I know what this old tub can do, Pencehaven thought. We're on refresher training, for heck's sake. If ever there's a time that she's got max speed available, it's
now.
Beside him, Jacobs looked sick. "We're going to be back within range, then," he said, "And noisier than a
bitch in heat."
"Not a problem, Renny," Pencehaven said with more confidence than he felt. "Like I said, these are stupid torpedoes. They went for the noisemakers once-they'll go for it again. And we both know she's probably only carrying two. After that, she's going to have to cut and run, and then we'll nail her ourselves."
"We haven't been so good at that so far," Jacobs pointed out.
Pencehaven shook his head, waving away the comment. "She's mine, Renny. She's all mine."
Everything inside the submarine was shaking now as the submarine approached max possible speed. The water was coursing over her like a thick fluid, sound echoing through her limber hulls, vortices creating noise as the water flowed over every protuberance in her hull. The submarine was built for silence, but it was almost impossible to run silently at flank speed. The equipment required to maintain the engineering plant, the water over the hull, even the rattle of the periscope in its tube all contributed to the cacophony now pouring into the water.
As they watched, the contact turned back to meet them.
"Okay, bitch. Let's see what you've got," Pencehaven said softly. As they watched, the other submarine accelerated to her own flank speed. No new torpedoes appeared in the water. For a moment, Pencehaven marveled. They'd pegged it that time, hadn't they? Two torpedoes, that was all. And now she was out of weapons, and running for safety. But she wouldn't find it, not anywhere in this sector of water, not as long as USS Centurion was there.
"Captain, she's headed back to the Arizona" Pencehaven said. "I recommend you let her think we've lost her, then execute the maneuver recommended by the carrier."
"Roger, that's the plan," the captain's voice said, now firmly in control. "Go active, stay in a search mode. As soon as we lose contact. Let her think we're clueless. Then secure on my command, and we'll close the Arizona"
TFCC
USS Jefferson
1645 local (GMT-10)
It was the Army officer's turn to look puzzled as the naval officers and Coast Guard officer clustered around the table turned pale. He looked from face to face, searching for a clue, then looked back at the tactical display. "What's that funny symbol?"
Finally, Magruder spoke. "An enemy torpedo. And it's headed straight for us."
"But what's Centurion doing?" Green broke in. A frown creased her face, then slowly cleared. She turned to Lab Rat, and nodded solemnly. "Seems that we're not the only ones with some good ideas around here."
They all stared at the screen as the Centurion screamed toward them, her speed leader increased to an almost unimaginable length for a submarine. New symbols popped onto the screen, evidence that she was ejecting noisemakers. As they watched, the torpedo symbol turned abruptly left, and headed straight for one. Just as abruptly, the Centurion changed course, then disappeared from the screen.
"I'm gonna owe that man a beer," Batman said softly. He turned his attention back to the TAO. "How many more fighters have we got to launch?"
"Six more, sir," the TAO replied. "All standing by and ready to go."
Batman turned to Tombstone. "Just like the old days, isn't it?" he asked softly.
"Not quite," Tombstone said. "We're not in a cockpit."
USS Centurion 1700 local (GMT-10)
"Conning officer. I want you to listen to me very, very carefully." The captain's voice was calm, betraying no hint of nervousness. "This is just like making an approach on the pier. You just can't see it. We're going to use the same speeds, the same tiny course corrections. And on my signal, let engineering know that I want this boat backing down as hard as she's ever backed in her life."
The conning officer nodded nervously, and glanced at the Chief of the Boat, who was positioned behind the helmsman and the planesman. The chief nodded. "Piece of cake, Captain," the COB said, more for the conning officer's ears than for the captain's. "Done this a hundred times in my sleep."
The captain grunted. "Well, if you were contemplating a nap now, I suggest you put that off for a while." Although the joke was lame, pent-up nervousness in the small compartment sent a wave of quiet chuckles through the crew.
"Okay, men-here we go. All ahead one-third, indicate turns for one knot."
