On the screen in front of him, the torpedo symbols inched closer and closer, their positions reported by the Lake Champlain from the cruiser’s sonar detections.
No time, no time. We’re not even all buttoned up — if it hits directly under the keel, we’re in serious trouble.
Outside the compartment, Coyote could hear feet pounding down passageways as sailors scrambled for their general quarter stations. The damage control crews were the most critical part of the entire evolution, since they would be the ones who determined whether or not Jeff stayed afloat.
If it hits. Just turning now — we may be able to confuse it.
Evasive maneuvers worked — at least in theory. How well depended on what type of torpedoes had been fired. The acoustic homers would have no difficulty tracking her, although a straight wake homer might be confused by a sudden change of course.
Suddenly, Lake Champlain skipper’s voice came over the circuit, ferocious joy in his voice. “Jeff, Champlain—they’re gone! My sonarmen said they simply slowed down then stopped. Massive explosions under the water, too, sir, immediately before. They were probably still on wire guidance, the Seawolf took out the submarine, and the torpedoes went stupid.”
Cheers broke out in TFCC, and Coyote drew in a deep, shuddering breath. So, the Seawolf was on the job — and just how had she accomplished this? Everything Coyote had read said that the Seawolf was tasked only as an intelligent asset pending relief on station.
The details spelled out in the P4 had been far more alarming. Coyote had whistled softly as he read it, unable to believe that the submarine’s watch section had gotten her underway without the captain or the XO on board. In fact, the senior line officer present on board was a lieutenant commander.
Coyote folded up the message and tucked it into his shirt pocket. “Good on you, Seawolf,” he said. He shuddered at the thought of being shorthanded so far below the surface of the ocean, while marveling at the man who had managed to pull it off. No, they weren’t aviators — but, for the first time in his career, he was awed by someone whose max speed was just over thirty knots.
USS Seawolf
0500 local (GMT-4)
Forsythe stood stunned, watching the silent death unfold on the sonar screen in front of him. All around him, the sonarman and the sailors mouthed quiet cheers, arms pumping vigorously in the air, pounding each other lightly on the back. Even in the midst of their exhilaration over a successful war shot, they remembered the first rule of life below the surface: Silence is safety.
The sonar chief jabbed Forsythe in the ribs. “Get with it, sir.” The chief stared at him with a silent intensity, as though willing Forsythe to read his mind. He let Forsythe see him glance around room, taking in the sailors and their silent celebrations, and then returned his gaze to Forsythe’s face, eyes narrowed, shoulders back.
Suddenly, Forsythe understood. The chief was doing the job that all chief petty officers do in the Navy, although under somewhat different circumstances. He was training a junior officer — the officer commanding the Seawolf, true, though only by a quirk fate, but a junior officer nonetheless.
The crew needed him, Forsythe realized. He had to show he approved of what they’d done to make the killing of the other submarine something that they could live with. Because, at some level, each of them knew what happened was not just pixels on a sonar screen. It was the death of the ship and her men, men very much like themselves. Russian, yes. Diesel-propelled instead of nuclear. But within the double-hull construction there were men with families who would miss them, sons and husbands who would never go home. And that, Forsythe realized, his own men must not be allowed to think about. Not now. Not yet.
Maybe someday, when they left the depths and were back on the surface, when they could look at what happened again in the sunlight, consider it without thinking immediately that it could have been them.
But, how to do that? Forsythe’s mind raced furiously, and he saw the chief’s face relaxed as he realized he’d made his point. How would Lieutenant Commander Cowlings have handled it?
Forsythe stood a little straighter, feeling the weight of command on his shoulders. He lifted his chin, braced slightly, and said, “Good job. Now let’s nail those other bastards.”
Otter and Pencehaven nodded in unison. “We’ll get them, sir,” Otter promised. “We’ll get them or I’ll volunteer to hot rack with him the rest of the cruise.”
Laughter broke out among the crew, although quiet, still so quiet. There would be no hot racking on this mission, Forsythe realized. That there would be little rack time at all didn’t seem to occur to them.
“All right — let’s make it three for three, shall we?” Forsythe asked. He turned to the sonar chief. “Chief, I need a recommended course and depth to intercept the next contact.”
“Due north, Captain,” the chief said, nodding in approval. “I recommend we make our approach below the layer — that seems to be working for us pretty well, I’d say.”
“Very well. Make it so.” What else? What am I forgetting? An after-action report, certainly, but there wasn’t time to stop and transmit it just yet. Maybe on ELF — were there appropriate codes for it?
A sudden, gut-wrenching thought occurred to him. He drew the chief off slightly to the side, and said, “Good job. You know what I mean.” The chief nodded. “But there’s something else. There could have been survivors, Chief.” He held up one hand to forestall comment. “I know, I’m not about to surface and take a look for them. But we need to alert somebody, just in case…” He couldn’t finish to sentence.
“They were shallow when it hit, Captain,” the chief said, emphasizing the last word ever so slightly as if to remind Forsythe who he was right now. “Real shallow. Plenty of time for most of them to make it out.” The chief considered the matter for moment, and said, “A message buoy, delayed transmission. I’ll set it for six hours. That will give us time to clear the area before it starts transmitting.” He shot a glance at his very junior captain. “I’m assuming you don’t want it screaming bloody murder directly overhead.”
