s voice came over tactical again. “The admiral asks if you would be so kind as to secure your active sonar now. He is setting an emissions condition, in which only passive tracking is allowed.”

  That confirmed Captain Chang’s suspicion. It had been a test, and one that they had passed satisfactorily. The admiral had intended them to know that there were two submarine contacts in the area, so that later, should attack be necessary, Chang would know why certain precautions were taken.

  But now what was he expected to do? To report both submarine contacts, or just one?

  Just one, Chang decided. The admiral would not want a U.S. submarine location transmitted over the circuit, for the same reasons that he had not been permitted to tell Captain Chang directly that the submarine was in the area. And based on what he’d seen of the battle group’s orders, Chang had a pretty good idea which one was the American and which one was the elusive Chinese diesel.

  “Report the presence of only the one you believe to be the Chinese submarine,” he said, still quietly warmed by the admiral’s confidence. “But go back over the last hours of data. See if now you see any acoustic evidence of an American submarine in the area. For that is what the second contact is — of that I’m certain.”

  USS United States

  0822 local (GMT +8)

  “What the bloody hell!” Coyote roared, as the graphics depicting an active sonar ping flashed on to the screen. “What is he doing?!” Immediately, reports began pouring in over the tactical circuit from the other surface ships. The admiral sighed, then turned to Ho. “Okay, I guess there are going to be some screw-ups. But you know what I mean now — no active sonar, right?”

  Ho bowed slightly. “Yes, Admiral. I made that very clear to Captain Chang Tso-Lin.”

  “Okay, then. What’s done is done — no sense whining about it.” Coyote paused as though he wanted to ask something else, then turned away. Just then, Captain Chang’s watch officer’s voice came over the circuit, giving the bearing and range to the Chinese submarine. Everyone in TFCC breathed a sigh of relief.

  Coyote relaxed. However things had gotten screwed up, evidently the location of the American submarine had not been compro
mised. The Marshall P’eng had detected only the one she was supposed to, the Chinese one.

  Good news in the short term, but perhaps not so good in the long run. He was hoping that Marshall P’eng could contribute to the ASW effort. However, given the ranges that were involved, she should have detected the American submarine as well. And if so, why had she not reported it? Perhaps Chang had realized something had gone wrong, and had decided not to report it. Or perhaps he hadn’t detected the U.S. submarine. To ask about a second contact now would simply make a bigger deal out of it, and that was the one thing Coyote fervently didn’t want to do.

  So ignore it for now. Figure it was a screw-up, and go on. He knew what the submarine was doing — clearing the area, then returning along a different bearing to resume stalking her prey. If he could keep the Taiwanese frigate on passive now, she should be able to do that without interference, and without running the risk of being detected herself.

  Suddenly, the Taiwanese frigate symbol on display changed course. It was moving away from the U.S. submarine, and toward the Chinese one. Captain Chang was moving his ship to the very edge of his operating box almost as though… almost as though… “Damn,” Coyote said softly. “He’s telling me something, isn’t he?” He glanced over at the major, and saw no indication of understanding on his face. Then he looked back to tactical display. Either things were really screwed up, or he and Captain Chang understood each other better than he thought they did.

  USS United States

  0851 local (GMT +8)

  It had been a long time since Lab Rat had popped tall for anyone, and he was really not enjoying it. Yet all it had taken was one glare from Captain Ganner to send him back into the braced salute of his midshipman days. He caught himself as he braced, and forced himself to relax.

  “You have a problem, Commander?” Ganner demanded. “Because if you do, Mister, I want to hear about it.”

  “No, COS, I don’t have a problem. Other than the one I’ve already pointed out to you.”

  “You’re still on about the berthing assignments?” Ganner said, his face clouding over even darker. “I suppose your people are too good to live with the engineers?”

  “Not at all, and you know it,” Lab Rat said, his anger boiling over. “But my people are berthed all over the place. Come on, sir, you’ve been on a carrier before — you know how it is. It’s just like on the…” He caught himself before he said “small boy,” knowing the term wasn’t a favorite among surface sailors, and continued with “a cruiser. You put part of your engineers together, another part somewhere else, so that if the missile hits, they won’t all be destroyed at the same time, right? Then you spread them out so you have senior people in each compartment to take charge. It builds team unity, just like it does on a cruiser.”

  Ganner leaned back in his chair and tossed his pencil on the desk and glowered. “Well, I got the distinct impression your boys and girls already had this marvelous team unity — that’s why the admiral brought you on board, isn’t it? Because they were already a team? And now you’re telling me that’s not true?”

  Lab Rat slammed his fist down on the chief of staff’s desk. He was aware that he probably looked silly — a short, blond, intell commander, barely weighing in at a hundred thirty pounds soaking wet, confronting a prototypical cruiser CO, tall, dark and strong. But he didn’t care — this went beyond some stupid power-play. It was affecting his people, and he was going to put a stop to it.

