Joint Operations c-16

by Keith Douglass

  A weekend boater, he thought. A foolhardy one, if they’re headed toward the carrier at a time like this. Those gunner’s mates have got to have itchy fingers right now. I wouldn’t want to be the poor SOB that makes them the slightest bit nervous.

  TEN

  USS Centurion

  0948 local (GMT –10)

  It had only taken a quick look at the entrance to the harbor to dissuade Captain Tran from even considering entering it. If the long-range view of smoking ships half-sunken in the water and otherwise empty piers had not convinced him, the message traffic that they downloaded from the satellite would have. One message sent over the battle group’s dedicated circuit was of particular interest — and oddly enough, rather than go through the communications facility on the island, it came over the LINK.

  Centurion was directed to break off training and independent operations and support the battle group in ASW. Admiral Wayne had assigned her a wide swath of water between the carrier and the shore, postulating that any diesel submarine in the area would most likely be lurking around the entrance to the harbor, acting as a gate guard or early alert platform.

  None of the higher-level planning made much difference to Otter and Renny. Searching one piece of ocean was pretty much like searching any other spot, except for a few local differences. For the most part, it was as exciting as watching grass grow.

  After another hour on the sonar stack, Jacobs finally heard a sound that brought him bolting upright in his chair. He shut his eyes and concentrated for a moment. “Bilge pump,” Jacobs announced confidently. “No doubt in my military mind.”

  “Let me double-check with engineering,” the chief said, nodding his agreement. “Make sure they haven’t got something lit off we don’t know about.”

  “I think I’d know if it were ours, Chief,” the sonarman said, his voice slightly offended. “I mean, after all.”

  “I know, I know. But it never hurts to double-check.” The chief turned away and spoke quietly into the sound-powered phone. A moment later, he left the sonar shack for a few moments, then returned with a satisfied look on his face. “General Quarters and quiet ship,” he said. “Skipper wants to track this baby down and get her moving. If it’s a nuke, it’ll make enough noise for us to get a good classification on her. And if it’s a diesel, we’ll force her to suck down some battery power. Sooner or later, she’ll have to snorkel and light off her engines to recharge the batteries. Then we’ll have her.”

  There was nothing noisier beneath the water than a diesel submarine recharging batteries.

  “She’s coming left,” the sonarman said. “Down Doppler.” The chief relayed the information to the OOD. “Losing contact — damn! I think she’s cross layer now.”

  “Let’s follow her,” the chief said, still holding the sound-powered phone up to his lips. A moment later, the deck tilted down at the bow slightly. “Sing out when you regain contact.”

  The sonarman shut his eyes, concentrating on the flow of noise into his ears. Off in the distance somewhere, a pod of whales were singing quietly to themselves, the eerie wail of their song echoing through the ocean. Closer by, shrimp snapped and popped, chittering away at their mating rituals.

  The submarine herself added a bit of noise to the spectrum, although filters in place reduced known frequencies emanating from her hull. Still, even apart from the discrete frequencies, the flow of water over the hull and the limber holes, the holes through which water was pumped out, increased the overall ambient noise.

  Just at the edge of his hearing, he caught the faint hum of the bilge pump. It was a slow, methodical thump punctuated by a whine between strokes as the slow speed pump drew water up from the bilges and forced it out of the submarine. Not his, no — their submarine never needed to pump bilges, or so the engineers claimed.

  It was getting stronger now, easily discernable over the noise of the biologics and the distant shipping. It beckoned to him like a drumbeat.

  “He’s moving to the left,” he said quietly, hating to even make that much noise for fear of losing the sound again. “Stern aspect.” He heard the chief repeat the words.

  Next to him, Pencehaven was setting up a firing solution, inputting the contact into the fire control computer, coordinating the actions with the torpedo room. Soon, very soon.

  “Open outer doors. Flood tubes one and two,” he heard the chief say quietly, and swore silently as the words forced him to miss a few beats of the bilge pump.

