Sea of Shadows (For fans of Tom Clancy and Dale Brown)

by Jeff Edwards

  “Yes, sir!”

  The copilot keyed the radio. “SAU Commander, this is Samurai Seven-Nine. I am prepping for an attack run, over.”

  The pilot looked at him out of the corner of his eye. “Who’re you talking to?”

  “SAU Commander.”

  The pilot jerked his head in the direction of what was left of USS Antietam. “SAU Commander just got his ass shot off. We’re on our own, Larry.”

  “Who’s the next most senior captain?” the copilot asked. “He’s the next in the chain of command, so he’s the SAU Commander now.”

  “Fuck the chain of command,” the pilot snarled. “Our people are dead or dying down there. We’ve got maybe sixty seconds to kill the bastards that did it. After that, they’ll be outside the search envelope of our torpedo.”

  “Weapon is ready, sir,” said the Sensor Operator. “Standing by to launch on your order.”

  A voice came over the radio. “All units, this is the commanding officer of USS Towers. I am assuming SAU Commander at this time. I say again, I am assuming SAU Commander at this time, over.”

  The pilot pitched his aircraft into a shallow dive. “Weapon away on my mark”

  “Aye-aye, sir.”

  The ocean rushed up toward them. “Here we go,” the pilot said. “Launch—now, now, NOW!”

  The Sensor Operator jabbed a button. The airframe of the helo jerked as it was suddenly relieved of its five-hundred–pound burden. “Weapon away, sir!”

  The pilot pulled back on the stick. “Eat that!”

  “Oh shit!” the Sensor Operator shouted. He began pointing frantically out the window at a bright flare of light down on the water. “Missile emergence! We’ve got a missile coming out of the water, bearing three-three-zero!”

  “Chaff!” the pilot screamed as he threw the helo into a wild side-slip. “I need chaff right fucking …”

  He never finished the sentence. The sub-SAM came through the port side of the aircraft, just forward of the sonobuoy launchers. The detonating warhead flash-fried the air crew, even as it blasted the fuselage of the helicopter into burning bits of wreckage.

  * * *

  USS Towers:

  “TAO—Air Supervisor. Samurai Seven-Nine just dropped off the scope. We lost his IFF signal and all communications. Looks like he went down, sir.”

  “TAO—Bridge. Lookouts are reporting a fireball on Samurai Seven-Nine’s last bearing. I concur with the Air Supervisor; Samurai Seven-Nine is down.”

  Captain Bowie slammed his fist down on the arm of his chair. “Damn it! What the hell were they doing below two thousand feet? They had specific orders to stay high enough so the subs couldn’t hear their rotors. If they had followed their orders, they’d still be alive.”

  The TAO looked up at the Aegis display. “All right, guys. We need a break here …”

  As if in answer, the Sonar Supervisor’s voice came over the net. “USWE—Sonar, we have weapon start-up. It’s a Mark-54. Looks like Antietam’s helo managed to get off a shot, sir.”

  Chief McPherson nudged Ensign Cooper’s elbow. “Ask them if it’s acquired, sir.”

  The ensign nodded. “Sonar—USWE. Has the helo’s weapon acquired?”

  “USWE—Sonar. Affirmative, sir. Sounds like it locked on right after it started up. They must have dropped it right on top of the target.”

  Ensign Cooper gritted his teeth and held up his fingers to show that they were crossed.

  The Sonar Supervisor’s next report came over less than a minute later. “USWE—Sonar. We have a loud underwater explosion, bearing two-eight-two. Sounds like secondary explosions on the same bearing. I think Antietam’s helo got themselves a submarine!”

  “USWE, aye,” Ensign Cooper said. “I hope you’re right, but we don’t have any confirmation yet. But even if you are right, there are still three hostile submarines out there somewhere. This engagement may not be over, so stay sharp!”

  “Sonar, aye!”

  But the engagement was over. The ships continued searching, even while they were rendering assistance to the stricken Antietam, but the submarines had disappeared again.

