Island Warriors c-18

by Keith Douglass

  “Everyone. My call, sir.”

  “Your call indeed, Captain,” Coyote said promptly. He would not criticize, ever, a man who’d shown such courage. “Take care of your ship, captain — and your people. And tell me when you’re ready to receive my helo. We’ll use the frame and get them off immediately. When we can… it’s going to get a little busy here in about five minutes.”

  “Roger that, Admiral. I’m watching inbound right now.” The captain’s voice was grim. “We’re online, sir, and ready to fight.”

  USS Seawolf

  0850 local (GMT +8)

  “Oh, man,” Jacobs said softly as he pulled his earphones away from his head. “Sounded like a direct hit, Captain,” he finished. He glanced up at his skipper.

  “God help them,” the captain said. And although they had faced the same danger themselves not moments before, with far less possibility that they could recover from a hit, the captain felt a moment of profound sorrow for the surface ship. A direct hit, even for a ship as well-built as the Lake Champlain had to be dangerous.

  “Thirteen hundred feet,” the officer of the deck announced. “Continuing to descend to eighteen hundred.”

  The torpedoes were still clearly audible over the speaker, although the tone had a faintly fuzzy edge to it as the sound wound its way through the different layers of the ocean to reach them.

  “Any problems?” the captain asked.

  “None, sir.”

  “There won’t be,” Pencehaven said suddenly. It was the first time he had spoken in perhaps an hour, and his voice startled them both.

  “You’re awful certain, Otter,” the captain said.

  Pencehaven nodded. “Yes, Captain. I am. These stupid torpedoes are going to go for the noise makers — I guarantee it.”

  “Fourteen hundred feet.”

  “I have an idea, Captain,” Pencehaven said. He held up a CD. “There’s one way to make certain they think they’ve destroyed us.”

  “Absent actually taking a hit, I hope.”

  Pencehaven nodded. “Say we continue on down — two thousand feet isn’t too much, Captain. They’ll start to lose us at that depth and they may not be absolutely certain how deep we are and what kind of range they have on their torpedoes. So they’re going to be listening very carefully. When the last torpedo goes for the decoy, we make them think it’s us.”

  “With the recording?” the captain asked.

  Pencehaven nodded. “I can ground out to the hull, Captain. The world’s greatest speaker. Odds are that it’ll sound exactly like we… like we… well, you know. At least I think it will.”

  The captain regarded him for a moment. There was no telling just how savvy the Chinese sonar operators were, not after what they’d seen. Still, this certainly wouldn’t be anything they’d be expecting — hell, nobody but Otter would have thought of it to start with.

  The captain nodded. “Get it ready. But we have to wait for exactly the right time.”

  “Sixteen hundred feet,” the officer of the deck announced.

  Otter slid the CD into the player and wound his patch cords and speaker outputs over to rest on metal brackets that were connected to the hull of the submarine. “I need the engineers to generate some sound shorts right here, sir. Or somewhere that I can reach with my speakers.”

  The captain made the arrangements, and Pencehaven had obviously talked this over with the engineer beforehand, because the arrangements went smoothly.

  “Eighteen hundred feet.” The noise of the two torpedoes had grown fuzzy, as the submarine passed through a shallow acoustic layer. But now it picked up again, as though they had finally located their quarry. Everyone in the submarine heard the seekerhead shift to a higher, more rapid ping as the torpedoes began to home in on them.

  “Hear that?” Pencehaven asked. “Get ready, sir.”

  At first, the captain could hear nothing different coming over the speaker. But then he heard it — or thought he heard it — just at the edges of his perception. Then he knew he heard it — the faint growl of the torpedo’s propeller.

  “Any second, now, Captain,” Pencehaven said.

  It just might work… it’s worth trying at least. At least I know that we can stay safely below their kill depth. But if they think they got us — well, the odds shift immeasurably in our favor.

  Suddenly the regular motor noise exploded followed by another explosion.

  “Now!” Pencehaven pushed the play button.

