Lion Resurgent

by Stuart Slade

  “Schoolbus?”

  “Check!” Both her children chorused the reply in triumph because the yellow bus had just appeared at the end of the street. It would stop there, pick up one batch of children and then come down to her end for the other. That left her just enough time to get her two out there, ready to get on board when the bus stopped.

  As always, the schedule worked perfectly. It was a fine day. Humid, of course, but Florida always was. Timing things to perfection really showed its benefit when it was raining but even today it was worthwhile just to have things running efficiently. The children scrambled on to the bus, the driver touched his cap to their mothers and the bus pulled away in a cloud of blue smoke.

  Selma waved good-bye and then returned to the house, ready to stack the dishes in the dishwasher and get ready to leave for her duty shift. Her husband was at the table, pouring himself a cup of coffee while something whirred in the microwave oven.

  “Why don’t you let me make you a proper breakfast? Those oats aren’t a fit way to start the day.”

  Mike Yates chuckled and ruffled his wife’s hair. “I was brought up on oatmeal for breakfast, Angel.”

  She twisted away and looked severely at him. “That is hardly an advertisement. I mean, just look at you. Thin and pale…”

  The microwave dinged and he took the steaming bowl out and stirred it. “Ambrosia. Nectar of the gods. You got anything interesting on today?”

  “War Queen and Spear Woman are coming in for a full systems check and rebuild. They’ll be in for a week or more. How about you?”

  “Nothing today. Some simulator time and a lot of paperwork. We’ve got new target folders coming down for study. Not flying again ‘til the end of the week; then we’ll be taking Shield Maiden down south for some overflights. Legal ones this time.”

  Selma laughed. President Carter had tried to stop SAC’s habit of overflying other countries but he might as well have tried to hold back the tide. Deliberate overflights had been replaced by “navigational errors” if anybody had complained. Few countries had. Even the Caliphate had remained quiet about the continued presence of SAC bombers in their skies. Carter’s so-called ‘policy’ had been reversed within minutes of Reagan taking office. Nobody said so, but there had been a distinct sense of relief at that. Countries might not like SAC knowing what was going on in their territory but they appreciated the fact that a threatening build up on their borders would also be spotted and a potential aggressor warned off. Often the public complaints about overflights had been matched by private messages of appreciation for the information they had generated.

  “How are the birds?” Yates was obviously interested and his wife was a prime source of information on the real state of maintenance.

  “Overall, pretty good. We’ve got spares and so on flowing in again. War Queen and Spear Woman were hangar queens. They always were a problem, so when spares were short, we stripped them. Now we have to replace all the bits we took out. Do a few upgrades at the same time. Anything planned this evening?”

  “Not this evening, no. Heads up, though. George and Jenna Pryor are retiring from the PX business and their retirement bash is tomorrow night. We should be there. Nice couple, George was a thirty-year veteran before he retired from SAC and took over running the base PX here as a way of keeping busy. Why do you ask?”

  “I know Jenna; heard her reading out a supplier once for sending sub-standard stuff. Anyway, the kids are spending the night with mom and our pops. So we’ve got the place to ourselves.”

  Yates nodded. His mother had been bitterly opposed to his marriage to Selma and had gone out of her way to be as unpleasant as possible to her daughter-in-law. Eventually, she had died and Yates’s father had retired to Florida, buying a house close to MacDill so he could make up for the time he’d lost with his grandchildren. Selma’s parents had met him and the three had become firm friends, taking shared delight in looking after their grandchildren from time to time. Then the implications of Selma’s remark sank in.

  “Aha.”

  “That’s right, Lover. I plan to be a very bad girl tonight. So hit the ATM on the way home.”

  Royal Australian Navy Submarine Rotorua, South of Akamaru, South Pacific

  “Ready to come to periscope depth?”