The submarine's movement was not perceptible, but everyone watching the speed indicator saw it creep slowly up. It quivered, barely moved off the zero mark, and held there. "Good job, engineer," the captain said softly, noting how well the engineering personnel were maintaining steam pressure in the main turbine. "A really sweet job."
They crept forward for what seemed like an eternity, and then the captain ordered, "All stop." He glanced around the control room, then said, "Sound the collision alarm." A red light began flashing in the compartment in a distinctive pattern to indicate an impending collision, albeit one that was intentional. "All hands brace for shock," the captain continued, his voice still quiet.
Suddenly, the submarine jolted. Violent movement were not a normal part of the submariner's life, and even the more experienced crew members gasped. A horrible grinding noise rang through the submarine like a hollow bell, and equipment shuddered in its racks. Pencils and papers not secured were flung to the deck. Then one sailor let out a moan of panic.
"Steady, steady," the captain warned. "Remember, we're doing this on purpose."
The noise and shuddering seemed to go on forever, growing louder and deeper as the submarine's hull made contact with the ancient battleship now permanently at rest on the Pacific floor. Finally, there was a perceptible decrease in the motion. Then it ceased just as suddenly
as it started.
In sonar, Jacobs and Pencehaven had taken off their headsets to avoid damage to their ears. They listened to the noise of the collision through the overhead speaker, then slapped their headsets back on as soon as the noise ceased. Softer, but clearly discernible, they heard the groan of old metal shifting in its position, of tons and
243
tons of World War II steel moving from where it had been planted so many years before. The Arizona might not be breaking up this time, but there was no doubt that their maneuver had had its intended effect.
"I hear her!" Jacobs shouted, his sensitive ears the first to catch the sound of a new noise. "Propellers turning-she's going to try to make a run for it." But even as he spoke, he could tell it was no use. The Arizona, once it decided to move, was an inexorable force. And the submarine had sought out a position too close to her side for protection.
TFCC
USS Jefferson
1702 Local (GMT-10)
"We got it," a voice howled over the SEAL circuit behin d him. Batman turned to stare at it, and a grim smile broke out over his face. He turned to Tombstone.
His former lead nodded, then said, "Weapons free on all Chinese units. I want that ship a blackened, smoking hull in the water, do you hear me?"
"Aye-aye, Admiral,'1 Batman answered, his voice filled with savage glee. "A smoking hull it is." He turned to Bam-Bam with fire in his eyes. "Make it so."
USS Louis B. Puller 1703 local (GMT-10)
Lieutenant Brett Carter stared up at the speaker as though he could convince himself that the words that were coming over were true. His operations chief was already putting his watchstanders in motion, anticipating the lieutenant's next command.
Finally, Carter picked up the microphone and answered up. "Puller, roger. Out." He turned to the chief, his mouth still slightly open. "You heard."
The chief nodded. "I did indeed."
A new fire seemed to infuse the lieutenant. It had been a long day, longer than any one that he had ever had, fraught with uncertainty and the unexpected challenges of command. It had been his decision to get Puller
under way at the first warning, his decision to steam straight out from port rather than wait for orders. At the time, he'd experienced gut-wrenching uncertainty alternating with the conviction that he'd screwed up so very badly that Shore Patrol would be waiting for him on the pier when Puller steamed back in to port.
But now . . . now this. Vindication, if he'd needed it.
"Firing keys," Carter ordered, and it all went rather swiftly from that point on. The three Chinese vessels were already designated in the system as hostile targets and it was a simple matter to assign two Harpoon anti-ship missiles to each one. The six missiles rippled out of the quad canisters mounted along the sides of the ship with a slight jar.
As Carter watched the symbols materialized on the screen, each on arrowing straight and true toward its intended target, he felt a surge of pride. Challenges, responsibilities, crisis-all in all, he figured it had been the kind of day that he'd joined the Navy expecting. No matter what his next operational tour, it would be years before he would again have command-albeit only temporary-of a warship. And after today, he knew that nothing else he could do would ever equal that experience.
