“How did we know those were Destiny III robot subs?”
“The fourth Destiny just hung out at periscope depth watching the show. Patton and the Tucson fired a single Mark 50 at it and it came to the surface. By this time Patton was pissed. He wanted some prisoners. The whole force was sinking, and the Lincoln went down right then. Patton surfaced and took a Zodiac boat to the Destiny. He and ten guys went over there with MAC-11s and 9-millimeter automatics and some acetylene torches and he cut into the hull, fired a magazine into the ship and went inside. By now you’ve figured out what he found — a computer. The forward space was all of ten or twelve feet long, three decks tall. The space was just a place for the computer consoles. There wasn’t a human aboard. He checked out the other compartments, all but the reactor compartment. The core was still at power, so no one in there would have made it anyway. The robo-sub apparently works shooting at surface ships, but not so good against other submarines. I think we can count on the Oparea having only Destiny IIs, which might be good news since there are fewer of them.”
“Maybe. Or maybe bad news since the Destiny IIs will be much more capable against our subs than the Destiny Ills.”
“Anyway, Patton radioed Pearl and had an oceangoing tug get underway to meet him to pick it up. He went and picked up survivors, about seventy-five men, and had to meet the tug halfway to drop them and the Destiny off, so he’ll be late getting to the Oparea.”
“I take it the same thing happened to the United States and the Santa Fe?”
“Joe Cosworth, the skipper, did okay. He actually sniffed out one of the Destinys before it started firing. He engaged it, shot at it and it put a torpedo in the water, but aimed in the opposite direction. Joe fired at the Destiny, but the Destiny just fired at the United States. The Destiny didn’t even know he was there. Or if it did, it didn’t care. Joe put it down with one torpedo. But there were four more ships he had to find and sink. By the time the fifth Destiny was destroyed, the United States had exploded and gone down. Joe got more survivors, though. His boat was filled with them. He’s surfaced now, he’s got a couple hundred men on the deck and a couple hundred more below. He’s trying to keep them alive and meet the rescue ship from Pearl. I think he’ll be even later to the Oparea.”
“What do you make of all this, Paully?” Pacino was thinking Paully White was the best deputy he’d ever had. Sean Murphy was good but could he brief like this? Which reminded Pacino he’d have to get some messages off to Sean.
“Well, Admiral, I think the Destiny III was designed as an antisurface-ship killer. It’s not much on antisubmarine warfare. I’ll tell you why, too. Fighting in a sub-versus-sub environment must be too tough to program. They can teach this computer how to attack a surface battle group, because when you get right to it, that’s easy as bowling. You put out some weapons and the pins go down. Killing another sub, one that knows you’re there, is damned hard. Maybe they just haven’t been able to program that. Or maybe these boats were only loaded with antisurface-ship torpedoes. Maybe they just don’t have an ASW torpedo. But I think it’s the first reason. The Destiny Ills are too dumb to go up against another sub. A Destiny III is something to be afraid of if you’re standing on the deck of a surface ship. Underway submerged, no problem. Now the Destiny II class, that’s something to stay awake over. The Japanese are good, damned good, and with their Two-class ships up there in the Oparea, we’ve got our work cut out for us. The Two class, I think, has an acoustic advantage against the 688 boats.”
“How do you know?”
“We got more data from the loss of the Cheyenne. The Pasadena was nearby. She tried to get in close and target the Destiny but the Destiny just faded away, disappeared. Too damned silent.”
“At least she was quiet enough that the Destiny didn’t hear her.”
“I guess.”
“But now we’ve pretty much put the Three-class ships on the bottom, so the Oparea should be safe for a battle group if we have sufficient submarine escorts, is that right?”
“Technically, yes. Politically, no.”
“Go on.”
“From an operational point of view, sir, you’re right. The Oparea is trouble for a battle group, but a looser exclusion zone wouldn’t be a problem as long as you have an escort submarine. But we don’t have any more carrier battle groups in the Pacific. The others are all in the Atlantic for that African flap. We’re missing about five carriers and seven amphib helo carriers. They all had gone through the canal on the way to Africa, and when they were on the way home the Japanese thing hit us. They’re on the way now but they’re about three weeks away.”
