by Peter Albano
“Stupid simians, each with ten thumbs,” Allen muttered.
Smiling, the CIA man continued. “The Russians built two hundred thirty-five Whiskies during the fifties. Some are still active in the Russian fleet, but most have been given to the friendly Arab states, Albania, Bulgaria, Egypt, North Korea, Cuba…”
Fujita waved impatiently. “Armament? Range? Maximum operating depth?”
“Six twenty-one inch torpedo tubes and, I understand, the Libyans have mounted two four-point six inch deck guns plus a half-dozen twenty-three millimeter AA guns on theirs. Range can vary with equipment, but up to eighteen thousand miles — twenty-eight thousand kilometers. Maximum operating depth is about seven hundred feet.”
“Torpedoes?”
“Probably the Russian five hundred thirty-three-millimeter torpedo. We don’t have much on it.”
“May I be of assistance?” Bernstein inquired suddenly, rising and waving a single document.
Brent caught consternation crossing Dempster’s face as the Israeli began to speak. He knew CIA men were often openly hostile toward Israeli Intelligence which somehow, without the men, funds, or exotic equipment, often outperformed every spy network on earth. In fact, it was joked that the Israeli budget wouldn’t buy paper clips for the CIA. Yet, Bernstein reeled off facts that shocked every man in the room. “The five-three-three is eight hundred twenty-five-centimeters — ah…” He acknowledged the Americans. “Twenty-six-point eight feet long.” He waved the document. “I have a sectional drawing showing warhead, detonators, air vessel, electric motor, silver-zinc-oxide battery power pack, control rod for depth vanes…”
“Please, Mr. Bernstein,” Fujita shot impatiently. “We will copy it and distribute to staff. Confine yourself to performance data. If one is fired at Yonaga, we will not be interested in the control rod for depth vanes.”
“Certainly, sir,” the colonel said, stealing a sly look at an obviously disquieted CIA man. But his next words not only shocked Dempster, but brought Allen and Ross erect in their chairs, wide-eyed. “It is similar to the American Mark-forty-eight.”
Mark Allen exploded. “Our most modern fish!”
Bernstein pressed on. “Like the Mark-forty-eight, the five-three-three is capable of attacking in both passive and active modes.”
“Define yourself!”
“Sorry admiral. Like the American,” he said, stealing a quick glance at the sunset-red Dempster, “in the passive mode, five-three-three acquires its target by processing target-originated noise with its own onboard computer. If a target is not acquired in this mode, it automatically converts to the active mode wherein it transmits an acoustic pulse and, again, its on-board computer analyzes returns. And finally, if both active and passive fail, there’s always the wire.”
Stunned and angry, the Americans stared at the Israeli. Mark Allen spoke. “You shouldn’t know — that’s top secret.”
Fujita sputtered, “Sacred Buddha. Do you call this warfare?”
“I’m afraid so, admiral,” the Israeli answered.
“Range? Warhead?”
“Range at twenty-four knots, seven thousand sixty-four meters or eighty-six hundred yards, warhead is two hundred sixty-seven kilograms of HE.”
Silence. Then Fujita spoke slowly. “Our Fletchers do not have this type of equipment. They are armed with contact fuses only.”
“That is correct, sir,” Allen said. “But with your permission, I’ll put in a request to have the new Mark forty-eight waiting for us at Yokosuka.”
“You think your navy will send them?”
“There’s a good chance, sir. Especially if I make the recommendation.”
Fujita nodded. “Good, good. I dislike all your machines — your computers that take the chance; no, the joy of the hit out of warfare. A samurai’s eye to the range finder, periscope, the web gunsight was all the computers we needed. But now…” He waved his hands in a gesture of futility.
“With wire guidance, even an Arab skipper can make his hits, admiral,” Mark Allen noted. “And a truly effective acoustical torpedo will track all ship noises; not just the screws, but auxiliary engines, generators, blowers, even water sluicing off the hull. Securing the main engines, as you did during the attack off the Cape Verde Islands, will not foil the five-three-three.”
“Sacred Buddha! Your technology mocks the warrior.”
Bernstein interrupted. “If the Russians trust the Arabs enough, sir. The Libyans lost six Whiskies in diving accidents alone. The word is two never even closed their main induction valves.”
