Joint Operations c-16

by Keith Douglass

  No. Tran decided to keep the information to himself. “It’s all part of a plan,” he temporized, not entirely comfortable with the withholding of the information, but certain in his heart it was the right thing to do. This was what he was paid for, to carry the burden of knowing such secrets without allowing them to distract his crew.

  That was evidently enough for his chief. He nodded, then pointed to the attack console immediately to his right. “Firing solution, Captain, anytime, anywhere.” A quiet smile betrayed the pride behind his voice.

  “Captain — she’s increasing speed. Look.” Jacobs pointed out some acoustic components on the display, then tweaked an automatic gain control knob. “I hold they’re headed directly for us, sir, although she’s still shallow.”

  “She can’t know we’re here,” Tran said confidently. “Maintain firing solution.”

  “And now she’s turning away,” the chief said softly. Not that he needed to announce the fact — the downward shift in the submarine’s frequency had already told Tran she was maneuvering.

  Now why is she doing that? Charging straight for us, then turning and heading in the opposite direction. And why the relatively high-speed run now? Tran glanced at the chronometer and verified that it was indeed still daylight on the surface above.

  Nothing about the submarine’s conduct had made much sense thus far, and this high speed charge was just the latest anomaly. Creeping in too close had put Centurion far closer to the rest of the Chinese forces than he was comfortable with, and now it seemed that their positions had been reversed. Was the diesel trying to tempt him into giving chase, hoping to lure him into a trap?

  “Sonobuoys!” the chief said, his voice marginally louder than it had been before. “Who the hell is — ”

  Suddenly the sonarmen ripped off their headphones as a violent explosion rocked the submarine. It was too far away to do any real damage, but the downward force from the explosive rolled the submarine slightly, an odd sensation for those used to working on a virtually motionless platform.

  Tran had it on the speaker now, the faint splash-gurgle of something large and metallic hitting the water, the hiss as air escaped from it and it bubbled down through the water. Then the explosive crump before the pressure wave reached the submarine.

  A second, then a third, a fourth explosion, each one progressively closer to the submarine. Captain Tran’s mind was racing. They can’t know where we are, it’s impossible. This was sheer bad luck, nothing more — wait it out. They’re guessing now, but if you come up to high speed and make a run for it, try the noisemakers, they’ll know for sure they’ve got you.

  Even though his cold intellect advised silence and waiting, every atom in his body screamed for speed. As the explosions came faster and closer, he had an overwhelming sense of the vulnerability of the steel hull that protected them from the deep. Most of the time, he was simply unconscious of it. He lived in the submarine, and everyone else did that you knew, too. No big deal — that’s just where you were.

  But now, hearing the violent echoes crash against his hull, he felt a sense of vulnerability and frailty. Around him, he could hear the uneasy stirrings of the crew, as their iron discipline cracked slightly under the strain of the noise.

  “Not sonobuoys. Depth charges,” he said. Tran stepped to the middle of the control room and raised his voice slightly. “They’re guessing.” He looked around the room, careful to catch each gaze, willing his confidence in his own abilities out in a stream of courage to each of them. “They’re guessing — they don’t know where we are.”

  He could feel the tension in the compartment ease slightly. Then the next explosion came, this one farther away than the previous ones. Another, then another, all walking away from the boat. He heard a collective sigh issue out from ten pairs of lungs, and said a silent prayer to the god that watches over submariners that he had been right. Finally, the explosions were muted, more like the far-off rumble of an undersea earthquake than what they really were.

  “How many years has it been since anyone used those?” his executive officer said, his voice still low and soft. “We don’t even carry them in the inventory.”

  Tran shook his head. “Maybe we ought to. It might be effective as a scare tactic against someone who didn’t have our technology.”

  “Are we still holding contact on that diesel?” Tran asked.

  “Negative, Captain,” the chief said. “A lot of noise still in the water right now, though. We might pick her up any second.”

