Phoenix Sub Zero

by Michael Dimercurio

  He looked down on the odd building, wondering what Donchez had on his mind about “a weapon test” that couldn’t wait one more day.

  Friday, 27 December central mediterranean CNFS hegira “General, let me go over our discussions so far so that I can make sure Captain al-Kunis and I fully understand our mission,” Commodore Sharef was saying.

  Colonel Ahmed waved him on, nodding.

  “You do not intend to return to the battlefields. Instead you are leaving the war to your field generals and staying aboard while we transit the Atlantic to within strike range of Washington, D.C. While enroute we assemble the three Scorpion warheads into three sea-launched Hiroshima cruise missiles. Once in position we launch the Hiroshima/ Scorpions at Washington, then withdraw back to UIF soil, where you will reestablish yourself while Western Coalition forces withdraw. This is all correct?”

  Sihoud looked at Ahmed, who nodded and answered for the general, who was still suffering from broken ribs, a punctured lung and a laceration along his lower back.

  “That is correct. Commodore.”

  “Then let me point out a few difficulties, if I may.

  Number one, we may never make it out of the Mediterranean.

  The sea is filled with coalition naval forces, including an American aircraft carrier battle group.”

  “A few torpedoes and we’re out,” Ahmed said.

  “American carrier battle groups always sail with one, sometimes two nuclear submarines. Attack submarines.

  Hunter killer subs. Subs designed to kill other subs, like ours.” “You have torpedoes aboard?” Sihoud asked, speaking up for the first time, his resonant voice filling the room.

  “Yes, General,” Sharef said. “And if I am against one submarine, I might be able to evade an attacker, if I know he is there. If his sensors are better than mine, and if his engines are quieter than the sea around him, he could possibly attack us before we could respond. It is a horse race. General. Anyone who claims to predict the outcome of a naval battle of evenly matched forces is a liar.”

  “You are afraid?”

  “There is risk, here. General Sihoud,” Sharef said.

  “Where there is risk there must be rational decisions. Only you can make those decisions. If I minimize the problems and the risk, as your aide

  here does, I do you a disservice.”

  Finally Sihoud’s face broke into a wide smile. “You are right, Commodore. We will all listen until all problems have a satisfactory conclusion. Please go on.”

  “All we can do against an enemy submarine is stay as vigilant as possible and maintain absolute ship silence. That means no working on the weapons systems until we are clear in open ocean.” “Agreed,” Ahmed said.

  “Number two,” Sharef went on, “the Scorpion warheads must be assembled, involving highly radioactive components and high explosives. I am counting on Abu-i-Wafa to use sufficient controls so that we do not irradiate the crew or blow the things up. Number three, these warheads might not work. There is nothing I can do about the functions of the weapon, so for this I will assume the missiles will function perfectly. And that brings us to problem number four—how do we get these missiles loaded into the tubes, given that the tubes do not penetrate the pressure hull and are encapsulated one-shot designs?”

  Sharef gestured to al-Kunis, the Libyan first officer, to spread out the ship’s” blueprints.

  “The solution Captain al-Kunis and I propose is to blow the water out of

  the forward ballast tank and weapon area free-flood, and cut open the tube caps on three Hiroshima missile tubes. We’ll set up a rig to maneuver the missiles out, where we’ll open them up and install the new warheads, then reinstall them in the tubes and weld the end caps back on.” “Sounds easy enough,” said.

  “Think again,” Sharef said. “Working in a ballast tank is no holiday, particularly when the ship is at-depth. The tank is open to the sea at the bottom of the ship. Anything could send the water rushing in, a small leak in a vent gasket, a sudden maneuver. The ship will be at maximum speed to keep sufficient water flow over the bowplanes to keep the ship submerged in spite of the buoyancy of the ballast tank, so any slight turns could bring water in. There are no work platforms, no lights, no ventilation. It will be dangerous.

  And in the end it might not work—the tube may fail at launch from being inexpertly welded. General, this is a gamble.”

  “Yes, Commodore, all important things in war are. Any thing else?”

