Quest of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  There were shouts of anger and anguish. Okuma’s voice was trembling, “You said turnaround time could be twenty-four hours, Admiral.”

  “Possible.”

  The bomber leader glanced at his watch. “When do we get our chance at vengeance, sir?”

  “If the gods are with us, very soon,” Fujita answered, grimly.

  “I will charge through a wall of iron to wet my sword,” Okuma shouted, waving his fist at the sky. He glanced at Allen out of the corner of his eye. “If your friends on Ohio are awake.”

  “Awake?” Allen challenged, angrily.

  “Yes. I know about submarine duty. It is easy. They just lie on the bottom and sleep. The men are here — fighting.”

  “Try it, someday,” Mark Allen said, voice heavy with emotion. “Just try it.”

  “When I need a vacation,” the pilot sneered.

  Commander Norman Veal was dozing in his cabin when the phone buzzed. He heard the OD, Larry Martin, speaking. “World War Three reporting, sir. The Libyan cans are standing out like Godzilla through Tokyo.”

  “Are they pinging?”

  “Yes, sir. Pinging and playing handball with empty oil drums.”

  “General quarters.”

  By the time Norman Veal reached the command and control center, the flashing lights and cursing petty officers had called the one hundred forty-two man crew to their battle stations. As Veal took his position behind the sonar consoles, Barr’s voice droned in his ear, “Torpedo room manned and ready, engine room manned and ready, ESM…”

  “Very well, very well,” Veal repeated. Finally, after acknowledging “Condition Zed set,” he spoke to Barr. “Depth under keel?”

  “Thirty-eight fathoms, sir.”

  To Martin the officer he was actually relieving: “Depth course, speed, position?”

  “As per your orders, sir — forty feet, course zero-nine-zero, speed three. We are seven miles from the sea buoy on a bearing of zero-two-seven, true.”

  “Left full rudder, steady up on zero-two-seven.” The helmsman, seated at a command console, repeated the order and watched his display as he turned his wheel to port.

  “Steady on zero-two-seven,” the helmsman said.

  “Rudder amidship, all stop,” Veal said. He turned to Chief Payne, “Sonar?”

  “I’ve got the two Libyan cans that stood in yesterday, sir.”

  “The freighters?”

  “Hard to tell, sir. They’re in a column and I’m getting a mix of screw cavitations.” He hunched over, staring at his display and clutching his earphone. “Yes. I pick up heavy screws — slow revs.”

  “I want to know the exact moment the lead ship passes the sea buoy.”

  “Stand by, sir,” Payne said. “He’s almost there.” Silence. Payne tapped his console slowly with a clenched fist as if he were counting. “Mark!”

  “Fourteen hundred hours,” Veal said, glancing at a bulkhead mounted clock.

  “Hot damn!” Martin shouted. “Right on. I just took you suckers for a hundred-ten bucks.” Everyone chuckled.

  “If you don’t mind, Mister Martin,” Veal said with exaggerated courtesy, “I’d like to continue with this operation.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “Up scope!” The stop below the surface and a quick check by ESM verified six S-band radars; four seaborne, the other two land-based. Veal spoke to Quartermaster First Class Ashworth, “Search scope at zero-zero-zero relative.” The rating repeated the command and adjusted the scope, reading the scale on the tube.

  Veal turned to Payne. “Sonar. I want to know when the last ship clears the channel.”

  “Last ship, sir.” For several minutes there was silence in the ship. Then, gradually, the sounds of screws and the pinging of sonar became audible. Veal’s impulse was to take Ohio to the bottom, turn off everything except life support and hide under thermoclines. But he knew he needed visual verification. He set his jaw.

  Payne spoke, “Last ship, sir. They’re on course one-nine-zero, speed fourteen. They should pass within four thousand yards of our port side, sir.”

  “Very well. Up scope.” A six-second search showed the two Gearings leading the plodding Mabruk and Al Hamra.

  “Down scope!” Veal turned to Barr. “To COMSUB-PAC. Report two Gearings escorting Mabruk and Al Hamra. Include course, speed, position and time of sighting.”

  “The BRT-1 and TACAMO, sir.”

