"Look, what did you say your name was again?" Simpson asked. "Do I need to get out the lines that the CNO himself can call you and tell you to listen to me?"
"You know we don't pass names over an unclear circuit," the intelligence officer on the other end replied coolly. "And I think I'm capable of evaluating your information without the CNO's oversight."
"Then you'd damned well better get moving, mister," Simpson snapped. "I make the distance between that submarine and your aircraft carrier less than eight thousand yards right now. Unless you've got two helos airborne right now, enroute his datum, you'd better head to your abandon-ship positions."
Silence on the other end for a moment, and he could hear muffled voices on the other end, as though a hand were covering the receiver. Watching the carrier as he waited, he saw a helicopter aft of her, which had clearly been in plane guard duties, veer away sharply and head toward Heaven Can Wait.
"I see your helo," Simpson said, his voice now calm and collected. At least they were doing something. It might not be enough, but at least they'd go down fighting. "Tell him to come to his left a bit more-yes, that's it," he said as the helicopter corrected its course. "He
should be overhead the location in about five seconds.
There."
A thin sliver of metal separated from the undercarriage of the helicopter and fell blunt end down toward the water. The splash it made was quickly lost in the gentle
swells.
"All right, Jefferson?" Simpson howled. He turned to face his wife, glee on his face. "He listened to us-that asshole finally listened!"
A look of stark horror swept over Adele's face. Her face was pasty white, her finger trembling as she pointed toward the water behind Jack's back. "How-how far away from us is it?" she asked, her voice quavering.
Jack felt like a heavyweight champion had just landed a punch to his gut. He felt his own features start to mirror hers as he turned around to look. "Maybe two thousand yards," he said, already running for the controls.
"And what's the max range?" Adele asked, close behind him.
"Too much. If it doesn't find the submarine right off, it'll start circling for another target. Depending on whether it's a wake homer or an acoustic homer, it will try to acquire an acceptable target."
"Like us?" Adele asked.
Jack shook his head. "Most torpedoes have a depth setting on them. They won't attack a surface ship."
"Most. Not all." It was clear from Adele's voice it was not a question.
Jack nodded once, his hand already rock solid on the throttle controls, his other whipping the wheel around. "Most."
He kicked Heaven Can Wait up to top speed, and felt the boat surge powerfully under his feet. Adele, forewarned by watching him, was firmly anchored with her hands clamped down on the railing.
"Not to worry," Jack said, with more confidence than he actually felt. "We'll soon be out of range."
"How fast do they go?" Adele asked.
"Later, Adele," he said, casting an anxious look back over his shoulder.
"How fast?" she insisted.
"Fifty knots, some of them," he shouted, the noise from the water and the engine already drowning out his voice. "Some of them."
He saw Adele brace herself against the vibration of the boat as it slammed up and down violently against the swells. The gentle water that had rocked them into their afternoon nap was now hard as cement as the boat accelerated rapidly to its top speeds of forty-five knots. Heaven Can Wait was a capable ship, but she was not built to endure high-speed chases through these seas for too long. She'd be all right for a while, though-long enough for them to clear the area.
Jack heard a tinny voice speaking somewhere in the area, and he glanced down at the cell phone in his shirt pocket. They were calling him, asking him something, but right now he couldn't take his hands off the controls long enough to answer. Adele solved his problem for him, plucking the cell phone out of his pocket, keeping one hand firmly in place on the railing. "You'll have to speak up," she shouted into the phone. She held it close to her ear, nodded once, then looked over at Jim and smiled. "What's the depth setting on the torpedo, sir?" she asked into the phone.
The answer came, and was evidently satisfactory. Despite the pounding of the boat, she relaxed ever so slightly. "I understand-yes, we'll keep the line open."
She looked up at Jack and smiled. "He said it's set for forty feet, shallow for a diesel submarine, b ut still deep enough to avoid most of the pleasure craft in the bay."
Good thinking, Simpson thought. And just how the hell had they managed to put the pieces together so quickly and change the depth settings on a no-notice submarine problem?
Maybe it wasn't as no-notice as you think, one part of his mind suggested. After all, they are the United States Navy, and you're just a reservist.