  “Yes sir. Problem five. Even if we conquer all the other obstacles to this point, there will be the American fleet awaiting us on the far side of the Atlantic.”

  “But how will they know we are there? Can’t we stay in visible?” Abu

  said.

  “Abu, we surfaced to pick up the general. They saw us then. They know we are somewhere in the Mediterranean, and they probably suspect the general and Colonel Ahmed are with us now. The subs attached to the carrier battle group will be coming after us, and if we survive the inevitable encounter with them, they will still know we are no longer in the Mediterranean, if only because we will not be surfacing there in the next one or two weeks. That leaves the Americans wondering, and soon they will put up a fenceline of ASW ships and subs and airplanes to catch us coming in.

  If they sink us, not only do they stop the launch of the Scorpions, they score a hit on General Sihoud …”

  “Commodore, there must be something you can do to lessen this risk,” Sihoud said.

  “There is. I propose we avoid the east coast of America.

  Mr. First, the North Atlantic chart, please.” Al-Kunis pulled out the chart of the North Atlantic, the projection showing the arctic circle and the lower rim of the Arctic Ocean.

  “The range of the Hiroshima missile will allow us to shoot well before

  we reach the coast. If we have the weapons ready we could launch in mid-Atlantic. Since I expect that preparing the missiles will take longer even than our pessimistic projections, I suggest we follow the great circle route to the southern tip of Greenland in the Labrador Sea.

  Captain al-Kunis has marked our proposed track in black tape. As you can see, we come in missile range of Washington here well south of Greenland, and if we follow the track shown up the Labrador Sea to Baffin Bay, we stay in range until we reach Godhavn, Greenland. That leaves us the excellent escape route north into the Arctic Ocean, back around Greenland, and south to Gibraltar. At this time of year the polar icecap extends south all the way to Baffin Island, with drift ice down into the Labrador Sea. No surface fleet will be able to pursue us there. By the time we emerge east of Greenland, they will have called off the search, Washington will be a radioactive nightmare, the Western Coalition will be in retreat, and we will return having accomplished the mission. Of course the possibility is high that attack submarines will be sent after us, most likely post launch. But I am confident we can defeat their ships if we encounter them singly, and if we detect them before they detect us.”

  “Then we are decided,” Sihoud said, rising. “If there is nothing else I will retire for the evening.”

  “Good night, sir. And, General, I wonder if I and my first officer might

  have a word with Colonel Ahmed.”

  Sihoud waved and left the room. Ahmed turned to Sha-ref.

  “Colonel, I have other concerns that I wanted to address with you.” “Go ahead. Commodore,” Ahmed said.

  “I wanted to see you first on this, but if your response isn’t what I’m looking for, I’ll take it to the general,” Sharef said slowly.

  Ahmed frowned. “I’m sure we can work out whatever’s on your mind.”

  “I’ll be direct with you, then, Colonel. You and General Sihoud have unlimited access aboard the ship. You can go where you please, talk to the men, even be in the ballast tank while the Scorpion insertion is done if you want. You can look at the navigation plots, hear the radio messages, ask any questions you please. The mission is yours to command, and this ship is com
pletely at your disposal.”

  “Thank you. Commodore.”

  “However, Colonel, while you may give me orders and change my mission at any time, the way I carry out that mission is not your business. I retain command of this vessel, and only I direct when and how weapons are launched, how enemy ships are engaged. If you or General Sihoud

  attempt to give me rudder orders on this run you will find me quite dead. Can you and the general accept that?”

  Ahmed was quiet for some moments. When he spoke, he seemed like a man trying to remain calm.

  “I will put the matter to General Sihoud.” Ahmed hurried out, shutting the door quietly behind him, as instructed when he and Sihoud first came aboard.

  Sharef turned to al-Kunis and smiled.

  “You and your fellow Iranian do not seem to see eye to eye,” al-Kunis said, reaching for his tea, the skin at his eyes crinkling as he sipped the brew.

