“OOD, let’s get a lookout on that relative bearing with night vision. You never know,” she said, heading toward the ladder that would take her off the bridge.
“Aye, aye, Captain,” said the young officer.
“Captain’s off the bridge,” announced a hidden petty officer to her right, startling her.
She felt the ship turn as she slid down the ladder, landing in front of the door to the captain’s stateroom. Her stateroom. Located between the bridge and the Combat Information Center, it gave the commanding officer quick access to either critical station, a necessity she had never fully appreciated before assuming responsibility for the lives of Gravely’s crew. A few twists and turns later, she descended to the Combat Information Center entrance.
“Captain’s in CIC!” yelled a sailor at a nearby console.
A petty officer at the chart table announced, “Ship is steady on course one-one-zero.”
Lieutenant Mosely rushed to meet her.
“Ma’am, I have every sonar tech on the ship crammed into sonar control, trying to figure this out. There’s no traffic out here, so they were able to isolate the signal,” he said.
“The contact just appeared out of nowhere?” she asked.
“We’ve had the passive towed array below the thermocline layer for several hours, looking for any long-range stalkers,” he said, walking away. “ST1 Herbert is convinced this contact came into detection range above the layer, either snooping for electronic signatures or receiving updated orders. The submarine just descended below the layer.”
“Does sonar have any idea what we’re looking at?”
“They’re still trying to classify the contact.”
“So this could be surface noise caught in a convergence zone?”
“They don’t think so. The signature is too distinct to have crossed the layer and bounced around for hundreds of miles. Plus, it appeared too suddenly.”
She nodded and followed him through the dimly lit CIC to the sonar control room. Beyond the curtain separating the two spaces, several men and women huddled around the AN/SQQ-89 Integrated Anti-Submarine Warfare Display. They quickly made room for her.
“What do we have, Herbert?”
“Ma’am, if I had to guess before the analysis was finished, I’d say we’re hearing reactor equipment.”
“A boomer?”
“I can’t say, ma’am. Could be a fast-attack boat,” replied the petty officer.
“Not a surface contact?” she pressed.
“Negative, Captain. Guardian just lit up our sector. No surface tracks.”
Shit. The presence of a nuclear-powered submarine was bad news, regardless of the type. It meant Russian or Chinese nuclear assets had been sent closer to the U.S. mainland; a move deemed unacceptable by the National Security Council and Pentagon planners. Gravely’s orders were specific: Hunt and kill any subsurface contacts in their operating area.
The problem they faced was localization. The towed array gave them a direction, but no distance. Their first tactic would be to send an aircraft down the line of bearing from Gravely, hoping to detect the magnetic disturbance caused by the submarine’s metal hull. Unfortunately, this tactic wasn’t an exact science and could last for hours. Despite the sheer volume of math and science behind antisubmarine warfare operations, luck played an almost equally important role.
To expedite the process, they’d utilize Guardian’s extensive supply of passive sonobuoys along the detection bearing to fix the location of the sub. Easier said than done against a moving target that could be anywhere along a thirty- to fifty-mile line.
“Very well,” said Thompson, backing up a few feet. “TAO, report this as a POSSUB, high confidence, and request that Guardian remain on station to assist. We’re going to need their sonobuoys. Set flight quarters for Spotlight One-One. I want the flight crew briefed and the helo in the air within thirty minutes.”
“I’m on it,” said Mosely, disappearing through the curtain.
“And TAO?” she said. Mosely reappeared. “Energize the Aegis system. Once the sub figures out we’re prosecuting them, they might do something desperate. I don’t want anything slipping through our net.”
“Yes, ma’am!” he said enthusiastically.
Thompson turned to Petty Officer Herbert. “How long until we’ve resolved the bearing?”
“It’ll take the towed array at least fifteen minutes to steady on our new course. We’ll have a solid bearing to pass on to the helo at that point.”
“I want to know what we’re up against before the helo is airborne,” she said.
“If this submarine type is in the catalogue, we’ll get it classified within ten minutes,” said Herbert.
“Excellent,” she said. “Nice work. All of you.”
