“Our task is to make sure that these areas of water where we are operating are clean, that the air and sea around us are sanitized. No threat, not from anyone. Not to anyone. That’s why Hawkeye stays on patrol almost the entire time. That’s why we keep an eye in the sky twenty-four hours a day, why the satellites keep watch, why we must ensure the surface and air plots are, at all times, clean and clear of unknowns, and hostiles.
“Because this, gentlemen, is real. Without us, the whole goddamned shooting match could dissolve. And our leaders would not like that—and, worse yet, they’ll blame us without hesitation. In short, gentlemen, we are making a major contribution to the maintenance of peace in this rathole. So let’s stay right on top of our game, ready at all times to deliver whatever punch may be necessary. The President expects it of us. The Chiefs of Staff expect it of us. And I expect it of you.
“I consider you guys to be the best team I ever worked with. So let’s stay very sharp. Watch every move anyone makes in this area. And go home in six weeks’ time with our heads high. I know a lot of people will never understand what we do. But we understand, and in the end, that’s what matters. Thank you, gentlemen, and now I’d be real grateful if you’d all come and have some lunch with me, ordered some steaks.”
Each of the men at the admiral’s table understood, perfectly, all of the political ramifications of the Middle East. And the potential danger to all American servicemen in the area. But they still required, occasionally, some personal confirmation of their prominent positions in the grand scheme of things. Which, given their relatively modest financial rewards, was not a hell of a lot to ask. And Zack Carson’s hard-edged, aw-shucks way of delivering that confirmation made him a towering hero among all of those who served under his command. Not most. All.
271500JUN02. 5N, 68E.
Course 355. Speed 3.
“I can hold this position three hours, Ben. But I sure hope tanker shows up soon. Fuel’s low, and crew know it. Not too good, hah? They get worried.”
“Not so worried as if they knew our precise mission, eh, Georgy? Tell ’em not to worry. The tanker will arrive inside four hours and she’ll show up right on our starboard bow—she must have cleared the Eight-Degree Channel early this morning, making a steady twelve knots. We’ll be full by 2100 and on our way north.”
280935JUN02. 21N, 62E.
Course 005. Speed 10. Ops Room.
Thomas Jefferson.
“Anyone checked the COD from DG? It’s supposed to have a ‘mission critical’ spare on board for the mirror landing sight.”
“I checked at 0600, but I’ll do it again before he takes off. They used another spare last night. It was the last one.”
281130JUN02. 9N, 67E.
Course 355. Speed 8.
200 miles from refueling point.
Officer of the Watch: “Captain in the control room.”
Georgy’s voice: “What is it?”
“Just spotted twin-engined aircraft, around thirty thousand feet—probably turboprop. Identical course to our own. I’m guessing U.S. Navy. He’s no threat. But you say secret journey.”
“Well done, Lieutenant. I come and look…
“…Hi, Ben, just taking a look at aircraft—he very high and going north, but my Officer of Watch thinks it U.S. Navy, and he probably right. That’s an American military turboprop for sure.”
“Well, what are you going to do about it?”
“Me? Nothing, Ben. That pilot just a truck driver. No threat to us.”
“That is the advice, Georgy, of a man whose nation has never fought a war in submarines. I’m going to tell you something, which I do not want you to forget. Ever. At least, not as long as you are working for me.
“It was taught to me by my Teacher…in this game, every man’s hand is against you. Assume every contact, however distant, has spotted you. Assume they will send someone after you. Usually sooner than you expect. Particularly if you are dealing with the Americans.”
“Let me take quick look again, Ben.”
“Do nothing of the kind. I already assume we have been sniffed by a U.S. Navy aircraft. We must now clear the datum. We take no chances. Georgy, come right to zero-five-zero. We’re going northeast toward the coast of India. Then, if they catch us again in the next couple of days, they will see our track headed for Bombay, and designate us Indian, therefore neutral, as opposed to unknown, possibly hostile.
