Joint Operations c-16

by Keith Douglass

  The question was, how was he going to convince the captain? Acid flooded into his stomach as he realized what the answer had to be. He turned to the junior sonarman sitting next to him. “Send a messenger down to wake up Petty Officer Jacobs. Tell him I need him up here.”

  TFCC

  1540 local (GMT –10)

  “That’s got to be it, Admiral!” Lab Rat shouted. “By God, we’ve got him now!”

  Batman studied the interlocking areas of probability generated by the S-3 Viking and the submarine. Not a lot to go on, but it was all they had at this point.

  “It’s only one submarine,” Batman said. He pounded on the plotting table with frustration. “And a little one, at that. Why the hell is one submarine driving the whole course of this battle?”

  Lieutenant Green spoke up. “Submarines always have, sir. Ever since their widespread use in naval warfare. A recent example, in the battle of the Falklands, the mere rumor of a British Swiftsure class attack submarine was enough to force the Argentineans into some rather desperate ploys. And when the Brits thought that an Argentinean diesel was deployed, they expended darn near half of the world’s sonobuoy resources trying to find it. Killed a lot of whales along the way, too.”

  Batman shook his head in frustration. “I know that. It’s just not fair, dammit! I’m sitting here on the most powerful aircraft carrier in the world, and there’s a little bit of metal cobbled together in the water, keeping me out of the action.” He looked up at the two of them, rage in his eyes. “How certain are you of this?”

  Lab Rat fielded the ball. “I won’t say it’s a certainty, Admiral,” he said slowly, tracing the two areas of probability with his finger lightly. “And the position report from the submarine is none too certain. Both of them are holding contact on something that they think — just think, mind you — might be a submarine. The problem for both of them is that their contacts are located in the immediate vicinity of the Arizona, which could account for both detections. It could be a submarine — or it could be a lot of jittery aircrew desperate to find a contact.”

  “Any shot they took, Admiral,” Green chimed in, “would probably result in substantial damage to the memorial itself. And if it’s not a submarine, all that will do is blast pieces of the Arizona all over the seabed floor, thus further complicating the ASW problem.” She shook her head, not discouragingly, just figuring the odds. “If we were having a tough time telling known anomalies from submarines before, we’ll have an impossible time after that, not to mention the difficulty of doing any minesweeping without a clean chart.”

  “Goddammit,” Batman said. “At some point, you gotta go with your gut. Both that submarine crew and that S- 3 crew know about the Arizona, and they still think that they’re holding a submarine. But you’re right about one thing — even if we do kill this one, you’ll have a hell of a mine problem after that. So what do we do?”

  The three fell silent for a moment, then Green spoke, her voice hesitant. “I have an idea, sir. But I’m not sure how practical it is.”

  “Flight quarters, flight quarters, all hands to flight quarters,” the 1MC blared.

  “Spit it out, Lieutenant. I’ve got an air strike launching in about two minutes, and this aircraft carrier isn’t going to have time to worry about one submarine. I want it dead, and I want it dead now.”

  Green leaned over the chart table, the edge of the table butting up against the hard, flat expanse of her abdomen. She started to talk, slowly and quietly at first, but gaining confidence as she spoke. When she finished, Lab Rat turned to Batman.

  “The sub skipper’s going to hate you for this,” he said.

  Batman nodded. “I know. But that old girl down there has been blasted too many times already. She deserves a chance to fight back. This time.”

  TWENTY

  USS Centurion

  1546 local (GMT –10)

  “What you got?” Jacobs asked as he stumbled into the sonar shack. His eyes were still bleary around the edges, his face slack with exhaustion. “The messenger said you needed me.”

  Pencehaven shook his head. “Need isn’t exactly the right word. Oh, hell, it is.” He jerked his thumb at the junior sonarman sitting next to him. “Take a hike, Jack.” The sonarman slid out of his seat, and Jacobs took his place.

