Joint Operations c-16

by Keith Douglass

  Lab Rat held up a cautionary finger. “Admiral, there’s every chance that the Chinese took note of the markings and the hull configuration of the vessel that brought you to the carrier. And they were pretty damned intent on shooting it while you were enroute. I’m not so certain it would make an effective spy boat.”

  “There’s that.” Tombstone gazed levelly at the Simpsons. “There’s some risk, to be sure. And you’d be operating as civilians, not military prisoners of war. But I think that the Chinese are probably a little too busy to keep any permanent records of that engagement, not with the air battle that was going on. If you look out in the harbor, I think you’ll see another ten or fifteen boats that could be mistaken for this one. So there’s some risk, but I don’t think it’s that substantial.”

  “Neither do I,” Adele said. Both carefully ignored the fact that Heaven Can Wait had been shot out from under the Simpsons. “In truth, Admiral, we welcome any opportunity to get back into battle. And if this is how you think we can most effectively support the battle group, we’d be honored to undertake this mission.”

  A rare smile split across Tombstone’s face. “I kind of figured you’d say that. We’ve just met, but I’ve flown with this guy before, and I know how he operates. I figure any woman who could put up with him would have to be twice as ballsy.” A slight red flush spread up Tombstone’s cheeks as he realized how politically incorrect he’d been. But damn it all to hell, did it really matter? Adele Simpson knew what he meant, knew it was a compliment of the highest order. If some politically correct hack wanted to bitch about an admiral’s choice of words under these circumstance, then to hell with him.

  “When can we leave?” Adele asked.

  The chief of staff spoke up. “Your boat’s tied up on the far side of the carrier. I’d like to take about half an hour, get it fully stocked up, let you and Lab Rat work out the coordination and code. That’ll give the boson’s mate time to run a couple of stripes down it, maybe disguise it just a little bit. So I’d say thirty minutes, no more than an hour.”

  “We’ll be ready,” Adele said. She turned to her husband. “Won’t we?”

  “You’d better believe it.”

  Forty-five minutes later, the small vessel was ready to go. Under Adele’s direction, Jack piloted away from the massive carrier, careful to steer away from the sea chests, the giant suction intake inlets that sucked seawater into the ship for a variety of purposes. Jack appreciated the clean, hard thrum of the engines, the feel of the helm vibrating under his hands. Tombstone — correction, Admiral Magruder — had been right about the boat’s qualities. He’d have to keep an eye on the diesel engines, but the mechanics on board the carrier said that they thought they’d corrected the problem.

  An hour later, Jefferson was merely a dark smudge on the horizon, while the first outlines of the massive Chinese ship were already visible. As he piloted, Jack kept up a steady scan for any aircraft, but the only contacts he could see were F-14s. A few jump jets made routine takeoffs and landings on the Chinese ship, but evinced no curiosity in the Simpson’s boat.

  “So how do we look like a pleasure craft?” Adele asked. “It’s about time we started trying to maintain our cover, don’t you think?”

  “Break out those fishing rods and the cooler,” he directed. A couple of sailors had raided the MWR compartment to provide them with evidence of their reasonable cover story.

  Jack backed the boat off to a more than reasonable ten knots, and felt the motion of it change as the swells took it more heavily. He maneuvered around to get the waves on the quarter bow, then set the small boat on autopilot. In the stern, Adele cast out the first line.

  “The way the set and drift is running right now, we should start easing up on her,” Adele said as she reeled in the line and rebaited her hook. “Let’s keep an eye on the rest of the boats, see what they’re doing. We’ll make like fat, dumb and happy tourists, out for a little fishing and a good look at the invaders. Just look at them — nobody looks like they’re taking this too seriously, do they?”

  From what Jack could tell, there was very little evidence that most of the boaters took any notice of the invasion at all.

  “Something’s happening,” he said suddenly, staring uneasily at the massive ship. “Something about the stern — hold on, where are those binoculars?”

  Adele handed the binoculars with a cautionary, “Watch the angle of the sun, and get down behind the cowling — no point in their seeing us staring at them with binoculars.”