  Veal pondered for a moment. The BRT-1 transmitting buoy could be left astern of the submarine and be programmed to transmit a delayed report from a cassette. But Ohio would still be in the vicinity. TACAMO (Take Charge and Move Out) sent a compressed computerized code to a Lockheed Constellation, orbiting over the western Pacific with a three-mile trailing-wire antenna. A millisecond burst at 200 kilowatts was all that was required. Veal raised his head. The ship sounds were fading and the pinging was almost inaudible. “Sonar! The convoy?”

  Payne answered. “Holding course one-nine-zero, speed fourteen, last ship bearing two-zero-zero, range seven.”

  “Very well.” Veal spoke to his XO, “Mister Barr, have the radio room prepare to send the message. TACAMO only.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” Barr spoke into his headset.

  Veal turned to Quartermaster Ash wood. “Raise radio antenna on my mark.”

  “Radio room’s ready, sir,” Barr said.

  “Mark!” Veal said, staring at Ashwood. There was a whir of a motor and the whip antenna shot upward.

  A green light glowed on a command console and a technician shouted “Locked, sir.”

  “Transmit! Veal shouted.

  “Complete, sir,” came back almost immediately.

  “Down scope. All ahead slow. Right standard rudder.”

  At that moment Chief Payne shouted one of the most feared words known to submariners, “Sonobuoy! I have two bearing at one-one-zero and two-two-three, range two miles — must be a chopper.”

  Veal stepped back of the sonar consoles and stared at Payne’s display where two jagged lines stretched across the middle of the scope and broken rows of dots across the bottom of the tube indicated pinging. Suddenly, the pinging on two frequencies became audible, penetrating the hull’s rubber tiles and sending bolts of fear through one-hundred-forty-two hearts. Choking back the anxiety, Veal spoke in a calm voice, “How far apart are the buoys?”

  “Three miles, sir.”

  “Passing zero-three-zero, sir,” came from the helmsman.

  “Rudder amidships. Steady on zero-four-zero.” Veal stared at the display. “Chief, give me a true bearing midway between the buoys.”

  Payne struck a key. “One-four-zero.”

  Veal stepped back to his station behind the scopes, “Helmsman, right full rudder, steady up on one-four-zero.” To Barr, “Depth under keel?”

  “Forty fathoms, sir.”

  “Steady on one-four-zero, sir.”

  “Very well.”

  Payne’s voice galvanized everyone in the compartment, “Sir, I have hull-popping and machinery noises — a sub bearing zero-two-zero, range eleven thousand yards.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “It’s a Victor Two, sir. Verified by my threat library. Her bearing is constant, sir, and she’s closing at a high speed.”

  “Very well.” Veal was surprised by the steadiness of his own voice. They were in serious trouble. The five-thousand-ton Victor was the best attack sub in the Russian Navy. Equipped with the latest sonar and homing torpedoes, the boat was designed to kill ballistic submarines. And there was a chopper overhead. No telling how long the Victor had been stalking them. No doubt she had lain on the bottom shut down, waiting for Ohio to make a move perhaps, for days. He had tracked and been tracked by Russian submarines many times — had played at war with Russian skippers like a little boy playing with grown-up toys. In fact, by computer, he had been sunk once and made three kills. But this boat was very close, very aggressive and he was in Russian waters. She was a far greater threat than the chopp
er. He’d give her his bow — his smallest profile, “Right standard rudder. Steady on one-six-zero.”

  “One-six-zero, sir.”

  “She’s pinging, sir, and — and she’s flooding her tubes.”

  Flooding her tubes! That's not part of the game, ran through his mind. He had trouble swallowing, but managed a calm, “Very well.”

  The Victor’s pings were powerful and well directed, vibrating through the hull like a ball-peen hammer striking an empty tank. “Arrogant bastard,” Veal said. “They’ve got us, but we’ve got them.” He turned to Barr, “If he wants to play hard ball, so can we. Fire control, set it up. Flood one, two, three and four.”

  Barr threw a switch and the bow-mounted BQS-14 fire control sonar ripped the water with powerful low-frequency pulses, a fearful sound that shouted a warning into the depths. Quickly, rows of green lights lit up on his attack console. “Set up, sir. Ready for all tubes.”

  “Good. If he shoots, we shoot.” Veal turned to the diving officer, “Take her down to two hundred feet.” To Barr, “Speed ten.”