  Pencehaven took a deep breath. “We haven’t always been on the best of terms, Renny. I know that. But let me show you what you’ve got. Your ears — your ears are better than mine on something like this. The skipper doesn’t believe me because of what happened last time. But I’ve got something this time; I want you to take a look at it and back me up. They’ll listen to you. And somebody’s got to listen before this little bitch gets away.”

  Pencehaven sketched in the last fifteen minutes, then passed his headset over to Jacobs. “Here — I can still hear it.”

  Jacobs leaned back in his chair and his face assumed that oddly peaceful and serene expression that Pencehaven had come to associate with his nemesis. His eyes were shut, his mouth barely open, his breathing slow and regular. For all appearances, he might have been taking a nap in the sonar shack. Suddenly, Jacobs popped upright in the chair. He reached out for the communications switch, then hesitated. He turned to Pencehaven. “You’re right on this, you know. You didn’t need me to tell you that.”

  Pencehaven heaved a sigh of relief. “You heard it?”

  “Of course I heard it,” Jacobs said dismissively. “You’d have to be deaf not to hear it. And you’re right, it’s probably a bilge pump of some sort. The one thing we know is it isn’t ours. So call the captain, tell him you know you have a contact. It’s your contact, you lead the targeting on it. I’ll back you up.”

  “They might take it better coming from you,” Pencehaven said.

  Jacobs shook his head. “No. The captain will make his decision based on how confident you sound. That was the problem last time — you didn’t trust your instincts. But you’ve nailed it hard and true this time. Now, go for it — do what you’re supposed to do.” Jacobs’s eyes glittered with something that in someone else would be taken for fanaticism.

  Pencehaven took a deep breath, his gut suddenly shaky. The safety of the submarine — indeed, the entire battle group — rested on his shoulders, now. He had to do it right, had to make them believe. “Conn, sonar,” he began, consciously forcing his voice to sound a little louder, a little surer. “Captain, I have a subsurface contact. Probability high.” He reeled off the current range and bearing information, now refined from their own submarine’s movement through the water and the angle to the anomaly. “He’s hiding behind the memorial, sir. I’m sure of it.”

  “Sure?” the captain came back. “Sure like you were last time?”

  “No, sir. That was a mistake. But this time I’m sure.”

  “Get Petty Officer Jacobs in there,” the skipper said. “Pencehaven, you have to learn that this isn’t a solo game. We live and die by teamwork.”

  Pencehaven glanced over at Jacobs, his eyes grateful. “He’s here with me now, sir. And Petty Officer Jacobs concurs.”

  “Then why the hell didn’t you say so?” the captain snapped. “Good call, Pencehaven. Your aw shit status is rescinded effective this moment.”

  “Thanks, Renny,” Pencehaven said awkwardly. “I owe you one.”

  Jacobs shook his head. “No. I owe you one. Because if you hadn’t gone with your gut on this one, you would have ignored the contact. And the next sound I heard might’ve been a torpedo heading for my bunk.”

  “Okay, let’s run the targeting problem,” Pencehaven said, and began punching in figures. “Snapshot protocol — you on it?”

  Jacobs’s hands were flying over his keyboard. “Couldn’t get rid of me now to save your life,” he murmured. Finally, his targeting solution solid, he looked back up at Pencehaven. “This time, we do it right.”

  Viking 701

  1600 local (GMT –10)

  “I have a targeting solution,” the TACCO announce
d calmly.

  Rabies didn’t reply as he listened to the voice coming over his headset. Finally, he said, “Aye, aye, Admiral,” and flipped the switch back over to internal communications. “Negative on the firing solution,” he said.

  “What! It’s mine!” the TACCO howled.

  “No go, buddy. There’s a friendly in the area — the submarine’s taking the lead on the kill.”

  “The sub’s gonna kill my contact?” the TACCO bitched.

  “That’s affirmative. We’re all on the same team here, remember?”

  In the backseat, the complaints subsided to an angry muttering occasionally drifting around the cockpit. Rabies shook his head sadly, commiserating with the TACCO and the AW, but understanding the reasoning. The last thing an American submarine wanted was an S-3 dropping torpedoes into the water it was operating in. Yes, letting the submarine prosecute this contact was a better solution, no doubt about it.

