Joint Operations c-16

by Keith Douglass

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “Well. Just concentrate on getting on board, now. We’ll sort this out later.” Batman’s voice was grave, but not unkind.

  The Air Intercept Controller was on the circuit immediately, giving her a vector around the starboard marshal and into an immediate approach on the carrier. She followed his instructions carefully, precisely, forcing her mind to concentrate on the second most dangerous evolution any carrier pilot undertakes, right after tanking. Tits, unusually quiet behind her, simply murmured a few reassuring, “Looking good, looking good,” from time to time.

  She rolled in on the deck on a perfect flight path and handily snagged the three wire. She waited, the Tomcat throbbing at full military power, until a yellow shirt stepped in front of her and indicated it was safe to reduce power. Then she eased the tailhook up, dropping the three wire, and taxied carefully across the deck and into her spot. She and Tits ran through the shutdown checklist quickly, and popped the canopy while the plane captain mounted to safe their ejection seats and help them out.

  Finally, she swung a leg over the aircraft and started down the boarding ladder, the footholds that popped out from the side of the aircraft. She jumped off the last one, felt a slight jar run through her as she landed heavily on the flight deck. She heard Tits hit the deck behind her.

  As she headed for the island, she noticed the hatch pop open and a rangy female figure step out. Short clipped blonde hair framed an iron mask of a face.

  Lobo. Shit, I don’t need this right now. Everything that’s gone on over the last three months, all the crap she’s given me, and now I shoot her guy down.

  Kelly halted in front of Lobo and regarded her gravely. The older woman stood there, her face unreadable, her arms crossed in front of her. Finally, Lobo spoke. “You saw chutes, right?”

  Kelly nodded.

  Lobo closed the distance between them and slung one arm around her shoulders. “Well, then, he’ll be okay. He’s got Gator keeping an eye on him, you know.”

  Kelly felt the first shiver of weakness go through her, and the carefully maintained fighter jock facade start to crumble. She tried to speak, found her voice was too gravelly, and stopped.

  Lobo swung around to face her again. “Do not do this,” Lobo said, her voice low and dangerous. “Everything we’ve fought for — I’ve fought for — do not lose it now. I swear to God, I’ll kill you if you cry.”

  Cold fury flooded back into Kelly. The tears that had started in her eyes dried and the lump in her throat vanished. She nodded tightly, then said, “Let’s go.”

  Lobo shook her head. “No, not yet. I want you to understand this — shit happens up there, you know? I know, and Bird Dog sure as hell does. We all take our chances, knowing what can happen every time we strap a Tomcat to our ass. But that’s naval aviation, and you either learn to live with it or you get out. So that’s what you get to decide now, lady. Can you handle it? If you can’t, you might as well put those pretty little gold wings on the admiral’s desk as soon as you walk into his stateroom. Because if you can’t handle it, then you don’t have what it takes to be out here. You read me?”

  Kelly lifted her chin and glared at the other woman. “I read you. Now, if you’ll excuse me — I’m quite certain that there are a number of people I need to talk to.” She marched off with Tits trailing close behind her. Tits shot Lobo an oddly grateful look as they entered the skin of the ship.

  Lobo shook her head as she watched them go. The younger pilot didn’t understand now, but maybe she would someday. And whenever she did, she’d thank Lobo for what she’d just done.

  Bird Dog — by God, you make it out of this alive or I’ll kill you. Lobo shook her head, remembering her own days as a POW, the torture she’d endured, the rape, the beatings. Yet, she’d made it out, and even back into flight status. And if she had anything to say about it, so would Kelly Green.

  Just then, the 1MC announced, “Attention all hands. SAR mission successful — two souls recovered. Alive. Well done.”

  It was Lobo’s turn to fight back tears.

  NINETEEN

  TFCC

  USS Jefferson

  1530 local (GMT –10)

  The small compartment was a cacophony of inbound pilot calls, reports from the Air Boss on deck status, complaints from the handler on the staging of the aircraft, and surveillance reports from the CAP and SAR already airborne.

  For Tombstone Magruder, after two and a half decades of naval service, keeping track of the different threads and progress of all phases of the launch sequence was completely automatic. He gave it no more thought than he did breathing, as his mind sifted through the information, evaluated it, and automatically assigned it a priority in his thinking.

  But when a little-used speaker directly behind his elevated command chair crackled to life, he lifted his head up sharply. He turned to look at Batman, whose face was grim.