  With full down on the planes and water rushing into ballast tanks replacing vented air, Ohio's bow dropped and she clawed for the safety of the depths, her hull creaking and popping as the pressure increased. “Passing one hundred feet, sir.” Tyszkiewicz said. “Very well. Level off at two hundred.”

  Barr said, “Christ, sir. We’re making more noise than a French whorehouse on a Saturday night.”

  “I know, Mister Barr. He knows where we are and if he wants WW Three, let him start it here and now.” Payne’s words exploded in the command center like a grenade. “High-speed propellers — torpedo in the water, bearing zero-zero-five, range eight thousand — it’s pinging. And I have another one — two torpedoes, sir.” Years of training poured commands from Veal’s lips automatically, like a controlled torrent through a flood gate, “Let go four noisemakers, fire torpedoes one and two, cut the wires, all ahead flank, left full rudder, steady on one-zero-five.”

  Veal’s maneuver was simple; he would cut a huge swath of turbulence in the sea and leave the noisemakers in the maelstrom. Simple devices, the noisemakers were made of small gas canisters which boiled out streams of noisy bubbles and he would leave them in his boiling wake behind and above the sub, hoping the enemy’s torpedoes would be decoyed while Ohio came to flank speed and headed for the friendly depths of the open Pacific.

  “Torpedoes and noisemakers away, sir,” Barr said.

  “Very well. Speed? Depth?”

  “Thirty-two knots and increasing, sir,” the helmsman answered, glancing at his speed log.

  “Level at two-hundred,” Tyszliewicz said.

  As Veal watched the contact lines on the attack monitor — a thick, dull line denoting the Victor, bright, thin lines torpedoes — move right and then left, the high-pitched whine and pinging sounds grew in intensity off the starboard side. “Torpedoes five hundred yards off the starboard bow, sir,” Payne said.

  Scores of eyes scanned the starboard side as if it were possible to see the doom approaching through the steel of the double hull. Gradually, the pitch Dopplered down. “They’re passing — passing,” Veal exulted to himself.

  “Steady on one-zero-five, speed forty, sir,” came from the helmsman.

  “They’ve gone for the noisemakers,” Barr shouted. “You’re a genius, Captain.”

  Two lines on the display merged and a bright light blossomed like a burning moth. Immediately, a low rumble like a volcano erupting shook the ship. Everyone shuddered and winced. “We got her! We got her!” Payne shouted. “Ship breaking up sounds, sir.”

  “All stop!” Veal grabbed an earphone. There was the sound of crashing and ripping steel, hollow booms, rushing water and shrieks. The sounds of bulkheads letting go? Or did he hear the screams of a crew dying in a sudden pressure change that caused the air to ignite? With his head spinning and stomach churning, the earphone slipped from his fingers and he walked back to his station on unsteady legs. “Log it, Mister Barr,” he said, gripping his forehead with a sweaty palm.

  “Report to COMSUBPAC, sir?”

  Wearily, the captain shook his head while the crew stole sidelong glances. “Negative. The chopper may still be hunting us and I don’t want this on the air, yet. All hell’s going to break loose when the Russkies miss this Victor. We’ll drop a BRT-1 and take our patrol eight miles seaward. Set it to transmit two hours from now.” He looked at his watch, “1630 hours.”

  “Aye, aye, sir. I’ll set the transmission for 1630 hours,” Barr repeated, writing in the log.

  Veal turned his head slowly. He could still hear the occasional crash of collapsing compartments and the bubbling sound of escaping air. But, mercifully, the shrieking sounds were gone. He had never in his life killed an animal; not a bird, a rabbit, a squirrel. But now, using his equipment, his men and his skill, he had snuffed out a hundred lives. Had he started the war they all feared? Dully, he moved his eyes around the compartment. His crewmen were staring back. Their eyes seemed to be saying, “You just killed a hundred men.”

  Veal heard himself pleading, “They tried to kill us. Don’t you understand? I had no choice.”

  “We know, sir,” Barr said softly. Suddenly, the captain needed isolation. “Take the deck, Mister Barr,” he said, turning toward his cabin. Quietly, the eyes followed him as he left the compartment.

  Chapter Eleven

  The message was logged in at 1710 and the staff was assembled by 1730.

  Fujita stared down the table at Mark Allen. “Admiral Allen,” he said. “Your friend, Norman Veal, has done his job. The two Gearings3 Mabruk and Al Hamra stood out at 1400 hours.”

