Island Warriors c-18

by Keith Douglass

  “What nonsense is this?” he blustered. “Do you take me for a fool?”

  “In particular, I am considering repainting my office. That red circle — it does not go well with the rest of the decor, does it?” She pointed to the red circle that covered a small portion of her wall and the molding around her door.

  All the air seemed to rush out of the Russian Ambassador as he grasped her meaning. He turned on her, his expression ugly. “You tricked me!” he thundered.

  “And you spied on me,” she said calmly. “I wonder which action the world will find the more objectionable? I think I can guarantee, with some degree of certainty, that every delegate to the United Nations would be most interested in what we have discovered.” Watching the emotions play across his face, she smiled brightly. “But, as originally proposed, we would be willing to remain silent. As a friend, of course. In exchange for Russia’s full and complete support of our operations in Taiwan.”

  “Japan has denied you landing rights,” he pointed out. “And yet you would choose them over us?

  “We would, indeed,” she said crisply. “But under the circumstances, I do not think we will have to choose at all.”

  NINETEEN

  USS United States

  Sunday, September 21

  0600 local (GMT +8)

  Coyote paced the bridge of the ship, dividing his attention between the impenetrable fog around them and the radar screen. Every two minutes, the ship sounded a prolonged blast on her whistle, warning others of her presence. From out on the bridge wing, although the fog had a sound-dampening effect, Coyote could hear a chorus of other small vessels sounding off as well. The other vessels’ fog signals ranged from tinkling bells, and air horns, to an occasional voice shouting in panic.

  “Nasty, isn’t it?” the captain of the ship said as he walked up to Coyote. “And it’s going to get worse, according to the weather reports.”

  “All these little boats are clearly insane,” Coyote said. “They’ve got to know we’re here, and have to know that we can’t turn on a dime. If I were in a small boat, I’d stay well clear of us, you can bet your ass on that.”

  “We’re in the middle of some good fishing grounds, Admiral,” the captain said quietly. “It’s the only source of income — and food — that some of these folks have. They live on those boats, spend most of their days just searching for enough fish to buy fuel and feed their families. They can’t afford a day off because of the fog.”

  “They’ll be taking a lot of days off if we run into one of them,” Coyote muttered.

  “I doubt it,” the captain said, cynicism in his voice. “Because you know our government would pay reparations immediately. Any family that we run into is set for life.”

  “So that’s why they’re so close, maybe?” Coyote asked. “Hell of a way to play the lottery.”

  They both stared at the thick soup, trying to see what lay before them. Visibility was reduced to a mere fifty feet around them, far too little for them to even attempt evasive maneuvers should it be required.

  “It’s going to get worse before it gets better,” Coyote said at last. “The president can’t put up with this situation; he just can’t. I expect a message within the next eight hours ordering us to conduct freedom of navigation operations. And the closer we get to shore, in the shallower, warmer water, the heavier the fishing activity will be.”

  “Smaller boats, too,” the captain agreed. “And more desperate people.”

  Freedom of navigation operations were designed to exercise the provisions of international law that gave a ship the right to sail into foreign territorial waters as long as it did so expeditiously and did not stop to conduct military operations. Although the Chinese claimed that their territorial waters were contiguous with their economic zone, extending out to three hundred miles — and that their airspace extended a thousand miles off the coast as well — and claimed the entire Yellow Sea as their own, they had never before actively objected to freedom of navigation operations. That, Coyote suspected, was about to change.

  “Constrained waters — I know you’re not going to like it,” he said, casting a glance over the captain. “Going to play hell with the flight schedule as well.”

  “CAG is still complaining that not everybody has all their traps,” the captain said. “He wants to stay here in open water for at least another week.”

  “Not going to happen. It’s a come-as-you-are game.”

  Just then, the USW tactical circuit crackled to life. It was the Lake Champlain’s TAO, reporting radar contact on a periscope. “But I don’t want to send the helos out in this to continue localization,” the TAO concluded after the formatted part of his report. “It’s too nasty out there.”