Tomcat 204
1705 local (GMT-10)
"Kelly, my dear, are you ready for this?" Bird Dog said over tactical. He glanced over at his new wingman as he asked it, taking his eyes off his heads-up display briefly. "You're about to get blooded, woman."
After four hours in Sick Bay, complaining at the top of the their voices that they were fine, Bird Dog and Gator had been released to full duty. Sure, they had a few cuts and bruises, but no worse than after any of their previous ejections. Gator insisted that, because of their experience, they were more qualified than the doctors to assess their own physicial conditions.
"I'm ready," the calm voice of his new wingman said. "So is Tits."
"Hell of a name for a RIO," Gator cried happily. "You get Tits, I get Gator-now how did that work out?"
"Perhaps if Gator's full name were Theodore Irving Turner, he might be Tits as well," came a deep bass voice from Green's backseat. "It's just like your mother always told you, Bird Dog-don't mess with tits."
Gator suppressed a snort of disgust. His head was buried in the soft plastic cover surrounding his radar scope as he worked the angles and dangles, the relative velocities and kill ratios in his mind. Four MiGs headed out against two Tomcats and two Hornets-well, the odds were in their favor, weren't they? Still, in Gator's ever so humble opinion, Bird Dog had never taken this shit seriously enough. No, not seriously enough by half. And from the sounds of it, neither did Lieutenant Kelly Green or her RIO, Tits.
"Thor, you come in and get that first pair tied up," Bird Dog said a second later. "Me and Kelly are going to go high and come in on the second two. You think you can handle them?"
"Oh, I imagine two Marines are more than enough to take care of a couple of MiGs," a slow Southern drawl came from Hornet 106. "Hellman can pull his share of
the load."
"All right, weapons free," Bird Dog said. "We don't know who the hell is in that boat down there, but evidently the Chinese are as interested in him as we are. They want him, they can't have him. That's the rules of
the game."
"Are you going to get us in the game or not?" Gator demanded from the backseat. "Or is this little mutual admiration society taking up too much of your time?"
In answer, Bird Dog slammed the Tomcat into afterburner and went into a steep, tail twisting climb. Gator gasped as the G-forces pounded against him, sucking the
blood down from his head and toward his feet. "Dammit, asshole," he squeezed out, simultaneous grunting in an M-l maneuver designed to force blood back up to his brain. He could feel the pressure suit activating around his legs and torso, but Gator was never one to leave the question of whether or not he stayed conscious entirely to automation.
"I thought you were in a hurry to get somewhere," Bird Dog said innocently, but he backed off the throttles and eased off on his rate of ascent. "AMRAAM as soon as we're ready."
"About five seconds, I make it," Gator said, breathing more easily now as the G-forces subsided. "Stand by-
now!
The ATG-71 radar with advanced avionics held solid contact on the incoming bogey. The aircraft shuddered slightly as the AMRAAM dropped off the wing, the advanced avionics automatically retrimming the aircraft.
"Fox One, Fox One," Bird Dog sang out. Fox One was the call assigned to a medium-range missile, such as an AMRAAM or a Sparrow. "Looking good."
"Not good enough," Bird Dog said. He punched the Tomcat into afterburner. "Let's get up close and personal for some knife fighting."
Hornet 106
1706 local (GMT-10)
Bird Dog wasn't the only one flying with an inexperienced pilot on his wing, and for the Hornet pilot, the problem was particularly challenging. At least in the Tomcat, the pilot had a RIO sitting right behind him, ready to double-check plans and provide a sanity check
if the pilot became overwhelmed. Not so in the Hornet- the pilot took over all the RIO's duties in addition to his own.
As confident as Thor had sounded over tactical, he had his own private doubts about his wingman. First Lieutenant "Hellman" Franks was on his nugget cruise, still learning that there were old pilots, there were bold pilots, but there were no old, bold pilots.
Not that Thor had anything against showing balls. No, not at all. After all, they were both Marines weren't they? And Marine fighter pilots at that.