  The volume was cranked up to full, and sound filled the submarine. It was eerie, an odd sound, of continuous explosions. The noise crescendoed until the individual components were no longer distinguishable from the general cacophony. It continued on for what seemed like hours, days, months, and each person in the control room felt cold sweep through him. The sounds translated too easily, too immediately, into what they, too, would experience if the torpedo found its mark. Finally, when each one thought that the noise would drive him mad, it started to decrease. The intermittent explosions and groans, continued for some time, growing fainter and finally dying away completely.

  The control room was utterly silent afterwards, as though the crew were at a memorial service. They had just listened to the death of a submarine and it was only sheer luck and God’s grace that it hadn’t been them. But the death of the other submarine, the recording they’d just played, would serve a purpose — keeping the shipmates they’d never known safe.

  “I wonder if they bought it?” Jacobs said softly. “Man, I’d give anything to hear what they’re thinking.”

  Pencehaven smiled. “Oh, they bought it. You heard it — wouldn’t you?”

  TWENTY-TWO

  Tomcat 155

  Monday, September 23

  0200 local (GMT +7)

  The second and third refueling passed uneventfully. Tombstone found his biggest problem was the boredom. The Tomcat’s engines droned reassuringly around them, the low growl simply part of the background noise. His lower back ached from the hard curves of the ejection seat, and he made a mental note to see if his uncle could spring for an upgraded lumbar support device. There had to be a decent one around somewhere, there just had to be.

  In the back seat, Jason, too, was fighting off the tedium. Finally, Tombstone said, “I wouldn’t normally recommend this, but this is our first long flight, and we’ve got a learning curve. I’m thinking it might be a good idea for us to take turns catching a couple of winks.”

  “Go to sleep in a Tomcat?” Jason’s voice was incredulous. “Man, that ranks high on the list of things I never thought I’d hear anyone say.”

  “Same place, on a list of things I never thought I’d say. I know tanker and surveillance aircraft pull longer flights, but they’ve got a full flight crew, can get up and stretch and we can’t. I’m not embarrassed to admit I’m starting to dread the return haul.”

  “Yeah, well. It always takes more time on the way out, don’t you think?”

  “Anyway, let’s give it a try,” Tombstone said. “Go on, rack out for thirty minutes. I’ll wake you up.”

  “Don’t have to ask me twice.” Within a few minutes, Jason’s breathing was slow and regular. Tombstone wondered if he’d be able to nod off as easily when his turn came.

  He glanced at the radar screen again, and saw a few commercial flights on their way across the ocean, but nothing out of the ordinary. The tactical circuit was silent, but he had no doubt that the AWACS was still monitoring their progress, so that must mean there were no problems. And it was another two hours to the next refueling.

  That’s the way it was, wasn’t it? Hours of boredom leavened only by moments of sheer terror. Some things never changed.

  When Jason’s thirty minutes were up, Tombstone said, “Rise and shine, buddy.”

  No response from the back. He glanced in his mirror and saw the younger pilot’s chest rising and falling.

  Surely he didn’t turn his radio off? He wouldn’t — aw, hell. “Wake-up!” Tombstone shouted. />
  Still no response from Jason.

  I don’t believe this. What the hell is wrong with him? Food poisoning — something we both ate, maybe? Oh God, he can’t be dead. No.

  “Jason, wake-up!” Tombstone shouted, after he’d jerked his own 02 mask off. “You asshole — wake up!” Tombstone followed with a string of curses that he hadn’t used in quite some time, and was rewarded by the slightest movement from the unconscious figure in his back seat.

  “Mom?” a sleepy voice croaked. “Is it time for school?”

  Oh, this is priceless. If I have anything to say about it, Jason Greene will never live this down.

  “You listen to me, young man. You get up right this second,” Tombstone said in high-pitched voice, his gaze locked on the mirror.

  Jason bolted upright, a look of confusion on his face. Then a red flush crept up his cheeks.

  In the front seat, Tombstone howled. “Oh, man, what I wouldn’t give to be in a squadron right now,” Tombstone chortled. “But since we’re a squadron of two, I’m going to assume responsibility. I don’t care what your call sign was before, you’re now Schoolboy.”