“This detour will cost us one and a half days. But we’ll still be in business. Hold this course until I order a change.”
281400JUN02. 21N, 64E.
The Thomas Jefferson.
On patrol in the Arabian Sea, the Battle Group is spread out loosely in a fifty-mile radius. Up on the stern, one of the LSO’s is talking down an incoming aircraft, the COD from the base at Diego Garcia. It contains mail for all of the ships, plus a couple of sizable spare parts for one of the missile radar systems, plus two spares for the mirror landing sight. The pilot is an ex-Phantom aviator, and the veteran of three hundred carrier landings.
With an unusually light wind, calm sea, and perfect visibility, Lieutenant Joe Farrell from Pennsylvania thumped his aircraft down onto the deck and barely looked interested as the hook grabbed and held.
They towed her into a waiting berth beneath the island, and opened up the hold, while Lieutenant Farrell headed for a quick debrief, and some lunch after his four-hour flight. Right at the bulkhead, he heard a yell: “Hey, Joe, how ya been?”
Turning, he saw the grinning face of Lieutenant Rick Evans, the LSO who had talked him in. “Hey, Ricky, old buddy, how ya doin’—come and have a cup of coffee, it’s been a while—they made you an admiral yet?”
“Next week, so I hear,” chuckled the lieutenant. He and Farrell went back a long way, to the flight training school at Pensacola, seventeen years previously.
The two aviators strolled down toward the briefing room, and, as they did so, almost collided with Lieutenant William R. Howell, who was walking backward at the time sharing a joke with Captain Baldridge. “Hiya, Ricky,” said Billy-Ray. “We about done for today?”
“Just about. Hey, you know Lieutenant Joe Farrell, just arrived from DG with the mail and a couple of radar parts?”
“I think we met before,” said Billy-Ray cheerfully.
“Sure did,” replied Farrell. “I was at your wedding with the rest of the United States Navy.”
Everyone laughed, and Captain Baldridge stuck out his hand and said, “Glad to meet you, Lieutenant. I’m the Group Operations Officer, Jack Baldridge. Have a good flight up here?”
“Yessir. A lotta low monsoon cloud back to the south, but some long clear areas as well, no problems. Ton of tankers below.”
“Well, I’ll leave you guys to shoot the breeze…catch you later…”
“Oh, just one thing, sir,” said Farrell suddenly. “Would you think it odd if I told you I saw—or at least I thought I saw—a submarine—about a thousand miles back, somewhere west of the Maldives?”
Captain Baldridge swiveled around, his smile gone. “Which way was it heading?”
“North, sir, same way as I was.”
“Why do you think it was a submarine?”
“Well, I’m not certain, sir. I just happened to notice a short white scar in the water. But there was no ship, just the wake. I only guessed I was looking at the ‘feather’ of a submarine. I couldn’t really be sure.”
“Pakistani I would guess,” replied Captain Baldridge. “Probably about to swing over to Karachi. But you’re right. You don’t often see a submarine in these waters—unless it’s ours, which this one plainly wasn’t.”
“Anyway, sir. Hope you didn’t mind my mentioning it.”
“Not at all, Lieutenant. Sharp-eyed aviators have a major place in this Navy. I’m grateful to you.”
“One thing more sir…I thought it disappeared, but then about coupla minutes later, just before I overflew it, I noticed it again. I suppose it could have been a big whale.”
“Yessir. I’ll give them that information right away.”
291130JUN02. 11N, 68E.
Course 050. Speed 7.
“Okay, Georgy, I’d say we’ve gone far enough. If they haven’t come looking for us by now they’re not coming. Besides, our little detour took us right off the line of flight of that U.S. aircraft, if, as I suspect, it’s on its way back to Diego Garcia.”
“You want me steer left rudder course three-three-zero?”
“Three-three-zero it is.”
012000JUL02. 21N, 63E. Course 215. Speed 10.
The Thomas Jefferson.
