by Jeff Edwards
“And you think he’ll tuck tail and go home?”
“If he does, maybe we can stitch NATO back together for a few years,” the president said.
“What if he doesn’t, sir? What if Chancellor Shoernberg comes out with guns blazing?”
“Then we teach him a lesson that his country has already learned twice.”
The line was silent for nearly a full minute before the president spoke again. “Bob, we can’t afford to lose this one.”
The CNO’s voice was very quiet. “I know, Mr. President. I know.”
CHAPTER 41
U.S. NAVY CENTRAL COMMAND (USNAVCENT)
BAHRAIN
SUNDAY; 20 MAY
1740 hours (5:40 PM)
TIME ZONE-4 ‘DELTA’
The shore version of the admiral’s Flag Plot bore very little resemblance to the sort found on aircraft carriers. Gone were the radar consoles and radio handsets, replaced by computer terminals and desks with secure telephones. The walls—uncluttered by piping and cable runs—were decorated with bronze and wooden plaques bearing the names and coats of arms of nearly every ship, submarine, and aircraft squadron that had ever served within the U.S. Naval Central Command’s area of responsibility. The large tactical display screens that dominated the east wall were of civilian design: the type used by corporations for training or briefing large groups of people. But despite the obvious physical differences, the shore and ship versions of Flag Plot were more alike than they were different. The tools were different, but the conversations that took place over the secure telephones tended to cover the same subjects that were discussed over shipboard secure radio circuits. The tactical symbols that peppered the big civilian-built display screens were from the same catalog of symbology used on ships.
The Duty Intelligence Officer, Lieutenant Commander Calvin Fisk, didn’t give the differences or similarities of ship and shore facilities even a passing thought. In addition to his other duties, he had an inch-thick stack of reports and message traffic to plow through. Luckily, most of the information was routine, meaning that he could skim some of the pages—checking only for significant changes in matters of tactical interest.
One message grabbed his attention. It was a contact locator report from SUCAP (Surface Combat Air Patrol), the squadron of fighter jets dedicated to monitoring—and if necessary, engaging—hostile and unknown surface craft operating in the Gulf region.
According to the report, three unmarked fishing trawlers had spent several hours cruising around off the coast of Siraj. Ordinarily, this wouldn’t have even been worth mentioning, but the SUCAP aircraft had spotted the trawlers several times, and none of the boats had ever made any visible efforts to deploy fishing nets.
Lieutenant Commander Fisk looked up from the stack of paperwork. He wasn’t particularly concerned, but it was a little strange. He picked up the phone and punched the extension number for the Plot Supervisor.
“Plot Supe.”
“This is the Duty Intelligence Officer,” Fisk said. “I’m holding a SUCAP locator report on some Siraji fishing boats that are acting a bit on the squirrelly side. I’m sending a copy your way. I want each reported position for the boats recorded on the master tactical plot. I also want you to update the positions of the boats if any new reports come in.”
“Will do, sir,” the Plot Supervisor said.
As soon as he hung up the phone, Fisk realized that he hadn’t mentioned the lack of nets. It probably wasn’t important anyway.
He summoned an orderly. “Here,” he said, handing the young Sailor the SUCAP message. “Make a copy of this. Put the original back on the Read Board and take the copy over to master tactical plot and give it to the Plot Supervisor.
“Aye-aye, sir.” The orderly turned and walked away with the message.
The Duty Intelligence Officer went back to his stack of reports and didn’t give the fishing boats another thought.
* * *
Four hours later, the on-coming Plot Supervisor examined the master tactical plot as part of his preparations for assuming the watch. He pointed to the track history for Lieutenant Commander Fisk’s fishing trawlers. “What the hell were these guys doing?”
The off-going Plot Supervisor shrugged. “Fishing, probably. The intel officer got a bug up his ass and made me put them on the plot.” He laughed. “Why? Do you think they’re fishing in a manner that poses a threat to the security of the United States of America?” The last part was in an exaggeratedly masculine voice that was obviously meant to mimic the overly histrionic narrators used in Navy training videos.