“To whom?” Forsythe asked.
“Second Fleet. They’ll get the message to the appropriate civilian and military vessels in the area. I’m not sure whether Bermuda’s Coast Guard is going to be in any shape to respond, but there’s plenty of surface traffic in the area. And the water’s warm — they can wait it out if they’re smart.”
No hypothermia — just sharks. Forsythe remembered the briefings on the waters around Bermuda. The profusion of fishing and passenger vessels resulted in lots of garbage, which attracted sharks. That, and the warm-water fishing.
“Good thinking. Now, let’s go after that other one.” Forsythe turned and started to walk back into the control room. The chief cleared his throat. Forsythe turned. “Something else?”
“Yes, sir.” The chief came closer. “It’s about the crew, sir. They’re flying high now, and they will for a while. But, sooner or later, they’re going to start wearing out.” The chief passed him a piece of paper. On it were listed the most critical watch stations on the ship, with two names next each position. “Some of them are completely qualified, at least on paper. But, under the circumstances, everybody’s capable of handling most everything on each watch station. I recommend you give them about forty-five minutes, then stand half of them down for rack time. We’ll be transiting for awhile to get to the next operating area, and if there’s ever a chance to go skimpy on the watch, it would be now. Give the first group three hours off, then put the second crew down for three hours. Then restart the regular watches. We can keep that up a lot longer than if we keep everybody awake at once.”
“I’m not on here,” Forsythe said, as he scanned the list. That earned him a small wintry smile from the chief.
“No, sir. You’re not. The captain never is.
As Forsythe watched, acoustic signatures of the enemy torpedoes wavered across the screen. They moved from the right to the left, indicating
that they were slowing down. Finally, they trailed off the left edge of the screen and disappeared.
“Dead in the water,” Pencehaven said softly. “We snapped the wire before they could acquire the targets on their own.”
The chief grinned and slapped him on the back. “Unbroken record, right?”
Pencehaven nodded and tried not to look too pleased with himself.
“Record of what?” Forsythe asked.
“Of not buying drinks. After every deployment, every man and woman on the carrier wants to buy him a beer. I doubt he’s spent a penny on booze or food in the last two years. Right, Pencehaven?”
“I bought my mother dinner once.”
“Yeah. But then that frigate guy came up and bought you both a drink, didn’t he?” the other sonarman chimed in. “Besides, doesn’t count when it’s your mother.”
Forsythe put his hand on Pencehaven’s shoulder. “We get home, I’m buying you one myself. Hell, I’ll buy you an entire bar!”
ELEVEN
MiG 101
Armenia
1800 local (GMT+4)
Tombstone stared down the long, gleaming white expanse of concrete stretching out before him. The runway was comparable to any that he’d seen in the United States. Sure, there were a few differences in the placement of lights, the numbering system, but in general airfields all over the world had certain similarities. Function drove form. There had to be places to keep aircraft out of the weather. There had to be a way to fuel aircraft, a control tower, and at least some facilities for maintenance. Associated ground equipment and ground crew were another constant, and he had been impressed with how well the Armenians were trained. Had it not been for the accent of the tower controller, he would have believed that he was on an airfield somewhere in the United States.
The MiG itself was impeccably maintained. Its engines thrummed with a comforting rhythm, and even if pitched differently from a Tomcat, reassuring all the same. His aircraft wanted to fly, surged against the brakes as he held her back, coming up to military power in preparation for takeoff.
After his first lesson in the MiG, he’d come to a new appreciation of the MiG’s capabilities. Before, he’d seen MiGs primarily as adversaries with weaknesses that he memorized and exploited. Now, her weaknesses were something he had very much in mind. Primary among them was the appetite of this MiG and the relatively small size of the fuel tanks. She also carried a lighter loadout of ordinance, more on par with what a Hornet would handle than his own massive Tomcat.
On the upside, she was more nimble, quicker to turn in the air and to gain altitude. And, during ascent, she could manage a full negative angle that a Tomcat couldn’t match. Aerodynamically, she was an exceptionally stable, nimble fighter. In air-to-air combat situations, he would not have minded flying her.
But this was an air-to-ground mission, and the lighter loadout of ordinance worried him. Still, a dirt mission might be preferable to ACM. In air-to-air combat, decades of flying the Tomcat would influence his every decision, and he thought that he might miss exploiting some advantage that the lighter aircraft had. With air-to-ground, the adversary stayed the same.
“We’re very certain of this,” Russo had said. “Our intelligence sources are, well, let’s just say they are highly placed. He will be leaving Chechnya tomorrow afternoon, and this will be our last opportunity for a strike.”
“Our last chance for a ground strike,” Tombstone had corrected.
“Yes, of course. But, that’s far preferable to having to track him down after he launches. The difficulties inherent in shooting him down over a populated area are considerable. The whole point is to avoid civilian casualties, and we could help his cause more by shooting him down over a hospital or an orphanage.