  “Find her and hold her.” Tran’s voice was grim. “It’ll be payback time soon enough.”

  “Captain, I’m a little bit worried about this,” his XO said, handing him a scribbled damage control report. “Structurally, we’re fine, but radio thinks we might have lost the ELF. Do you want to give it a try now?”

  Tran studied the message for a moment, working out how that would affect their mission. With no ELF communications, they would have to come shallow and trail an antenna to query the satellite for other messages. Coordinating the attack with the carrier battle group — and eventually there would be an attack, of that he was certain — would be a hell of a lot trickier. And more dangerous. “Give it another half an hour, and let’s see if we regain contact on the diesel. I know she can’t track us off an ELF transmission, but I don’t want her hearing any extra noise in the water right now. None of them.”

  They would have to come shallow in a while, let the battle group know that their ELF capabilities were damaged. Maybe it was just the receive side — they’d try a transmission over ELF, and see if they could get confirmation by return satellite message.

  But what good would that do them, simply to be able to transmit? It was receive capability that was critical to coordinating their attack with the battle group, not the transmit side of the house. And the odds that one capability had survived on the single antenna when the other had not were small.

  Still, he would have to find out. He told the XO to draft the casualty report and have it ready to go out in two hours. Already a list of tasks was arranging itself in his mind, prioritizing itself as a checklist. First, locate the submarine. Second, assess the extent of the damage. Third, check the area for other contacts. Fourth, when it was safe to do so, come shallow and transmit the casualty reports of the battle group.

  “We’ve got her back, Captain,” the sonarman said. “I have a firing solution.”

  “Good. Hold contact, weapons tight, and wait for my order.” Tran’s voice was grim. “We’ll teach them just how big a mistake it is to take on an American submarine.”

  SIXTEEN

  Sick Bay

  USS Jefferson

  1400 local (GMT –10)

  Jack Simpson stared at the khaki-clad Navy doctor leaning against the bulkhead. “I’m not willing to agree to that.”

  The doctor shook his head patiently. “I’m sorry, but it’s standard procedure. You and your wife took a pretty nasty spill out of that boat. I’m going to insist that you stay in Sick Bay at least overnight.”

  Jack glanced over at Adele and could see that she was starting to do a slow burn. Despite their weariness, they’d come through too much, done too much, to be confined to sick bay now.

  “If there’s nothing wrong with us, then we’re not staying here,” Adele said firmly. She started stripping off the hospital gown they’d put her in as soon as they’d arrived in sick bay and reached for her own wet clothes. “I’m not injured, I’m not taking up a bed. And that’s, that.”

  “You don’t seem to understand, Mrs. Simpson,” the doctor said slowly. “I know you’re not on active duty, but you are on board a U.S. warship. And, in my judgment, your failure to agree to a reasonable request is just further evidence of your mental instability at this point. Under the circumstances, I have no doubt that the admiral will support me in this.”

  “Who’s the admiral?” Jack demanded.

  The doctor gazed at him thoughtfully. “Admiral Wayne commands the bat
tle group. Admiral Magruder has just arrived on board to take charge of the joint staff.”

  “Tombstone Magruder?” Jack asked. A slow smile spread across his face. “Tomcat jock?”

  “Admiral Magruder is a naval aviator,” the doctor said stiffly, “and I believe his aircraft of choice is the F-14 Tomcat.”

  Jack’s smile broke into a broad grin. “Not so fast with that hospital gown, honey.” He laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. Then he looked over at the doctor and pointed at the pile of wet clothes on the deck. “Have someone take those down to the laundry, do a freshwater rinse on them, dry them, and get them back up to us. Either that or route us out the appropriate uniforms from the lucky bag,” he said, referring to a slush fund of clothes normally maintained by the welfare and recreation committee. “And let Admiral Magruder’s chief of staff know immediately that Commander Jack Simpson and his new wife are on board and, at his earliest convenience, would be honored if they could pay their respects in person.”