  CHAPTER 35

  U.S. NAVY CENTRAL COMMAND (USNAVCENT)

  BAHRAIN

  SATURDAY; 19 MAY

  2240 hours (10:40 PM)

  TIME ZONE +4 ‘DELTA’

  Commander Moody stood at the foot of the admiral’s desk with a yellow folder in one hand and a green folder in the other.

  Admiral Rogers looked up at the clock. “What do you suppose would happen if we actually knocked off before midnight some night?”

  Commander Moody’s eyebrows went up. “One of us would turn into a pumpkin, sir.”

  “Which one?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I’d have to check the duty roster. But I think it’s your turn.”

  “Figures,” the admiral said. He sighed. “What have you got for me, Troy?”

  Moody opened the yellow folder and flipped through several pages, scanning rapidly. “The latest SITREP from USS Towers, sir. Per Captain Bowie’s orders, Benfold and Ingraham are continuing to render assistance to Antietam. The fires are out. They’re still pulling people out of the water. Dead, mostly, but every once in a while they come across another survivor. So far, they have forty-one confirmed dead, but it’ll probably be quite a while before we get an accurate casualty count. There are still over a hundred missing. Captain Bowie also thinks there may be air pockets trapped in the sunken part of Antietam’s hull. There could be survivors down there. He’s requesting a team of emergency divers to survey the wreck and conduct rescue dives if they locate any survivors.”

  The admiral nodded. “Bowie’s a good man. Drop what you’re doing and get on the horn to OPS. I want a dive team in the air ten minutes ago.”

  Moody smiled. “I’ve already taken the liberty, sir.” He glanced at his watch. “They should be airborne just about now. In the meantime, the Towers and a couple of the helos have set up a defensive screen around the rescue operations, but Captain Bowie is asking for a relief force. He’s eager to get back to the hunt.”

  The admiral nodded. “I’m working on that. One way or the other, we’ll have somebody down there to cover for them before tomorrow morning. Then we have to figure out how to get Antietam towed back in to port. Or what’s left of her, anyway. Any further sign of the subs?”

  Commander Moody shook his head. “Not yet, sir. But Ingraham’s helo did a fly-by of the area where they thought one of the German submarines went down. They found a field of floating debris, an oil slick, and a half-dozen bodies. No survivors. Looks like Antietam’s helo got a kill after all. And that makes us even, again. Three ships—three subs.”

  “Even isn’t good enough,” the admiral said. “It’s not nearly good enough.”

  Moody nodded. “Understood, sir.”

  Admiral Rogers leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. “You’ve got two folders there, Troy. What’s in the other one?”

  Moody opened the green folder. “It’s an incoming Personal-For message from Captain Whiley, sir.”

  The admiral opened his eyes. “I told Captain Bowie to keep Whiley on bed rest until we can arrange to helo him and his crew back to shore. He’s in no shape to be up and around.”

  Commander Moody shrugged. “Apparently Captain Whiley doesn’t agree with your diagnosis, sir. He’s asking you to put him back in command of the SAU.”

  The admiral sat up. “Is he fucking crazy?”

  “I have no opinion on that, sir.”

  The admiral leaned back and closed his eyes again. “Drop that message in the burn bag, son. I’m not even going to dignify it with an answer.”

  CHAPTER 36

  USS TOWERS (DDG-103)

  STRAITS OF HORMUZ

  SUNDAY; 20 MAY

  0700 hours (7:00 AM)

  TIME ZONE +4 ‘DELTA’

  The executive officer, Lieutenant Commander Tyler, was the last to arrive. He nodded in the captain’s directio
n and took a seat at the wardroom table. His eyes were bloodshot. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a week.