A chuckle swept tension away.
“I thought Kadafi hired German captains.”
“Most are, sir,” Dempster said, reestablishing himself. “But it only takes one Arab in the crew to sink a submarine.”
Fujita moved on. “Radar?”
“Probably the HF Mast and Snoop Slab both of which can track you while submerged. As I said, we suspect a line has been established, and they’re passing you along.” Silence returned.
Fujita broke it. “Speed?”
“They can’t fly like the SSNs.”
The Japanese appeared confused. Fujita raised a hand.
“I mean,” Dempster explained, “they’re slow compared to nuclear-powered boats; six knots submerged, twenty-one or twenty-two on the surface.”
Fujita turned to Commander Atsumi. “See to it this information is communicated to our escort commander and make certain all escorts are addressees. And beginning immediately, two Aichis equipped with one hundred twenty kilogram bombs will maintain anti-submarine patrols not more than ten kilometers ahead of Yonaga’s bows and at an altitude of five hundred meters.”
While Atsumi grabbed a phone and spoke quickly, the old Japanese turned to Mark Allen. “A long time ago, when we were stalking Kadafi in the Mediterranean, you told me the British submarine Conqueror sank the Argentine cruiser, General Belgrano with two wire guided gyos off the Falkland Islands.” He glanced at the Americans. “Gyos, torpedoes or fish to you.”
Brent was surprised again by the old man’s memory and insights.
“True, sir,” Allen said. “The old USS Phoenix, sister to the Brooklyn we sank in the Med.”
“Then they can attack us from any quadrant.” The ancient sailor turned to Atsumi who had just cradled the phone. “Nobomitsu-san, change the order to four Aichis patrolling all four quadrants.” Atsumi raised the phone.
Fujita moved back to the American Intelligence officer. “You said the British lost all of their North Sea platforms.”
“True.”
“And apparently the Libyans are responsible.” The CIA man nodded. “But do the British have conclusive proof?”
“Our operatives report two subs sunk in the North Sea by British destroyers and perhaps four by accidents,” Dempster said. “They may have their proof already. Anyway, they’ve reacted violently and they’re mobilizing; no doubt about it — organized a task force and, according to our sources, the ‘Iron Maiden’ intends to attack Libya.”
“Iron Maiden?”
“Sorry, admiral. Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher.”
Fujita scratched his chin before speaking scornfully. “She is only a woman.” And then grimly added, “Kadafi may be luring them in — inviting them into his cave of winds.”
“We tamed the storm, admiral,” Brent Ross said, smiling.
“True. But Amaterasu sat on our wings. I would not like to do it twice. And the British would follow in our wake. The Arabs learned from us.” The old sailor turned to Dempster, saying, “Ships! You have said nothing of Kadafi’s surface fleet. There were reports of two carriers.” The timbre of the voice revealed anxiety.
The CIA man’s jaw took on a hard set. He indicated a printout. “Three carriers,” he said, glancing at the document. “Two Colossus class British World War Two carriers bought from Argentina and Brazil and an old American escort carrier, The USS Cabot, the Libyans bought from Spain.” He explained all three were at sea acco
mpanied by eight Fletcher class destroyers and a single cruiser. The battle group was last reported training in the Indian Ocean. The Libyans were scouring the world for pilots because most of their pilots had been killed in the recent fighting. “I would assume they are preparing a welcome for the British,” Dempster concluded.
Hironaka looked up from his pad. “The Iron Maiden will lose her maidenhead.” He giggled and drooled on the table.
Fujita ignored the scribe. “But if they defeat the Iron Maiden, they will be free to turn their attention to Japan.”
“That’s a big if, Admiral Fujita.”
“We must assume we will be called on to engage this task force,” the old Japanese said. “Specifics please.”