  Sharef considered that. Captain Abdullah Latif al-Kunis was thirty-seven, slightly taller than Sharef, almost as thin, with dark skin and a thick but tightly trimmed beard. His eyes were remarkably large. He rarely spoke without considering each word. At first Sharef had thought he would be a liability in combat, or any real-time situation; introspective people rarely seemed to have the quick reaction needed for military duty. But al-Kunis had surprised him with his ability to act decisively in tight situations, giving clipped but quiet orders from the periscope platform. He was a Libyan from Tripoli and had

  been a submariner on Foxtrot-class diesel boats all his career, commanding the Libyan Foxtrot sub Al Khyber for two years just before the Treaty of Algiers had united the Islamic states. He had been selected to be a staff officer in Ashkhabad for several years, where he had first met Sharef. When plans were made to acquire a Destiny-class submarine, Sharef had asked for al-Kunis, raising eyebrows at fleet headquarters that he did not pick another Iranian Navy officer. As far as Sharef was concerned, al-Kunis was the best man for the job, an able seaman and a good, innovative officer. Like Sharef, he had never married, although at the ship’s recent port call at Tripoli there had been a woman there to see al-Kunis off. She could have been a girlfriend, fiancee, or sister. Sharef hadn’t asked, and al-Kunis hadn’t volunteered.

  Sharef turned his thoughts back to Ahmed. “Ahmed is a smart man but he is a pilot and sees things differently. To a flyer, soaring over the earth, everything is easy. To a submariner, confined to a steel prison with no windows, nothing but the Second Captain computers to tell us what is outside, nothing is easy. But give him a year underwater and he might not make a bad officer.”

  “You heard he lost people in the bombing of Chah Ba-har.” “I was sorry to hear it,” Sharef said, bending over the Mediterranean chart. “So, where are the American submarines?”

  Captain al-Kunis joined Sharef at the chart and jabbed his finger at the west point of Sicily, where it pointed toward Cape Bon, Tunisia, near Tunis on the North African coast.

  The gap, the Strait of Sicily, was only 150 kilometers across, the submerged navigable channel only thirty kilometers wide.

  “Here at the Strait of Sicily. A few boats patrolling north and south here would pick us up. They may have patrol planes here as well. If they have the submarines to station a choke-point patrol… Maybe they weren’t prepared. What if we transit through the Strait of Messina between Sicily and the boot?”

  “Too shallow,” al-Kunis shook his head. “The strait is filled with ferry boats, the channel is too tight. Running aground or colliding with a ferry boat isn’t worth the risk.

  I’d take the Sicily-Tunis choke point.”

  “If we make it through, then what?”

  “Gibraltar. If it were up to me, I’d station a fleet there to catch us on the way out.”

  “But they don’t know we’re leaving the Mediterranean.”

  “You must hope that. Commodore.”

  Sharef nodded, shut his eyes, and stretched. “I’ll be in control. Write a procedure for the ballast tank work on the Hiroshima missiles. When you’re done see to it that the navigator has our intended track plotted and laid into the computer.

  And check the sensor computers every hour and make sure our younger officers are vigilant. I do not want to be detected by an American submarine without warning. After control I’ll be going down for a couple of hours. Both of us should be in the control room when we pass through the strait.”

  USS augusta The deck trembled slightly with an insistent vibration, the power of the ship’s propulsion shaking the submarine as it plowed through the Mediterranean at flank speed, the electromagnetic speed indicator reading thirty-nine knots on the airplane-style console of the helmsman’s panel. Augusta had been running at flank for over thirty hours, ever since the flash message had come in at noon the day before. The sprint put her sixty nautical miles short of the Strait of Sicily.

  Commander Ron Daminski leaned over the chart table aft of the periscope stand in the control room. A pencil was clutched between his teeth, his broken fingers stabbing the buttons of a calculator, missing several

  times, causing the captain to curse under his breath. Above him on the periscope stand Lt. Kevin Skinnard leaned on the handrails and watched. The captain took the dividers, measured out a distance on the nautical mile scale, and walked them across the chart, drawing several pencil marks at the narrowed water between Sicily and Tunisia. Finally Daminski stood erect and squinted at the chart.

  “What do you think. Skipper?” Skinnard asked.

  “I’m half-tempted to set up a barrier search in the strait.

