Seawolf tsf-2

by David E. Meadows

  * * *

  The Libyan-registered RO-RO ship waited until the USS Roosevelt sailed through the Bab El Mandeb Strait and into the Red Sea. Once the Roosevelt was out of sight over the horizon, the Libyan ship turned north, too. The white merchant vessel passed through the narrow body of water that connected the southern end of the Red Sea to the Gulf of Aden. The red sun waved hazily through the African heat rising off Ethiopia as it moved lower in the sky. The fine desert sands blown off the Arabian deserts to the east obscured the vision in that direction. No other ships were visible. The Libyan RO-RO surface radar was useless as Miserah Island, in the middle of the strait, and the close land masses on both sides created land smear across the radar face to blank out the scope. The ship’s crew laughed at the half-naked African natives who, with their fishing lines out, dotted the beaches along the Ethiopian shore. The natives were a minimal risk, easily ignored as the ship conducted its mission. Natives never communicated anything past their village, and what would they say anyway? “Big ship circle Miserah Island.”

  Satisfied he had the best operational security available in this well-traveled funnel of water, the captain of the RORO gave the go-ahead. The rear ramp lowered halfway to reveal a metal contraption.

  Hydraulic gears rolled the ramp past the gale to hang over the stern by ten meters. The crewmen began pushing pins through the various joints of the arrangement to make sure it wouldn’t fold up on itself. Then they placed a barrel-shaped mine on it, and watched it roll down to drop off past the stern into the water. The sowing continued at regular intervals, giving the mines tactical separation. The mines sank until they reached a preset depth of fifty meters, where a small sea anchor deployed to hold the undersea weapon in position. The logic sensor in the head of each mine would activate an hour after hitting seawater. The program told each weapon the strength of magnetic field and the acoustic signal-to-noise ratio needed to coincide for it to activate. The sea anchor would detach, whereupon, like a small torpedo, the weapon would home against the nearest magnetic source to explode on contact. With one hundred kilos of explosives in each warhead, one torpedo mine could sink a fishing vessel or cause serious damage to a destroyer or cruiser. Enough successful torpedo mine hits would either sink the American aircraft carrier or cause sufficient damage to send it into repair. It would not take too many hits on the American carrier to limit its capability to launch or recover aircraft..

  The Libyan captain was well aware that it would take numerous hits to sink a carrier, but if the plan worked, there would be an American aircraft carrier sitting on the bottom of the Red Sea within the next forty-eight hours.

  The RO-RO ship continued its slow 360-degree transit around the island.

  Crewmen wrestled each of the heavy mines to the stern of the ship, grunted as they hoisted them manually onto the deploying ramp, and then took a two minute break as each mine rolled into the sea. When the ship finished the southern transit of the Bab El Mandeb on the western side, it turned north again and sowed its deadly cargo through the narrower eastern waters. By midnight, the lethal work had effectively sealed the southern end of the Red Sea. The only safe passage out of the Red Sea for the USS Roosevell was the Suez Canal, and the Egyptians would seal that tomorrow.

  * * *

  The French Atlantique turned back toward Djibouti, the small African country located at the western end of the Gulf of Aden, to reach the military airport before nightfall. Its highly accurate electro-optic surveillance cameras recorded the suspicious Libyan RO-RO ship to its north and caught the mine-laying contraption as it deployed. The highly focused computer-enhanced cameras corrected for distance, and refined the focus for the French airmen to discern that the RO-RO was dumping barrels into the strategic strait. Their “end of mission” report, transmitted while airborne was enroute to their base, caught the attention of the Foreign Legion colonel who controlled the French military presence in the former French colony. His orders from headquarters were very explicit. They required him to forward anything having to do with Libyan or Chinese activity in his area. He didn’t know why. but those were his orders. Automatically, he turned the report around to headquarters in Paris, adding the distribution code identified in his instructions.

  An hour later when the reconnaissance aircraft touched down, Paris had already replied to the colonel, directing him to send a wooden-hull ship with French special forces embarked to conduct an underwater reconnaissance of the strait at first light. In Paris, someone already had an idea what the Libyan merchant vessel was doing, but this initial analysis remained within French channels, pending confirmation. Twenty hours later, this intelligence analyst would be patting herself on the back as French divers confirmed her analysis, and wondering why her superiors decided not to share this information with France’s allies.

