Taylor Naval Research & Development Center she had seen photographs that had been taken inside a depth-killed sub by a mini-ROV. Physics played weird tricks down in the wet dark. Surrounded by cubic miles of water, the trapped crewmen had died in flames.
As the bulkheads had collapsed and the steel-hard walls of hyperpressure water had burst into the compartments, they had produced atmospheric shock waves that in turn had generated a searing heat pulse. In the microsecond before the
224 James H. Cobb compartments had fully filled, everything within them had been incinerated.
"I'm sure that someone around here will be very happy to make me feel stupid for saying this, but so what?" Arkady said.
"What it means is that the second Han wasn't maintaining watertight integrity," Amanda replied slowly. "He was running with his watertight doors open."
"Exactly!" Christine gave a sober nod. "He was wide open. When he hit that seamount he flooded completely from bow to stern in seconds." "I'm not saying it again." Arkady sighed as he got up and started for the coffee urn.
"Well, think about it," Amanda said a little impatiently.
"The SDF sub skipper who was trailing the second Han reported that he thought the Chinese boat had veered off toward Aichi Shima seamount in an effort to break contact." "Wait a minute." Arkady paused with his mug under the urn's spout. "If they were taking evasive action, they would have closed up to general quarters."
"Uh-huh. and if they had been at general quarters they would have had all their watertight doors and hatches closed and secured." Chris tapped the face of the CD player emphatically.
"This is another one of those failed assumptions the Captain was talking about the other day. We assumed this sub loss was due to the result of a fumbled combat maneuver.
Uh-uh. This was an operational accident. These guys had no idea that they were being shadowed. They were just chuggin' along, fat, dumb, and happy, and they sailed right into the side of that seamount."
"Son of a bitch," Arkady mused. "You're right. That's pretty good detective work, sis."
"Yeah, thanks," Christine replied noncommittally, continuing to stare at the disc player.
"Now, what's wrong?"
"I'm not sure. I mean, accidents do happen. But these guys were supposed to be good! Theoretically, the best the Red navy had left. Yet they pull this kind of total blooper on the most radically important mission their Fleet's ever
SEA STRIKE 225
launched. I'm getting weird vibrations off this one. We're missing something."
Someone else in the room silently agreed. Neither the Intel nor the aviator noticed that Amanda had also started to regard the disc player with an intent and unwavering interest.
EAST CHINA SEA 1805 HOURS ZONE TIME; AUGUST 21, 2006
... Successfully completed under-way replenishment from USS Sacramento.
Have resumed ASW sweep operations.
Ship continues in war cruise mode. No contacts. No comments.
Garrett, Commanding EAST CHINA SEA
0919 HOURS ZONE TIME; AUGUST 22, 2006
"Retainer Zero One. This is Yancy Five Niner Bravo. We've got him boxed!
We've got him boxed!"
In the distance, the S-3 Viking pivoted on its wingtip like a hunting hawk and cut across the nose of the Sea Comanche.
Going to hover, Lieutenant Vince Arkady snapped an order to his S.O.
"Down dome!"
"Deploying sound head," Gus Grestovitch replied, keying the command into his systems
"Do we have a tactical?"
"Yes, sir. Receiving data from Yancy Five Niner's buoy pattern. They have two passive buoy lines down and they have a contact. Single submerged target, depth two hundred meters. Course 190 degrees true.
Estimated speed sixteen knots. Bearing to target zero four five relative."
226 James H. Cobb "Do we have positive target ID?"
' ' submarine contact. Blade count indicating a single seven-bladed screw. No plant noise registering. The data annex can't provide a class identification. She's real quiet, Lieutenant ... so quiet I can just barely keep her acquired."
Arkady frowned deeply, the skin of his forehead tugging at the sweatbands of his helmet. "That doesn't sound right.
Not for a Chinese boat turning that rate of speed."
He thumbed his transmitter key. "Yancy Five Niner, do you guys have a positive target ID?"
"Negative, Zero One!" an excited voice replied. "It's got to be one of the Red boats, though. We have verified through Hunt Boss that none of our boats are out here. We have bays open and we have fish spinning for drop."