  But what exactly had the admiral meant when he said that the submarine had an advantage that the aircraft didn’t? And why had he said that the enemy contact was a pushover?

  USS Centurion

  1602 local (GMT –10)

  “Conn, radio. ELF message requesting we come shallow for coordination with battle group.”

  The captain gripped the arms of his chair. “I don’t want to come shallow right now,” he said quietly, frustration evident in his voice. “I’m holding contact, damn it.”

  “Sorry, Skipper. The battle group seems fairly insistent.” The radioman’s voice was apologetic.

  The captain sighed heavily. “You heard the man. Conning officer, make your depth eighty feet. Prepare for communications with the battle group.”

  As the submarine rose smoothly through the water, the captain thought sour thoughts about the Navy, about surface ships, and about one admiral aviator in particular.

  Five minutes later, his worst fears about aviators were confirmed. “You want us to do what?” he almost howled, but then caught himself at the last moment. “I’m not sure I understand, admiral,” he said in a voice more suited to the close confines of the submarine. Silence was a reflex with most submariners, and the skipper was no exception. “What you’re proposing is… shall we say… not without its risks?”

  “I understand that, Captain.” The admiral briefly outlined his concerns about a torpedo attack, then concluded with, “Besides, I think you’d agree it’s time the old girl had a chance to fight back. She didn’t. Not the first time, not against the attack that put her on the bottom of the ocean, there.”

  The captain sighed, and considered the physics of the problem. Sure, the bow of the submarine was particularly strengthened with measures designed to prevent her from flooding in the event that she did run into something. But still, Murphy’s Law prevailed. If something could go wrong, it would. “She wasn’t built as a battering ram, Admiral.”

  “I’m not asking for a battering ram, Captain, just a gentle shove. We’ve got an expert up here who thinks that will be all that it will take. A couple of nudges, then you back on out of there at best speed.”

  Backing out at best speed. Yeah, sure. The captain refrained from pointing out just how unwieldy a submarine going astern was, the difficulties of maneuvering, and just how much noise she herself would kick up. “The southeast corner, you say?” he asked delicately.

  “Affirmative. One nudge, the southeast corner.”

  “Aye-aye, Admiral — we’re on it.” The captain clicked off the circuit and gazed around the control room with a sense of unreality. Finally, he said, “Okay, you all heard the admiral. Conning officer, take us to the southeast corner of the Arizona and prepare for… nudging.”

  TFCC

  1603 local (GMT –10)

  “Incoming!” General Haynes clamped down on the edge of the table and ducked involuntarily. The two Navy officers on either side of him shot him a surprised look, while the Air Force officer grinned enigmatically.

  Sheepishly, the Army officer straightened up. “What is it with you people?” he asked good-naturedly. “You ever get used to that?” That was the hard thunder rolling through the compartment, the noise that was as much felt as heard, the bone-jolting sensation that rattled computer screens, shook coffee mugs, and rendered conversation almost impossible.

  Batman shrugged. “Around here, we call it the sound of freedom.”

  The Army officer breathed deeply. “Where I’m from, we call it the sound of artillery,” he grumbled quietly, but returned to the task at hand.

  Tombstone pointed to a small TV screen located in one corner of the room. “Watch — what you’re hearing will make more sense then.”

  The plat camera showed an overview of the flight deck, and now the Army officer could see the source of the noise. A Tomcat on the bow catapult was in full military power, trembling on the catapult with the JBDs, or jet blast deflectors, at right angles to the deck behind her. As he watched, he saw a small, blurred figure on the deck to the left of the aircraft whip off a sharp salute, then another figure dropped to the deck and held up one hand.

  The Tomcat moved almost imperceptibly at first, but after the first few microseconds, it picked up speed at an astounding rate. It shot down the catapult, trailing steam and fire in its wake, and blasted off the bow of the aircraft carrier. It disappeared from view for a few moments, then he saw it struggling back up into the air. “I thought he was a goner,” the Army officer said softly, his voice hushed with awe.