  “Just got in a message from USNS Arapaho,” he said. Arapaho was the ocean-going tug that was rigging the battered remains of the Antietam for towing. “The last of Antietam’s casualties have been evacuated to Bahrain. They’re continuing search and rescue operations in the surrounding waters, but they don’t expect to find any more survivors. That’s the bad news. Here’s the good news: the team of rescue divers you requested finally arrived. They’ve completed their initial survey of the wreck, and you were right; there are survivors down there. The dive team has located two groups of survivors. Somebody in one of the groups is communicating with the divers by tapping out Morse code signals on the hull. There are eleven people in that group. The other group, unfortunately, doesn’t have anyone who knows Morse. They’re banging on the hull too, but the divers can’t make heads or tails out of what they’re trying to say. So they can’t tell how many people are in the second group.” The XO smiled tiredly. “The situation looks good for getting both groups out.” He shrugged. “And the divers may get lucky and find more survivors down there who haven’t been able to communicate.”

  Chief McPherson shuddered involuntarily at the thought of being trapped in the hull of a sunken ship. The emergency battle lanterns would only last a few hours, and then would come a darkness blacker than anything she could imagine. After a while, the small volume of air trapped in the pocket would become stale, and then foul, and finally impossible to breathe. And the air pocket might not even hold. The unstable wreck could shift, bleeding precious air out through some newly formed crack. The water might gradually find its way into the space, slowly flooding the compartment until all the air was gone. The chief swallowed heavily and tried to push these thoughts from her mind.

  Captain Bowie nodded toward the XO. “Thanks for the update, Pete.” He looked at the team of men and women assembled around the table. “I’ve already said a few prayers for the crew of Antietam—the unharmed ones, as well as the injured, and the missing, and the dead. I intend to say a few more. I know that you all have different religious beliefs, and that some of you don’t believe in God in any form. But I would take it as a personal favor if you would find the time over the next few days to say a few words of prayer for the crew of Antietam.”

  Every head around the table nodded slowly.

  “Thank you,” the captain said. “Now, I’d like to turn this meeting over to Chief McPherson.”

  Chief McPherson stood up. “Thank you, Captain.” She walked to a pair of charts that had been taped to the wall. The first was a navigational chart of the Arabian Gulf region. The second was a geographic map of the world. She nearly smiled; her visual aids were a far cry from Captain Whiley’s whiz-bang computer graphics. She pointed to the chart of the Arabian Gulf. “We are currently steaming through the Straits of Hormuz at thirty knots. Our sonars are degraded by our speed, and we are generating quite a bit of noise, which makes us vulnerable to submarine attack. But it’s a calculated risk, and the captain has decided to take it. The German Type 212B diesel submarine has a maximum submerged speed of only twenty knots.” She pointed to the northern end of the Straits of Hormuz on her chart. “The idea is to outdistance the submarines and establish a choke point at the northern end of the straits, before the subs can get there.”

  “Works for me,” the XO said. “Then what?”

  “Well, that’s what we’re here to figure out, sir. The next time we encounter those subs, we have got to give them something unexpected. And therein lies the problem. Whatever it is can’t look like something they’re not expecting.”

  Ensign Cooper frowned. “I’m not following you, Chief.”

  “Look at it like this,” the chief said. “In the three battles that have occurred so far, the German submarines have met only with variations of NATO tactics. By now, they are probably convinced that the U.S. Navy is too hidebound by doctrine to try anything creative. Hopefully, that means they’ll be expecting more of the same. Therefore, whatever the SAU tries should break the rules of NATO tactical doctrine without looking like it’s going to break them.”

  The XO’s eyebrows went up. “So we have to hit them with something that’s not in the NATO tactical doctrine, but it has to look like something that is in the NATO doctrine?”

  Chief McPherson nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “I think everyone’s got the idea, Chief,” the captain said. “Move on.”

  “Yes, sir. If the subs run flat-out at their top speed of twenty knots, the earliest they can possibly reach the choke point is 1100. At thirty knots, we can be on station nearly forty minutes ahead of them—more than enough time to get in position to intercept.”