  “I have a firing solution,” Pencehaven announced. “Ready for weapons free.”

  “Hold fire, weapons tight,” the bitch box over their head said quietly. “We don’t know for sure who it is yet, but I’m going to try to spook him. The second you have a refined classification, you yell.”

  Yell. Right. Like there was going to be any yelling on a submarine at quiet ship. Still Jacobs held his tongue and waited.

  A quiet shudder ran through Centurion as her propeller speed increased. Noise, more noise, and Jacobs quailed involuntarily at it. It went against every instinct ingrained into his body since the first days of sub school. He looked over at Pencehaven, and saw that his friend was shaking his head.

  “She’s got to know we’re here,” the chief said. “Unless she’s deaf or stupid.”

  “And if she’s deaf or stupid, she ain’t ours,” Pencehaven replied.

  The bilge pump ceased abruptly.

  “She’s gone quiet and is running. That clinches it,” Jacobs said softly. “Whoever she is, she’s not on our side.”

  Tran’s voice came over his headset. “Good work. We’ll check in with the carrier and let them know that they’ve got more to worry about than Chinese fighters.”

  USS Jefferson

  0950 local (GMT –10)

  Bam-Bam stared at the tactical screen, trying to force meaning out of the movements he saw shown there. The Jefferson was in the center of the formation, her escorts arrayed around her. Cruisers to port and starboard, a destroyer closer in to land, and two fast frigate astern, one in position to serve as plane guard, the other conducting an ASW search. They were still south of the island. To the northeast, a submarine datum reported by Centurion was getting staler as each hour passed. The Centurion was also still in the area, patrolling the area between the carrier and the island.

  Over land, picked up by the powerful Aegis radar, six MiG-33s flew CAP stations. Satellite intelligence revealed that another ten were parked on the runway radiating heat signatures from their engines. Warmed up, then, on alert and ready to launch given the slightest provocation.

  How could it happen like this? Aren’t there island defenses or something — there have to be, on Pearl Harbor of all places! But who would have suspected the unthinkable? Evidently not Pearl Harbor, no more than Russian security had been able to explain the small private aircraft that somehow sneaked through their defenses to set down in Red Square.

  Jefferson had two sets of fighters deployed in forward CAP stations between the carrier and land. Four Tomcats and four Hornets were in alert five on the deck, their pilots and RIOs ready to launch and one positioned on each catapult for immediate launch. Another eight fighters were in alert fifteen, with the balance of the squadron in alert thirty. Except for the hangar queens, every aircraft was ready to launch immediately.

  But from the looks of it, the biggest problem wasn’t airborne right this moment. The contact the lookout had spotted was still bearing down on the carrier.

  At first glance, it would seem to be no contest. Tons of aircraft carrier, the mightiest fighting vessel ever built, against a small boat whose displacement could be measured in the low thousands of pounds. The airwing with its potent fighters, S-3B antisubmarine and surface capabilities, not to mention the helos and the electronics and refueling support versus a rich man’s toy built for fishing, cruising fast, and pleasure.

  But modern technology made evaluating the threat based merely on size a problem. Stinger missiles, with their two-mile and extended ra
nges, were available to anyone with the right contacts and sufficient cash. In recent years, there’d been reports of Soviet-made antiair systems flooding the weapons markets of the world, along with small and deadly torpedoes and a host of electronic jammers. Even nukes — he shuddered at that particular thought — were reportedly available in small launch containers that could easily be stowed on the deck of a boat the size of the one homing in on them. War had become a wildly chaotic matter of trying to assess threats in a world where everything was a threat.

  “Anything from the signalman?” Bam-Bam asked.

  “Not yet,” the watch officer replied. “He just got on station.”

  “Keep me informed.”

  “Roger. How close will you let him get?”

  “Three miles,” Bam-Bam said without consulting his standing orders signed by the captain. “No closer.”

  Even that was taking a chance. While the maximum range of the new extended Stingers was reportedly slightly less than that, who knew what changes and updates could have been made?

