Four hours ago Dan Headley had been noncommittal on the big field, four of which in his opinion held live chances. This was not good enough for Drew, who wanted heavy inside information in fine detail, so he asked the Shark’s second-in-command again.
“Come on, sir. Give me your real, true selection.”
“Well, Drew. My daddy raised one of the runners from a foal, big gray colt named White Rajah, trained in New York for Mr. Phipps.”
“Can he run?”
“Course he can run. Otherwise he wouldn’t be entered for the Derby, would he?”
“What did he win?”
“Three races as a two-year-old. Got beat by a nose in the Hopeful at Saratoga. But he improved over the winter. They sent him down to South Carolina for a spell, then he came out and damned nearly won the Florida Derby off a bad draw.”
“That his last race?”
“Hell, no. He came back to New York, won the Wood Memorial over nine furlongs. That’s the best Derby trial in my view: been won by some of the greats, Count Fleet, Assault, Native Dancer, Nashua, Bold Ruler, Damascus, Seattle Slew. The real big guns of the horse game. Christ, Secretariat got beat in it before his Triple Crown.”
“Jeez, sir. You really know that horse stuff, right?”
“Guess so. It’s in my blood. My family been raisin’ racers out in the bluegrass for about five generations.”
“Ah, but you still ain’t told me one bit of real sensitive information about White Rajah.”
“Oh, that’s easy,” replied Lt. Commander Headley. “His granddaddy damned near bit my right arm off when I was a kid. Vicious sonofabitch.”
“Seriously? Jeez, I didn’t know thoroughbred horses were savage.”
“This particular bloodline is very difficult. Got a lot of temperament in there.”
“Then why do people breed to it?”
“Because the suckers can run, that’s why. And a lot of ’em can really run. Like the Rajah.”
“Well that settles it. I’m bettin’ him.”
“You think they got an OTB in the Arabian Sea?”
“Hell, I forgot about that…Do you think I could borrow the satellite link to San Diego?”
“Oh, sure. We’re heading for the front line, in the middle of a world oil crisis, and our overhead link is somehow out of action because the Chief of the Boat is trying to back White Rajah in the Kentucky Derby.”
“Shit, it’s a cruel world, sir.”
“Crueler if he wins, Chief…and you’re not on.”
All three men laughed. There was no doubt. Lieutenant Commander Headley was already extremely well liked, and now he strolled into the control room, wished the commanding officer “Good morning,” and added, “Ready to take over whenever you say, sir.”
Commander Reid looked at his watch. “Seven more minutes, XO. I like to serve a full four hours.”
“Fine, sir. I’ll be right here. No change in the satellite contact, sir? Zero six hundred as scheduled?”
“As scheduled, XO. That’s the way I like it.”
Dan Headley continued to familiarize himself with the control room, which was smaller than he was used to. His last tour had been, fortuitously, on the USS Kentucky, one of the huge Ohio-Class Trident strategic missile submarines. And he had been under the impression he might be awarded a full command on one of those 19,000-ton nuclear giants. But, quite suddenly, he had been posted to the USS Shark, on positively her final tour of duty, to assist Commander Reid, on his last tour of duty. Dan assumed this was because of the rising unrest in the Iranian Gulf area, and there was plainly some concern about the mental steadfastness of the veteran CO.
Thus far Dan had found Commander Reid to be reserved, polite, a little rigid in his thoughts for a submarine commander. And punctilious in the extreme. But he could work with that. So long as they did not come under serious pressure.
At 0400 precisely, Commander Reid handed over the control room. “You have the ship, XO,” he said formally.
“Aye, sir. I have the ship.”
Lt. Commander Headley checked Shark’s speed, course and position. He checked with comms the 0600 satellite contact, and ordered, “Maintain speed twenty-nine, depth four hundred. Course three-five-two.” Then he picked up his telephone and checked in with the propulsion engineer.
The leak on the shaft was no worse. The pumps still were coping easily and the big Westinghouse PWR was running sweetly. The sonar room was quiet. Lieutenant Commander Josh Gandy reported no new contacts of any kind, not that this was likely at such speed.