This kid was eager. His crew wanted a kill hack under their cockpit window.
"Yancy Five Niner, uh, stand by. There's something screwy here. This guy seems too quiet. Advise you verify ID before you engage."
"We have ID, Zero One," the Viking's S.O. insisted.
"This guy must be running under a thermocline. We have adequate targeting to drop. We are rolling in now!" "Hey, Gus," Arkady asked quietly, "did you check the bathythermograph before we left the Duke?"
"Yeah. On the last set of readings there were no appreciable thermoclines above three hundred meters."
"Down dome! Full extension! Two hundred and fifty meters!"
"Dome deploying, sir!"
' ' Five Niner, this is Retainer Zero One. Advise you wave off until we verify this bogey. There's something wrong here!"
"Retainer, the bogey is approaching the box perimeter. If we don't drop now we could lose our firing solution! We are dropping!"
The sun gleamed off the windscreen of the ASW jet as it circled back to set up its approach.
"Lieutenant," Grestovitch interjected. "We have full extension.
Bathythermograph does not record a thermocline.
We have no variance in the target's sound level."
SEA STRIKE 227
"Aw, Jesus! Gus, go active on the sonar! Full power!
Attack ranging!"
"Yes, sir!"
"And override Yancy Five Niner's control on the sonobuoy lines! Bring them active too. All of them!"
"Aye, aye!"
In an instant, the submarine sound environment exploded. A dozen different sonar transponders snapped on, lashing half a hundred square sea miles with interlocking waves of ultrasonic energy. The inhabitants of those sea miles, natural and manmade, panicked.
"Retainer Zero One!" the Viking's S.O. roared. "What in the hell are you doing?"
"Saving your ass, Yancy. Stand by!"
"Target is accelerating," Gus reported. "Aspect change, target is turning ... Target is diving! Audio spike on passive channels. Data annex now identifying target as a Block IAkula attack submarine. Russian Pacific Fleet. I say again, the target is Russian!"
"Son of a bitch," a shaken voice whispered over the radio link.
"Roger that, Yancy. I advise you remember that we aren't the only kids playing on this block."
"Losing target through the thermocline, Lieutenant," Grestovitch reported. "He's really taking off. I think we scared him."
"Not only him, of' buddy." Arkady closed his eyes for a moment and emptied his lungs in a sigh of relief.
EAST CHINA SEA 1800 HOURS ZONE TIME; AUGUST 22, 2006
... ASW sweep operations continue. Enroute to new patrol sector.
Maintaining war cruise mode. As before, no contacts.
No comments.
Garrett, Commanding EAST CHINA SEA
0049 HOURS ZONE TIME; AUGUST 23, 2006
There was so little there, just the faintest widening in one frequency band of the cascade display. And just the faintest, the very faintest of whispers beyond the sea sounds in the audio output coming over the speakers. God! Was it really there at all?
For the thousandth time, Lieutenant Charles Foster wondered if he was making a fool of himself. The Cunningham had been working this frustrating almost-contact for the past two hours, and for the past one, Foster had been riding t
he main console in Sonar Alley himself. Again, he reached out and tapped in the "Target Identification Analysis"
command into the sonar array data annex.
**NO I.D. INSUFFICIENT DATA GATE FOR ANALYSIS**
"Shit!"
"Easy, Lieutenant. Like they used to say out this way, "Softly, softly, catchee monkey.' "
Captain Garrett had been standing at his shoulder for the past hour as well, silent for the most part, observing, waiting, disregarding her own loss of rest and time.
"Any change in aspect?" she inquired quietly.
"No, it's still just hanging out there in the surface sound duct.
Bearing between oh ninety-five and one hundred degrees true. Can't narrow it down beyond that. There's just not enough to pinpoint." "Any new thoughts on range?"
"No, he could be somebody running just ahead of us at good quiet, or he could be some distance away hauling ass.
There is just no way of telling."
"Well, we've got an Orion quartering out ahead of us now. We'll keep running down this bearing toward the contact until we hear what he has to say."