"He said keep an eye out for any explosions or debris," Adele shouted, clearly relieved that they were outrunning the torpedo. What she didn't know, Jack thought, was that a margin of error was built into every intelligence estimate of their range.
He concentrated on ship handling while Adele kept a sharp eye aft for any information that could be related to the carrier. Five minutes later, he was relatively certain they were out of danger. He throttled back into a comfortable cruising speed and changed course slightly. "Still talking to them?" he asked in a more normal tone of voice.
Adele nodded. "But he said he might be too busy to talk to me for a few minutes. Jack, they're talking about MiGs." Her deep blue eyes pleaded for reassurance.
"MiGs are fighters," he said, drawing her close with the hand that had been on the throttles earlier. "They're interested in other aircraft, not little pleasure boats like us."
"But what if they know? What if they know that we're the ones who reported the submarine?"
"They won't." For the second time in as many minutes, Jack had spoken with more confidence than he felt.
"But look," Adele said, pointing back toward the vessel they'd seen heading for the carrier. "Somebody is shooting at the water, aren't they?"
A slight buzz, barely at the edge of their perception. Aircraft unlimbering their nose guns.
"Yeah, they are," he admitted reluctantly. "But those aren't MiGs, honey. Those are Tomcats-F-14s. The good guys. And just to be safe, I think we'd better get out of the area," he said, releasing her to goose the boat back up to a higher speed, settling it in at around thirty-five knots, well below maximum but still faster than was comfortable.
"If those are Tomcats, then who are those?" Adele said, pointing back toward the mainland.
Sunlight glinted off four sets of wings as new aircraft barreled directly toward them.
"Let's not wait to find out. Hand me the cell phone." Jack reached out and took it from Adele. "You still there?"
"Yes, Captain, we are." There was a new note of civility in the other officer's voice. "Any reports on our torpedo run?"
Jack refrained from pointing out that he'd been a little busy getting out of range to watch carefully, but said, "No sign. No explosions, no water spouts, no debris. I'd count this one a miss, sir."
"I was afraid of that. Well, you've got the number, now."
"Wait. That small boat that's got Tomcats overhead- if you haven't seen it already, I think they're about to have playmates. Four other aircraft, look to be MiGs, maybe a twenty-nine, maybe a thirty-three, I can't tell, yet, but they're headed directly for your Tomcats."
"Got'em," the voice from the carrier said. "We're going to be a little bit busy here for a while. Suggest you clear the area. You don't want to be directly underneath-well, just clear the area. Check back in with me when you're at a secure location."
The line went dead. Jack pushed the off button to conserve energy. Sure, now they tell him to clear the
area. Even if it was too little too late, it was still good advice.
"You watch the aircraft, I'll watch the water," he said, handing over the steering to Adele. "Just stay
to this heading until we're out of sight of all of this."
TFCC
USS Jefferson
1030 local (GMT-IO)
The helo attack on the submarine first reported by Centurion had taken up most of Bam-Bam's attention for the fast several minutes. While he waited for damage reports or any indication that the sub had been hit, he turned his attention back to the two small boats converging on the. carrier. The lead helo reported that the submarine contact had not been hit, and that it had turned tail and was running back into the Centurion's area of responsibility. Bam-Bam ordered them to break off prosecution and leave the bastard to Centurion's tender care. Now, with one of the small boats identified, he turned his attention back to the one still in doubt.
"What the hell's going on out there?" Batman roared. "That can't be Stony, not if the Chinese are so eager to keep us from taking a shot at that boat."
Lab Rat shook his head. "But why would they be sending a small boat out toward the carrier?"
"Hell, I don't know," Batman raged. "Spotter for the submarine, maybe a kamikaze-type suicide mission. We've been over the scenarios often enough, over the damage a small boat can do to this bird farm. You're the intelligence officer-you tell me why!"
Lab Rat felt a slight shiver run through his fingers, and
clasped his hands in front of him to keep it from showing. Too many hours, too many long hours crouched in front of consoles, hot air blasting down his neck while the metal in front of him radiated heat, trying to sort through the often contradictory indications and warnings, electronic intercepts, and other intelligence that came pouring into SCIF. The first strike on Pearl Harbor had only been days before, but already he felt twenty years older, the sheer horror of it, the unbelievable anger raging through the ship that anyone would dare reach out and touch American soil.