  “God, no,” Coyote said. “Nobody’s launching anything until this clears up. Not as raw as most of our crew is.”

  “It’s obviously a diesel,” the Lake Champlain’s TAO continued. “We’re picking up enough of the signature in the passive spectrum to say that. She’s recharging her batteries, taking advantage of the fog.”

  “Great, just great,” Coyote muttered. “Pass all your data to the P’eng and coordinate tracking with them. And pass on to Captain Chang that I don’t want him getting gung-ho and launching that Sea Sprite of his. Tell Goforth to make that clear to him — we’ll have at it when the weather lifts some, but for now maintain contact as well as you can, and a continuous firing solution to the best of your capabilities.” Coyote glanced around the room, making sure Major Ho was not there. “And Captain, listen — you keep the P’eng out of the Seawolf’s box. I don’t care what you tell them, but keep them out of there. If you’re holding this contact, Seawolf has it, too, and she’s going to be all over it. If it makes a run on the carrier, she’ll be the first one to take it out.”

  Just then, a radioman approached Coyote, holding a clipboard in his hand. “Admiral?” He tendered the clipboard to Coyote.

  Coyote glanced across to the captain, a smart-ass expression on his face. “You a betting man? I’m willing to give you two to one odds that this is the message ordering freedom of navigation operations.”

  The captain shook his head. “With all due respect, Admiral, not a chance in the world I’d take that bet.”

  Coyote scanned the message quickly then said, “Good decision.” He passed the clipboard to the captain. “Get your people ready — we’re going in.”

  Probably the worst thing about freedom of navigation operations was that they were so close to the shore. It seemed like an obvious statement, but the real implication was that there would be far less warning should China launch an attack from her mainland. Shore-based antiship missiles, waves of fighter aircraft — all could be dealt with, given enough time to react. But the warning time during which they could expect to accomplish anything shrank from almost a minute down to mere seconds that close to land. It would be a Mexican standoff, Coyote thought, somewhat amused by the phrase. Yes, a Mexican standoff — with China.

  Jungwei

  0631 local (GMT +8)

  “Down periscope,” the captain said. The rudimentary periscope sticking up above the surface of the water slipped smoothly back down into its pedestal. It was one of the few things aboard the submarine that worked all the time, primarily because it had so few moving parts.

  “Shall I surface the ship, sir?” his officer of the deck asked.

  The captain shook his head. “No. Not yet. I can’t see any of their ships in this fog, but the radar shows the cruiser is nearby. Deploy the snorkel mast — it’ll take longer that way, but will be safer.”

  There was a chance that the American radar would miss the snorkel mast, but not much of one. In all probability, their periscope had been detected the moment it was deployed. But under the current weather conditions, the captain was reasonably certain that no American officer would risk conducting flight operations. And without the specter of the dipping helos to contend with, the captain felt fairly confident that he could avoid
prosecution by any surface ship. His submarine might be old, and the ancient diesel engines might be noisy, but when she was on battery-power, the submarine was virtually undetectable by anything other than active sonar. And active sonar would serve as a truly excellent homing beacon for any torpedo launched by the sub.

  His operating orders verged on insanity. It was inconceivable that anyone familiar with submarine operations had even so much as looked at the plan. It called for his ship to operate down to thirty percent battery-power prior to surfacing to recharge. Thirty percent — a dangerous, foolhardy risk. In general, the captain preferred to go no lower than sixty percent, and even at that point he would be getting anxious.

  But his commanders felt that the lower limit was necessary in order to allow the submarine to maintain contact on the carrier. It took a long time to slip in quietly, to calculate the carrier’s probable speeding and course based on her operations, and to anticipate her position sufficiently in time to allow the submarine to cut her off. There was no way they could keep up with the carrier, not with the maximum surface speed at fourteen knots, and a markedly lower speed submerged.