  * * *

  The USS Roosevelt battle group continued sailing north toward the Suez Canal for its early morning transit, unaware of the threat astern of it.

  At the Libyan operations room south of Tripoli, the soldier marked events zero two two and zero two three as “in progress” on the chart.

  Colonel Alqahiray smiled as he read the new notation. He casually flicked ashes to the left. When these two events were completed, event zero two four would be initiated. The event that would catapult Jihad Wahid-Holy War One — into the history books. He reached for the phone.

  Walid stood nearby, waiting for orders the colonel might give, but also in position to overhear anything said.

  “Mintab,” Colonel Alqahiray said when the phone was answered. “Time to go. Good luck and we’ll be watching. I envy you this great moment in history.”

  Colonel Alqahiray listened for a minute, and then with an angry scowl replied, “Yes, as planned, my friend! Everything is on schedule. We have done our part; it is up to you to finish it. May Allah be with you as he has been with us.” Colonel Alqahiray slammed the receiver down and butt-lit another cigarette. “Too many people worry needlessly,” he said aloud to himself.

  Walid’s eyebrows raised slightly as he wondered what Mintab had said.

  CHAPTER 9

  “I have highspeed turns, I mean cavitation in the water!” shouted the USS John Rodgers ASW operator over the intercom.

  The warning blared from the bridge speakers of the destroyer, bringing immediate silence to Combat. Captain Warren Lee Spangle dashed from the starboard bridge wing, where he had been enjoying the Spanish sun during their approach to the Strait of Gibraltar. He slammed his hand down on the intercom button. “What have you got, sonar?”

  “Sir, I have multiple highspeed props in the water bearing one zero five with a slow left-bearing drift. Captain, I’m sorry, sir, but I think they’re torpedoes. They sound like torpedoes.”

  “Sonar, keep the data coming,” Spangle told him.

  Spangle turned to the boatswain mate of the watch. “Sound Genera] Quarters, Boats.” He pressed a second button on the intercom.

  “Tactical action officer, this is the captain. I have the conn and the bridge.” Adrenaline rushed through his veins. The young sonar technician was probably wrong. At least. Spangle hoped so. It’d be at least three minutes before the chief and the ASW officer got to their stations and confirmed it.

  From the bridge and Combat, the OOD and TAO acknowledged Captain Spangle’s control of the ship. The numbing bongs of the GQ alarm sent chills up Spangle’s back. Even during drills, the call to General Quarters sent adrenaline soaring. No sailor remained calm with sounds of imminent combat rattling the bulkheads. The metallic clicking of metal toed boondockers pounded the ladders between decks as sailors raced to their battle stations. The slams of watertight doors echoed through the ship as metal handles were rammed down to set Condition Zebra. Spangle heard the ship wide ventilation system winding down.

  Seconds later the ship was at battle stations, effectively sealed internally into small isolated airtight pockets designed to sustain damage, stay afloat, and continue fighting.

 
The BMOW. buckling his life vest, moved to shut the wing hatches to the bridge.

  “Leave them open, Boats,” Spangle ordered. “] may need access to the wings and I don’t want to have to open them.”

  The BMOW acknowledged the order as he pulled the chin strap tight on his helmet.

  Captain Spangle lifted the red secure phone. “Siennis battle group, this is John Rodgers. We have torpedoes, starboard to our position, inbound toward the battle group!” He surprised himself by how calm his voice sounded. It was true what they said about “you fight like you train.” He saw the fear in the eyes of everyone on the bridge, like the deer he hit two years ago. trapped in his oncoming headlights. The only thing keeping fear from turning into runaway terror was confidence earned from constant training, drills, and what their fellow shipmates would think if they showed how fucking scared they felt. He felt it himself.

  “Captain, this is TAO, NIXIE streamed and activated.”

  “Bridge and Combat, this is ASW. Bearing drift increasing slightly, torpedoes bearing one zero zero. Target is not Rodgers. I repeat, target is not Rodgers.”