  The doctor paled slightly. “You know Admiral Magruder?” he asked, deep suspicion in his voice.

  Jack nodded. “That I do. And believe me, if it’ll get me bailed from this joint, I’m not above capitalizing on it. The admiral and I spent a fair amount of time together at the flying club — he owns a Pitts Special, I believe.”

  No, I don’t believe at all — I’m damned well certain of it. Stony and I have gone around too many times just admiring that baby for me to be mistaken about that. “Let’s get a move on, Doc,” Jack said briskly. “I’m not going to want to keep the admiral waiting.”

  Flight Deck

  USS Jefferson

  1410 local (GMT –10)

  Lobo shot Hot Rock an ugly look full of venom and distaste. “How the hell did I ever let you talk me into this?” she demanded.

  Hot Rock shook his head and smiled at her. “You’re loving it, and you know it, babe,” he said easily. “Hold on, let me settle another one of these around your shoulders.” He hefted a twenty-pound tie-down chain, doubled it, then settled it firmly over her neck draping down her front. “Too much?”

  “Fuck you, Hot Rock,” Lobo said, venom dripping from her voice. “I’ll match you tie-down chain for tie-down chain any day of the week.”

  Hot Rock patted her affectionately on the shoulder. Weighted down with a hundred extra pounds of sheer iron, she probably wouldn’t be able to catch him if he had to make a run for it. “There, there, little girl. We’re just doing our part to win the war, aren’t we?”

  He could hear her teeth grinding over the noise on the flight deck. Two F-14s were already taxiing up to the catapult, and the noise was deafening.

  He surveyed her slim, muscular form, now clad in a nondescript coverall rather than the Nomex flight suit he usually saw her in. With her hair tucked up under a cranial, goggles over her eyes, and no rank or name insignia anywhere on her coveralls, she was one of a dozen sailors hustling gear belowdecks. A damned fine attractive woman at that, but still just another sailor on the flight deck.

  He ran his hands down his front, felt the oily fabric under his fingers. Well, they had to look the part, didn’t they? After all, it wasn’t like they were going to go flying anytime soon.

  After pitching their case all the way up the chain of command, Lobo and Hot Rock had finally given up. The admiral was too pissed at them, too terminally pissed, to ever consider any promises they could make to be on their best behavior in the air from now on as worth anything at all. In fact, the CAG had informed them, they’d be lucky not to face a board of inquiry and have their wings stripped. As it was now, they were both off flight status, at least pending resolution of the current hostilities.

  And after all, it wasn’t like the battle group really needed them right now. There was to be no anti-air activity over the island, and the Jefferson’s flights thus far had been limited to CAP and ASW. There were more than enough pilots — pilots willing to obey orders, Batman pointed out coldly — to fill the required slots. So, until further notice, the admiral had suggested that Hot Rock and Lobo, along with their RIOs, get their sorry little asses out of his stateroom and find some way to make themselves useful.

  It hadn’t taken them more than three hours of pacing the passageways of the ship to feel utterly useless. All around them, activity continued at a heightened tempo, everybody seemingly hurrying to an operationally important task. Only the four aircrew were walking slowly and looking for something to do.

  Finally, after three hours, Hot Rock had come up with this. He’d purloined four sets of dirtied and weathered coveralls from the maintenance chief, presented them to them, and made his pitch.

  “Listen, we’re not going to be flying,” he began bluntly. “I think that should be pretty obvious to all of us. So, the question is do we sit on our hands and be pissed about it or find something to do?” With that, he held up the coveralls.

  “Flight deck?” Lobo asked. “Come on, you want me to be a plane captain?” She laughed incredulously.

  Hot Rock shook his head. “Nope. We’ve got qualified plane captains. What we need to do is some of the other stuff that you don’t have written quals for. There’s no way the handler would let us on his flight deck as a plane captain. We don’t have the sign-off card.”