  Still, since they were not actively at war, it was absolute foolishness to allow battery power to drop so low. Indeed, the captain had considered several times disobeying his order, to surface and recharge, but that was a career-ending option as well. There was no telling how many officers and crewmen reported directly to an outside authority. If he chose to disregard his orders, armed guards would be waiting for him when he returned to port.

  As a temporary measure, however, the captain had struck a deal with the engineer. The engineer was an old friend, their acquaintance spanning more than twenty-years, and the captain and he could count on him to some extent. Besides, he also knew that the engineer hated the orders they’d received, and truly despised being at very low battery power. They had agreed that should it come to it, the engineer would tinker with the gauges reporting their battery reserve until what was reported as thirty percent would actually be sixty percent. They would get caught if they ever truly had to run, as it would become quickly apparent that the submarine had far more reserve than indicated, but both of them were willing to take that chance. The captain also suspected that no one on the crew would not be in a position to object.

  There was a grinding sound as the snorkel mast was extended. It sucked down great volumes of the damp, wet air, allowing the submarine to operate her diesel engines to recharge her battery. Thirty minutes, the captain decided. That should be enough to bring them up to the full charge, or perhaps a little less. And if the weather stayed as it was, he could even extend that in order to take on a full charge.

  The pressure inside the submarine changed as the snorkel mast popped up. Then it dropped again, producing an ear-popping change, as the diesel engines lit off. The smoke and fumes from the engines were vented to another pipe located astern on the ship.

  “Navigator, prepare an intercept course to the aircraft carrier,” he ordered. He turned to the senior enlisted man standing immediately to his right. “I wish for you to supervise dry run torpedo approaches on the carrier. When the time comes, we will be ready.”

  The enlisted man looked on approvingly. “Yes, captain. A good plan, sir. An excellent plan.” He went off to prepare the sonarmen and the weapons technicians, and personally check the readiness of each torpedo.

  The captain turned back to the monitor that displayed the last picture his periscope had shown. His chief of the boat may have thought him a wise, aggressive captain, but he himself knew better. Their only hope of making a successful approach on the carrier lay in complete and absolute surprise. And that was going to be difficult to accomplish once the weather cleared. No, their best opportunity was right now. But his orders did not allow him that discretion, and there was no guarantee that matters would ever reach that stage.

  And if it did, firing the torpedo at the aircraft carrier would be his last act of command. Of course, they practiced evasive maneuvers, studied the tactics, and most of the men were convinced that they would be able to easily evade and escape.

  But the captain knew better. The carrier and surface ships, along with the aircraft, would immediately know where they were. There would be no escaping the onslaught of weapons, sonars, and assets brought to bear on them, not even by going deep and running silently on battery. No, the Americans would find them — find them and destroy them.

  TWENTY

  Adak Naval Base

  Sunday, September 22

  1700 local (GMT –8)

  As soon as Tombstone landed, he was directed into a heated hanger, but his windscreen had already started to ice up. Tombstone slipped back the canopy, and started down the boarding ladder. Even a good day in Adak was brutal by anyone else’s standards. The wind never seemed to stop, and the wind chill factor was always a consideration.

  “Hold on, sir. You got some icing. Use this.” A flight technician wheeled over a ladder stand to him.

  “Icing already,” Jason said happily. To him, it was just another challenge to overcome. “If you’d let me fly, we wouldn’t have had a problem.”

  “Oh, I suppose your stick is so hot that it would keep ice from forming, right?”

  “After you, the hottest stick this aircraft has ever seen,” Jason said confidently. “And if I were you, I’d keep looking over my shoulder.”

  Despite his weariness, Tombstone laughed out loud. Jason Greene’s brash, uninhibited approach to life never ceased to amaze him. “Any more guff out of you, boy, and I’ll de-ice this aircraft just by letting you talk to it.” The flight technician laughed at that.