  A bearing drift meant the torpedoes were targeted against another unit in the battle group. With the left-bearing drift, it meant the torpedoes would pass across the bow of the John Rodgers. Spangle knew, without asking, that the earner was the target. It was the highest-valued unit in the battle group With over a hundred aircraft and six thousand sailors, the carrier was central to a Navy battle group projecting its power. Without it. discounting cruise missiles, Naval power was limited to sea and coastal operations.

  With the carrier, they not only controlled the sea. but could project Naval power thousands of miles inland. Naval aviation gave a battle group a multitude of choices on how that power was projected.

  “Probable target?” Spangle asked, proud in a command way at how the anxiety in his voice was hidden. How he conducted himself impacted the performance of the ship. II he remained calm, then the crew, for the most part, would function similarly. If he lost it, then the fear, held back inside every person on the ship, would burst free and wreck vengeance on the John Rodgers.

  “Sir, if the torpedoes continue this track,” the ASW petty officer replied, stuttering slightly, “they’ll hit the Stennis, sir. I say again, probable target is Stennis. I count six torpedoes. Captain.”

  “Range to torpedoes?”

  “Estimate ten thousand yards, Captain.”

  Ten thousand yards — five nautical miles. Modern torpedoes could be fired from over twenty miles away. He knew that trailing from the rear of the forty-knot weapons were thin electronic wires, connected to the submarine and being used to guide them into the target. Survival of the aircraft carrier was paramount to the mission, even over the survival of USS John Rodgers. If he could cause the enemy submarine — and he thought of the boat out there as an enemy — to maneuver sharply, the thin wires would break. The torpedoes would continue, but they’d be dependent on their own logic heads in the nose.

  Decoying them would be easier.

  “Stennis, this is Charlie Oscar John Rodgers. Minimum six torpedoes inbound your way. Target is Stennis.”

  “Roger, Rodgers. All units battle group, Stennis is in hard left turn.

  Take appropriate evasive actions.”

  Surface warfare officers manning the ships in battle groups watched carrier maneuvers as closely as they would watch an enemy warship. A maneuvering carrier has as much capability to change course, or avoid anything in its path, as changing the direction of an avalanche or stopping a charging rhino. A carrier maneuvered. Others avoided.

  The USS Stennis turned to port, swinging its stern toward the torpedoes. Unfortunate, Captain Spangle thought. He shook his head.

  The Stennis had turned the wrong way, helping the torpedoes’ acoustic homing system as the props of the USS Stennis churned the ocean. He would have turned in another direction — maybe even toward the torpedoes in the hopes that the huge bow would block out the acoustics of the props. It wasn’t up to him to second-guess the battle group commander.

  Every captain had his own tactical opinions, and as good as Captain Holman was, he was still an air dale

  “Captain,” the OOD interrupted. “General Quarters is set, sir. Time, two minutes fourteen seconds.”

  “Captain, ASW. Sir, this is Chief Johns. Confirm sonar contact as torpedoes.”

  Spangle nodded. The lieutenant on the bridge acknowledged Chief Johns.

  “Thanks, Chief.”

  When they joined the Stennis battle group in its dash across the Atlantic from their Caribbean deployment, the best time he had been able to muster from the crew was three and a half minutes. It was amazing what inspiration a war at sea provided. He wished he had read closer the events of last night when the Nassau amphibious task force had been attacked.

  “Bridge, Combat; torpedo noise increasing. Estimate six minutes until they pass our nose. Closest point of approach at current speed and course is two miles.”

  Spangle turned to the officer of the deck. “Lieutenant, give me a maneuvering-board solution to intercept those torpedoes. And hurry, Lieutenant!”

  “Captain, this is ASW. Torpedoes have changed course to match Stennis.

  Torpedoes still headed toward the carrier.”

  “Roger, ASW. Combat, this is the captain. Put a couple of torpedoes over the side toward where you think the submarine may be based on his torpedo tracks.”

  “Aye, Captain. We don’t know yet where it’s at. TMA just started!”