"Well?" Batman demanded. "Who is it, Lab Rat? Stony or some Chinese deception plan to get in close to the carrier?"
"It's ours," Lab Rat said.
"You certain?"
Lab Rat shook his head. "There aren't any certainties in this world. You know that, Admiral." He raised his head, clenched his hands even tighter, and stared at the more senior officer.
Batman looked astounded. Lab Rat was normally the most calm and confident of all his officers, invariably quiet and well-spoken. It was unthinkable for him to be anything but completely courteous. But what do you expect, one part of Batman's mind asked. You ask the impossible. Just because the impossible has happened-this whole attack-you expect equal miracles for your side?
"So how do we tell?" Batman said in a more reasonable tone of voice. "Within the next three minutes, I mean." He pointed at the screen. "Because when that blue gaggle intersects that red gaggle, we've got no more choices left to make."
"I have an asset in the area," Lab Rat said immediately. He fished his cell phone out of his pocket and punched in the number that Jack Simpson had given him. "I don't
know if they're close enough to tell, but maybe. Hell, there's even a chance that they're not who they claim to be. But under the circumstances, it's worth a shot." He plugged the jack in the back of the phone into a patch panel nearby, circumventing the carrier's electromagnetic shielding by wiring its small internal antenna to one of the massive arrays atop the carrier's mast. He listened to the ring signal, and then said, "This is the carrier. I've got a question for you to answer for us."
his admiration for the fierce warrior he'd married.
Before Adele had even hung up, he'd turned toward the small boat that they'd seen flashing light at the carrier. Within five minutes, staring through the binoculars, he had his answer.
"Hit redial," he said, as he approached the other vessel. "Tell them that whoever is on that boat, they're not Chinese."
Heaven Can Wait
1031 local (GMT-IO)
"You want us to what?" Jack Simpson asked. "Conduct
an intercept?"
"That's right," the other voice said firmly. "We have to know who's on that pleasure craft-good guys or bad guys. And as you might notice, our fighters are otherwise engaged at the moment."
"Yeah, but-" Jack glanced over at his wife. An offended expression started to cross her face. She reached out and grabbed the phone from Jack.
"What is it you need to know?" she demanded.
There was a pause, then the voice said, "As I was telling your husband, we need to know who's on that pleasure craft. Can you get back in and see if it's Americans or Chinese?"
"Of course we can," she said firmly. "My husband is an officer-and I'm an officer's wife. We're on our way." She handed the phone back to her husband, a fierce expression on her face. "Don't ever let me catch you pulling that shit again, you understand?"
Jack could only nod, speechless and overwhelmed by his admiration for the fierce warrior he'd married.
Before Adele had even hung up, he'd turned toward the small boat that they'd seen flashing light at the carrier. Within five minutes, staring through the binoculars, he had his answer.
"Hit redial," he said, as he approached the other vessel. 'Tell them that whoever is on that boat, they're not Chinese."
Tomcat 201
1035 local (GMT-IO)
"That's it," Bird Dog said. "Little bastard's at two and a half miles. He's toast."
"Hey," Gator protested. "Two miles. And we're weapons tight."
"And he's not. Look." Bird Dog rolled over inverted and stared down-up-at the surface of the water. "You see that group up forward? Ten gets you twenty that's a Stinger they're holding."
"Bird Dog, you ass. Roll this bitch back over before I puke." The sight of the sea rushing by, seemingly just outside the canopy, was disconcerting.
"Did you see it?" Bird Dog asked, swiftly rolling back into the proper orientation.
"I didn't see shit that looked like a Stinger."
"You weren't looking hard enough."
"Hard enough to see that that looked like Navy uniforms they had on."
"Bullshit. Just tan pants and shirts. And there was a guy in BDUs, too. Carrying a machine gun."
"I didn't see a machine gun, either," Gator argued. "For all you know, that's a charter out of the Officers'
Boat Club that got caught out on the harbor when it all went down. It could be that they're trying to get back to Jefferson because that's where they came from.