  Captain Steven Beecham tossed the question out to his ops room crew more as a formality than anything else. They had been doing a fast transit under the inversion layer and their batteries had reached a worryingly low charge level. The Rotorua needed to come to periscope depth and recharge them using her snorkel. Beecham reflected that the battery charge gauge was the bane of the diesel-electric submarine commander’s existence and the ever-present center of his attention. Something the nuclear submarine drivers never had to worry about. There was always talk that the ‘next’ class of Australian submarines would also be nuclear-powered, but that seemed a long way off, if ever. The S-class boats would be air-independent using Kreislauf diesels. Until they entered service, the Rotorua was the best submarine the Australian Navy had. In fact the Improved R class were probably the best class of diesel-electric submarines in the world.

  They were also an unusual design. Most submarines used the body of revolution hull design. They looked like an airship, with a single screw at the back. This reduced under water drag to a minimum and made them both fast and agile. The problem was that the design only allowed a single screw. That had significant consequences from a design and equipment point of view. In contrast, the Rotorua had a broader hull, a flattened ellipse in cross section, with two screws, moved far out to the sides of the hull. The design had become known as a beavertail and it offered a lot of advantages including lack of vulnerability to disablement by damage to a single screw and reduced noise. With both screws out of the stream of disturbed water from the sail, the Rotorua had no blade beat to speak of.

  “Aye, Sir.” Lieutenant-Commander Cardew ran an eye over the boards, checking that all was indeed in order.

  “Very good, Number One. Take her up through the level; hold her at one hundred and fifty feet. Sonar, prepare for a complete area scan, check for any surface sound signatures.”

  The check was a vital precaution, all too many submarines had been run down because they’d surfaced too close to a merchant ship. These days, when tankers, bulk carriers and container ships drew fifty or more feet of water, the chance of a collision was too high for comfort. It wasn’t just the big ships that were dangerous; the small fishing trawlers could be even worse. If they were drifting with the waves, there was simply nothing to hear and the first a submarine would know of them was the shattering sound of the collision. A diesel-electric submarine like Rotorua would sink the trawler without suffering too much damage but the repercussions, both professional and political, were nausea in the extreme.

  Beecham felt the boat move under his feet, heard the creaking in her frames as the water pressure outside changed with the ascent. At some point, they passed through the inversion layer and entered a new world of sound signatures; these included surface ships as well as underwater creatures and machines. That caused a sudden alarmed report from the sonar room.

  “Sir, multiple sources of hydrophone effects, all surface ships. They’re all around us, Sir. Sound signatures suggest multiple-shaft ships, holding 25 knots.”

  Beecham knew there was only one group of multiple-shaft surface ships that held that kind of sustained speed: a U.S. Navy carrier task group. His response was instant. “Helm, blow all tanks, get us to the surface now. Before the Septics pick us up and go berserk.”

  There was no doubt now about Rotorua’s rise. She was heading straight up. High pressure air blasted her ballast tanks clear; her engines drove her to the surface. The angle of ascent was sharp enough to send people staggering backwards, their ears popping with the changing pressure. Beecham caught hold of a handrail and swung around it, heading up for the hatch that marked access to the sail. In his mind’s eye, he could see Rotorua breaking surface, he
r bow lunging into the air before settling back on the surface amid a cloud of spray.

  “We’re on the surface, Sir.”

  Beecham didn’t acknowledge. He spun the hatch dogs open, went up through the trunk in the sail and then opened another hatch to reach the air beyond. The opening upper hatch deposited a shower of water on his head from where it hadn’t had a chance to drain yet. That was just a minor inconvenience. He grabbed a flare gun on the way up. Now he fired it, sending a blue flare arching into the sky. That done, he took a quick look around him.

  His guess had been right. He was between two American aircraft carriers; huge ships that dwarfed any other warship afloat. Glancing around, he counted four cruisers and six destroyers; two of which were already turning towards him. Overhead, two Kaman Defender rotodynes were also closing on him. Beecham looked through binoculars at the nearest cruiser. Sure enough, the box launcher amidships that held her Sea Falcon missiles was trained on him as well. It is, he reflected, a chilling experience to have nuclear weapons aimed at me.

  “Signals?”