The Thomas Jefferson headed into the wind. Standing by for the first launch of the night-flying exercises, Jack Baldridge and Zack Carson shared an informal working supper in the admiral’s stateroom.
“Well, I wouldn’t get yourself over excited, if I were you, just on account of the uncertainties,” Admiral Carson said, grinning. “First, we don’t even know it was a submarine. Second, we don’t know who it belongs to. Third, we do not know either its speed or its direction at this precise moment. Fourth, we have no idea what his intentions are. Fifth, just how much of a shit do we give? So far as I know, we aren’t even at war with anyone. At least not today. And the only Arab nation which even owns a submarine in this area is Iran, and our satellite says that all three are safely in Bandar Abbas.
“At least it did, three days ago, and you can be dead sure we’d know if they’d moved one of ’em. There are two other nations bordering this part of the Indian Ocean. They both own submarines, but are both more than friendly with the U.S.
“So unless that good-looking broad with the big eyes and tits who runs Pakistan is suddenly turning nasty on us, I don’t think we have a lot to get concerned about. Jesus, she went to Harvard, didn’t she? She’s on our side. Want another cheeseburger?”
Baldridge, laughing, “Well, Admiral, if he’s a nuke, and he’s coming our way, we’ll catch him for sure when he gets real close. The last exercise has just shown we can catch the quietest in the world. Good idea, let’s hit another one of those burgers.”
051700JUL02. 19N, 64E.
Course 045. Speed 4.
“Well, Georgy, this is just about it. Aside from our little trip to India, we are here on time. The monsoons are also on time and the weather seems excellent for our purposes. I do notbelieve we have been detected, and right now she’s around 120 miles to the north. We have tons of fuel, and if we aren’t caught going in, there’s no great likelihood they’ll get us on the way out. It’s entirely possible they won’t even realize we exist.”
“I guess you right, Ben. You always are. But I worry…why they so busy?”
“Not really, Georgy. We’re hearing just normal ops on station so far as I can tell. We just stay under five knots, dead silent, and keep edging in. Let’s check the layers, see if we can improve the sonars a bit. The weather’s getting so murky we can’t see much anyway.”
071145JUL02.
In the ops room of the old eight-thousand-ton Spruance Class destroyer USS Hayler, positioned twenty-five miles off the starboard beam of the Thomas Jefferson, Anti-Submarine Warfare Officer Lieutenant Commander Chuck Freeburg was contemplating the rough weather. In this cavern of electronics warfare, the darkened room, lit mainly by the amber lights on the consoles, was pitching and rolling with the rising sea beyond the kevlar armorplated hull. A new track appeared suddenly on his tactical screen, 5136 UNK.
Turning to the Surface Warfare Compiler, Freeburg said quickly, “Surface compiler, ASWO, what is Track 5136 based on?”
“Desk Three reported disappearing radar contact. Four sweeps. No course or speed.”
“ASWO, aye. Datum established in last known. Datum 5136. Put it on the link.”
071146JUL02. 22N, 64E. Course 035. Speed 12.
On the Admiral’s Bridge of the Thomas Jefferson.
Big seas have caused the cancellation of all fixed-wing flying. Captain Baldridge is speaking on the internal line.
“Admiral, I had this disappearing radar contact fifty miles southeast. Datum established on the last known.”
“How many’s that today, Jack?”
“That’s the fifteenth I think, Admiral. Must be the weather.”
“Well, we can’t afford to ignore them. Keep the PIM out of the ten-knot limited line of approach. Get a sonobuoy barrier down, this side of the datum. If it’s a submarine, we’ll hear him as he speeds up. If he stays slow, he’s no threat. If it’s not a submarine, who cares? Don’t wanna waste assets on seagulls.”
“Aye, sir. We always get ’em around here. I guess there may be some kinda current or upwelling causes it.”
“Still we don’t want to run scared over four sweeps on a radar scan. Let’s proceed, but keep watching. Lemme know, Jack, if something’s up.”
071430JUL02. 20N, 64E.