Lieutenant Commander Thompson left the cramped space and caught up with Lieutenant Mosely.
“I’ll be on the bridge. Let me know as soon as sonar classifies the contact.”
She barely heard them announce her presence on the bridge. Thompson settled into the captain’s chair and closed her eyes. Her head swam with scenarios and contingencies. Once Lieutenant Mosely passed the report, there would be no going back. Atlantic Fleet commanders would commit Gravely to the fight. Kill or be killed. A seasoned submarine captain versus—don’t go there. She knew Gravely’s combat systems inside out, and so did her crew. They were ready for anything.
Chapter 5
“Guardian” P-8 Poseidon Aircraft
37 miles southeast of USS GRAVELY
Lieutenant Commander Kyle West scrutinized the tactical action display in front of him. Seated in a row on the port side of the aircraft’s cabin, four additional operators monitored the aircraft’s sensors and surveillance feeds, making sure his display had the latest data from all transmitting units. The seat pitched downward, pulling his stomach with it. A few more of those, and he might lose his midnight snack. The P-8 was a militarized version of a Boeing 737, not exactly the ideal passenger aircraft for low-altitude submarine-hunting maneuvers. He took a few deep breaths and tried to ignore his worsening stomach situation.
“Sonobuoys Kilo-Three and Kilo-Four picking up the track,” announced one of the enlisted operators in West’s headset.
He pressed a button and replied, “Got it. Track hooked.”
Unable to get a MAD reading from Gravely’s helicopters, Guardian and Sentry, another P-8 aircraft launched from Naval Air Station Oceana and started deploying passive sonobuoy patterns ahead of the reported bearing line in a “hail Mary” attempt to find the submarine. After exhausting more than three-quarters of their sonobuoy load out, they got lucky. A subsurface contact passed through one of the patterns, ten miles away from the helicopter. While Guardian swooped down to deploy more sonobuoys, Spotlight One-One closed the distance to the submarine, hovering nearby with two armed torpedoes.
So far, the Type 093 Chinese submarine had maintained course and speed, heading toward the Delaware Channel at ten knots, a relatively quiet, but urgent running speed. All of that was about to change. They needed to fine-tune the submarine’s position for a deliberate torpedo attack by the helicopter. He expected all hell to break loose underwater once the submarine was pinged by the active directional sonobuoys.
“Go active on Oscar-Four and Oscar-Five,” said West, switching channels. “Spotlight One-One, this is Guardian. Oscar-Four and Oscar-Five just went live. Confirm link to these sonobuoys.”
A garbled, but readable voice responded, “Copy. Links are active. Bingo! I’m showing active bearings to target.”
The submarine was as good as dead at this point.
“Spotlight, do you require further guidance to target?” asked West.
“Negative. I have a strong link to your sonobuoys. Moving into position to attack.”
“Give ’em hell, Spotlight,” said West.
He turned to the officer seated next to him, making sure his headset wasn’t transmitting. “That should teach those Commie fucks
a lesson.”
“A cold, wet lesson,” said the lieutenant.
“They probably won’t feel a thing,” added the radar operator two seats over.
“Too bad,” said West, leaning back in his seat to watch the digital battle.
“New radar contact, bearing two-five-five! Correction. Two new contacts—shit, these things are moving fast!” said the radar operator.
West stared at his screen, watching the new contacts speed away from the submarine’s location, hoping that Spotlight One-One’s link-track didn’t disappear. The new contacts and the helicopter merged on his tactical screen.
Chapter 6
USS GRAVELY (DDG-107)
Off the coast of Delaware
Chief Fire Controlman Jeffries was hovering behind the ship’s Anti-Air Warfare (AAW) console when Petty Officer Clark screamed in his face.
“TAO! New air tracks 1025 and 1026. Bearing zero-three-three. Distance forty-five miles. Heading two-niner-three. Speed three hundred knots and increasing. Altitude four hundred feet and rising!”
The sailor seated at the AN/SLQ-32 Electronic Warfare console on the other side of CIC called out what Jeffries suspected.
“I have no fire control radars or missile seekers along that bearing.”