  Batman shook his head. “All in a day’s work for those fellows,” he said. He pointed at Admiral Magruder. “For me and him, too. Years ago.”

  “Not so long as you’d think,” Tombstone shot back.

  The plat camera showed two more F-14s already taxiing into position, the jet blast deflectors now flat on the deck to avoid impeding their progress, to allow them easy access to the catapult, the flight deck crew in their specially choreographed dance around the waiting aircraft. Seven seconds later, the roar thundered through TFCC again.

  “This goes on all day and all night?” the Army officer asked, doubt in his voice.

  “The Tomcats are the worst,” Tombstone said. “Or the best — depending on how you look at it. The other guys, you can hear them launch, too, but after a while you can tell what’s launching by how bad your compartment rattles.”

  “Or whether your computer reboots,” Batman put in.

  “And in just a few minutes, they’ll be within each others’ engagement envelopes,” Tombstone said, turning away from the plat camera to study the tactical display located at the forward part of the compartment. “It’ll be all over but the shouting. Do you think this is going to work?”

  Batman said, “It has to. We don’t have any other choices.”

  “Admiral, it’s the S-3,” the TAO shouted, not even turning around to look at them, his gaze fixed on the screen in front of him. “He’s reporting audibles, audibles from his submarine contact — looks like she’s going to make a break for it!”

  Both Batman and Tombstone swore softly. Then Batman said, “Okay, everyone. You know the game plan. Let’s get started.”

  “What about the submarine?” the Coast Guard officer asked.

  “Our sub is on him. And if he misses, we’ll have him clear the area and turn the S-3 loose on him. Put a couple more ASW helicopters airborne, then forget about it.”

  USS Centurion

  1610 local (GMT –10)

  The sudden barrage of green lines dancing across his screen and the hard thrum of mechanical noise in his headset sent a huge wave of relief flowing through Petty Officer Pencehaven, followed immediately by a rush of adrenaline. If he’d had any doubts at all — and he’d had a few, he admitted to himself — they were now evaporated like the early morning dew.

  The acoustic signals tracing across his display, as well as the churning noise of the propeller completely resolved the question of whether or not there was a submarine hiding behind the Arizona on the seabed floor. He turned to gl
ance at Jacobs, a wide smile on his face. “Guess we got him.”

  Jacobs shook his head. “Guess you got him,” he pointed out. His smile deepened a little bit, until it almost looked like a snarl. “But we’re gonna kill him — together.”

  “Sonar, Conn. I need that targeting solution now!” the captain’s voice said.

  “Updating now, sir. Done,” Pencehaven said. “Request weapons free.”

  “Weapons free. Fire at will. Flooding tubes three and five — it’s all yours, boys. Good work.”

  Pencehaven double-checked the solution, his finger poised over the fire button. Then he glanced over at Jacobs, took the other man’s hand, and pressed it firmly down on the button. “First kill is yours, buddy,” he said. “And thanks.”

  A low rumble shot through the submarine as the torpedo left its tube. It appeared immediately on his acoustic display, just after the noise saturated his headset. The automatic gain control cut in, reducing the noise to a tolerable level.

  “Looking good, looking good,” Jacobs chanted softly, watching the contact on Pencehaven’s screen. “You can run, but you can’t hide.”

  And indeed that was true with the Mark 38 ADCAP torpedo. It had both acoustic and wake homing capabilities built in, as well as a logic discriminator that kept it away from its own submarine. Once it caught the first sniff of a contact, it was virtually impossible to avoid.

  Pencehaven and Jacobs watched as the torpedo fell into a lazy circle, then broke the arc to zero in on the contact now streaking across their screen as a bright green lozenge. “Recommend we go active, sir,” Pencehaven said. There was no longer any advantage in maintaining strictly passive and acoustic contact. The other submarine knew that they were there. With a torpedo, it could reach no other conclusion than that it was not alone in the ocean.