  “I’ll bet most of the boaters are, though,” Jack muttered, but still ducking down behind the cowling. He tweaked the binoculars into focus, and stared at the stern of the ship. Something about the angle… “A well deck,” he said. “Get on the horn, let Lab Rat know — that damned thing is not only an aircraft carrier, it’s an amphibious assault ship as well.”

  “How long have we got?” Adele asked as she punched the speed dial button for Lab Rat’s direct line.

  “If it’s anything like an American ship, it will take them at least thirty minutes to get the well deck flooded and the ships deployed. Maybe less — we don’t know what technology they’re using. But I’m betting it will take them even longer, since we’re dealing with a converted merchant ship of some sort.”

  He studied the ship and watched her settle in the water while he listened to Adele report their facts to Lab Rat. If the Chinese were sending troops ashore, it was going to be damned difficult to dislodge them once they were in place. With a sinking feeling, he found himself wondering just how long this siege would last.

  CVIC

  USS Jefferson

  1442 local (GMT –10)

  “You’re certain of this?” Lab Rat said, his expression mirroring the doubt in his voice. “An amphibious ship?”

  He listened carefully while Adele Simpson ran through the details of what Jack was observing. Finally, he said, “Stay on the line for a moment — I’m going to get the admiral on the other circuit.” Still holding the cell phone against one ear, he picked up the white phone and punched in the number for TFCC.

  Batman’s reaction was even more incredulous than his own, but the wealth of detail in Adele Simpson’s report quickly convinced both of them. Batman heard Lab Rat put the call on the speakerphone, then the dark, somber tones of Tombstone Magruder joined in the conversation.

  “Tell them to get the hell out of the way,” Tombstone said finally. “If we let those troops go ashore, it will be like trying to dig out gophers dislodging them from the island. Whatever else, we’ve got to stop those transports.”

  TFCC

  1443 local (GMT –10)

  Just then, the phone mounted on the table leg, out of sight just to the right of Batman’s chair, buzzed. He picked it up, said, “Admiral,” and then listened. A look of consternation crossed his face. “I see. Very well, I’ll be there immediately.”

  Batman placed the phone back in its hanger, then turned back to the assembled joint staff. “We have another problem. The stern of the second ship just let down in back. There’s a well deck inside, according to the helo pilot.” He gazed around the assembled crowd, making sure they understood what he was saying. “They’re disgorging small boats. Each one looks to be carrying around a hundred and twenty men. And they’re heading for the coast.”

  Batman turned to Bam-Bam. “Break off one of the S- 3’s to get as close in as she can and take a look at what’s going on. The Simpsons are riding pretty low in the water — there’s a chance they’ve misinterpreted what they’ve seen.” But as he listened to his TAO give the orders, Batman had a sinking feeling that he was not going to like the report coming from his S-3 any better.

  Viking 709

  1445 local (GMT –10)

  Commander “Rabies” Grill put the S-3B Viking into a gentle turn to the right. The airspace immediately above the Chinese aircraft carrier was abuzz with MiGs, but they seemed to take no notice of his surveillance patrol at this distance. The ship was
maybe eight miles away, her structure clearly visible, especially through binoculars. His copilot kept up a careful scan, noting the activity on the deck, the configuration of the ship, and the direction and size of its wake.

  “What’s that mother doing?” Rabies muttered. He hummed a few bars of “Love Me Tender,” then said again, “What is that mother doing?”

  Without dropping his binoculars, the copilot replied, “Not much. But if you start singing again, I swear I’ll pitch these binoculars right through the windscreen.” Rabies chuckled quietly. His love of country music was well known among all the S-3B Viking aircrews. In a moment of undeniable malice, the VS-29 operations officer had assigned only those individuals with perfect pitch to Rabies’s aircrew. A betting pool had already been started among the rest of the squadron, wagering on which of the other three occupants of the aircraft would be the first to crawl sniveling on his knees to the operations officer. Himself, Rabies had ten bucks on the copilot.

  “Can you get around the stern of her again?” the copilot said. He leaned forward slightly in his seat, oblivious to the ejection seat straps holding him in place. “Because I think I see — hell!”