The new targets did not emit an electronic signal, which meant they were either land-attack cruise missiles dependent on GPS and terrain comparison to reach their targets, or anti-ship missiles in booster phase. Gravely’s response to each scenario would be the same.
“Stand by to take those tracks, Clark,” he whispered in the petty officer’s ear before turning to gauge Lieutenant Mosely’s reaction.
Lieutenant Mosely stood behind his station, staring at the bank of raised flat-screen displays at the front of CIC. One of the screens showed the direction of the air tracks superimposed on a digital map overlay of Gravely’s assigned area of operations. The missiles fired by the Type 093 Chinese submarine were headed toward the Washington, D.C., area. Captain Thompson stood next to Mosely, reaching the same conclusion. She nodded at the TAO, who issued the orders.
“Fire Control, kill air tracks 1025 and 1026. I don’t care what it takes. Spotlight One-One is weapons free to conduct a deliberate torpedo attack. I want that submarine dead,” he uttered.
The Anti-Submarine Tactical Air Controller (ASTAC) two seats over from Clark responded. “Passing the order to Spotlight One-One. Weapons free.”
Jeffries watched as the Combat Information Center flawlessly executed the multi-contact engagement. The Aegis combat system had been designed for a nearly automated engagement of enemy targets. By the time he turned to face the Anti-Air Warfare console, Clark had assigned three SM-2 surface-to-air missiles to each track. He patted the sailor on the shoulder.
“You know what to do,” said Jeffries.
Clark pressed a series of buttons authorizing the salvo firing of six missiles. The ship rumbled against the pitch and roll of the sea, their only physical indication that the Vertical Launch System (VLS) had released the missiles. One of the screens in front of the captain and TAO flashed to a green image of the forward VLS battery. The dark green scene flashed white six times in rapid succession. A hollow voice echoed through one of the speakers.
“TAO, this is the OOD. I confirm six birds away.”
“Confirmed by Fire Control,” yelled Petty Officer Clark. “Six birds clearing booster phase. Looking good!”
“Time to impact?” said the captain.
Clark took a moment to examine his data fields. Jeffries refrained from helping the young sailor find the information. Coddling his sailors had never been part of the chief’s training philosophy.
“Time to first impact in thirty-nine seconds, Captain.”
Jeffries nudged him.
“Three niner seconds, ma’am.”
“Very well,” said Captain Thompson, nodding her approval at Jeffries.
“Torpedo away!” announced the ASTAC. “Spotlight One-One is maneuvering for re-attack, Captain.”
“Don’t make your reports to me. Lieutenant Mosely is fighting the ship,” said Thompson.
“Aye, aye, ma’am,” said the petty officer. “TAO, Spotlight One-One—”
“Got it, make sure Spotlight drops a sonobuoy for battle-damage assessment,” said the TAO.
“Already in the water, sir. Sonar reports active torpedo pinging. It’s just a matter of time,” said the ASTAC.
Several seconds later, Clark gave them an update.
“Missiles entered terminal-guidance phase. Revised time to target estimate is one five seconds. Aegis shows a solid lock on the targets.”
Jeffries mentally counted down the seconds. He reached twelve when Clark announced their arrival.
“Splash tracks number 1025 and 1026. Aegis is picking up nothing but falling debris from the tracks.”
“Copy. Splash tracks,” said the TAO, among a chorus of cheers.
Moments later, it was the ASTAC’s turn to pass on some good news.
“TAO, all acoustic sources confirm an underwater detonation. The torpedo has stopped pinging. Sonar assesses a hit. They’re processing more data from the sonobuoy and towed array feeds to assess the extent of the damage.”
Everyone cheered except for the captain, who whispered something to Lieutenant Mosely. He nodded before abruptly interrupting the celebration.
“Keep it down! This isn’t over! ASTAC, order Spotlight One-One to re-attack the target with its second torpedo,” said the TAO.