“Why so long?”
“Panama Canal problems. An oil tanker exploded in the western mouth of the entering locks. Sank in shallow water. They’ll need to pull it out of the way and that’ll take a salvage crew a few weeks.”
“How did that happen?”
“Some say a Japanese commando unit blew it up. It was positioned perfectly to block the canal. And it’s prevented all but two of our Atlantic coast subs from getting through. They’re all going around the horn now with our missing carrier forces.”
“What about the French and British. The Ark Royal and the De Gaulle? They were in Guam.”
“They told us the blockade was our decision, they weren’t consulted on it, and they won’t support it with their hardware.”
“Not the real reason, I assume.”
“Hell, no, sir. They’re scared shitless that their carriers will be blown to the bottom. A great way to lose votes at home.”
“Looks like the aircraft carrier is as obsolete now as the battleship was at the start of World War II.”
“I think the carrier has some good years ahead of it still. It just needs some help from guys wearing dolphins, guys like us.”
“Okay, so tell me about President Warner. What did I miss?”
“Well, for one thing, she wants a videolink with you as soon as she gets up. It’s three in the morning her time, so by seven tonight our time we’ll need to brief her. She’s still saying the blockade will be enforced by units of your submarine force.”
“Where are the units of my submarine force?”
“I’ve called them all up to periscope depth and asked them that question. We’ve got about eight Los Angeles-class ships in close to the Oparea, one Seawolf class, and the rest, the other twenty-one 688s, are still on their way, more than two days’ steaming out of the Oparea. Like I said, the other carrier groups and the Atlantic subs won’t be here for three weeks. Oh, and your Brucey Phillips called in from the Arctic. He had to blow a hole in the ice with a Vortex missile to get through. So he’s down one Vortex. But otherwise he’s okay. Damned lucky he came over the pole, because if he’d taken the Panama Canal we’d be waiting for him till mid-January. As it stands, he should be here in another two days.”
“So we wait until we have all thirty of the Pacific units, plus Bruce’s Piranha, then coordinate them, then stage them so we all penetrate the Oparea at once. Anything submerged that isn’t American goes down.”
“Sounds obvious, doesn’t it?”
“Of course it’s bloody obvious.”
“Which is why we aren’t doing that.”
“Paully, what is going on here?”
“Sir, President Warner is what’s going on. She wants the Oparea secured today, meaning tonight our time, and she wants the blockade back in force.”
“That means we have to clear out the Oparea of— how many Destiny IIs?”
“Between eighteen and twenty-two. Depending on force readiness.”
“Say twenty-two. That’s, hell, eight of ours to twenty-two of theirs.”
“Nine, counting the Barracuda, the Seawolf class ship.”
“Tough odds but maybe we can live with them.”
“Warner says we have to live with them.”
“So, Paully, tomorrow is Christmas Eve. We’ve got till close of business Christmas Eve to get the curtain back up around Japa
n.”
“Right. With all of nine fast-attack subs.”
“We’ll just have to do that — but with eight of them.”
“Why only eight?”
“Paully, you and I are about to make the USS Barracuda our new flagship. If I’m the Pacforcecom, I can do this any way I please. Right?”
“You are going to piss off one Capt. David Kane.”
“Kane saved my career once,” Pacino said. “The least I can do is thank him in person.”
“He’s not one to enjoy having his submarine commandeered by staff types.”
“I know how he feels, but that’s the way it’s going to be. By the way, get out a message to Sean Murphy and CB McDonne back at USUBCOM. Tell Murphy to get the Panama Canal cleared and do what he can to get the Joint Staff to secure that area.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah, get this damned bandage off me. You said I had one good eye, right? Get me an eyepatch for the bad one.”
“Oh, this is going to be great. Admiral. You’ll look like a pirate when you get to the Barracuda. Should I get you a parrot too?”
“I already have one, Paully. Want a cracker?”
“Oh, very funny. Sir.”
CHAPTER 24
ARCTIC OCEAN, UNDER THE POLAR ICECAP
USS PIRANHA
“How long to the start of the Bering Strait Trench?”