  “Good morning,” a voice said. “I’m Commander Lawson, CO of the base.” Tombstone turned to face a Navy officer in long-sleeved khakis approaching. “Welcome aboard.” Tombstone noted the absence of the honorific “sir.”

  “Nice to meet you, Captain,” Tombstone said. He resisted the impulse to salute, and glanced back to make sure Jason understood. “Appreciate your hospitality.”

  Lawson’s face quirked into a grin. “My people are used to welcoming folks to our island paradise. Even people like you. You won’t be asked any questions, and nobody’s going to call you sir. Unless you actually need something, we’ll pretend you don’t exist. I hope that’s okay with you.”

  “Sounds just right, Captain. Appreciate the consideration.”

  “Even if anyone recognizes you, they’ll pretend they don’t,” Lawson said neutrally. “And some people will think that they do.”

  “Present company not excluded,” Tombstone said softly.

  Lawson nodded. “So if you don’t mind, I’m going to escort you to your quarters myself. The fewer people in the loop, the better. Nobody will think it’s unusual — it happens fairly often. Depending on the circumstances.” He patted the side of Tombstone’s Tomcat affectionately. “And we have the finest technicians in the world, si—” He cut off the word “sir” before he could finish it, and shook his head. “Sorry about that. Anyway, as I was saying, our technicians will take care of your bird. Between what we have onboard and those that flew in two days ago—”

  “Flew in two days ago?” Tombstone asked, his voice incredulous. “But I didn’t — never mind, Commander Lawson. Never mind.”

  As they followed Lawson off to a secluded corner of the hanger, Greene said softly, “There’s more to this cloak and dagger business than I thought.”

  “I should’ve worn a ski mask. Or let you do all the talking.”

  Jason turned to take one last look at the Tomcat. “We’ll figure out how to handle it next time, Tombstone. I mean, Admir — I mean — uhhh…”

  “Ah, what the hell,” Tombstone said, disgusted. It had been foolish to think he could manage to stay unrecognized.

  One corner of the hangar had been converted into a sleeping area, with additional sound-deadening materials lining the walls. Commander Lawson showed them to a sparsely furnished compartment which was more than adequatel
y equipped for what they needed: sleep. The schedule allotted them twelve hours before they were due back in the air.

  Tombstone stretched out on the rack furthest away from the door, and Jason settled down on the other. Within moments, the younger pilot was asleep, his breathing low and regular.

  I remember when I could do that. You sleep, piss and eat when you can, because you don’t know when you’ll get another chance.

  Nine and a half hours later, they were rousted by a mess cook knocking on the door. He bustled in carrying a large insulated pot of coffee and a number of covered plates. Delicious smells filled the room.

  “Wasn’t sure if you guys would be wanting breakfast, lunch, or dinner. So I settled on breakfast — pilots can always eat breakfast.”

  “Breakfast is fine.”

  With a flourish, the mess cook pulled off the silver tops from the dishes to reveal healthy portions of scrambled eggs, bacon, pancakes and sausage. Additional dishes contained fresh fruit, butter and syrup.

  “Eat hearty, gents,” he said serenely. Then he produced a bag and held it out to them. “I packed you a little lunch, just in case you didn’t have time to cook.”

  “Thank you,” Tombstone said.

  The mess cook grinned. “My pleasure, sir. And whatever you’re up to — if you’re up to anything, and I wouldn’t know — you give ’em hell.”

  “Say, this is really good,” Jason said around a mouthful of food. “You’re quite a cook.”

  “Oh, I didn’t make this,” the man said. “The mess management specialist did. I’m just the delivery boy.”

  Tombstone and Jason exchanged a glance. “Then convey our compliments to the chef,” Tombstone said. “How come he’s not here himself?”

  “It’s a she, sir. And reason she isn’t here is that she doesn’t have a clearance. I do.”

  “So who the hell are you?” Jason asked, still wolfing down pancakes. “Pass the syrup, will you?”