The on-coming Plot Supervisor didn’t smile. “I don’t think they’re fishing at all,” he said. He pointed to the track history. “Look at all these course changes, like they were weaving a blanket, or something. If they were fishing, they ran over their own nets at least a dozen times. Where are they now?”
The off-going Plot Supervisor yawned and stretched. “They pulled back into Zubayr about forty minutes ago. Why? What do you think they were doing?”
“You’ve got me by the short and curlies,” the on-coming supervisor said. “But you can bet your ass it wasn’t fishing.”
CHAPTER 42
USS TOWERS (DDG-103)
SOUTHERN ARABIAN GULF
SUNDAY; 20 MAY
2140 hours (9:40 PM)
TIME ZONE +4 ‘DELTA’
Captain Bowie addressed the small group of men and women gathered around the wardroom table. “I apologize for calling this meeting at such a late hour, but we may very well be in combat again by tomorrow morning, and that means we have to make our preparations tonight.” His eyes lit on the commanding officer of USS Benfold, and he nodded in her direction. “I’d like to thank Commander Vargas, and her USW Officer, Lieutenant (junior grade) Sherman, for accepting my invitation to join us tonight. I know that they have personnel casualties and damage-control issues to deal with back on their own ship, and I can appreciate how difficult it must have been to tear themselves away.”
Commander Vargas nodded. “I’m glad to be here, Captain. This really isn’t an easy time to leave my ship, and I have to confess that I was tempted to send Lieutenant (jg) Sherman by himself. But I have a top-notch exec, and I’m certain that my ship is in the best of hands. Still, I had to do some soul searching before deciding to come. Here’s what made up my mind … Our SAU is down to two ships now, both of which are damaged. We have a tremendous amount of firepower at our command, but very little of it can be brought to bear against a submerged submarine, which tells me that we probably can’t outrun this guy, and we certainly don’t outgun him. If we’re going to sink that submarine, we’re going to have to out-think him.” She looked around the table. “And since this is where most of that thinking is going to take place, this is where I need to be tonight.”
Captain Bowie nodded. “Well said, Commander. Well said.” He looked at the XO. “I’ve asked my executive officer, Lieutenant Commander Tyler, to kick us off with an outline of our current status. Pete?”
The XO nodded. “Thank you, sir.” He paused for a second and briefly consulted some notes that he’d made on a yellow legal pad. “The torpedo hit that we took on the port side did a number on us. We have a hole in the hull, to the port side of the keel. We’ve estimated its size at about twenty feet by fifteen feet, but we don’t know the actual dimensions of the hole, because the compartments that it opens onto are all flooded to the overheads. If we had time, we could ask for a team of divers to conduct an underwater survey of the damage, but time is the one thing we haven’t got. However large the hole is, we know that it’s added four inches to our draft in the aft end of the ship, and it’s given us a five-degree permanent list to port. We considered counter-flooding some compartments on the starboard side, to balance out the list and improve our stability, but we’re already hauling around enough flooding water to slow us down.
“To make matters worse, the hydraulic oil power module for the port shaft has at least a dozen le
aks from shrapnel damage. We can’t control the pitch of the port screw, and right now it’s set pretty close to zero. We can spin the port shaft, but, without pitch control, it’ll just thrash the water and make a lot of noise; it won’t actually give us any headway.
“Between the weight of the flooding water and the loss of the port screw, our top speed is reduced to about eighteen and a half knots. Our engineers are working their asses off to restore pitch control to the port screw, but we can’t count on it being ready in time to be of use.”
He glanced at his legal pad again. “Personnel casualties, thank God, have been surprisingly light. Three dead, three reasonably serious injury cases—none of them life-threatening—and a couple of dozen minor injuries … sprained ankles, broken noses, and superficial lacerations, that sort of thing.”
The captain touched the bandage over his left eye and gave a grim smile. “Easy for you to say, XO. They’re only superficial when it’s not your head.”
The XO reddened. “Of course, sir. The point is, we have a few personnel shortages, but we’re not cut so short that we can’t steam or fight.” He checked his legal pad one last time. “That’s about it for now, sir. We’ve taken some lumps, but we’re not out of the fight.”