It was nice when Scotty Court had the conn. He could be both officer of the deck and the navigator. Phillips felt that the more pressure the navigator was under, the better. The control room still blurped and wailed with the eerie sounds of the SHARKTOOTH under-ice anticollision sonar. Phillips stared at the console, wondering if the Japanese had the capability to go under the icecap.
Probably not, he decided. Why would they, considering their scope of operations.
“Captain, looks like another six hours.”
“At that point we’ll have enough depth below and clearance above to make, what do you think, Nav, twenty-five knots?”
“Well, Skipper, speaking as the ship’s navigator, I’m not comfortable with anything over twenty knots. Too much risk of collision with an ice raft or a ridge like the one you blasted through. But speaking as the officer of the deck and the ship’s operations officer, I don’t see any reason why we should go any slower than thirty knots. We’ll have an eight-hour transit at thirty knots to the marginal ice zone. Once we have some open water overhead, I don’t see any reason for speed restriction at all. We’ve got an Oparea to get to, and we need to get there now.”
“You know. Court, if you ever want to be a skipper of one of these things, you’re going to have to learn to make the big decisions. If you want to run with the big dogs, you gotta bark like one. And bite, too. So can the equivocal bullshit and give me a straight answer.”
“Thirty knots, Captain. When we’re in the marginal ice zone, gun it.”
“Absolutely, Mr. Court.” Phillips clapped the navigator on the shoulder. “I don’t care what they say about you, Scotty, you’re okay.”
“Thanks, sir. I think.”
“I’m going to hit the rack, Mr. Court. Think you can get us through this maze all by yourself?”
“I’ll try, sir.”
“I’m just a phone call away, Nav.”
Phillips opened the door in the aft bulkhead of control and stepped into his stateroom. He sank into the high-backed leather swivel chair and stared at his Writepad. He turned it on and reread the message about the sinking of the battle groups. He went to his locker and pulled out an old-fashioned paper chart of Japan, and taped it to his conference table. He stood over it for a long time, firing up a fresh cigar. After a while he got a pencil and marked in the boundary of the exclusion zone, the Japan Oparea. He stood over it, continuing to stare down at it.
What would he do if he were the fleet commander? There must be some two dozen 688 ships he could coordinate and deploy into the Oparea. Coordination was the key. He would hit the Japanese with everything he had, all at once. It would be the only way to survive, especially since the Destiny IIs had the tactical and acoustical advantage. The tactical advantage was theirs because they knew where the intruder subs would be coming from and when. The acoustic advantage belonged to them because they were three to seven decibels quieter than the Improved Los Angeles-class ships. The quietest sub heard the intruder first and could set up to put a torpedo in the water before the intruder knew what was happening. So how could the American force beat that? Maybe by entering in superior numbers, two US boats for every Japanese boat, so that if a Destiny fired at one submarine, the noise of the torpedo launch would alert the other American ship. Hell of a way to win a war, Phillips thought. Maybe the Destiny ships would need to reload torpedoes and would go back into port, and the US force could catch them coming out. Still, the chances looked slim. The only hope was the stealth of the Seawolf-class subs and the power of the Vortex missiles. But there were two dozen Destiny submarines and only nine Vortex missiles.
CHAPTER 25
NORTHWEST PACIFIC
USS MOUNT WHITNEY
Adm. Michael Pacino lingered in the door of sick bay, saying goodbye to the doctor, then spending a few moments more with Lt. Eileen Constance, the nurse who had attended to him during the ten days he had spent recovering from the Reagan sinking. Finally he checked his watch, blinking as he realized it was hard to see anything with his left eye obscured by the patch. The Mount Whitney doctor had given him the black eyepatch until the eye healed.
“I’ve got to go,” Pacino said. Eileen asked if he would come by before he got on the helicopter for the personnel transfer to the Barracuda. “We’ll see,” he said.
Pacino struggled down the passageways, the eyepatch making navigation difficult, finally arriving at his temporary stateroom that he and Paully White were assigned. He opened the door, saw Paully, whose jaw dropped just before he erupted into laughter.