“Frank,” Bernstein said. “If you can’t…”
“No thanks,” Dempster shot back. And then smugly added, “I have it here.” He thumbed some documents and spoke quickly. “Here’s the specs on the carriers. The Colossuses are the Minas Gerias bought from Brazil — the ex-HMS Vengeance — and the one bought from Argentina is the Veinticinco De Mayo, which was formerly the HMS Venerable. Both were completed during World War Two.” He raised a document. “Length six hundred ninety-three feet, beam one hundred thirty-eight, displacement about twenty thousand tons. Top speed is twenty-eight knots and range fourteen thousand miles at fourteen knots, seventy-two hundred at twenty-six knots.” Smiling, he looked up, casting a quick look at Bernstein.
“Radar?”
“Unknown, sir.”
“May I?” Bernstein said quietly, rising. Fujita nodded. Dempster’s smile dissolved to a glare as the Israeli spoke. “Upon transfer to Libyan registry, both ships were equipped with LW-oh-one and WW-oh-two air search with V-one height finders; the DA-oh-two for target indicating and the ZW-oh-one for surface warning and navigation. Also, they were fitted with Ferranti CAAIS computers with Plessey Super CAAIS displays.” He smiled benignly at Dempster. “This system is capable of direct computer-to-computer links with escorts. But, of course, the system has been augmented with new Russian equipment — probably Scoop Pair and Headlight C, and we have reports that the Libyans have requested the new Russian ADMG-six-three-zero, Gatling action six barrel, thirty millimeter and quadmount forty-five millimeter AA guns in addition to twin mount seventy-six millimeter guns. But in the opinion of Israeli Intelligence, installation would require at least eight weeks, and the Arabs cannot spare the time with the British bearing down on them. Their principal AA is still the old twenty millimeter and forty millimeter plus five inch dual purpose.” He stared at Dempster for a second and sat down.
Fujita drummed the desk restlessly, eyes roving over each man. “Aircraft! Aircraft! It takes a special type of aircraft to operate from carriers.”
Kawamoto broke his silence. “Our Arab friends have been using many German and Russian pilots and technicians. How can either help with carrier based planes? Neither nation had a carrier during the Greater East Asian War.”
“Not entirely true,” Mark Allen responded. “The Germans had one. The Graf Zepplin. Two of the class were laid down.”
“Yes. True, Bernstein said. “But never operational.”
“Thanks to Herman Göring, interservice rivalry, and Hitler’s stupidity,” Mark Allen offered. A dozen pair of curious eyes prodded the American on. “By 1942 the Graf Zepplin was nearing completion. In fact, aircraft were ready; the JU-eighty-seven-C was an excellent dive-bomber and could take off and land on short runways. Also, Messerschmitt developed the BF-one-oh-nine fighter which was one of the best. But, then, after Bismark and Scharnhorst were sunk, Hitler, in all his wisdom, decided surface ships were obsolete.”
“But Scharnhorst was sunk late in the war, in 1943, in the Battle of North Cape,” Fujita said, surprising no one with his knowledge.
“True, admiral. But enter Herman Göring who, from the very beginning, feuded with the navy over control of Graf Zepplin’s airgroups. He even had mock-up flight decks built and JU-eighty-seven-Cs and BF-one-oh-nines practiced taking off and landing. One hull was broken up in 1940, but the other, the Graf Zepplin, was actually being fitted out. But then Herr Hitler’s order came down and fortunately for the Allies, Graf Zepplin was scrapped.”
“So there were carrier-trained German pilots,” Kawamoto said.
“Correct. And remember, gentlemen, as you know, most piston-engined fighters can be modified, and good pilots adapt quickly to carrier training.”
“How many aircraft do you feel a Colossus class carrier can operate?”
It was Allen’s turn to drum the table. “About fifty of all types.”
Fujita punched the table and then turned to Dempster. “You mentioned an American escort carrier.”
“Yes, sir,” Dempster said, grabbing center stage. “The Libyans bought Spain’s Dedalo — the old USS Cabot, CVL-twenty-six of the Independence class. She’s a small ship of about seventeen thousand tons, six hundred and twenty-five feet long with a beam of seventy-one feet. She can operate, perhaps, thirty aircraft.”
“But she is slow.”
“Not really. Last year she was re-engined with new GE turbines producing one hundred and thirty thousand horsepower. She can make twenty-nine knots.”