  Jason muttered something too low to be heard, and Tombstone said, “What’s that? Speak up, Schoolboy.”

  “If I’m Schoolboy, guess that that makes you Mommy dearest.” Jason sniggered. “Yeah, I like that. No more Tombstone — you’re Mommy from now on.”

  “Oh, no you don’t,” Tombstone retorted. “Not if you ever want a shot at the front seat.”

  “Funny, that’s exactly what my mom used to say.”

  “Triple nickels, this is Big Eyes,” the AWACS said suddenly over tactical. They both jumped. “Be advised that there’s additional activity taking place at Six Flags. No launches, just warnings and indications.” Six Flags was the code word for the nearest Russian air base.

  Jason groaned. “Just what we need.”

  “Doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with us,” Tombstone said. But it did — someone on the ground somewhere had taken note of a tanker in the air, and the small, virtually insignificant radar speck headed south and west. Taken note of it, and decided to do something about it. And while there might not be Russian fighters airborne right now, there would be if Tombstone continued heading south.

  “I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve,” Big Eyes continued. “And I’m about to pull one of them out now. You’re going to get degradation on all your comm circuits, radars, and ECM indicators. If you got anything to tell me, make it snappy. I’ll give you ten seconds.”

  “We have anything to tell them, Mommy?”

  “Shut the hell up. No, I don’t. You?”

  “The right engine is running a little hot,” Jason said. “Nothing to worry about now — well within specs. It’s just that the temperature started to rise slowly over the last two hours.”

  “Yeah, I know. But there’s nothing to tell Big Eyes about yet. It’s not like he can do anything about it, anyway.”

  “Roger, concur.”

  “Five seconds,” Big Eyes said. He continued counting down, and just as he reached zero, Tombstone had a flash of insight. “Turn down your radio volume — way low,” he ordered. He reached out and switched his down.

  USS United States

  TFCC

  0800 local (GMT +8)

  “What the hell is that contact?” Coyote asked. He pointed out the offending radar blip, marked as a neutral aircraft, but headed toward the Russian Islands. “Anybody know?”

  Bird Dog shook his head. “No answer to a call up on distress frequencies, sir. But by its flight profile, it looks like a fighter.”

  “I’m not taking any chances right now,” Coyote snapped. “Break off two Tomcats to fly CAP directly over Marshall P’eng.”

  “What about that Chinese surface action group?” Bird Dog asked.

  “They moved yet?”

  “No, sir. But they’re within missile range now.”

  “Watch ’em. The second one of those bastards so much as sneezes, I want missiles on them like stink on shit, and I don’t give a damn what the United Nations says,” Coyote said.

  Suddenly, the radio came to life. Goforth, the liaison on the P’eng, was calling. “TAO, Captain Chang has a few questions about what he’s just heard over sonar. Evidently he believes he heard a submarine breaking up after that torpedo shot. He’s wondering if there’s anything you need to tell him, TAO. Like can he assume that the contact that was sunk was the Chinese diesel he’s been after? And if it was, does the admiral want his helos back?”

  Suddenly, the tactical screen flared into life. The seemingly random disposition of Chinese surface ships resolved into a classic amphibious operations and antiair formation. At the same time, the airspace along the coast of China was suddenly lousy with air contacts. The staff stared in horror as wave upon wave of Chinese fighters went feet wet. Half of the formation turned slightly north and headed for the island of Taiwan. The others bore down directly on the USS United States.

  Goforth’s questions hung in the air, as the majority of the staff concentrated on the incoming waves of Chinese fighter aircraft. The speaker was a cacophony of voices as the E-2 directed fighters to individual engagements and maintained the overall picture on the fur ball now developing to the east.

  Ho glanced around desperately, aware that no one was answering. Why not? The answer was clear to him — the lives of the people onboard Marshall P’eng were not nearly as important to them as their precious fighter aircraft.

  Ho approached the admiral, anger surging under the calm he forced on his face. He waited to be recognized, as would be appropriate in his own culture, but no one even acknowledged his presence.