  One small missile from a shoulder-held missile tube could wreak destruction if it hit the right spot. Say the hangar bay, launched from sea by a fast and highly maneuverable boat into the massive opening below the flight deck that opened onto the hangar bay. One missile — yes, that would be enough. One burning aircraft under the flight deck, the heat stress on the flight deck and associated gear, the conflagration billowing up into the stored AVGAS and weapons stacked in piles near the island — one missile would be enough if it hit in the right spot in the hangar.

  And who would be foolish enough to fire just one?

  “Three miles, aye, TAO,” the watch officer echoed. “Weapons free?”

  Bam-Bam hesitated for a moment. Giving weapons free would leave the power to decide to fire in the hands of the petty officer manning each fifty-cal gun site. Better to hold weapons tight, deny them the right to fire until he gave the order.

  Unless things got busy. Say, with air combat and a splashed bird. Did he really want to risk the delay that weapons tight would involve.

  “Yes. Weapons free on any contact designated hostile within three miles of the carrier,” he said finally.

  Bam-Bam heard movement behind him and turned to see Admiral Wayne slipping into his chair behind the TAO station. Bam-Bam gave him a brief rundown on the situation, concluding with his decision to grant weapons-free status to the gunnery crews.

  “Good call,” the admiral grunted.

  Bam-Bam felt a sense of relief — he’d known it was the right thing to do, but even a mighty Navy lieutenant commander didn’t mind having a little positive reinforcement by the man who wore the stars on his collar. “Sir, I’d like permission to set a green deck while we’ve got gunnery stations manned,” he said, aware that it was outside the usual safety regulations. But then, by definition, so was most combat. “A helo and a fighter paired up together might be more useful against a maneuverable target.”

  “Go ahead,” the admiral said after a second’s reflection. “But call a check-fire while you’re actually launching. I don’t want to lose a pilot because a gunner got too eager for a shot and forgot about the Tomcat crossing his field of fire after launch.”

  “Aye-aye, sir.” The TAO briefed the gunnery crews over his coordination line, affirmed that there were no questions about his orders, then switched channels to the Air Boss. “I’d like to go ahead and put one section of Vikings and one section of helos in the air,” he said. “Helos are already fitted with their side door guns, right? That’s after you launch a section of alert five Tomcats.”

  “That’s affirmative on the helos,” the Air Boss answered.

  “Good. Green deck. Brief the aircrew that the gunnery stations will be on check-fire until they clear the area, but they better go buster once they’re airborne. Launch when ready.”

  “Roger, copy all. Ready now, TAO.” As the Air Boss spoke the words, a low rumble built through the compartment, shaking and shivering every piece of loose gear. The noise built until the edge of the TAO’s computer stand jittered. A Tomcat, first, then, he could tell without even looking at the plat screen. The helos would cause barely a ripple within CDC and the Vikings barely shuddered the coffeepot. Even the potent Hornets couldn’t match the low-throated roar of a Tomcat on the catapult.

  A second Tomcat howl joined the first, then the higher-pitched distinctive whine of a S-3B Viking. The S-3B was nicknamed the Hoover, since it sounded like a vacuum cleaner.

  Just as the first Tomcat howl started to fade away, there was a soft thunk — the catapult reaching the end of its running and releasing its aircraft off the forward end of the ship. A second thunk followed quickly, and then a softer noise as the S-3B on the waist cat launched. Then two helos taxied forward to launch spot, shuddered and lurched as they built up rotor speed, then quietly lifted off the deck and slid out over the sea. As soon as they were clear, the second set of Tomcats taxied forward to the cats.

  On the tactical screen, the symbols were popping into being superimposed over the symbol for the carrier itself, slowly drifting away from the ship and vectoring in on the contact marked as a hostile surface target. The helos followed behind their faster fixed-wing brethren, but soon the air around the one contact was cluttered with air symbols.

  Still the contact maintained its course and speed, still headed directly for Jefferson.

