GOLAN: This is the Future of War (Future War)

by FX Holden

  At ten miles distant, Bell couldn’t hear the sound of the warheads firing, but he could hear the Besat’s screw begin to slow again. And stop.

  Bell could only imagine the chaos and confusion unfolding inside the Iranian boat. Engine hammering, screw fouled in near unbreakable carbon fiber netting, propulsion system still pouring power into the shaft, the whole boat shaking until someone hit the emergency stop … Three hundred feet down, at that point in the Strait, they had only two hundred feet under their keel. It was not the kind of place you’d want to suddenly find yourself adrift without steerage way.

  “TAO, Sonar. Screw is no longer turning.” He checked the data on the target’s speed and ran it out a few minutes at a constant rate of change. “She’s adrift.”

  As the submarine coasted to a halt, Bell bent to his screen, straining eyes and ears, looking and listening for any indication of the Besat’s response to their new situation. The sound of a torpedo tube door opening, of its engine restarting, or, god forbid, a torpedo or missile headed back toward the Canberra. Wait. Was that the sound of metal scraping rock? Screw fouled, unable to control its drift, had the Iranian hit a reef or rock shelf?

  “TAO, Sonar, main ballast blow! Repeat, main ballast blow. She’s making an emergency ascent!” Bell said, as calmly as he could, the sound in his headphones automatically dampened as the Besat fired thousands of cubic meters of compressed air into its ballast tanks and forced the water out, sending the boat rocketing toward the surface.

  On the bridge, they were monitoring the chatter and the data coming from the CIC and Bell immediately felt the Canberra swing to port and cut its engines so that it wouldn’t appear to be approaching the surfacing submarine.

  “Surface Watch, forward camera onscreen, orient on the target bearing, now!” Goldmann ordered, and the target tracking screen that had filled the 360-degree wall switched instantly to show the view ahead of the Canberra. Better than the best seat in the house, Ears was about to be ringside for an iMax-sized view of a sight every anti-submarine warfare seaman hoped to see at least once in their career … a submarine conducting an emergency ascent.

  Thar she blows! he thought, as the bow of the Besat broke the water and the metal monster kept rising, higher and higher, like a whale breaching, before its weight overcame its momentum and it came crashing down again, sending a wave through the air higher than a five-story building. The watch officer kept the camera trained on the Besat as the Canberra kept up its slow turn to port, away from the surfaced submarine. Bell saw motion at the top of the submarine’s sail, the large fin-like structure which housed aerials, radar masts and periscopes. It was also the fastest way out of the boat for officers and ratings in the submarine’s control room. He saw a hatch swing open … and two heads appear. They’d no doubt checked on radar to see if there were any ships nearby, and now Bell could see as they swung binoculars toward the Canberra. It couldn’t have been comfortable up at the top of the sail, swaying in the waves washing across the deck of the becalmed submarine. From the deck of the boat, aft of the sail, a second hatch opened as two more crew members appeared and moved aft along the deck of the submarine, peering into the water behind them. The Besat’s screw would have been a good fifty feet down. Bell doubted they would be able to see anything. They’d have to put divers in the water for that, and all they would find would be a strange tangle of netting, wound around their screw. Netting that would take more than a simple oxyacetylene torch to cut through.

  There was more commotion atop the submarine’s sail as the submarine’s watch officers noticed what Bell had already seen – they were drifting closer to the rocky shelf of the Egyptian shoreline to their west.

  Two rows inward from his station, a comms operator spoke up. “Mayday from the IRIN Besat. They report they are without power and adrift in the Straits of Tiran. Requesting immediate assistance.”

  Even as the man finished speaking, Bell felt the thrum of the Canberra’s turbines spooling up beneath his feet and he was pushed gently into the back of his chair as she swung around and began accelerating toward the Iranian submarine.

  Well, we did it, he told himself. Now what?

  White House Situation Room, May 17

  “Now to an unfolding situation in the Red Sea. The US Defense Department has just advised that one of its ships has gone to the aid of an Iranian submarine experiencing an emergency off the coast of Egypt. We’re taking images from Egyptian television. I’m here with our Defense Correspondent, Katy Warner. Katy, tell us what we are looking at here.”

