by Don Keith
The Guoanbu, the Ministry of State Security, would certainly know what to do with such information. And the ministry’s results were often permanent.
Ψ
Captain Joe Glass stood on the catwalk high above the well deck of the USS Portland. Alongside him, Captain Mort Jones, Portland’s CO, and Commander Steve Weiss, CO of the ORCA team, leaned against the rail, observing the activity below them.
Waves gently lapped up on the inclined well deck as two teams of sailors in small rigid-hulled inflatable boats—RHIBs—alternately pushed and pulled the large, black, ungainly ORCA ONE submersible from the ship’s shadowy interior. It slowly backed out of the flooded-down well deck and into a patch of early afternoon sunlight.
The three officers watched as the unmanned submarine, now unleashed, turned and headed out toward the harbor mouth, dutifully falling in behind the outbound RV Deep Ocean Explorer. As it disappeared from view, Commander Weiss broke the silence.
“That’s about the end of the show from here, gentlemen. I suggest we go up to CIC and take a look at the mission plan.”
By the time they had climbed up to the Portland’s Combat Information Center, ORCA ONE had already cleared the harbor mouth and slipped below the waves. The darkened CIC looked very much like a video gamer’s dream setup. It was illuminated with dozens of flat-panel displays hanging around workstations, each festooned with joysticks and Xbox-like controllers.
Weiss guided the two captains to a large flat-panel display that hung from an outboard bulkhead. The screen showed a chart of the island as well as the ORCA’s outbound track. Weiss picked up a remote control and hit one of the buttons. The display shifted to a small-scale chart of a sizeable area of ocean, stretching from Tuvalu to the northwest to the Cook Islands to the southeast. He pressed another button and a track appeared on the chart.
“Since we only have the one ORCA right now, she’s going to have to do multiple missions.” He looked toward Glass. “Commodore, you gave us a maritime surveillance mission around the Tonga Trench and a mission to plant remote sensors around the Tongan main islands. That’s a lot of real estate to cover and this girl is not real fast, I’m afraid. She can do eight knots if she really needs to, but four is a more economical transit speed. I figure we’ll tell her to make one pass around the trench and then head off to the islands. It’ll take better than a week to put all the sensors in place and confirm that they’re operating. Then we will be back to a full-time surveillance on the Deep.”
Glass nodded. “That’s just what we asked for, Steve. I know that you didn’t bring your full team. How many people will be manning this control station? And do you need any augmentation?”
Weiss chuckled.
“Thanks, sir. But you remember that ‘U’ in UUV? That stands for ‘unmanned.’ And these babies are just that. She will go on out there and do her thing with little to no supervision. She will call home if she finds anything. Other than that, we just sit back and wait.”
Ψ
Tim Anson walked a slow circle as he swept Boise’s periscope around, looking at the horizon. “Dancing with the fat lady” was what submariners called it, and had since the days of the World War II diesel-electric boats. The slow shuffle as they swung the periscope around, looking at the outside world through a tiny soda straw.
Then, suddenly, something very fast flew past. A jet. A jet so low that Anson involuntarily ducked. Then, just as suddenly, three more aircraft flashed by, down low on the deck, likely roaring toward Dongsha Island. Anson caught just the barest glimpse of a red star on a wing as the planes screamed off into the distance. He could also see a heavy load of ordnance slung underneath those wings. Someone on Dongsha was about to get quite the fireworks display.
Anson was reaching for the 1MC mike to call the skipper to the conn when the 21MC speaker blared.
“Conn, ESM, receiving multiple pulse-doppler radar emitters. Probable fire control. Not a threat, but signal strength high.”
Anson grabbed the 21MC mike instead.
“Conn, ESM, aye. Just saw a flight of Chinese jets close aboard. Can you classify the emitters?”
“ESM, aye. Classifying now.”
They really needed to determine who was probing around up there.
“What you got, Eng?”
Anson turned to find himself facing the skipper.