All through the night, they ran north toward the Arabian Sea, until dawn began to break over the eastern waters, way off their starboard beam. Lieutenant Commander Headley ordered them to periscope depth and accessed the satellite. There was no change in their orders…Proceed to the eastern waters of the Strait of Hormuz in company with the aircraft carrier Harry S Truman. Then replace on station the John C. Stennis Group when it clears the area and runs back south to Diego Garcia.
Both Lt. Commander Josh Gandy and Master Chief Fisher were with the XO when he checked the orders.
“Sorry, Chief,” Dan muttered. “Nothing from OTB. Guess the Rajah’s gonna run without your money to handicap him.”
That was the last joke of the watch, and the rest of it passed slowly, as did the next two days. By 0400 on Friday morning, May 4, the Shark was almost at the gateway to the Gulf of Oman, which leads to the narrow waters of Hormuz. They had crossed the 24-degree northern line of latitude and were currently running 100 feet below the surface with another 250 feet of water under the keel. It would be light in a couple of hours, and, presumably, with the gulf closed, except for Iranian ships and very occasionally Chinese, the seas would be empty, with an inbound queue of empty tankers way over to the west.
1730 (local time). Thursday, May 3.
Fort Meade, Maryland.
The first night pictures from the overheads that passed over the Arabian Sea, and southern Iran, arrived on Lt. Ramshawe’s desk from late on the previous afternoon. Unsurprisingly they were packed with information, starting with a myriad of shots showing the Indian Navy’s Pondicherrys still working across the line of the minefield. They were making slow progress, just five knots with long GKT-2 contact sweeps, still with their 5,600-ton landing ship Magar, which was acting as “mother ship” to all six of them.
An Indian Navy tanker was also in attendance, plus two 6,700-ton Delhi-Class guided-missile destroyers, built in Bombay, and sent on by Admiral Kumar to guard his precious Pondicherrys. Warships from the Constellation Carrier Battle Group were in the area, patrolling somewhat menacingly along the line of the minefield inside the strait.
Out on the outside edge of the line, U.S. frigates rotated patrols, under orders from the carrier John C. Stennis, which was calling the shots from 10 miles astern of the picket line. No six ships were ever more thoroughly guarded than those six Pondicherrys, and they swept the line assiduously, trying to free up an area three to five miles wide to open up the seaway on the Omani side to the world’s oil tankers.
And every few hours, the waters of the strait erupted to a shuddering explosion, as they located, cut and blew one of the PLT-3 Russian-built mines. More than 11,000 miles away, Lieutenant Ramshawe studied the strange unfolding scene, making detailed notes, writing up his reports, blowing up photographs, extracting details, laying it all out for the thoroughly discredited Admiral Borden, who now had a great deal in common with Commander Tex Packard, careerwise.
He put copies on the network to the Pentagon, attention CNO. Other copies were made for electronic transfer to Pacific Fleet Command in San Diego, from where they were scanned via satellite to Pearl Harbor and then Diego Garcia. By private, secure telephone, Jimmy Ramshawe kept Arnold Morgan up to speed on every possible development. So far, to the satisfaction of both men, the Iranians had not dared send so much as a secondhand felucca into the waters beyond Bandar Abbas.
It was 1830 when two grainy, poor-quality sate
llite pictures of the inshore waters of southeastern Iran suddenly caught the eagle eye of Jimmy Ramshawe, because there, like a ghost ship in the fog, was the unmistakable outline of some kind of warship.
He reached for his glass and peered at the image. He could see a little more, but not enough. The ship was running north toward the coast of Iran in 300 feet of water. According to the grid, the ship had just crossed 25.10N and was thus 60-odd miles short of the minefield Line. The lines of latitude suggested it was moving slowly, just seven miles in the half hour between the two images. Jimmy hit a button, summoning a staff member from the developing room, and requesting an immediate blowup of the top left-hand corner of the first green-tinted night photograph.
When it came back, 12 mimutes later, the quality was not better, just bigger, and again Lt. Ramshawe peered through his magnifying glass. He could tell from the for’ard and aft guns the scale of the ship, which he calculated was in excess of 7,000 tons. If it was that big, it was a destroyer, and if it was a destroyer, the range of countries that might own it was relatively small. It wasn’t American because he knew precisely where all the U.S. destroyers were in the area. It wasn’t British, and it certainly wasn’t Russian. The Iranians did not own a destroyer, nor did the Egyptians, nor the Omanis. The Indians had two working in the area, and five more Russian-built Rajput Class were all accounted for.