  “Yes, thank you, Dan. The images you can see are coming from an Egyptian television helicopter circling around the site of the incident. We can see what looks like a surfaced submarine. That warship near it is, we believe, an Independence-class US warship, probably deployed to the Middle East with the 5th Fleet. If I had to guess, I’d say it’s the USS Kingsville, or Canberra…”

  “The DoD communique says the submarine is Iranian, Katy. Did the ships collide, were there shots exchanged, what do we know?”

  “Defense is being tight lipped at this stage, Dan. Egyptian television is reporting that the submarine issued a mayday call a couple of hours ago. I just got off the line to a source in the Pentagon who told me on condition of anonymity that this is a rescue operation, and US forces are rendering assistance to the Iranian vessel by towing it away from shore and into deeper waters to await repair or rescue by an Iranian navy vessel. Looking at the images, I can’t see any damage to either ship, so there’s nothing to indicate what might have caused the submarine emergency, though of course, anything could have happened under the waterline…”

  In the situation room under the White House, President Henderson turned away from the screen and faced the room. Nearly four tense hours had passed since he’d ordered the Canberra to try to take the Iranian sub out of play and despite what he was seeing, he was having a hard time feeling jubilant about the outcome. “Where are they headed?” he asked.

  “The Canberra is towing the disabled submarine to safety,” Admiral Clarke told him. “When they got clear of the Straits of Tiran, the Iranian Captain demanded the Canberra cut the tow line so that they could try to effect repairs, but this request was denied, due to the risk of the submarine drifting into shipping lanes. They then requested they be towed to the Egyptian port of Berenice, which is unfortunately also not possible since the US does not have an agreement to berth military vessels at Berenice.”

  “So where are we taking it? Saudi Arabia?”

  “We can’t tow a nuclear-armed Iranian submarine to a Saudi seaport,” Clarke said. “That wouldn’t exactly enhance relations with the Saudis.”

  “Not to mention Iran would raise holy hell if we deliver their most advanced submarine into the bosom of their Sunni Islam foes.”

  “Should have thought of that before they put a nuke aboard,” Karl Allen muttered.

  “Port Sudan,” Clarke continued, “is the best option. We drop the Besat off in Sudan. They’re allies of Iran, though not close. Port facilities are pretty limited, so if we’re lucky and the Swarmdiver attack damaged the sub’s shaft or propulsion system, repairs will take longer. Plus it puts an extra few hundred miles between that sub and Tel Aviv. If they launch from Port Sudan, a Kalibr-M would have a twenty-minute flight time. We’ll make sure we have surveillance overhead to detect any launch and give the Israelis plenty of time for an attempted intercept.”

  “But we still don’t know if the damn thing is even carrying a nuke!” Henderson exclaimed. “None of you here is willing to put your hand on your heart and swear you’re certain. We don’t know if this sub is carrying a nuke, we don’t know if their mobile ballistic missile units in Syria are armed with nukes, we don’t know which, if any, of the ships sailing with the Russian Black Sea fleet is carrying nukes!”

  Secretary McDonald let the explosion land and then raised his hand before theatrically putting it over his heart. “If that’s what you need, Mr. President, I’ll be t
hat guy,” he said. “Iran isn’t playing poker, it’s laying its cards on the table where we can see them. It showed us that missile being loaded, it let us photograph its North Korean A-team on the docks, and we have to be ready to admit the reason we were able to find and track that Iranian sub all the way up the Red Sea and into the mouth of the Gulf of Aqaba is because they let us.”

  “Well, that was just dumb,” Homeland Security Secretary Allan Price said. “Did they think we would do nothing about it?”

  “Short of us sinking their boat, which we were never likely to do, what did they have to lose?” Secretary Shrier asked. “Even if we tow them all the way back to the Persian Gulf, that missile of theirs still has the range to strike Israel, doesn’t it, Admiral?”

  “Yes. The further the launch point, the better the chance we or Israel have of an intercept, but you’re right.”