And it wasn't that Hellman wasn't a damned fine pilot, either. He was, as Thor had seen all too often on the bombing range and during workups. He'd sailed through basic and pipeline training at the top of his class, achieved near miraculous scores on the bombing range, and was considered by all to be one hot shit pilot, if he lived long enough, he'd be looking at fast promotions in
the Corps.
Still, there was an edge to the man that bothered Thor. Sure, you want to get airborne and get the other guy fast and hard, but you want to do it clean. You take chances, but only those you have to. And you remember that you've got a multimillion-dollar aircraft strapped to your ass that Uncle Sam would really prefer that you bring back in one piece.
"Okay, Hellman, just like in refresher training," Thor said over tactical, switching to the private frequency the two of them shared. "You know MiGs, and this is no different than training. Except no mistakes."
"You ever see me make a mistake, Thor?" a Virginia drawl asked. "Anywhere?"
"You've never been in combat before," Thor said bluntly. "You suck it in, Marine, and do it the way we taught you."
"Don't worry about me, old man," Hellman shot back. "I'll keep your ass out of trouble."
Old man-why that little punk better . . . Thor pushed the thoughts aside, saving sorting that out for another time. Compartmentalization, that was the key to survival in the air. You keep focused on your task, don't let your wife", your dog, your wingman, your anything, not even your bladder, distract you from what you've got to do.
"Take high," he said abruptly. "Follow my lead. We take the first one with AMRAAM, the second with Sidewinder."
"Or guns," Hellman added.
"That bastard better be real dead before we get within gun range," Thor said. "Now get your ass high."
Hellman peeled off and put the Hornet in a steep, almost vertical climb. Thor shuddered as he thought of the fuel the light aircraft was sucking down. Another thing you learned early on, flying the Hornet. You had a maneuverability and speed that the Tomcat couldn't touch, but God were they thirsty aircraft. You saved fuel when you could, knowing that it might be longer than you liked between tanking.
"Tally ho," Thor said over tactical, acknowledging to the air traffic controller in CDC onboard Jefferson that he had contact on his incoming bogeys. "Hornet One-zero-six engaging lead flight of MiGs."
MiG Number Eight 1708 local (GMT-10)
Second Lieutenant Tai Huang curled his hand around the stick of his MiG, than
kful that the thin cotton glove between his hand and it would absorb the moisture he felt
seeping out of his palms. As section leader and lead for the forward-most pair of MiGs in this flight, it was his responsibility to order his disposition of forces, along with the assistance of the air traffic controllers on board the Chinese carrier. It was a new way of working, one that none of the four were completely at ease with yet, even after countless practice sessions before they'd left their homeland. But even after two hundred hours of concentrated airborne coordination, he still felt uncomfortable without a ground control intercept, or GCI, whispering guidance in his right ear over the circuit. Still, if the GCI could lear n his job, then Tai could do it as well. No matter that the GCI didn't have to concentrate on dancing a powerful aircraft through the air, evading missiles, and generally remaining airborne while he thought out the disposition of forces. It would have been impossible with earlier MiGs, but the 33 was so advanced it virtually did his thinking for him. Automatic trim control, heads-up display to prevent him from ever having to look away from the battle in front of him, and a host of electronic and weapons avionics that could virtually fight the battle on their own.
Almost, but not completely. As long as there were men in the cockpits of the enemy, there would be men in the cockpit of a MiG.
Just as now. While the MiG avionics was already suggesting that the section of two aircraft behind him be vectored to meet the oncoming Hornets, Tai knew better. Huan Tan, the lead in the second flight, was an excellent pilot and a particular master of the intricate geometries when a lighter, more maneuverable aircraft such as a MiG took on a monster like a Tomcat. Tai didn't like admitting it, but it was one of his responsibilities as a section commander.
He himself, on the other hand, excelled in quick reflex
actions, the bumblebee dance of equally matched foes in midair, the split-second decisions required when a MiG took on an equally agile Hornet. Yes, the correct thing to do was send Huan Tan after the Tomcats while Tai and his wingman took on the Hornets.
Carrier - Joint Operation Book 16 Page 21