  “What is it?” Rabies goosed the S-3B up to top speed of four hundred and twenty knots, and everything in the cockpit started rattling.

  The copilot yelped, dropped his glasses momentarily, and shot an angry look at Rabies. “She was designed for this speed twenty years ago. Don’t press your luck, asshole.”

  Rabies refrained from rejoinder.

  “Sir, you’re going to be out of range of the sonobuoys,” the AW in the backseat complained. “I’m already starting to lose contact — damn.”

  “Well, it’s not like you were holding contact on anything, was it?” Rabies replied, a practical note in his voice. “That diesel’s gone sinker, and you’re not going to see her until it gets dark.”

  “You never know,” the AW muttered darkly. “If she takes a shot at the carrier and we’re not on station — ”

  “Our primary mission is to keep an eye on that bastard conceived-in-hell aircraft carrier,” Rabies replied. “And if my beloved copilot wants a closer look at her ass, then that’s where we’re going.”

  “Holy shit. I’m not believing this,” the copilot said, stark horror in his voice. “Not the carrier, but the ship next to it. It’s a fucking amphibian transport.”

  “What?” demanded Rabies.

  “The stern just levered down into a ramp, and seawater’s flooding the back of it. You know what that means, don’t you.”

  Rabies nodded glumly. He did indeed. It meant the ship was equipped with a well deck, which meant that she had a covey of nasty little target boats inside of her capable of transporting men and equipment to shore. Easy targets for the most part — the max speed, unless they were hovercraft, was usually well under twenty knots. Not even with a harpoon — he’d get in close and take them with guns.

  “Any boats coming out?” Rabies asked.

  “Negative. It’ll take them a while to flood the well deck if they’re anything like our transports,” the copilot replied.

  Rabies picked up the mike. “Homeplate, this is Dragon Zero Seven,” he said. An answer came back from Jefferson immediately.

  “Roger, Jefferson, got a visual on the second big bad boy. My copilot reports that it’s an amphibious transport. The well deck’s flooded — once they get it stabilized, I suspect we’re going to see mama laying some eggs. What do you want me to do about it?”

  “Dragon Zero Seven, wait. Out.”

  Rabies sighed. Typical of the new Navy. If he had his way, he knew what he’d do — make an approach on the boat immediately and start strafing those little bastards as soon as they got spit out the ass end. Waterborne turds, that’s what they were — might as well kill ’em at sea before they had a chance to make landfall.

  He glanced up at the airspace over the carrier and revised his plan. Might not be such a good idea to wander into the middle of that cluster fuck of fighters while he was armed with torpedoes and harpoons. He doubted if any of the nimble MiGs would stand still long enough for him to take them with guns. Still, he was willing to give it a try if Jefferson said so. He’d never had a chance to use the ejection seats in the Viking, and it might be interesting to —

  “Dragon Zero Seven, this is Homeplate. Weapons tight — I repeat, weapons tight. Maintain briefed distance and continue observations. We’re sending you out some playmates.”

  There were two sighs of relief from the backseat as it became clear that Rabies would not be allowed to enter the airspace around the Chinese aircraft carrier. Even the copilot looked relieved. Rabies’s tendency to shoot first and ask questions later was well-known amongst the community.

  Rabies sighed and tapped impatiently on the throttle cluster. “Damn. And I was hoping to be an ace.”

  TFCC

  1450 local (GMT –10)

  Batman listened to the report from the translator with a grim expression on his face. “A full division crammed inside those amphibs? He was certain? And a submarine in the area, too?”

  The translator nodded. “He was certain, Admiral. Especially about the submarine. He’s the equivalent of one of our sonar technicians, and he knows that they’ve anticipated having to deal with at least one U.S. submarine.”

  Batman was silent for a moment, then said, “So why’s he talking? Does he think we’ll torture him?”

  “As I understand it, he’s planning on asking for political asylum.” The translator pursed his lips for a moment, deep in thought. “As there’s something more that’s motivating him, I’m certain. He kept mentioning a senior pilot by the name of Chan. Chan Li. Evidently this fellow thinks Chan is out to get him.”