  “Sir,” the watch officer said, “lead Tomcat is requesting weapons free on the contact.” The pilot, the TAO knew, would want to take the contact with his nose gun.

  “Range from Jefferson to the contact?” the TAO asked.

  “Five miles, sir.”

  “No. Tomcats are weapons tight. Gunnery stations, weapons free inside two miles. Have the Tomcats ready to go, but for now, tell them simply to stay overhead. And to make sure that boat knows they’re overhead.”

  “Roger, sir.” The stations answered up one by one.

  Just who the hell are you and why are you so damned determined to make it out to my ship? the TAO thought. “Where the hell is that signalman?” he asked out loud, his gaze still fixed on the interval between the carrier and the contact. “I want an answer on that flashing light question now!”

  The Lucky Star

  1000 local (GMT –10)

  “Hey, we got us an escort in,” Major Carlton Early, the KC-135 tanker pilot, crowed. “Couple of Tomcats, right? Nice, real nice of the carrier.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” Lieutenant Commander Green said. She turned to Tombstone. “They haven’t acknowledged any of my transmissions, sir.”

  “You sure you’re sending right?” he asked, then immediately wished he hadn’t asked. Green’s face went still and cold.

  “Yes, sir,” she answered calmly, her voice matching her expression. “I’ve transmitted your message five times with no response.”

  “Keep transmitting,” Tombstone ordered. He looked up at the sky, his eyes following the movements of the Tomcats, the way the helos were standing off between his vessel and the carrier, the low altitude wobbles of the Tomcats as they cut tight station-keeping arcs overhead. One broke off and jogged off five miles, then a small geyser erupted underneath it.

  “Shit. They’re test-firing nose guns. Green, keep transmitting. General, take another shot at the bridge-to-bridge radio. Try channels eight, nine, ten, and thirteen. Keep trying until someone answers up. The closer we get to the carrier, the more likely they are to hear us through the noise.”

  Heaven Can Wait

  1001 local (GMT –10)

  “So what’re they doing now?” Adele asked Jack. She’d just come up from below for another short break only to find her new husband studying the other boat in the area through binoculars.

  “Still sending flashing light, still heading toward Jefferson,” he said without taking his eyes away from the binoculars. “I wonder if — hey! The cell phone — you’ve got it, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “
Would you get it, please?”

  And that, she thought, as she headed back down to retrieve her cell phone from her luggage, was another thing you could count on with Jack Simpson. A thank-you. Courtesy ran as deep in his bones as the reflex to prepare for potential emergencies.

  “Thanks,” he said as he took it from her a few minutes later. “You take the conn for a moment, would you?”

  “I have the conn,” she acknowledged.

  Jack punched out a series of numbers on the cell phone, and then grunted impatiently as he got a busy signal. He hit redial, then entered another number.

  “Who?” she asked finally.

  “The Reserve Center first, then a couple of my reserve buddies if I can’t get through. Somebody, somewhere, has a cell phone number for the Jefferson, and I think it’s time we got it.”

  “What for?”

  He grinned, a devilish look on his face. “Under the circumstances, seeing as we’re mobile and in the area, I want to check in and see what we can do to help.”

  “How could we possibly help?” she asked.

  The smile faded from his face and he put the cell phone down carefully. “You know, I didn’t mean for it to be like this,” he said soberly. “It’s our honeymoon, after all. And you’re a civilian — you didn’t sign on for any of this. I’m not sure it’s fair to risk you at all, not at all. In fact, I’m not sure I can bear the thought.” He started slowly down the steps to the lower level of the boat.

  “Jack Simpson, you get right back up here,” she shouted. “Right now.”

  He popped back up, a look of surprise on his face.

  “When I married you, I married all of you. That includes the part of you that’s in the Navy. Part time, maybe, but it’s there.”

  “No,” he said immediately. “If the Navy had wanted me to have a dependent — and that’s what you are now, my dear; it’s the new politically correct term for wife — they’d have issued me one.”