  “Here, Sir.” There was a brief pause. “Signal Sir, from the cruiser over there. Message reads ‘This is U.S. Navy ship one six nine. Identify yourself.”

  Beecham shook his head. Damned Septics, they couldn’t make even a pleasant greeting without sounding menacing. “Make in return. ‘This is Australian submarine Rotorua in transit. Sorry if we woke you up.’ Let’s see how they respond to that. What is one-six-nine anyway?”

  “She’s the Sacramento Sir. Improved Long Beach class. The carriers are the Ohio and the North Dakota.”

  “North Dakota? She’s brand new, still running trials. That’s a hell of a lot of firepower for somewhere out here. I wonder what they’re up to.”

  “Who knows? I guess it makes sense to the Septics. Doesn’t have to be understood by us lesser mortals.”

  Overhead, the pair of Defender rotodynes were keeping a careful watch on the submarine that had mysteriously appeared in their midst. Cardew gestured at the two carriers that were already pulling away from the virtually stationary Rotorua. “You know, if we’d wanted to, we could have got shots in at both of them. We were up, out of the layer, before they could respond.”

  “And we’d have died ten seconds later. Followed by every city in Australia as soon as the Valkyries could cross the Pacific. Those rotodynes and destroyers aren’t screening the carriers; it’s the knowledge of what will happen if anybody tries to take a shot at them that does that. Which reminds me…” Beecham picked up the bridge internal communications system handset. “Signals, did we collect anything interesting?”

  “We got all the radar and sonar signatures, Sir. We’re checking them against the threat library now. So far, they’re all known. One thing, we got an intercept on a datalink transmission from one of the cruisers to a carrier. We’ve never had that before. Oh, and I think we got a quick flash of the link from one of the rotodynes to a destroyer but we’re still isolating that. With a little luck, we can start trying to crack their encryption.”

  “Well done Signals. Number One, since we’re up here on the roof, we might as well take advantage of it. We’ll charge batteries on the surface; men off-watch can come topside. Signals, call Adamstown, let them know we’ve bumped into our Septic friends out here and they’re heading.” Beecham hesitated and took a bearing on the departing carrier battle group. “West, on their way to do God-knows-what to God-knows-who. Where do you think they’re going, Number One?”

  Cardew took only a second to think about it. “South America Sir. Oh, they’re heading the wrong way now but that could just be them operating aircraft. There’s not that much doubt really. Everybody knows that the Argies are spoiling for a fight with somebody. Chile will be their first choice and I’d guess the Septics are on their way to make a little demonstration of strength off the Chile coast. I’d say of all the countries in South America, Chile’s probably the one they’re most comfortable with. As are we, of course.”

  “Signals here Sir. Top-Flash message from Fozzem.”

  Beecham sighed. A message from Flag Officer, Submarines, more commonly called FOSM was usually trouble. “Let’s have it then.”

  “We’re to set course for Santiago in Chile Sir. Run at our discretion but we should plan on getting there ASAP.”

  CHAPTER TWO PROFESSION OF ARMS

  Salisbury Plain, Great Britain.

  It was a reasonably conventional defensive layout; a forward line of observers intended to bring the attackers under artillery fire and channel them into kill zones, a main line of resistance intended to pin them down and destroy them and a mobile reserve of mechanized troops for a counter-attack that would push the opposition Blueforce back into the sea. Blueforce’s objective was an area within the defensive perimeter that was supposed to represent a major concentration of command control and headquarters assets. It was actually an old grain silo and disused farm, but nobody was being too picky about that.

  Brigadier Strachan looked at his clipboard and noted some comments on the platoon defense layout in front of him. It was a pretty good effort for a newly-commissioned officer. This young man might have a bright future in front of him. With the right seasoning of course, and a good sergeant to bring him along. A little too much by the book perhaps, some more imagination wouldn’t be amiss. That was the trouble with ‘the book;’ it was a good servant but it could also be a terrible master. It was always useful to remember that the opposition could read ‘the book’ as well. That could turn a favorable defensive position into a deadly trap.

  “How’s he doing Sir?” Sergeant Harper spoke quietly, his voice not carrying beyond the ears of his officer.