  “TAO, fire a couple in that direction!” Then he remembered the USS Seawolf. “Make sure it’s not into the Seawolfs operating area,” he warned. This was one time he wished the American submarine community were more forthcoming with their locations.

  “Captain, Seawolf operating area is clear of the target zone. Safe shot, but it’ll be luck if we get it.”

  “TAO, fire the damn torpedoes!”

  “Roger, sir.” A tense twenty seconds passed. “Torpedoes launched, sir.” Spangle heard the whoosh of com air. From the next level below the main deck, two torpedoes shot out from the starboard side of the USS John Rodgers. Spangle rushed onto the starboard bridge wing in time to see the two splash into the water. He had little expectation that the torpedoes would score on the submarine. It’d be a

  “Hail Mary” if one hit. But he knew the sonar operators on the enemy sub would detect the incoming torpedoes. They would hear the cavitation of the props. The submarine would scurry to put as much distance as possible from the searching torpedoes, and that turn to evade would break the wires.

  The OOD ran to the plot table, and as the quartermaster punched in the data on the navigation computer, the OOD waited, vocally impatient, watching over the sailor’s shoulder. Occasionally the officer of the deck glanced at Spangle, hoping the captain wasn’t going to shout for the data before they finished running the program.

  “Left full rudder, steady on course zero one zero!” ordered Spangle.

  The direction was a ballpark guess for an intercept course while he waited for the results of the maneuvering board. A guess based on years of maneuvering at sea as a surface warfare officer.

  The quartermaster mumbled a few obscenities as she erased the results and began again with the new course in the equation. She was already perspiring from the hot summer temperatures, and tension and fear sent new beads of sweat rolling into the dampness of her armpits, creating growing wet half-moon-shaped patches on her dungaree shirt that were visible whenever she lifted her arms.

  “Captain, TAO here, sir. We have a targeting solution on the submarine based on backtracking the torpedoes’ course and speed.”

  “TAO, go active with the sonar. He knows we’re here. Let’s find out exactly where he is.” Spangle paused and looked at the wind meter.

  “TAO, launch the SH-60 when it’s ready.”

  “Roger, Captain. Estimated time to launch is five minutes.”

  “Not good enough, Comm
ander. Have them airborne in three minutes.

  Weapons load out

  “One Mark Forty-six torpedo and full complement of twenty-five sonobuoys.” “I thought I told them to load two when we reached the Mediterranean!” Spangle snapped.

  “Yes, sir. I’ve checked, and they had intended to load the second Mark Forty-six later this afternoon as we entered the Strait of Gibraltar.”

  “Captain, TAO. The two ‘over the sides’ have gone into circular search mode. No contact.”

  The ping of the Spruance-class destroyer’s sonar rose through the skin of the ship like a muffled pistol smothered deep within a pile of pillows. Ten pings later, the ASW voice returned. “Submarine located twenty-six thousand yards on a bearing of one one zero. Its speed is twelve knots and target is steering a course of zero six zero heading for the entrance to the Strait of Gibraltar, Captain.”

  “Good job, ASW. Turn that sonar up until it hurts. I want a slow increase to full power. Make him think we’re bearing down on him.

  Scare the shit out of him!” The enemy submarine had turned east. It no longer had wire control of the torpedoes. It was running. The inbound torpedoes would be functioning on their passive and active logic programs only. The quick torpedo shots, though they hadn’t scored, had accomplished what Spangle wanted.

  “Captain, intercept course to torpedoes at flank speed is one minute on course zero eight five!” yelled the navigator.

  “Roger, right full rudder, steady on course zero eight five,” Spangle ordered.

  The ship tilted slightly to the right as the helmsman acknowledged the command and brought the destroyer onto the new course.

  “Have targeting solution for Sealance launch!” shouted the TAO on the intercom.

  “Launch!” shouted the captain. He turned back to the helmsman. “All ahead flank.”

  “Captain!” the navigator, who was buttoning his life vest, shouted.

  “Current course and speed will bring us in front of the torpedoes, sir!” He leaned over the quartermaster and ran his finger along the chart. “Recommend new course zero nine zero. That’ll take us behind the torpedoes as they pass.”