The captain nodded. “Thanks, XO. Commander Vargas, could you give us a quick rundown on your own status?”
“Of course, Captain,” Commander Vargas said. “I didn’t bring my notes, but I think I can wing it.” She thought for a few seconds. “I’m afraid that our personnel casualties were a bit heavier than yours. The rocket attack killed all six members of my bridge crew. The Helmsman was still alive when our stretcher team got to him, but he died on the way down to Sick Bay.” She paused again before continuing. “Our Ship Control Console is totally wrecked, but we’ve worked out a system of steering from the bridge. The Conning Officer has to relay his course orders to the Secondary Control Console in After Steering, and his speed orders to Propulsion Control Console in CCS. It’s awkward, but it works. The explosion blew out most of the windows, so the watch team is constantly getting about twenty knots of hot desert wind right in the face. Not pleasant, but they’re dealing with it.
“Let’s see …” she said. “What else?”
“The helo,” Lieutenant (jg) Sherman said softly.
“Right,” said Commander Vargas. “Thanks. Since Ingraham is down for the count, we’ve borrowed their helo, Gunslinger Four-One. We don’t have a helo hangar, but I figure that any aircraft that costs thirty million dollars should be able to survive for a day or two strapped to our flight deck.” She gave a tired smile. “Our flight deck crew wanted the air crew to feel at home, so they went out and painted a welcoming sign on the door to the helo control tower. It’s one of those big blue road signs, like the ones you see near highway off-ramps. It’s got those three symbols on it that mean gas, food, and lodging.” Her voice trailed off. “I think that’s it.”
“Thank you, Commander,” the captain said. “I guess we’re ready for the tactical part of the brief. Ready, Chief?”
Chief McPherson unrolled a navigational chart of the Arabian Gulf and laid it on the table. “Yes, sir.” On the chart, in colored marker, she had drawn a series of lines and symbols describing the current tactical situation. The last known position of Gremlin Zero Four was marked by a red datum symbol. The datum was now two and a half hours old, and a black dashed circle enclosed it at a scaled range of fifty nautical miles. Based on the submarine’s maximum submerged speed of twenty knots, this dashed line—or farthest-on circle—represented the farthest that it could have possibly traveled in two and a half hours.”This chart is already time-late,” Chief McPherson said. “A contact moving at twenty knots will travel two thousand yards in three minutes. Therefore, every three minutes, the radius of the farthest-on circle increases by two thousand yards, or one nautical mile. The piece of ocean that we have to search grows by a corresponding amount. Our top speed is limited to eighteen and a half knots. So, if the sub is running away at top speed, we’ll never catch him. If he’s headed northwest toward Siraj at a dead run, every three minutes he gets a hundred and fifty yards farther ahead of us. The longer we chase him, the farther ahead he’s going to get.”
Lieutenant (jg) Sherman shook his head. “In theory that’s true, Chief. But your own calculations show that these 212s have only been covering an average distance of 13.5 nautical miles per hour. No doubt this guy can outrun us, but—based on the performance they’ve shown so far—I don’t think he will.”
“We were his last roadblock,” the chief said. “If I were him, I’d forget about sneaking around. I’d be hauling ass toward the Siraji coastline. There’s nothing between him and Zubayr but open water.”
“Maybe he doesn’t know that,” Ensign Cooper said.
Chief McPherson gave her boss an uncertain look. “German intel on our positioning has been pretty damned good. Which probably means that sub is getting downloads from reconnaissance satellites. If he is, he already knows there aren’t any more ships in his way.”
“That could be,” Captain Bowie said. “But he can’t possibly know whether or not we’re planning to send P-3s after him.”
“That raises an excellent question,” Commander Vargas said. “Why aren’t we trying to get some P-3s? Captain Whiley is out of the game; why are we still trying to fight this thing with one foot in a bucket?”
Around the group, heads nodded in silent agreement.
“I don’t know,” Captain Bowie said. “I asked Admiral Rogers that same question. He told me that the answer was classified at a need-to-know level way above his head. He hinted that the CNO had told him that it was a matter of the highest national security.”