  The chief pointed to a series of penciled X-marks on the world map. “I’ve done a little math here. And based on the timing of the various sightings and skirmishes with the submarines, I calculate that they are covering an average distance of 13.5 nautical miles per hour. Although they are undoubtedly traveling at a higher rate of speed, the deceptive maneuvering they’re using has reduced their actual speed through the water. All that zigging and zagging slows down their progress. If they continue their deceptive maneuvering, I estimate that the subs won’t reach the choke point until some time after 1700 this evening. As I say, the SAU will be in position by 1020 hours, just in case the Germans decide to forgo their tricky maneuvering routine, in favor of achieving maximum possible speed through the water.”

  She looked around the table. There were no questions, so she continued. “We want our setup to duplicate our previous deployment of forces as closely as possible.” She pointed to the Arabian Gulf chart again. “I recommend we put Benfold and Ingraham here and here, Spaced at eighty percent of their predicted sonar ranges, just like before. They’ll use the same locked-step zigzag pattern that we used before, forming a two-ship version of the moving barrier. Last time we used three ships in the barrier, but the Germans know that we are down a ship, so they’ll expect our formation to be one ship short.”

  The Combat Systems Officer, Lieutenant Sikes, tapped a pencil against her palm. “When do we pull the rabbit out of the hat?” she asked. “So far, this looks like what we did when we got our butts shot off.”

  Chief McPherson grinned. “That’s exactly how we want it to look, ma’am. The good old U.S. Navy, too dumb to learn from its mistakes, trying the same old plan—even after it’s fallen on its face.” She pointed to a spot on the chart, behind the formation. “The Germans will assume that Towers is back here in the Pouncer position, running behind the advancing barrier—ready to charge around the end of the formation at the first sign of trouble.” She moved her finger to a different point on the chart. “This is where the rabbit comes out of the hat. Because Towers will actually be way down here, in front of the formation, where they won’t be expecting her.”

  Ensign Cooper furrowed his brow. “It won’t matter what the Germans are expecting. They’re going to see us. One peep through a periscope, and they’re going to know that we’re not on the back side of the formation. The jig will be up long before those subs are within weapons range.”

  The chief waved a hand toward the Operations Officer. “Sir?”

  Lieutenant Nylander stood up. “Thank you, Chief.” His eyes traveled from face to face. “Chief McPherson and I have worked this out. The Germans will not see us, because we’re going to make the ship invisible.”

  The Combat Systems Officer waved her pencil around in circles like a wand. “See? I knew there was some hocus-pocus in here somewhere. Rabbits out of hats, invisible ships. Maybe we should levitate the Chief Engineer as a finale.”

  “Watch it,” the CHENG snapped.

  “Patience,” the captain said. “There is a method to this madness.”

  The Combat Systems Officer caught herself before another quip left her mouth.

  “Thank you, sir,” the Operations Officer said. He looked around the table again
. “What’s the best way to hide a cat?” he asked.

  “Stick it in the microwave,” the CHENG said softly.

  The Combat Systems Officer elbowed him in the ribs.

  “Close,” said the Operations Officer. “You put it in a room full of other cats.”

  “The Straits of Hormuz is a major shipping lane, and dozens of oil tankers go through every day, in both directions. If we want to disappear, all we have to do is become a tanker.”

  “Child’s play,” the Operations Officer said. “We rig deceptive lighting, so we look like an oil tanker in the dark. We secure the SPY radar and every other piece of electronics that transmits anything on military frequency bands. That still leaves us the Furuno radar, for safety of navigation, but Furunos are carried by two-thirds of the merchant ships in the world. The Germans will expect a tanker to carry a Furuno, or something like it.”

  The Chief Engineer was nodding now. “We can configure the engineering plant for turn-count masking. If we run one engine a little faster that the other one and offset the difference in thrust by angling the blades of the propellers differently, we’ll get a loud, mushy blade signature. With a bit of experimentation, I’ll bet we can make ourselves sound like an old tanker with a poorly maintained screw.”

  Ensign Cooper tugged at his lower lip. “This is all well and good, as long as the subs show up in the evening, at or after sunset. What if they turn up at lunchtime? By the chief ’s calculations, that could happen if they run at high speed. We might fool them with tricky lighting after dark, but no amount of fan dancing can make a destroyer look like a merchant ship in broad daylight.”