“Flight of Chinese jets down low heading toward the island. Looked like they were heading in for a low-level attack. And ESM is reporting a bunch of radar emitters.”
Commander Chet Allison grabbed the periscope.
“Let me take a look-see,” he said as he trained the Type 18 periscope toward the distant island. “Dive, come up a couple of feet. I want to get a better look.”
The diving officer smoothly brought the boat up two feet. With the added height of the scope above the wavetops, Allison could now make out the island on the horizon. And the view was disturbing.
Smoke hung heavy above the atoll. Bright yellow and orange flashes erupted frequently, like heat lightning. Planes flitted in and out of view. It was impossible to tell who was who, though. There were only fleeting images as the metal birds rained down death on the tiny island.
“Conn, ESM. That high-signal-strength emitter equates to a Type 1473H pulse-doppler fire control radar carried on a Chinese Chengdu J-10 naval attack jet. Also detecting GD-53 X-band pulse doppler radars, carried on Taiwanese IDF F-CK-1 attack jets. And APG-83 scalable agile beam radars carried on F-16 E/F fighters. Sounds like we have an air war happening up there.”
“Eng, acknowledge that. Then get the XO up here.”
Anson nodded and keyed the 21 MC mike.
“ESM, Conn, aye.” Anson then grabbed the 1MC microphone. “XO to the conn.” Any announcement on the 1MC system would carry throughout the boat. No matter where the XO was, she would hear the summons and come as quickly as she could.
Anson had barely replaced the mike in the holder when the XO charged through the after control room door.
“What’s up?”
Allison pulled away from the scope for a second. “XO, looks like the Chinese and Taiwan have a major air battle going on over this hunk of coral. Go to radio and work with the ESM watch to sort out the players. Once we see who all has shown up for this party, get a status report off to CTF-74 as quick as you can.”
Henrietta Foster disappeared back through the door toward the radio room.
Allison peered into the periscope lens again, just as a fighter jet swooped low and seemed to be racing right at them. He caught just enough of a glimpse to recognize the distinctive F-16 air scoop before the plane suddenly pulled into a vertical climb. The pilot frantically popped flares as fast as he could. Something was chasing him.
Then Allison saw a missile racing along behind the plane, unerringly arrowing upward toward the fleeing jet. And catching it. The jet disappeared in a brutal, blinding explosion. But then an ejection seat burst forth from the smoke. And an orange parachute canopy blossom above it. The pilot had somehow lived through that hellish blast. Or at least long enough to eject.
“Mark this bearing!” Allison called out.
“Bearing zero-four-seven,” Anson sang out.
“Mark the chart at a range of five thousand yards.” Allison kept the scope trained on the pilot’s parachute as it gently descended toward the water. “Nav, do we have good water over there?”
Was there sufficiently deep water below them so they could dive if need be?
“Yes, sir. Depth sixty fathoms there. Shoals up quick a mile beyond that area, though.”
“Okay. Ahead two-thirds, steer zero-four-seven,” Allison ordered. “I just saw a Taiwanese jet get taken out and the pilot ejected. Let’s go see if we can get that guy out of the water.”
“You think that’s a good idea?” Anson replied, frowning. “There’s a bunch of mad people up there flinging around a lot of ordnance. Wouldn’t want us to get caught in the crossfire.”
“Eng, I don’t see any
one else around here to pick him up.” Allison swung the scope around. “Long swim to the beach and he may be hurt. Plus, he can surely tell us what the hell is going on out there.” Allison suddenly stopped swinging the scope. He raised the elevation with his left hand as he shifted to high power with his right. “Damn. There’s another chute coming down. Mark this bearing.”
Anson checked and called out, “Bearing zero-nine-two.”
“Range, call it six thousand. Nav, mark the spot. It’s a white chute this time. I didn’t see the plane.”
“Plotted, Skipper. Good water in that direction.” It was Jeremy Chastain, the navigator, with confirmation.
Allison glanced at the navigation plot on the ECDIS display. At this speed, it would take them fifteen minutes to get to the first pilot. The second one was a couple of miles beyond the first one. They should be able to grab them both.