  He cleared his throat. No one even looked in his direction.

  Finally, he spoke, his voice coming out harsh. “Admiral, my captain — he has asked for instructions.” He waited.

  Coyote was still deep in conversation with the commanding officer of the Viking squadron. “Get two more tankers ready to launch — and no, I don’t want to see Rabies on the flight schedule for that. You know what we’re up against — put him on the submarine. He’s the best we’ve got.”

  Ho Kung-Sun tried again. “Admiral. The Marshall P’eng.”

  Coyote was turning to his air operations officer. “You have to cover for the AWACS. I don’t want to lose another one. Gas in the air is going to be the limiting factor. Refueling is our top priority.”

  “Admiral!” Surprising even himself, but his fury knowing no bounds, Ho Kung-Sun reached out to touch Coyote on the arm.

  On a ship from his own country, such disrespect would have ended his career immediately. Yet the American admiral turned to look at him with no more than minor annoyance on his face. “What is it?”

  “Captain Chang — he wishes to know whether you want him to continue to attempt to locate the Chinese submarine, under the circumstances. Or should he move closer to the carrier and return the helos to your operational command?”

  “Keep the helos and keep them looking for a submarine,” Coyote said. He noticed the look of concern on the young Taiwanese major’s face. “Look, he’s well within our air umbrella. I know he heard one sub breaking up, but there’s no guarantee there’s not another one out there.” Coyote said a silent prayer that it had been the Chinese diesel that had taken the hit, not the Seawolf. But until Seawolf checked in, the admiral couldn’t be entirely sure. “P’eng is in no more danger than the rest of the surface ships are, and getting that submarine is a major priority right now. Ask him what he needs — set up the second separate coordination circuit if you need to.”

  Ho turned to study the plot, Coyote’s dismissive words ringing in his ears. Was Marshall P’eng really within the air umbrella protection? How could that be? — she was so much further away than the other ships. No, the admiral was keeping his own ships in closer, risking Marshall P’eng for some purpose of his own. Perhaps as a decoy to draw Chinese fighters away from the carrier — yes, that would
make sense. A missile sump — that’s all they were.

  A radioman touched Ho on the arm, and he drew back, seriously affronted. For an enlisted man to touch him — that was what came of his touching the American admiral. Now a very junior man felt free to do the same to him. “You want a separate circuit, sir?” the radioman asked, his voice urgent but polite. “I got to know now, Major.”

  A separate circuit, even. More evidence — they were relegated to the sidelines, not part of the main battle. Yet still, this could be turned to his advantage as well.

  “Yes — a separate circuit. That will be good.”

  “Five minutes, sir. Maybe less.” The radioman turned and picked up a telephone and spoke with the communications center. He hung up, and began setting dial switches to the appropriate channels. “You need a speaker, sir? Or just a mike and a headset?”

  “A headset will be fine, thank you. After all, this is just to speak to one ship on one issue.”

  The radioman nodded, as much as admitting it was true.

  Moments later, Ho heard the circuit come to life. The radioman handed him a headset. “It’s all yours, sir,” he said.

  Ho slipped the headset on. It was, indeed, all his now. And the Americans would understand — if they survived this — that they could not treat the Taiwanese nation in such a cavalier fashion.

  Marshall P’eng

  0830 local (GMT +8)

  Captain Chang listened to the words coming over the speaker with a growing sense of unreality. After the first sentence, he clicked off the feed to the speaker and listened to the call on a headset. His astonishment grew with every sentence that came out of Ho’s mouth.

  “I have told you repeatedly, my captain, that these people are not to be trusted entirely. It is good I am on the scene, because had I not heard the derogatory remarks and seen the disrespect toward our forces, I would not have believed it myself. Even you can have no doubts at this point. We have been removed from the main battle circuit, Captain, removed and relegated to this link. And as you can see from your screen, you are further away from the American carrier and the cruiser than any other ship. It is the admiral’s intent to use you to draw off fighters from his carrier, knowing how much the Chinese hate us. He believes that they will attack you first, giving his forces a chance to follow-up to prevent damage to the American ships.”