Could it possibly be the Chinese Sovremenny, the mine-laying Hangzhou, now returning for whatever reason to Bandar Abbas? Jimmy Ramshawe looked again, pulled up the Sovremenny pattern on his computer. The helicopter was in the right position for a start. He could see that. It was parked way forward, and higher than the aft deck, right above the ASW mortars. He could also make out the distinctive gap between the fire control front dome (F-Band) and the air-search radar top plate.
“If I’m not very much mistaken,” muttered Jimmy, “the bloody Chinks are back, and the bloody Hangzhou is creeping up the coast toward the gap in the minefield…I wonder what the hell their game is?”
He checked the pattern over and over. The quad launchers for the Sunburn missiles, the two aft-mounted Gadfly surface-to-air launchers. All in the right places. This was her, no doubt about that, the most capable warship in China’s new Blue-Water Fleet, Hangzhou, built brand-new in the cold Baltic, North Yard, Saint Petersburg. And here she was again, in much warmer waters, returning to the scene of her plain and obvious mine-laying crimes.
Lieutenant Jimmy Ramshawe did not like it. This was a heavily armed warship that would make a fair match for anyone. He could not see the point of talking to Admiral Borden, who would probably remind him of her right to be in Iran’s waters, if that was okay with Iran.
But it was not okay with Jimmy Ramshawe. Bloody oath, it wasn’t. And he picked up the secure line to Admiral Morgan in the White House.
“How sure are you, Lieutenant?”
“Certain, sir. This is the Hangzhou, and no bloody error. Looks like she’s headed back to Bandar Abbas.”
Arnold Morgan was, for a change, hesitant. He had already ensured that the U.S. Navy had issued a formal warning to all countries not to interfere with the minesweeping, but he had not been prepared for the sudden arrival of the most important warship in the Chinese Navy, the one that had helped lay the mines in the first place.
“When do we get new pictures, Jimmy?” he asked.
“Probably in three hours, sir.”
“God knows where she’ll be by then. She’s fast, and she’s dangerous. Leave it with me. And don’t forget to get a decent report in to your boss.”
The President’s National Security Adviser was concerned. And he paced his office, pondering the intent of the Commanding Officer of the Hangzhou. If she was there merely as an observer, the United States might have to put up with that. But she was so big and powerful, she would simply have to be warned off while the Pondicherrys were working.
Arnold Morgan knew the two Admirals commanding the Constellation and John C. Stennis Groups would be flying off their decks F-14 Tomcats, and the FA-18E Super Hornets. That’s what they did on patrol. That’s what they were there for, to intimidate any enemy. And these supersonic strike fighters found no difficulty in doing that.
The Admiral had not yet asked for details, but he was certain the Tomcats would be making their presence felt. What the Navy did not need was a large Chinese warship prowling around in those waters with its massive antiaircraft capability — the two aft-mounted SA-N-7 Gadfly SAMs. Not to mention its two twin 130mm guns, and its four 30mm/65 AK 630 guns — the ones that fire a withering 3,000 rounds a minute.
No. The U.S. Navy and its fliers could not put up with that. Particularly since the Hangzhou also sported two twin heavyweight 533mm torpedo tubes, right below the fire-control radars for the Gadfly missiles. She was also equipped with a strong antisubmarine capability, two 6-barrel RNU 1,000 ASW mortars. Her principal surface-to-surface weapon was the SS-N-22 Sunburn (Moskit 3M-80E), a supersonic Raduga, fired from port/starboard quad launchers. Range: 60 nautical miles, at Mach 2.5.
She was a formidable ship, no doubt about that. And Arnold Morgan guessed she had been detailed to escort the original mine-laying Chinese frigates, and possibly even the Kilos, out of harm’s way. He also guessed, correctly, that she had been refueled from a tanker out of the Bassein River, which he found, frankly, infuriating.
“And now, where the hell’s she going?” he growled to the empty room. “It had better be far away from any of our current operations. I don’t expect the Indians will be too pleased to see her, either.”