  “Sir, I don’t know how and why you got so pissed off about all this,” Lab Rat said. “And frankly, I don’t really care. But the ship was built with berthing specifically designated for my department, and I want my people in it. It’s closer to CVIC in case of general quarters. Now, if you want us to swap quarters with the engineers, we’ll do that, too. That’s if you think we’re getting a special deal here. We’ll swap completely, so I’ll have two groups of men and a group of women berthed apart from each other. No more of this scattering us about at random between compartments. But if you tell us to do that, I imagine the engineer will have something to say about that, too. Because then his people will be just as far from their duty stations as mine are.”

  Ganner studied him warily. “And I suppose if I don’t go along with it, you go to the admiral. And you aviators will stick together and you’ll get what you want anyway, is that it?”

  “Permission to speak frankly, sir?” Lab Rat asked.

  “You haven’t been?” Ganner sneered.

  Lab Rat shook his head. “No, I haven’t. But now I will. And I’ll tell you what will happen if I go to the admiral. He’ll agree with me. It won’t take him any time at all to decide that I’m completely in the right and that you’re jerking my chain for some reason. And then you know what he’ll do? Hell tell me to get out of his office and deal with you. And he’ll back you to the hilt, whatever you decide. Because that’s the kind of man he is. You’re next line in as his chief of staff, the man who will step in for him if something happened to him, and he’s not going to undercut your authority. Oh, he won’t agree — make no mistake about that. But he’ll also back you up, right or wrong, unless you’re actively putting people in danger.”

  The chief of staff’s face took on a slightly surprised look, as though a mouse has really turned out to be a tiger.

  Lab Rat continued. “And you know something else? Even knowing that in advance, even knowing I’m going to lose — I’ll go anyway. Just like you would if our positions were reversed. Because that’s the kind of man I am. You got some reason for doing what you’re doing, but it doesn’t have anything to do with me or my people. We just happen to be here.”

  There was a long moment of silence in the compartment. Lab Rat saw a range of emotions fly across the chief of staff’s face. He wondered how long it had been since anyone had spoken that frankly to the man. And he wondered whether he’d just shot himself in the foot for the entire cruise.

  Finally, Ganner burst out laughing. He pointed a finger at Lab Rat. “The admiral told me you were a pistol,” he said, shaking his head. “I didn’t believe him.” He leaned forward and put his elbows on his desk and clasped his hands in front of him. “Okay. Sit down, Commander. Let’s hash this out.”

  On impulse, Lab Rats stuck his hand out. After a moment, the chief of staff shook it. “We start over, sir? I’d like to introduce myself — I’m Commander Busby. But my friends call me Lab Rat.”

  Ganner nodded. “Okay, Lab Rat. Sit down and let’s see what we can do to make this dog hunt.”

  FIFTEEN

  AWACS One

  Saturday, September 21

  1200 local (GMT +9)

  Air Force Major Frank Woods settled down in front of his tactical console and shoved a small cooler under his seat. It contained his lunch, a diet soda, and several candy bars. Since the AWACS flew long missions, most of the crew brought snacks along, even though it had a small, compact galley on board.

  The weather outside at Osaka Air Base was pleasant. It was a clear, cool day, with the possibility of showers later that afternoon, which was of no interest to Woods. The AWACS was on a sixteen-hour mission in support of Cobra Dane and Cobra Judy, and the weather tomorrow morning was the only report that Woods was really interested in. He had a soccer game scheduled with his seven-year-old son.

  “Going to be a long one,” one of the other officers remarked. “Let’s hope we have a home base to return to when it’s all over.”

  “Stow it, Harley.” Harley Turks could find the dark side to a rainbow, and right now the prospect of spending the next sixteen hours in an aircraft with him was decidedly unpleasant.

  “Come on, Frank. You got to have been thinking about it.” Turks’s voice was surly.

  Woods nodded. The rumors were running wild all over the base, and had even made it into the preflight intell brief. Word on the street was that Japan would be terminating all landing rights for American aircraft, and that included any that were out of Osaka but airborne at the time. As m
ission commander, it would be Woods’s job to select an alternate landing site and to deal with the worries and insecurities among the crew — as well as the logistics problems — should that happen.

  “Okay, everybody, listen up,” Woods said. The desultory chatter on the tactical interior circuit died down. “In all probability, this will be a long, boring flight with nothing to do. Just the way we like it, right? But like the intell weenies said at the briefing, there may be reason for concern, and I don’t want to downplay that. So everybody, look sharp. Be flexible — we’re dealing with the Navy. Harley will handle the communications, and try to keep it all working smoothly. Let’s just hope we’re bored out of our minds for the next sixteen hours, okay?”

  Woods shoved his own worries aside as he ran through the remainder of the systems checks while he listened to the radio traffic piped into his right ear. So far, everything sounded normal, and his worries about missing tomorrow’s soccer game receded. His crew sounded sharp, right on top of every checklist. There was no tension in the Japanese air controller’s voice, nothing to indicate that this was anything other than a routine training operation.

  But there wouldn’t be, would there? After all, that’s the reason they trained the way they fought, so that when the shit really hit the fan, it would be just another day in Uncle Sam’s finest service. And under the circumstances, with one missile already launched and a cluster of naval ships milling about smartly off China’s coast, it wasn’t exactly routine, was it?