  I have the feeling he’ll be coming through it.”

  “I don’t know. Why does anyone think this guy is transiting from the east basin through the strait? What’s there for him in the west basin? I’m beginning to think we humped the pooch coming this far west.”

  Daminski looked up at Skinnard and grinned. When he’d come aboard, Skinnard had been a shy quiet officer, almost a yes-man. After a few months of Rocket Ron he had developed the same intimidating style Rocket employed, whether learned by imitation or more likely from knowing the captain would accept no yes-men.

  “Okay. You’re the Khalib. What do you do?”

  “Submerge here off Crete, wander east, maybe hang out in the southern seas of the eastern basin, and when the heat’s off, come ashore in Egypt or eastern Libya.”

  “You’re thinking he’s going back to the Cairo front.”

  Skinnard nodded.

  “I don’t think so,” Daminski said. “This guy’s headed for the western front in Morocco. If he were headed for Cairo he’d be there by now. Plus the jet wouldn’t have gone so far into the Med to find the sub. So he gets his butt to Morocco, hoping by the time he gets there we’ve forgotten about him.”

  “I still wonder why he’s in a sub in the first place. He knows we’re out here.”

  “He’s hiding. Biding his time. He’d pop up in Marrakech and surprise the hell out of everyone if we weren’t on his tail.”

  “So why the Strait of Sicily? This boy can go forty-seven knots.” Skinnard took up a time-distance circular slide rule.

  “That’s twenty-six hours’ transit from his dive point, which put him in the strait at lunchtime today. That was six hours ago. If he was going

  through the strait, he’s long gone.”

  “Skinnard, you’re a sub skipper hiding a V.I.P government official aboard, with orders to hide and make your way to Morocco. What speed do you order up so you don’t get caught, you don’t make too much noise? Flank speed, forty-seven knots?”

  “Um, no, sir. Probably ten or fifteen knots, take it easy and keep the noise down.”

  “Right. Which means we’ll get to the strait at least a few hours before the Destiny.”

  “But, sir … you never mentioned this in your briefing.”

  Daminski paused, knowing he was caught but not betraying it. “No, Skinnard,” he said, acid in his voice. “Do I have to tell you my every thought?”


  “No, sir.” Skinnard smiled, knowing Daminski was putting him on. “So, sir, you want a barrier search?”

  “Damn straight. Southwest to northwest bowtie pattern right here.” Daminski sketched a bowtie shape on the chart straddling the deep channel of the Strait of Sicily. “In another hour slow down to four

  knots, rig ship for ultraquiet, and stream the thinwire towed array. And station the section tracking team a half-hour before you’re there. We’ll set a nice trap for this son of a bitch.” “Yes sir,” Skinnard said, watching as the captain half-limped out of the control room, wondering how the hell they would catch a lone submarine in the wide Mediterranean if the boat chose to stay in the eastern basin. If Daminski was wrong it would be a long dry patrol. And if he was right, and the Destiny-class was as good as the intelligence seemed to suggest, it would be a short patrol. A very short patrol.

  Skinnard took the microphone hanging above the periscope platform by its spiral wound cord.

  “Sonar, Conn,” he barked, “report all contacts.”

  pentagon e-ring suite OF THE chief OF naval operations Since Pacino could remember. Admiral Donchez’s offices had always been fairly ornate but the splendor of the C.N.O suite was too much to take in with a glance, especially since the admiral had been all over him since he walked in, plastering him with questions about his health, his ship, his family, everything except the reason he had summoned him to Washington. Pacino puffed on the Havana cigar Donchez had pulled from the humidor, the smoke filling the room with a mellow haze. An aide brought steaming coffee.

  “Like the coffee, Mikey? It’s imported special from Colombia.” “It’s great. Admiral,” Pacino said, looking at Donchez, noticing that age had finally seemed to be catching up to his father’s old Academy roommate although his enthusiasm seemed undampened.

  “How’s it feel to be Admiral Pacino?”

  “I’m still a captain, sir. I’ve got a few months before I’m confirmed. Ifvm confirmed.”