“Chief of the Watch, on the 1MC, Chief of the Boat and man overboard party muster at the forward escape trunk.”
“Skipper,” Tim Anson said. “Maneuvering is reporting a lot of shaft vibration. They have increased leak-off to a gallon a minute to keep the flax packing cool. Recommend slowing to one-third.”
Not a good time for a problem to crop up.
“Ahead one-third,” Allison reluctantly ordered. “Do they have any idea the cause of the vibration?”
“Nothing yet,” Anson reported. “They’re investigating.”
“Eng, have the Nav relieve you as OOD and get aft. See if you can find out what’s going on and get back to me quick.”
The engineer disappeared out the control room door just as the XO came in through it.
“Skipper, we just got another one of those weird messages,” Foster told him. “Somebody...our guardian angel?...just let us know that we are making a hell of a lot of noise. They say it sounds like it could be shaft related, maybe a dinged screw.”
Allison shook his head. Whoever was out there sure had some good ears. Neither Allison nor Foster had any idea who it could be. Well, at least it appeared they were on the right side. And that bit of knowledge the mysterious friend had shared correlated with the shaft vibration. If the close-call torpedo explosion had damaged the screw, then increased revolutions would cause more vibration. And plenty of noise. It appeared the rest of their time at sea would be very slow.
“Captain,” the chief of the watch announced, “COB reports the man-overboard party is mustered at the escape trunk. Request permission to break rig for dive and open the lower hatch.”
The chief of the boat was reporting that men were waiting to go up a passageway and through a hatch that would put them on the submarine’s deck, ready to rescue the downed pilot.
“Skipper, hold the orange parachute visually,” Lieutenant Chastain chimed in. “Thousand yards dead ahead.”
In rapid fire, Allison ordered, “Chief of the Watch, open the lower escape trunk hatch and send men into the trunk. Open the lower bridge trunk hatch and enter the trunk. All stop. Rig out the outboard and shift to remote.”
“See the pilot,” Chastain reported. “Five hundred yards ahead. Just off the port bow.”
“Chief of the Watch, thirty second blow on all main ballast tanks.”
The diving officer called out, “Depth five-eight feet, coming up. Five-five feet. Five-zero feet. Four-five feet.” Then, finally, “Depth is three-six feet and holding.”
Their deck was out of the water and safe for the rescue party to open the hatch and climb out. Or as safe as it could be with war raging in the distance.
Allison scurried up the vertical ladder to the bridge. A phone talker closely followed him up. As the captain reached the upper hatch, he ordered, “To the chief of the watch, opening the upper bridge hatch. To the COB, open the upper escape trunk hatch and send men topside.”
Allison spun the hatch handwheel and then pulled the latch handle. The hatch popped open, dumping enough seawater on the submarine’s CO to get him thoroughly wet. An occupational hazard. The bridge area smelled of saltwater and the sea faintly fishy, but also of wet iron.
He clambered up into the cockpit and rolled the lock to drop one of the clamshell covers, then stuck his head out into warm, late-afternoon sunshine. The downed pilot was only a hundred yards away, almost dead ahead, but Boise had already slowed to where she was dead-in-the-water, rolling in the gentle sea swell. Allison could tell that the pilot was floating face up, but did not seem to be aware that somebody was attempting to rescue him. He was almost certainly unconscious. Maybe worse.
The skipper looked back to see men emerging from the open hatch on the main deck. The COB was the first man topside, quickly followed by a pair of rescue swimmers and the corpsman.
“Ahead one-third,” Allison ordered. He waited until he could just feel the boat move ahead, then ordered, “All stop!”
Such stop-and-go maneuvering was a delicate operation. Submarines had no brakes. Boise smoothly slid to a stop with the pilot a mere twenty feet off the beam. The man was still floating face up, his life vest inflated. The two rescue swimmers quickly hauled him back to the boat and then the team lowered him down the hatch, which swung shut as the last man headed down.