SEA STRIKE 229
Foster nodded, his throat suddenly dry. He swallowed twice and forced the words out, speaking to the slim silhouette beside him in the semidarkness of the CIC.
"Captain, I'm sorry, but I think that this is a dead end."
"Oh?"
"Yes, ma'am. The contact has remained consistently in the surface duct.
The contact has not appreciably shifted bearing; it's either not moving or moving very slowly. The contact is intermittent and transitory. I haven't been able to pick up a repetitive mechanical pattern off it like a blade count."
The sonarman swallowed again and finished. "I'm really sorry, but I think I've had us chasing a biological, maybe a pack of dolphins or something."
His captain nodded slowly. "I agree, this is probably a biological. It's shown every sign of it for the past half hour.
But I'm not absolutely sure yet. Are you?"
"No, not absolutely, ma'am."
"Then let's stay on it until we are sure."
Foster felt a small, strong hand rest on his shoulder for a moment. "We don't have anything better to be doing just now."
NATIONALIST PRIMARY LINE OF RESISTANCE FUJIAN PROVINCE, CHINA 1137 HOURS ZONE TIME; AUGUST 23, 2006
The Mapats launcher had twelve kill rings painted around its stubby, charred barrel. The counterpoint was that it was the last surviving firing unit of the antitank section. The young Nationalist army officer didn't feel young. He felt as old as the land itself. The land that had claimed the hopes and dreams of his people and that had now claimed three-quarters of his men.
"Activity on the front!" The call was relayed down the line of raw-earth battalion emplacements. Weary soldiers slid back down into foxholes and bunkers, nestling close to rifle 230 James H. Cobb stocks. Machine-gun bolts ratcheted back and slammed forward.
Breathing grew ragged.
Automatonlike, the survivors of his crew dragged themselves into position on the dug-in launcher vehicle. Sprawling down at the lip of the emplacement, the Nationalist officer lifted his battered binoculars to his eyes once more.
"All positions, fire only on order!" Another relay came down the line.
"Only on order! Watch for the yellow!"
Maybe this time it would be different. Maybe today would be the day.
There had been gunfire out along the front all morning, but not aimed inward at the beach-head perimeter.
For the past hour, though, all had been silent.
"Lieutenant, I see smoke. Two o'clock," the gunner reported hoarsely from the launcher station.
The officer shifted his glasses. A plume of yellow smoke was rising from beyond a paddy dike, growing rapidly in volume.
A second plume from a second marker grenade, a third.
"Hold your fire!" The command came down the line more emphatically, striving to overcome the instincts ingrained into the battle-battered Nationalist troops over the last grim weeks.
There was movement on the road that snaked in toward the Nationalist position. Men, soldiers as weary-looking as the Nationalists, clad in a patchwork of PLA uniform parts and civilian clothing. An assault rifle or a grenade launcher held at the ready, each had a strip of yellow cloth bound around his forehead, their sole touch of true uniformity.
They did not look like men who were about to make history.
The Nationalist officer watched as the column drew closer.
Then he was on his feet, scrambling out of the emplacement and striding down toward the road. He couldn't say why.
At the point of the UDFC column there was a man of the Nationalist officer's age, if such a thing as age could be assessed anymore. The burned-out eyes were the same, though, and the rebel warrior also had lieutenant's bars stitched to the collar of his combat jacket.
"We have been waiting for a long time," the Nationalist heard himself saying.
SEA STRIKE 231
The UDFC officer nodded gravely. "It was a long journey here."
And then their arms were locked around each other in a man's embrace.
In a growing roar of voices, more Nationalists swarmed out of their emplacements and down to the road to meet with their countrymen-to-be.
There was a third army nearby as well, or the wreckage of one. The PLA had failed in its desperate effort to prevent the linkup between the Nationalists and the United Democratic Forces. Now its remnants stumbled northward, seeking the vague promise of shelter offered by the Wenzhou River line.
The Red Army bled even as it retreated, however. Again and again, the lash of Nationalist airpower fell upon its back.