  “So we wander around incognito?” Lobo said.

  “We work incognito,” Hot Rock corrected. “You know how much there is to do up there — or maybe you don’t,” he corrected. “If you don’t, it’s about time you found out. Believe me, an extra pair of hands shows up to do unskilled labor, there aren’t going to be too many questions asked.”

  “Like what?” Lobo asked.

  Hot Rock shrugged. “I don’t know. But whatever it is, it beats sitting on our asses down here, doesn’t it?” He surveyed the other two faces, then nodded. “I thought so. Come on, let’s go find something to do.”

  As soon as they’d made their way out to the flight deck, they’d noticed a group of sailors near the stern hustling tie-down chains. They’d been on deck earlier to secure the aircraft during the weather but were now just cluttering up deck space. Each sailor carried four tie-down chains, approximately eighty pounds of extra weight. A few of the larger men carried six to eight tie-down chains.

  “Where are they taking them?” Lobo asked, as Hot Rock unceremoniously draped the first tie-down chain around her shoulders.

  “Just follow the crowd,” he said. “Just follow the crowd.”

  The crowd, as it turned out, was heading down three ladders to the line shack compartment for an S-3 squadron. No one questioned the appearance of four extra nonrated sailors helping out with the workload, although the leading petty officer did seem faintly surprised at how quickly restowing the tie-down chains went. He stared at Hot Rock for a moment, started to ask something, and then was overcome by another crisis almost immediately.

  The four made their way back up to the deck. “Well, what next?” Hot Rock said, looking around the flight deck for more opportunities. “Let’s face it, guys, if we ain’t flying, we ain’t qualified to do shit up here, are we?”

  Flag Conference Room

  1430 local (GMT –10)

  Tombstone stared at the bedraggled figure standing in front of him. He surveyed the wet hair slicked back from the broad, smiling face, the freshly scrubbed though haggard face, and then swept his eyes to the woman standing next to his friend. He took two steps forward and held out his hand. “You must be Jack’s wife. Tombstone Magruder — pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  She took his hand gravely, and he noted how cool it felt. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Admiral. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, although I’m sure we both wish the circumstances could be different.”

  “Of course.” Tombstone shook his head, bemused. “If I’d had any idea it was you and Jack on that boat, life would have been a lot simpler.”

  “The question is, what can we do now, sir?” Jack asked, a sudden shift in his voice indicating this was now
a question posed by a junior officer to a very senior one.

  Tombstone studied them both for a moment longer, then glanced at the doctor standing next to them. “Status?”

  “As I told the Simpsons, I’d like to keep them overnight in Sick Bay. Just to make certain,” the doctor started. Jack and Tombstone exchanged a cynical look. “After what they’ve been through…”

  “We weren’t in the water that long, Admiral,” Adele broke in. “We exited the vessel before the impact, and there’s certainly no danger of hypothermia in these waters.” She left unspoken the other very real threat, that of sharks.

  Batman spoke up then. “Admiral, that situation we were discussing — do you suppose…?” He broke off, and shot a significant look at the Simpsons.

  “Just so,” Tombstone said. “Very well, then — Commander Simpson, I do have one mission that you and your wife might be especially suited for. Things are about to get real busy out here. You can imagine the constraints we’re operating under.” Briefly, Tombstone sketched in the restrictions on air combat and missile employment. “Now, I notice that civilian traffic has fallen off some, but there’s still a number of lookie-loos out in the harbor, trying to figure out what’s going on. The Chinese don’t seem to be doing anything about them. If you’re willing, I have a boat that you could take — the same one that brought me in, the Lucky Star. Civilian marked and pretty damned fast, for all that she might have a bit of a gimpy engine. But at least she’s not a military vessel. Any chance you could cruise over by the Chinese battle group and take a look at what’s going on?” He pointed at Lab Rat. “Commander Busby can fit you out with another cell phone so we can stay in contact.”

  “Of course, sir,” Adele said.