The order quieted the crew. The captain wasn’t taking any chances with the submarine, which had very likely fired two nuclear-tipped cruise missiles at the capital—and could fire a whole host of antiship missiles on Gravely if it survived the first torpedo. Jeffries suspected that Guardian and Sentry would continue to drop torpedoes until they heard the Chinese submarine break apart underwater.
Chapter 7
15 miles northeast of Guangzhou, China
Early December 2019
Staff Sergeant Chen Tang-shan sat on the cold ground next to his assigned tent, peering through the fence at the orange aura visible over the darkened hilltops. Based on the distant glow, he knew the camp was due east of a major industrial area, but he couldn’t be sure where. They could be outside one of several dozen Chinese cities, coastal or inland. The truck ride from the pier in Xiamen had lasted several hours by his guess. He wasn’t sure, because his watch, along with the rest of his personal items, had been confiscated a few hours after his capture on Penghu Island.
As a Republic of China (ROC) Marine, he had devoted his career to preparing for this invasion, an unsurprising continuation of a youth spent under the constant threat of a breakdown in “cross-strait” relations. They had always understood the odds stacked against them, even with the prospect of American intervention. When the United States started to withdraw its military forces from the western Pacific theatre of operations, the Taiwanese government took immediate steps to safeguard the people. Chen’s battalion was ferried from the Taiwanese mainland to Penghu, a small archipelago in the Taiwan Strait.
To what end? He’d spend the rest of his life in labor camps, with an occasional stint in a re-education facility. If he showed promise, and no signs of aggression, he might be returned to his family on Taiwan—if his family hadn’t been moved to a labor camp in China. He wished he had been killed on Penghu.
Instead, his tank had been hit by an antitank missile fired from a Chinese attack helicopter within the first few minutes of the battle, killing the rest of his crew and disabling the tank. He spent the next seventy-two hours sprinting from one blasted structure to the next with a Marine infantry squad, occasionally stopping long enough to fire on an unsuspecting Chinese patrol. Chen and the two remaining Marines were captured at night on the third day of the invasion while swimming across Magong Bay to an outlying island.
They had hoped to find a serviceable boat on one of the islands so they could retreat to the mainland. They felt useless on
the island. At night, they saw flashes across the channel between Taiwan and Penghu. The battle for Taiwan raged on while their fight dissolved into a pointless game of hide and seek with the Chinese. Their families needed them.
His wife and children lived in the West District of Chiayi City. They would no doubt see heavy fighting as the Chinese fought their way east through the city to the provincial government complex. Chen had seen the Army Reserve battle plans for defending the mainland. It would be a fight to the bitter end for the regular and reserve units assigned to defend the city, and the civilians caught in the middle.
They hadn’t been the only ROC Marines with the same concern. The Chinese patrol boat that pulled them out of the water held several Marines from the 66th Marine Brigade, all plucked out of the jet-black water. Less than twenty-four hours later, he was deposited at Camp 78 with the clothes on his back and a pair of cheap plastic sandals. Made in China, no doubt.
Chen shivered, knowing it was time to return to his overcrowded tent and the worn bamboo mat so graciously “loaned” to him by the “people.” The propaganda had started immediately. People’s this and people’s that. Intolerable on every level.
Headlights appeared in the hills, approaching the camp. One pair turned into several, as the road turned gradually toward the entrance on the northern side of the camp. More prisoners. Just what they needed.
A high-pitched noise drew his attention away from the trucks. The sound grew louder over the next few seconds, resembling a jet engine. He caught movement in his peripheral vision and jerked his head left—just in time to see a long, dark object fly over the eastern half of the camp. The sound rapidly faded as Taiwanese prisoners streamed out of the tents, cheering at the sky. Like Chen, many of them knew exactly what had passed overhead: a cruise missile.
Moments later, the watchtowers lining the camp bathed the prisoners in blinding light. Whistles blared, and amplified voices ordered them back to their tents. A few bursts of automatic fire emphasized the guards’ urgency to restore order to the “people’s camp.” Chen wondered where the missile was headed, and if it signified anything beyond a random, desperate, retaliatory shot fired by one of their submarines or destroyers. He hoped so.
THE ALEX FLETCHER BOXSET: Books 1-5 Page 133