Course 320. Beam to sea. Speed 3.
“Shit! You see that? Jesus Christ! I just seen sonobuoy, starboard side. We nearly hit the fucker. They must have heard us. Holy Christ!
“Ben!There’s a sonobuoy right out there forty meters. They must have anti-submarine aircraft in the air. Jesus Christ! Ben, we don’t fight U.S. Battle Group, they kill us all.”
“Cool it, Georgy. Cool it. Keep the speed down to three knots, which means we are silent, and keep listening. Also try to keep that somewhat hysterical edge out of your voice. It will make everyone nervous, even me. Keep creeping forward. And for Christ’s sake cool it. Now let’s have a quick chat in your cabin….”
“You say cool it! Jesus Christ! Ben, they bring in frigates and choppers, surround us, we caught like rat in a trap. Oh fuck, Ben. Yankee bastards—they kill us, no one never know. Oh fuck.”
“Georgy, shut up! Let me remind you we have as much right to be in these waters as they have. They will do nothing to usunless they are sure we are going to do something to them. Anyway, I could pass for an Indian officer. I can speak passable Urdu, but my Anglo-Indian is certainly sufficient to confuse an American commander.
“They have no right to search this ship, and we have committed no offense against anyone. So kindly refrain from panic.”
“You are a hard man, Ben. But you forget. Americans can do anything. They trigger-happy cowboys. They call everyone to find out about us. We never get out of jail. Like that French bastard Napoleon.”
071600JUL02. 21N, 64E.
Ops Room. Thomas Jefferson.
“Yeah, I heard the Sea Hawks are back, found nothing. Which at least means there’s not some spooky nuclear boat following us around.”
“Probably means there’s nothing following us around. They got nothing on the barrier. Hardly surprising in this god-awful weather. Bet it was just a big fish. If there was an SSN snooping around we’d hear him. We’d hear him for sure.”
“We would if he was nuclear. But I don’t think Captain Baldridge is very happy. He’s been down here in the ops room three times in the past two hours, asking questions.”
072300JUL02. 20N, 64E.
Course 340. Speed 3.
Back and forth on a four-mile patrol line. “We just wait here, Georgy, and stay silent. No need to go anywhere near the sonobuoys they dropped. I think the big ship will come back to us in the next day or two.
“Right now we have time to get a good charge in. We’re just about in the middle and I doubt they’ll be looking for us here. Then we’ll be okay for two or three days, smack in the right place at roughly the right time. Crew happy? What did you tell them?”
“Just what we agreed, Ben. They still think we are on special exercise, making covert test of new nuclear weapon. I tell them Indians get the blame for breaking test ban treaty. Once it gone, maybe trouble from crew. But too late then, and they not know what
happen. Even Andre, he not know, but I tell officers quick, right after. They control crew. Maybe worry for first minutes, but okay I think. No choice for them anyway.”
081758JUL02. 21N, 62E. Course 220. Speed 10.
The Thomas Jefferson.
Weather foul. Very strong monsoon gusts. On the Admiral’s Bridge, Zack Carson and Jack Baldridge were peering through the teeming bridge windows, and all they could observe was a couple of miles of murky, rainswept sea. All fixed-wing flying had been canceled for the night.
“Strange weather, Admiral. You’d kinda expect a chill when it’s so gray and wet. When it looks like this in Kansas, it’s usually as cold as a well-digger’s ass.”
“This is the southwest monsoon, Jack. It’s a warm wind blowing right across the equator, and it brings with it all the goddamned rain India is gonna get this year, from now till about next spring. Mustn’t that be a bitch if you happen to be a farmer?”
They stood in silence for a while, and the carrier was curiously quiet, with the flight deck almost deserted. Only the occasional squall slashing against the island of the carrier disturbed the peace, as the giant ship pitched heavily through the long swells, 130 feet below the two officers. They were heading back upwind, across the carrier’s 120,000-square-mile patrol zone.
Nimitz Class Page 6