  “No secured escape route, the position is commanded by high ground on two sides, it’s an obvious ambush position and his machine gunners are likely to hit each other. Not too bad for an officer just two weeks out of training. He just needs practice that’s all. Needs to get an eye for terrain.”

  Harper nodded thoughtfully. “We’ve come a long way, putting the Army back together after That Man ruined us. There were times when I thought we’d never get back to where we were.”

  “We’re not there yet Sergeant, not by a long chalk. Oh, we’ve rebuilt an Army all right and it’s a damn fine one on paper. But, that’s where it all is, on paper. Up here,” Strachan tapped his forehead, “we’re still a beaten army, one that got nearly wiped out here and left the home country to be rescued by the Yanks and the Canucks. That leaves a shadow over everything we do. It’s not right and it’s not fair, but it’s the way things are. It’ll remain that way until we win a real one. In everybody’s eyes and, worse still, in our own.”

  Strachan was interrupted by his radio starting to beep. The Umpire’s circuit was coming live, suggesting that something was about to happen. Blueforce would be launching their attack soon. Strachan wondered if a Greenforce ELINT group had been listening out for the activation of the Umpire’s net to get a first hint of what was happening. He hoped so. It was the sort of initiative that the Army needed. Properly tempered of course. Aye that was the rub.

  After the Occupation had ended and reconstruction had begun, the Resistance had dominated the government and armed services in general. They had brought with them their own ideas and experiences based on years of partisan warfare against the Germans and the British Collaborators. Those ideas had included a strong level of contempt for what they considered ‘useless administrivia from hidebound reactionaries.’ It had taken a long time to convince them that there was a world of difference between partisans and regular armies. Eventually, the two outlooks had been blended and the new British Army created from them. The exercises here today were testing out one part of that doctrine.

  “We’re under artillery fire Sergeant.” Strachan watched Harper, a broad grin decorating his face, get thunderflashes out of the back of the Umpire’s Landrover and toss them around the platoon position. He noted with approval how the infantry platoon he was watching took
cover but still maintained surveillance of the area to its front and flanks. Despite the unexpected explosions, the officer had his men under control and that spoke well of him.

  Strachan took his attention off him for a moment and quickly scanned the horizon with his binoculars. There was movement out there, and he concentrated on it. At least five Cavalier tanks backed up by a quartet of Bulldog armored personnel carriers. Strachan reflected that they showed how much the Army was changing as well. Until the mid-1960s they’d used old German armored equipment salvaged after the Occupation had ended. Strachan’s old regiment had been driving Panther IIs until the late 1950s. The Cavalier and the Bulldog were the first generation of British built armored vehicles. They were no match for the Russian and American tanks, but creditable first steps. The Cavalier had actually been based on work carried out secretly during the occupation and was a descendent of Britain’s last pre-occupation production tank, the Covenanter. Constant refinement had left little of the original vehicle left; the Cavalier had a 20-pounder gun and a powerful diesel in place of a two-pounder and a petrol engine. Not that heavily armored but it was fast and agile. Strachan watched the five vehicles stop and disappear behind clouds of gray as they fired blank cartridges from their main guns.

  His radio beeped again and he listened to the message. Harper was watching him. Strachan held up five fingers and waved to the platoon position. Five thunderflashes later, Harper spoke quietly. “You were right, Sir. That position was a bit too obvious.”

  “Every beginner makes that mistake. An excellent position is a death-trap simply because it is excellent and the oppo can see its value as well. Still, our newbie is keeping his head down so he might get away with it.” Strachan took another look through his binoculars. The tanks out on the horizon were still firing but had shifted their aim to other likely positions. They were probing, hoping to get a response from the infantry they were shelling so they could bring in artillery fire on the unmasked positions. Meanwhile, the infantry were working forward in their armored carriers. It was a bit half-hearted; probing and demonstrating rather than making a solid attack. Nevertheless, it was enough to cause the Greenforce commander to shift some of his armored reserve into this sector to try and drive the Blueforce armor off.