“Nav, best course to the other guy?”
“Captain, plot holds the second pilot bearing one-five-five, two miles. Do not hold him visually.”
Allison did not like this. Two miles away when the best speed they could do was four knots. Thirty more minutes on the surface. Every additional minute increased the chances of their being shot at.
He pushed up the clamshell and locked it before dropping through the upper hatch. He shut and dogged it, then slid past the phone talker and down the ladder into the control room. Foster met him at the bottom, ready to give him an update. But Allison held up his hand for her to wait a second. Seeing a “straight board”—all indicator lights showing green, which meant all hatches were closed and it was safe to dive—he ordered, “Diving Officer, submerge the ship to six-zero feet. Nav, head for the other downed pilot. Okay, XO, what do we have?”
“The pilot is unconscious. Doc is moving him to the wardroom to see what his problems are. His flight suit has a Taiwanese flag on it. And we have orders to immediately clear the area and make best covert speed to Guam. And our weird, all-seeing, all-knowing friend says that we sound like a trash can full of rocks rolling downhill anytime we run above four knots.”
“Any word on that Aussie who’s supposed to relieve us?”
“CTF-74 says that he is still two days away. We are not—and they repeated, we are not—to stick around until the Aussie shows up. If I had to guess, I’d say things have gotten really janky in our part of the world all of a sudden.”
“Well, let’s find the other guy and then we’ll get the hell out of this garden spot.”
“You sure you want to do that? Boss was pretty adamant about us blowing this pop stand. I don’t think us sticking around to offer rides to some fighter pilots was what he meant.”
“XO, I’ll tell you the same thing I told the Eng. If we don’t pick this guy up, there’s no one else out here to do it. At our current top speed, a few minutes spent pulling someone out of the drink is not going to affect our ETA to Guam.”
“Yes, sir,” Foster answered. “Then let’s get over and get this guy aboard before someone up there objects.”
The short cruise over to the second site was uneventful. They found him floating a few yards away from the remnants of his parachute. They surfaced and repeated the process that had worked for the first pilot. Chet Allison brought the Boise to a halt only a few yards away and a short swim for the rescuers to reach the pilot. The sun was sinking below the western horizon and it was getting difficult to see, though, as the swimmers brought the man back to the sub.
“Skipper, planes inbound!” the phone talker yelled. “Nav sees them on the scope.”
Allison dropped down from the bridge and slammed the upper hatch closed. He yelled, “Get everybody below decks and the h
atch shut!”
Just as he slid down the ladder, he could feel the blast of jet engines close aboard.
“Diving Officer, dive the ship to six-two feet!” he ordered as he dropped down the ladder into the control room.
“But...but...I don’t have a straight board,” the flustered man responded. “The escape trunk hatch...”
“Open the vents,” Allison ordered.
The chief of the watch reached up to flip the switches that opened the main ballast tank vents. The boat immediately started to go down, the deck tilting noticeably.
“By the time the decks are underwater, the hatch will be shut. If we wait for a straight board, we’ll still be on the surface when those guys swing back around, and they will probably be shooting when they do.”
“Depth three-eight feet,” the diving officer sang out. “Answering ahead one-third.”
Allison grabbed the periscope and swung it around in the direction the jets were going when they passed over while Boise was still mostly on the surface. The skipper watched as the two fighters made a wide sweeping turn and headed right back, directly toward the submarine. The aircraft were down on the deck and they were coming fast.
“Depth four-zero feet. Full dive on the planes. Still open on the upper escape trunk hatch.”
The two jets had moved to the left and right to put a little more space between them. Allison was no jet jockey, but this appeared to him to be a firing pass. He looked aft through the scope and said, as calmly as he could muster, “Deck’s awash.” Then, “Deck’s under.”
“Depth four-four feet. Intermediate indications on the escape trunk hatch.”
“Flooding, flooding in the mess decks,” the 4MC Emergency Announcing System blared. “Flooding from the forward escape trunk!”