Tombstone nodded. Yes, this was a way to do it, although both of them had pointedly avoided mentioning how many people on the ground at his base might be killed as well.
But those were the military people, weren’t they? And that made a difference, didn’t it? They had to know when they’d signed on with a renegade that they were putting their lives at risk for something like this.
“Hunter, you’re cleared for takeoff. Launch at your discretion.”
Tombstone disengaged brakes. The MiG surged underneath him, hungry to be airborne. As he had every time for the last two days, Tombstone marveled at her sheer speed, her willingness to slip the surly bonds of Earth. Such a long runway, and so little of it needed.
The MiG sliced through the cold air like a scalpel through skin. The cold air was dense, and provided more lift, virtually vaulting her into the air.
His orders had been explicit. Once they were clear of the Armenian airfield, there would be no further contact from any of the air controllers. The forces on the ground were simply told that he was a military aircraft on independent operations.
“So far, so good,” Greene said over ICS. “Now, as long as the Armenian’s intelligence is good, we’re okay.”
The photographs Russo had showed them were obviously taken from a satellite. The resolution was grainy and the details less distinct than Tombstone expected from American satellite shots. At first, he was inclined to chalk that off to inferior technology, and then he caught himself. Would Americans show the very best satellite shots to a foreign national? No. Tombstone knew better than that from countless Allied and NATO briefings. Even the closest allies were shown products that did not reveal the full capabilities of the system. Why would foreign nations do anything else?
So, Tombstone had fished delicately for details, asking questions about the better photographs. Russo had answered each question with more detail. Perhaps it was ground intelligence, but Tombstone doubted it. The Russian fighter-jock priest knew more than he was telling. And, had their situations been reversed, Tombstone would have done exactly the same thing.
“A little late to be worrying about the intell, isn’t it?” Tombstone asked.
“Better late than never,” Greene grumbled.
And what was it with his young pilot? For the last twenty-four hours he’d been in a surly mood. Not openly disrespectful or contentious, but Tombstone could tell he had something on his mind. A less than successful encounter with one of the Armenia women he’d been introduced to? Or maybe a touch of the flu — maybe even doubts about his mission. Well, whatever it was, he better not let it affect his performance in the backseat.
Chechen Camp
1810 local (GMT+4)
Warrant Officer Joseph Starskii had never intended to be a rebel. Most certainly, he had not intended to be part of a losing rebel force trapped in a makeshift camp, working on radar that had been modern during Stalin’s days, and under the command of officers and senior warrant officers far more brutal than those he’d known in the Russian Naval Air Service. He most certainly had never planned on military field rations as his primary subsistence.
Starskii had been comfortably retired from the service for three years and living in his native Chechnya. Sure, there were food and fuel shortages, but he had a hard time imagining any part of the world where that wasn’t so. He had a small garden, a few chickens, and, while it was hardly a luxurious or even dependable life, there were no inspections, no officers, and nobody shooting at him.
All that had changed during the first Chechen rebellion. Momentarily caught up in the furor of patriotism sweeping across the area, he had reported as ordered to the rebel commander. Once they’d found out that he could not only operate a radar but repair one as well, his fate had been sealed.
The rebel forces had spent the last five days on full alert, and the strain was starting to show. Tempers flared, careless accidents happened, and conditions were made no easier by cold military rations as their only food, and by rudimentary sanitary facilities. They smelled of too many men too long unshowered and the stench filled their operations center, although you didn’t notice after the first thirty minutes. But the initial shock of it during the moments you first walked inside was enough to stu
n you. It made concentrating on briefings difficult.
Even knowing they might be attacked at any moment did little to increase the state of alertness. There was only so long you could run on adrenaline, only so long, and they’d passed that point weeks ago. Now, it was a matter of conserving resources, waiting for the moment you had to act or die.
Starskii checked the contact on the screen, noting that it was radiating the appropriate IFF signal for a civilian airliner, Aeroflot, and their location matched flight plans already on file. They were the same flights he’d seen on the last two watches, and there was nothing out of the ordinary.
Suddenly, from the front of the room, he heard raised voices. Both were readily recognizable. One was his immediate supervisor, the watch officer, and the other was their operational commander. Comrade General Korsov.
The watch officer wasn’t a bad guy. They’d shared a few drinks off duty and had cautiously felt each other out on their respective views on the Chechen forces and prospects. Under different circumstances, they would have been close friends.
Korsov, however, was another matter altogether. The few times Starskii had encountered him, it had had the unexpected result of refiring his passion for the Chechen cause. Korsov represented everything bad Starskii had ever seen in the Russian Naval Air Force.
“I don’t care who told you, it was still a violation of operational security,” Korsov shouted. “If we are so sloppy with planning, how will we be during the execution?”
Starskii’s supervisor’s voice was at first placating, then defensive. “How can you expect us to do our jobs if we don’t have adequate information? If we’re not notified when you expect to launch, we would assume that you were hostile air.”
“You would have provided confirmation of my flight’s identity,” the Russian shouted. “And now, you fool, you have compromised the entire evolution.”
“I have compromised? Sir, I was simply told that your aircraft would be departing this evening.”
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