"Bullshit," Bi rd Dog repeated. "By the time I come back around and get in position, they're going to be at two miles."
"I know. Okay, line up on them, but you're still weapons tight, remember," Gator said.
"Weapon's tight my ass. Lobo wasn't all that weapons tight the other day and she went after a MiG," Bird Dog muttered.
"Oh, so that's what this is about? Your girl chases a MiG, you gotta chase something?"
"No."
"You happen to see Lobo's name on the flight line when we launched?" Gator pressed. "Or Hot Rock? Or their RIOs?"
"No," Bird Dog said, doubt in his voice now. As he talked, he put the Tomcat in a hard bank, crossed over the bumpy stream of his own exhaust, descended another hundred feet and lined up on the stern of the boat. He toggled off a short burst of gunfire, the rounds striking the water two hundred feet off the starboard side of the boat. Every tenth round was a tracer. Even if the boat had missed the sound of the Vulcan canon or the stitches of water, they would have seen the tracer rounds.
"Stop that right now," Gator snapped.
"Just verifying that I'm mission capable, RIO," Bird Dog said innocently. "What's your problem?"
"The reason you don't see them on the flight deck is because they're grounded, asshole. Maybe permanently. And Batman didn't take any prisoners-he grounded the fucking RIOs too, for not having the balls to keep their pilots under control. So hear me when I tell you this- you fire off one round, one single round, before you're
weapons free and I'm punching out. By myself. You can hightail it back to the carrier and explain to Batman and CAG why you came back without
your RIO and your canopy, and why you fired on an unarmed civilian boat. You got that?"
"If I hit it, it's because I'm weapons free and it's inbound on the carrier,"
"Fine. Find yourself another RIO," Gator snapped.
"You're always threatening me like that, and you haven't punched out yet," Bird Dog observed. He was now barely a quarter mile astern of the boat. He jogged back slightly on the throttle and retrimmed the aircraft for level flight. "You don't have the balls to do it. And there are sharks down there."
"Sharks, hell. I'd rather face them than Batman if he's pissed at you. I get a leg bit off, at least I'll get a medical discharge instead of a court-martial."
Bird Dog fell silent. The warm throb of the Tomcat's engines wrapped around them like a muffling blanket. "Call Jefferson, ask them what the status is," he said finally, a note of resignation in his voice.
Gator breathed a sigh of relief. He toggled over to Tactical and contacted the operations specialist who was acting as air intercept controller. "Interrogative the status of that boat inbound," Gator asked.
"Check fire, all stations, all aircraft," a new voice said over tactical. "This is TAO Jefferson-boat inbound on Jefferson is friendly, repeat, friendly. Check fire all stations, weapons tight."
"Holy shit," Gator breathed, "A friendly."
"You copied that, Tomcat 201?"
"Roger, copy redesignated as friendly. Who the hell's on that boat?"
"Admiral Tombstone Magruder and escort," the AIC said promptly. He paused for a moment, then said, "TAO
says for you to stay overhead and make sure no one bothers him on his way in. You copy? Escort duty, 201."
"Roger, copy all," Gator acknowledged. He switched his mike to ICS from Tactical. "Bird Dog, we've got five minutes to get our story straight. Start talking."
Lucky Star
1100 local (GMT-IO)
The ass end of the carrier loomed up out of the swells like an improbably massive cliff jutting up out of the middle of the ocean. Even though Tombstone had seen it many times from this aspect, mostly from liberty boats launching, the sheer size of the carrier always awed him. It seemed so small when you were airborne, vectoring in on final approach, your balls climbing up into your stomach every time as you wondered how in hell you were going to get sixty thousand pounds of Tomcat down onto a deck that looked like a postage stamp. It never got any bigger in the air, not unless you were unlucky enough to come in too low-unlucky or just plain not good enough, although they never thought of it in those terms. From the air, it was always too small, too far away, the gray tarmac rushing up to you at impossible speeds as you tried to maintain altitude, pitch, and orient on the center line and the three wire.
Carrier - Joint Operation Book 16 Page 12