  “Okay by me,” Batman answered. “I don’t care why he’s talking, as long as he’s talking.” He turned to Bam-Bam. “Get a message to Centurion. She’s been holding contact intermittently on something, and if we give her an exact classification, it’ll help her localize it.”

  Lab Rat broke in with, “In these waters, ASW is going to be difficult, sir. Especially near the harbor. The water’s not bad, but the ocean floor is littered with metal. It’s going to be difficult for the airborne assets to depend on their MAD contacts.”

  They all fell silent for a moment as history hit home. That the remnants of that gallant fleet on the seabed should make their problem now more difficult seemed cruelly ironic.

  “The floor’s charted,” Lab Rat added. “There’s no area that’s been mineswept more thoroughly. That’ll help.” He left unspoken the last thought — it would help, but it might not be enough.

  SEVENTEEN

  Flight Deck

  USS Jefferson

  1500 local (GMT –10)

  After two hours of humping tie-down chains, watching aircraft, and conducting FOD walk-downs, the four aviators had a new appreciation for the complexity and skill required of the enlisted flight deck technicians. They’d all seen the other ratings in action time and time again, ever since their earliest days in flight training, but they’d never actually had to perform the work themselves. They quickly discovered how very little they actually knew about what goes on behind the scenes.

  Hot Rock was taking a break from hauling sonobuoys up from the ammunition locker to the flight deck when he ran into Lobo. He slipped behind the island with her and wiped the sweat off his face. “You always see those guys crashed out just inside the passageways with their headphones still on during flex deck operations. Man, I never realized how tired you got doing this stuff. How are you holding up?”

  “Fine.” Lobo’s voice was confident, but Hot Rock noticed how she winced as she settled down onto the nonskid next to him. “You’re right, though. It is hard work. Just had a chief order me to get out to the LSO platform and take them some water and some paper cups. You want to go?” Just then the 1MC went off overhead.

  “Launch the Alert Five Tomcats, the Alert Five Hornets, and all backup sections. Stand
by for full flex deck operations. Green deck; green deck.”

  Hot Rock and Lobo scrambled to their feet and dashed toward the island. Hot Rock stopped just short of the hatch, and Lobo crashed into his back. “What the hell are you doing?” she asked angrily.

  “You forget — we’re grounded.” Lobo could hear the frustration in his voice. “They’ve got more than enough flight crews for all the aircraft — no way we’re getting on the schedule, not even in a full Alpha strike.”

  “Yeah, but — ” Lobo’s voice broke off when she could find no way to reason around the order grounding them. Their seniority and experience kept them on the flight schedule most of the time, but this wasn’t most of the time. With more aircraft, they might have had a shot at it, but there were more than sufficient aircrews to man up every airframe on board the carrier.

  “So we stay up here,” Lobo concluded glumly. “That sucks.”

  “And out of the way,” Hot Rock added. “That sounds like the LSO platform to me.”

  Ten minutes later, after finding that there were a lot of shortcuts out to the LSO platform that they’d never learned, they stepped out onto the small platform on the port side of the ship just below the level of the flight deck. Both pilots immediately moved forward without thinking to stand next to the officer guiding the aircraft in.

  “Back off,” a harsh voice said. “Jesus, what are they teaching you in boot camp these days? Don’t you know enough to stay out of the way?” an LSO snapped at them.

  “What’s — ” Hot Rock began. A strong hand closed on his collar and jerked him back out of the way. “What the hell?”

  “Didn’t you hear the lieutenant?” a chief petty officer asked. “Get your ass out of the way — now!”

  “What is it?” Lobo asked, as they both backed out of the way.

  “Pay attention — this isn’t going to be pretty,” the chief said, shouting to be heard over the noise of an approaching Tomcat. “Nugget inbound has lost his cool — he’s boltered twice and the LSO is trying to talk him in. Getting low on fuel, too, but he’s shaking so much right now he can’t even take a pass at the tanker. This is going to be ugly.”