The skies had been emptied of Communist jets, and even the surviving antiaircraft guns were burned out and low on ammunition.
And there was another, subtler kind of hemorrhage going on as well.
Singularly, and in small groups, PLA soldiers slipped away from the retreating columns. Some concealed themselves and waited for the UDF to overtake them, seeking to switch allegiances. Others simply tossed their weapons into the ditch and started the walk home. A few were caught by their officers, or by the Armed People's Police, and executed for desertion. Not many, however. Most military and police officials simply didn't care anymore.
The Communist Party's propaganda machine hoarsely bellowed about a new
"Long March" into the north, where the People's Revolution would rally once more and arise resurgent.
Few listened. It is difficult to produce effective propaganda when the people promoting it no longer believe it themselves.
"Harry, have you got the latest?" Lane Ashley's voice issued from the phone's conference speaker.
"About the UDFC breaking through to the Nationalist beach head? Yes, we've got the word here."
Despite his suite's air-conditioning, Harrison Van Lyn den's shirt was damp with perspiration. The printing on the
232 James H. Cobb situation report he had been trying to study kept turning incomprehensible as he forced his tired brain to stay awake just a little while longer.
"No," the NSA director replied. "I mean what's happening with Hainan Island. It's just coming off the net now."
Van Lynden swore under his breath and tossed the hard copy down on the coffee table in front of him.
"No, I don't have anything on Hainan. What's happened?" '
"The Red garrison there has mutinied. The senior officer cadre is either dead, or in custody, and a committee of colonels and captains is running the show now. They've opted for the rebellion. The entire Hainan Military District has gone over to the UDFC."
"Damn, Lane. I wish I could consider that good news."
"I know," Ashley agreed grimly. "The Reds are starting to come apart.
Remember how our conflict-simulation projections were estimating that the Communists could hold out for another eight to ten months? Well, that's recently been derated to six to eight. And personal
ly, I think that's generous."
"How long do you think the Reds have?"
"As long as it will take the UDFC and the Nationalists to refit and reorient for the march north. I don't think that the Communists are going to be able to establish a valid defense."
"Except for the bombs."
Van Lynden looked out of the suite's windows across the velvet darkness of Manila Bay. He smelled the sour scent of his own weariness, and all at once, he felt old.
"Lane, is there anything new on the Reds' ballistic-missile sub?
Anything at all?"
"We only know that it's out there, Harry. All ASW and intelligence assets on the Pacific Rim have been committed to the search, but there is just ... nothing."
Van Lynden rubbed his hand across his face and wished that he had the energy to go to the hotel bar for a drink.
"We're organizing a low-profile evacuation of Embassy dependents and other American nationals out of the Philippines.
If we start to get heavy fallout here, things could get pretty SEA STRIKE 233
nasty in a hurry. What would your best guess be on how long we have before the Communists launch?"
"To tell you the truth, Harry, I think that somebody is taking a last deep breath before they reach for the button."
PHILIPPINE SEA FIFTY-FIVE MILES NORTHWEST OF DAITO SHIMA ISLAND
2330 HOURS ZONE TIME; AUGUST 23, 2006
"There you've got it," Arkady said, tossing the hard copy onto Amanda's desk. "I can maintain our current expenditure rate on sonobuoys for another twenty-four hours, then we're tapped."
"Will that leave us with a reserve to work possible solid contacts?"
"That'll leave us with nothing but empty racks. If you want to keep any kind of decent reserve, I need to radio Zero Two right now and tell them to stop dropping. I can't wait for our next UNREP, Skipper. If I'm going to stay in this ball game, I need reloads right now."
"I don't know where I'm going to get them from," Amanda replied. "Task Force 7.1 and Seventh Fleet are both in about the same shape we are. The Orion squadrons are eating buoys like popcorn. Some reserve stocks are being flown in from stateside, but it's going to be a while before we see any of them."
"Then we're screwed." Arkady tilted his chair back until it thumped against the curved bulkhead. "Once we're reduced to dunking sonars and MAD gear, our ASW air-search capability is going to fall way off."
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