Commander Vargas ran her fingers through her hair. “They won’t give us backup, and the reason why they won’t give it to us is a matter of national security. What kind of sense does that make?”
Captain Bowie’s eyebrows went up. “I don’t know, Rachel. But think about this: Three nations, all of whom are members of NATO and the United Nations, have been in direct military conflict for the past few days. A lot of political and military alliances are on the chopping block. There’s no telling what kind of bizarre diplomatic maneuvers are going on right now, or what might upset the apple cart.”
Lieutenant (jg) Sherman said, “Maybe the Saudis have clamped down on their airspace until this thing blows over. The French did that when Reagan ordered the bombing of Libya, back in the 1980s.”
“That’s possible,” Captain Bowie said. “But for right now, the brass hats don’t want us to know the reason. So we move on, and we work with what we’ve got.”
Commander Vargas said, “What we’ve got is a big piece of water and damn few assets to search it with. Anybody got any ideas on where to start?”
“I think we should sprint up to the north end of the pond,” Lieutenant (jg) Sherman said with a weak smile, “or maybe I should say ‘hobble’ … and set up a blockade off the coast of Siraj. Then we nail them when they think they’re on the home stretch.”
“Not a bad idea,” Captain Bowie said. “We may use that as our fall-back plan, but I hate to let the sub get that close to Siraj. If he slips by us then, we’ve lost him. We need to catch him down at this end of the pond, if we can.”
Commander Vargas nodded. “I agree with you, in theory. But there aren’t any choke points between here and Siraj. If we sweep the western side of the gulf, the sub can run up the eastern side. If we sweep the middle, he can slip past us on either side. We just don’t have enough assets to string a barrier all the way across the gulf.”
“Maybe we don’t have to,” Ensign Cooper said thoughtfully. “Maybe it’s not as big a pond as we think it is.”
Captain Bowie looked at him. “What have you got, Pat?”
Ensign Cooper stared at the chart. “I have to wonder where those subs have been refueling.”
“The intel weenies say they topped off in Port Suez,” Chief McPherson said. “J
ust after they transited the canal.”
“That would get them down the Red Sea and through the Gulf of Aden,” Ensign Cooper said. “But they wouldn’t have made it across the Arabian Sea, and certainly not all the way up to the Straits of Hormuz.”
Captain Bowie nodded. “Good call, Pat. They must have fueled up again some time after they mixed it up with the Kitty Hawk strike group. If we can figure out where, we can make a decent guess at where that last sub is going to run out of gas.”
Ensign Cooper ran a fingertip across the chart and brought it to a stop on an island at the southwest end of the Arabian Sea. “I’m betting it was here, Captain. The island of Socotra.”
The captain scratched his chin. “How did you come up with that?”
“Look at this entire operation, sir. The Germans put a lot of work into planning this. They didn’t leave a lot to chance.”
“I can’t argue with that. But how does it tell us where they stopped for fuel?”
“They had to plan for the possibility that word would be out by now,” the ensign said. “In which case ports that are friendly to the United States would be closed to them.”
“Makes sense to me,” the XO said.
Ensign Cooper nodded. “They would have mapped out their fueling stops ahead of time, and I’ll bet you they stuck to ports that don’t have close ties to the U.S.” He used his finger to trace a rough arc on the chart. “They would have been running low on fuel somewhere in here.” Only two countries fell within the arc he was tracing on the chart: Oman and Yemen. “That gives us two likely candidates, and Oman—if you’ve been following the news—has been kissing up to our government for months now. They’re trying to wheedle their way into ‘favored nation’ status, so we’ll lift the technical embargo that’s keeping their communications and computer infrastructure in the dark ages. I figure they don’t want to risk screwing that up, so they’ll probably steer clear of anything that even smells like conflict with the U.S. That leaves our buddies down in Yemen, and they have been known to play footsie with enemies of the United States. Remember when the USS Cole was bombed back in 2000? That happened in a port called Aden, and guess what country Aden is in?”