  “If I can continue,” McDonald interrupted. “We weren’t able to board and inspect the Besat, but the Canberra got radiation readings off its hull that were higher than the expected background radiation, so hand on my heart, I’m willing to say they have a nuke aboard.”

  All eyes turned to the President.

  “Alright. I’m a simple guy. Here’s how I see it. Our goal, believe it or not, is pretty much the same as Iran’s. Since fifty years of sanctions and covert action have apparently failed to stop Iran acquiring nukes, we want to get Iran and Israel sitting down together, talking nuclear arms control. This is not an insurmountable challenge, people. What were you telling me, Harry? India and Pakistan were on the brink of nuclear war and they did it in ’88, right?” McDonald nodded. “South Africa, Cuba and Angola in ’89. Israel has peace treaties with most of the nations of the Middle East now bar Iran and Syria. If we can get a deal between Iran and Israel out of this, under our auspices, and on our terms, that leaves Syria on its own and Russia with its ass twisting in the wind.”

  Henderson gave Carmine a quick back me up here? glance and she nodded to him as subtly as she could. He’d come a long way since the dithering, indecisive Commander in Chief who had kept the USA out of the conflict between Turkey and Russian-backed Syrian forces until it was almost too late. But she believed him when he said that standing on the tarmac at Dover Air Force Base in Delaware, watching the more than two dozen coffins unloaded of men and women from the Battle of Incirlik NATO base, had hardened his resolve.

  Carmine had her own way of helping Henderson, and it wasn’t always to play the sycophant. “Thank you for painting the picture of sunlit uplands, Mr. President,” she said. “It’s clear what you want the end game to be, but things are going to get worse before they get better. There is not much we can do to prevent the first phase of the All Domain Attack Tonya warned about. It has probably already progressed so far it can’t be called back. Which makes it even more imperative we do what we can to confirm the scale of the Iranian nuclear threat.”

  “And how do we do that?” Henderson asked.

  “Tell the Besat we’re cutting it loose, as it requested. Wait until the crew comes topside to release the tow cable, and then storm and board it. Seize the vessel, imprison the crew, search it.”

  “And if we’re wrong and there’s no nuke? We all but declared war on Iran for no reason. Which might also be what they’re hoping,” Karl Allen said.

  “We board and search that submarine,” Lewis said firmly. “Whether or not we find a nuke aboard, we have the radiation readings and we announce to the world that Iran intends to deploy nuclear weapons on the borders of Israel. That, we will not stand for. We announce the blockade and no-fly zone to protect our troops with the UN observer force, as we planned.” She turned to Admiral Clarke. “We do have troops serving with the UN observer force now, Admiral?”

  Clarke looked at his watch. “In a few hours, yes, Madam Director.”

  Henderson looked at the faces around the table. “Anyone disagree? No? Right then.” He focused on his Chief of Staff. “Karl, get the speech writers working on my address to the nation and let the networks know we need airtime tonight.”

  “You want us to make back-channel contact with the regime in Iran, try to open communications?” Secretary of State Shrier asked.

  “Yes, but only after my address.”

  “The Israelis will see the no-fly zone as giving them freedom of action in the Golan. They’ve already mobilized their reserves,” Shrier warned.

  “I let the Israeli PM know this morning that this is not the time to take advantage of our goodwill. He knows I can cancel the no-fly zone and blockade as quickly as I implement it and he’ll be dealing with Iranian nukes in his waters and Russian aircraft overhead. But use your own contacts to reinforce the point.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “Alright people, get to work.” Henderson stood and others followed suit. The usual conga line formed beside the President of people trying to get a last word in, or discuss other issues entirely.

  Karl Allen leaned across to Carmine Lewis. “Your agencies aren’t off the hook, Carmine,” he said. “We might have found one of Iran’s North Korean nukes. Where are the other five?”

  All Domain Attack: Cyber and Space

  The Black Sea, 150 miles north-west

  of the Bosphorus Strait, May 17

  Captain Hossein Rostami of the Islamic Republic of Iran Navy stood at a window of his bridge looking out at a very dark Black Sea, about halfway between the Russian port of Sevastopol and Turkey’s Bosphorus Strait, gateway to the Mediterranean. It was not where he had expected to be. By this time he should have been entering the Bosphorus, a cowed Istanbul gliding past his ship on either side.