  “Banzai,” filled the room.

  Fujita’s voice stilled the shouts. “We will increase speed to twenty knots.” He pushed himself to his feet and walked in short, jerky steps to the chart. Picking up the pointer, he stabbed the Sea of Japan and then moved the rubber tip south to the Korean Straits. “At fourteen knots, they will enter the Korean Straits in forty-seven hours.” He continued south to the East China Sea. “But we will be here, south of Kyushu in a position to intercept them in thirty hours.”

  More shouts of “Banzai!” He turned to Yoshi Matsuhara. “We will be within easy range of North Korea and China. I expect continuous, alert reconnaissance.”

  “Yes, sir,” Yoshi said. “A B 5 N in each quadrant.” He tapped the table. “Shall we overfly Chinese and Korean air space, sir?”

  “Yes. Damn their air space. I want eyes.”

  “Aye, aye, sir. With your permission, we will begin our patrols at 0500 tomorrow morning.”

  “Very well. CAP?”

  “Six Zeros, Admiral,” Yoshi said.

  “Increase it to twelve when we cross the one-hundred-twenty-eighth meridian”

  “Yes, Admiral.”

  Fujita inclined his head toward Admiral Allen. “Admiral, the CIA man, Jason King, is not on board?”

  “He never returned from the American Embassy,” Allen said. “Something’s afoot, Admiral Fujita.”

  “Is this a guess?”

  Mark Allen scratched his chin meditatively. “Educated, sir.”

  “Educated?”

  “Yes, sir. There has been a huge volume of top secret traffic on Arab frequencies and NIS has not picked up a single transmission from the Arab carriers, cruisers or destroyers in over a week.”

  “Aircraft?”

  “Not even plane to plane voice, Admiral Fujita, and those circuits are usually heavily congested.” Mark Allen drummed a stack of documents on the table. “Sir, I would like to point out, this evidence indicates the two carriers are at sea.”

  “I am aware of this, Admiral Allen.” Fujita glanced down at scribbled notes in a brown leather book. “Khadafy has a Majestic class carrier, a new Spanish carrier converted from — ah, Vertical take-off carrier, at least two cruisers with 5.25-inch and 4.5-inch guns and a dozen Gearing class destroyers.”

  Mark Allen looked at his own no
tes. “Correct, sir. I’m sure they’re at sea, Admiral. While we’re advancing on the convoy, they could be sneaking up behind us.” He gestured to the chart. “Place themselves between us and our bases.”

  Fujita’s tone was curt. “I am also aware of that, Admiral Allen.” He returned to the chart. He spoke thoughtfully, “Trepang is still in the South China Sea?”

  “Yes, sir,” Allen answered. “Trepang or one of her sisters.”

  Fujita’s pointer found Indonesia, traced a line between Sumatra and Malaysia. “Nothing can exit the Straits of Malacca without being sighted by one of your submarines.”

  Commander Tashiro Okuma interrupted the exchange. “Sir, they could steam around South America.”

  “And across the Pacific?” Fujita said disdainfully. And then like a teacher to pupil, “Fuel, Commander! That route would require tankers. Three or four fueling rendezvous.” He shook his head and returned to the chart. “No. If they come, it will be through the Straits.” And then bitterly, “Indonesia will provide all the fuel they need and they can head north into the South China Sea with full tanks.”

  “Sir,” Brent Ross said. “We’ve got to assume they’re coming — isn’t that true?”

  Fujita surprised everyone. “I always have.”

  Mark Allen returned to the conversation, an incredulous tone edging his voice. “You assume you’re being trapped and you would walk into it?”

  Fujita tapped the bony knuckles of his tiny fists together. “They can only come from the south, Admiral.” He raised the pointer. “Asia is to the west, Japan to the north and east, the Pacific to the southeast. They will steam north through restricted waters.” He ran the pointer northward from Indonesia. “This channel is flanked by Borneo, Malaysia, the Philippines, and Formosa.” He turned, lowered the pointer. “Who will be the worm and who will be the trout?” The rhetorical question hung in the air unanswered as Fujita continued, “We samurai have a saying. ‘Never has a sleeping fox had a chicken walk into his mouth’.” The Japanese chuckled. “We will open our mouth but keep both eyes open, too.”