The question was, What to do? “I guess we can’t just sink the biggest ship in the Chinese Navy without risking a world-class uproar, which will send gasoline prices even higher,” he pondered. “But she has to leave the area. That’s for sure. Before someone gets trigger-happy.”
He picked up his secure line to Admiral Dixon and outlined the problem.
“Sir, I do agree. She cannot be allowed to remain in our area of operations. I have warned the Chinese, and everyone else to that effect. I think we have to take the view that the Chinese and the Iranians, in the absence of any denials, are plainly in breach of every world peace convention in mining the strait. I propose to issue one more formal warning, directly to Beijing. Either they get that destroyer out of the area, or we’ll do it for them.”
“You saying sink it, Alan?”
“Nossir. I’m saying cripple it. With minumum loss of life.”
“Using?”
“A submarine, sir. Stick one of those MK 48s right into her stern. Blow the shaft, steering and propulsion all in one hit. Probably take out her missile launchers too with a couple of shells. Then let their friends from Iran come out and tow her in. That way we hold on to world opinion, with very few casualties, and a well-deserved warning to China to stay the hell out of the strait.”
“What if she returns fire?”
“Sink her, sir. Instantly.”
“Good call, Alan. Let’s go.”
040500MAY07. USS Shark. 24.40N 50.55E.
Speed 25. Depth 100. Course 352.
Lieutenant Commander Dan Headley, his early watch just one hour old, called for a transcript of the new orders just in from the carrier. “Hard copy twice, Jack,” he called down to comms. “One for the CO.”
Five minutes later he read the instructions, to the USS Shark, ordering them to locate and track a Sovremenny-Class destroyer, probably flying the flag of the People’s Liberation Army/Navy. It had been picked up by the overheads moving slowly up the southernmost coast of Iran, course approximately two-seven-zero. According to Fort Meade, right now at 0530 it should be somewhere to their nor’noreast, maybe 27 miles up ahead.
Shark’s sonar room had already located a ship right in that area, and the ESM had reported an occasionally transmitting Russian radar. The flag was correct. She was going slowly. The Sturgeon-Class American submarine would catch her inside 90 minutes. Their orders were simply to get in contact with the destroyer, tr
ack her silently and await further instructions.
Lieutenant Commander Headley ordered flank speed, course three-six-zero, which should put him in the correct position sometime before 0700. He had someone awaken the CO to apprise him of the situation and was mildly surprised when Commander Reid did not show up in the control room anytime in the next 45 minutes. “Guess he trusts me,” thought the XO. “Even though he has known me for only five days.”
In any event they rushed on north, remaining just below periscope depth, leaving a wake on the surface, which no one was around to see. At 0640, Lt. Commander Headley slowed down to come to PD and took an all-around look at the surface picture. Sure enough, out on the horizon, right on their one o’clock, was a large warship. Dan Headley had already memorized the profile of the Sovremenny, and this was her, large as life, steaming on six miles off the coast of Iran, as if she owned the place. The engine lines on the 8,000-ton double-shafted destroyer matched the GTZA-674 turbines on the computer model.
He went back below the surface, dictated a signal to the flag and had it transmitted, announcing he was in contact and was proposing to track the destroyer two miles astern pending further orders.
Dan ordered a course change…“Come right seven degrees…down all masts.” At which point a frisson of excitement ran through the submarine, as it always does when any potential quarry is sighted, even in exercises. Now, with the most dangerous warship in the Chinese Navy in their sights, USS Shark came unmistakably to life.
At 0700 the Commander came into the control room. He talked to his XO for a few minutes, bringing himself into the picture. But he did not assume command. Rather he left “to find some breakfast,” and asked Dan to let him know if anything important occurred.
By now they were running line astern to the destroyer, four miles behind. But the Chinese ship was moving faster now, still heading northwest along the Iranian coast. As far as Dan could tell she was not transmitting and did not even have her sonars switched on, which the Kentucky-born officer thought was “kinda eccentric.” Given she’s just mined the Strait of Hormuz and the business half of the planet Earth is seriously pissed off with the ship and all who are sailing on her.
The Shark Mutiny am-5 Page 13