  “We have been asked to stand by the radio at 1200 hours tomorrow, Captain,” a communications officer told him.

  Rostami nodded. “Good, get back to your station.” He turned to his executive officer. “Salari, tell the Russian Captain the transfer needs to be completed and this ship on its way back to the fleet within the hour. We cannot have more delays.”

  “Aye Captain,” his XO, Lieutenant Salari, said and headed off the bridge for about the fifth time that evening. Rostami sighed. Yes, the seas were rough and uncooperative. There had been a problem with the crane aboard the Russian freighter. One of the North Korean specialists had been sick and refused to come up from his berth until ‘persuaded’ to do so. But the clock was ticking, dammit.

  He looked down over the vertical launch missile cells on the foredeck of the Safineh-class frigate, IRIN Sinjan, the newest and most potent surface warship in the Iranian fleet. A 3,000-ton trimaran with capabilities similar to the US Independence-class littoral combat ships, it had just completed a transit of the Volga-Don Canal waterway connecting Iran to the Black Sea, followed by two weeks of exercises with the Russian Black Sea fleet, and had been making for the Bosphorus together with the rest of the fleet when it had made a planned detour to rendezvous with the Russian freighter now bobbing off its starboard side.

  He watched as a crane with hooded lights swung a large cylindrical object out of a forward hold on the freighter and began gently lowering it toward the men on the deck of the Sinjan, including the very unsteady-looking North Korean.

  The crane’s cargo looked for all the world like a single oil barrel. Which, of course, it was supposed to.

  One of the missile hatches on the Sinjan was being levered up by two men on the deck and Rostami couldn’t help a shiver of pride as he looked down on the open nose cone of the Yakhont supersonic cruise missile nestled inside it. His ship could fire 36 of the deadly long-range missiles at targets up to 200 miles away.

  “So many missiles, Captain, but only one is needed to change the course of history.”

  Rostami turned and saw his ‘guest’ for this voyage, Rear Admiral Karim Daei, walk onto his bridge. “Admiral on the Bridge!” he said quickly, as the rest of the officers on the Sinjan’s bridge also straightened to attention.

  “Continue, gentlemen,” the Admiral said. He joined Rostami to watch t
he loading operation. “One day soon, Rostami, such subterfuge will not be needed. Iran will take its place among the great powers of the world and be treated as an equal, not as a pariah.”

  “Yes, Admiral,” Rostami said. He was a military man, not a politician, and not comfortable indulging in any conversation involving opinions beyond his pay grade. Unlike the Admiral, a former cleric who had connections inside the Assembly of Experts, the Guardian Council and the Presidential Executive. “We should be underway inside two hours and back with the rest of the fleet in six.”

  “Step outside with me, would you, Captain?” Daei asked. The Sinjan had no external watch stations, but a stairway led up out of the bridge to the external superstructure where radar and communication equipment was mounted, along with the eight-tube anti-submarine rocket launcher. Officers on the bridge were allowed to use the upper level to grab a quick cigarette when circumstances allowed, but Rostami was relieved to see none were doing so as he followed the Admiral up and into the night air. He was even more relieved when the Admiral pulled out a packet of cigarettes himself and offered one to Rostami. Rostami pulled out his lighter and lit them both.

  “She is a fine ship, with a fine crew, Captain,” Daei said. He had thick grey hair under his white peaked cap, and an equally thick salt and pepper beard. He also had a habit of wearing dark aviator sunglasses, even at night, making his eyes impossible to read. The rumor was that he’d developed cataracts from long service in the harsh daylight of the Persian Gulf, but Rostami was just as sure that it was an affectation intended to intimidate junior officers, like himself.

  “Thank you, Admiral, but there is always room to improve,” Rostami said guardedly.

  “Perhaps, but the time for training is over. The time for action is upon us.”

  “My crew are ready,” Rostami assured him.

  “Yes. Are you, I wonder?”

  Rostami felt his gut tighten. “Admiral?”