“It’s not funny. The bad eye hurts,” Pacino said.
“Sorry, boss, but I just couldn’t help it. You need a spyglass and a hook for a hand, a tri-cornered cap, and you’re ready.”
“What I’m ready for is to get out of here.”
Pacino went to the locker and took out the wet suit, took off his uniform and struggled into the wet suit. Paully White cursed getting into his. By the time Pacino was suited up he was sweating and seasick. The suit was tight and constricting and hot. As long as it had taken to get into it, it would probably take longer to get out of it once he was aboard the Barracuda.
Pacino glanced at his watch again. It wasn’t quite time yet — the Barracuda and the Mount Whitney needed to close the range between them or else the chopper wouldn’t have enough fuel. Pacino sat at the temporary stateroom’s conference table and unrolled his large chart-sized electronic display, which was a Writepad blown up to ten times the regular size. The chart display was selected to a large area view of the Japan Oparea. Pacino had made half a dozen marks on it, showing the present positions of his eight Los Angeles-class submarines.
Going through each position was a line segment indicating his idea of where he wanted that ship to go. Pacino glanced at the chart from a few feet away, frowned and erased the arrows through the ship’s present positions.
“Trouble?” Paully asked.
“It’s not making sense,” Pacino said. The heat of the wet suit, the strain of putting it on in the stuffy stateroom while the ship rolled in the swells, the stress of being ordered to win a war that might not be winnable were all building into a world-class migraine headache. “Look, Paully, trying to attack the MSDF sub force with eight subs is a mistake. And geography is killing us too. The backside, the Sea of Japan, is too remote, yet that’s where the Russian resupply ships would be. Warner wants results in one day—”
“Typical.”
“—so I’d have to put something together for the Pacific side. That would leave the Sea of Japan with no US submarines. Which means that the Russians could run out the so
-called blockade and Warner gets mud on her face.”
“I say don’t worry about the Sea of Japan,” Paully said, stabbing his finger on the chart. “The Russians aren’t going to resupply from the east or the west — not after the Cheyenne put that supertanker on the bottom.”
“Go on.”
“Well, we’d be in big trouble if we hadn’t shot at one of the Russian ships, but we did. We sank the first guy dumb enough to run the blockade. We blew him to the bottom. They lost ten men, the whole crew.”
“They shouldn’t have had to die. The Cheyenne crew would have had to live with that the rest of their lives—”
“Hey, they’re dead, too.”
Pacino shook his head. The blockade had become a war and it was out of control. And he was the man responsible to the president to control it. By comparison, it had been so easy and so simple to just command a submarine, with all the relevant information at his fingertips. Now there were so many unknowns for the enemy as well as his own forces that his tactical decisions were going to come down to a series of guesses. He tried to remind himself that so much of his past success was based on hunches and guesswork, and that that was why he was here today. If his past intuitions in combat had been flawed he would be dead at the bottom of the Arctic Ocean or the Go Hai Bay or the Labrador Sea. Trust yourself, he commanded himself.
Paully was saying something. “Say again, Paully.”
“Okay, sir. We sank the supertanker Petersburg. Russia isn’t going to screw with another ship through the blockade — I’m amazed the Petersburg ran the blockade in the first place, because there’s no insurance for anyone running a blockade. Lloyd’s of London just laughs. You’re on your own.”
“I thought they would insure anything.”
“Oh, they will. The insurance premium for a billion dollar ship with, say, three hundred million dollars in crude would be, oh, about 1.3 billion. It doesn’t make any sense to insure it. Like I said, you’re on your own. The Russians had to pay for the loss of the Petersburg. That’s a couple billion dollars in anyone’s currency. You’ve spent your life welded into big sewer pipes, you don’t know squat about what makes the world go round. It’s money. Listen to me. A couple billion had to hurt and hurt bad. So the Russians, they’re not going to be anxious to lose another vessel. Yeah, the Japanese sank our battle group. But the battle group didn’t sink the Petersburg, our submarine did. And submarines are invisible. So no Russian merchant ship is gonna cross that line because for all they know we’ve got more submarines out there.”
Barracuda: Final Bearing mp-4 Page 27