Fujita nodded thoughtfully. “Then the Arabs can put up one hundred thirty aircraft from three fast carriers. The Iron Maiden had better tighten her chastity belt.” There was no humor intended or taken, and a grim silence filled the room. The ancient admiral broke in, eyes flashing with new inquisitiveness as the canny mind moved to another gnawing question. “The Chinese satellites? Do you have any new information?”
Dempster explained that the orbiting Chinese laser satellite system was still effective. Neither the United States nor the Soviet Union had been successful in attempts to neutralize the killer beams which instantly destroyed any jet or rocket engine at the moment of ignition. Even communications and military satellites had been victims of the particle beams. “I explained this system to you five months ago during our first briefing in Tokyo Bay,” the CIA man concluded. “Our early assessment still holds.”
Tapping his temple and obviously dissatisfied, Fujita turned to Bernstein. “It seems that Israeli Intelligence — Capt. Sarah Aranson — said it was a chemical system; deuterium and fluorine.”
Brent felt a tightening in his throat, and his skin warmed at the thought of Sarah Aranson and the passionate idyll they had enjoyed in her apartment in Tel Aviv just three weeks before. Self-consciously he stole a glance around the room, but all eyes were on the CIA man. “True. Twenty weapons systems in low, nine hundred and thirty mile orbits, while three command units orbit geosynchronously at twenty-two thousand, three hundred miles.”
Captain Kawamoto spoke. “The chemicals should wear out, Mr. Dempster.”
The American snorted. “Not true. No power dares launch a jet or rocket, and they’ve had no targets for months. They’re loaded for bear.”
“But their power?” the captain persisted.
“Fusion. We estimate the whole system is locked in place for decades. Orbits should start decaying in the next century.”
The Japanese looked at each other. Smiling, Fujita said, “Then Yonaga remains the single most formidable fighting machine, or,” he said, nodding at the white officers, “weapons system on earth.”
Hironaka and Kawamoto staggered to their feet croaking, “Banzai!”
The admiral waved at the two officers impatiently. Brent helped Hironaka find his chair with a single palm to the bony back. Dempster continued. “The mad scramble for World War Two ships and planes is still on. In all, all over the world, there are one hundred and eight Fletcher, Sumner, and Gearing class destroyers in commission, over a hundred frigates, destroyer escorts, tugs, LSTs, transports, and auxiliaries. And the big powers are converting frigates and cruisers to gun platforms. The US is replacing Tomahawk, Harpoon, Seasparrow, Rim, and other rocket and jet-propelled missiles with the new Mark-forty-five, five inch, fifty-four caliber, and the Mark-seventy-fi
ve, seventy-six millimeter, sixty-two caliber fully automatic guns. And for close in AA, the Mark-fifteen Phalanx, which is self-contained with its own closed-loop radar. Fires three thousand rounds a minute.” There was pride in his voice.
“Six twenty millimeter guns and very fast,” Commander Matsuhara said suddenly. “The New Jersey mounted four when we attacked her in Pearl Harbor.”
“She needed more,” Hironaka giggled. An awkward silence stirred the men uncomfortably.
Dempster broke it. “The United States has developed a new three thousand horsepower Pratt and Whitney radial engine, and Grumman has designed a new airframe. Flight tests of a new fighter, the XF-one thousand, will begin early next year, and you can be assured the Russians are doing the same. In fact, we have word of a new piston-powered Yak fighter, and they’re working furiously to convert their VSTOL carriers…”
He was halted by confusion among the Japanese.
“Very short take-off or landing carriers,” he explained. “They have two, the Minsk and the Kiev. They’re being converted to carry the new Yak fighter.”
“Let them support their Arab friends,” Matsuhara spat, pounding the table. “Our Zero-sens will tame their Yaks.”
Dempster moved on. “Keep in mind the Arab oil cartel controls tremendous leverage with their oil reserves.”
“But the US and Russia are big producers,” Mark Allen said.
“True, Admiral Allen, Russia is the biggest in the world, but she can only take care of herself and her European satellites, and the US is in an energy bind.” Dropping his eyes to a new sheet, he spoke softly as if enemy ears were pressing to the bulkheads. “The US, with strict rationing, still consumes nine million barrels a day, and this is from only four percent of the world’s reserves while the Arab states control fifty-five percent.”