  “The SEAL team on the ground,” Batman explained. “We’ve got them patched through the Marine SINCGAARS gear.”

  “Go ahead and talk to them,” Tombstone said. “They’re already used to your voice.”

  Batman nodded and picked up the mike. He motioned to the TAO to hunt down the SEAL team representative and have him standing by. “This is Homeplate, go ahead.”

  “Bad news, Admiral. We found the bomb, but we can’t get to it right now. It was disguised as a beer truck, and the Chinese airlifted it out with a helicopter. We followed them, but they planted it in Caneohe Bay with the bomb still on board. Can’t get down with my current draeger closed system rebreathers, so I’m going to need an assist here.”

  Batman swore quietly, then keyed the mike and asked, “What do you need from us?”

  “Minesweeper for starters, sir. I’ve got a pretty good idea of where it went down, but I’m going to have to localize it.”

  “No problem. The USS Chief is in the area. Can you guys get out there?”

  “Sure can, Admiral. I’ve got some special gear for us ordered in as well. Just in case we have to make the deepwater dive.”

  “I suspect you’ll have to do that,” Batman answered.

  “So do I. But what I can’t figure, Admiral, is how they’re planning on detonating this. I mean, the thing’s down in at least a hundred feet of water.”

  “Transponder on that submarine,” Tombstone said. He turned to look at Batman, his face turning pale. “When’s the last time we held contact on her?”

  “Murdock, Admiral Magruder is suggesting it’s submarine activated. We’ve got one in the area, unlocated for the past four hours. Any indication you’ve seen of her?”

  “Negative, Admiral, but we’ll keep an eye out. For now, I think we just need to localize it and worry about the detonation sequencing of it later.”

  “Roger, the Chief is at your disposal.” Batman handed off the microphone to the TAO, who reeled off a set of frequencies and time coordinates to enable the SEALs to contact the Chief directly.

  Navy Red crackled to life just then, and Tombstone immediately recognized the voice. It was his uncle, Admiral Thomas Magruder, the Chief of Naval Operations.

  “Jefferson, this is CNO. Be advised that we have an ultimatum from the Chinese. To negotiate a settlement on the Hawaii issue or they detonate special weapons at noon tomorrow. Interrogative your status?”

  A cold, still silence settled over TFCC. Tombstone glanced back up at the screen, saw the waves of fighters and surface tac aircraft sweeping in on the Chinese invasion and calculated the odds. “This is Vice Admiral Magruder, sir. Any indications that they can detonate it right now?”

  “No one’s certain, but the intelligence folks seem to think not. I take it you’re in contact with Murdock?”

  “That’s affirmative, sir. He’s just updated us on the probable location on the special weapon and we’ve dispatched the USS Chief to assist in recovery operations.”

  “Good. I suspect it won’t be hard to find. The question is how do we defuse it at tha
t depth?”

  “We’ve got other problems here right now, Admiral,” Batman chimed in. “I know we’ve got orders not to provoke the situation over land, but we’ve got to stop the incoming infantry deployment. Once they’re ashore, it’s going to be hard as hell to dislodge them.”

  “Agreed. We’ve got less than twelve hours, gentlemen. Let’s make this work.”

  As the CNO clicked off, Batman switched over to the SEAL circuit. “You’re current on the deadline requirements?” he asked Murdock.

  “We are now, sir.” There was a new, grim note in Murdock’s voice. “We’ll make it happen, sir.”

  Viking 701

  1535 local (GMT –10)

  “Madman, Madman,” the TACCO called from the backseat. “Smoke now!”

  In the forward righthand seat, the copilot blasted out a smoke flare. This would mark the spot where the Viking had had its first detection of an underwater metallic mass. Later passes over the same area would serve to triangulate the exact location of the suspected target.

  Rabies toggled his ICS switch on. “You sure about that?”

  “It’s a hard data point,” the TACCO said, his voice excited. “Let’s get some sonobuoys in the water, see if we can locate this bastard.”

  “I dunno,” Rabies muttered. He glanced over at the copilot. “You know what I’m thinking, don’t you?”

  The copilot nodded glumly. “It’s right below us.”

  And that, Rabies reflected, was the essential problem with Madman detections. The Magnetic Anomaly Detector, or Madman, could locate a large metallic mass a significant depth under the water, based on the distortions such a mass would cause in the earth’s magnetic field. It was fairly precise, with the main inaccuracies induced by the aircraft’s motion over the target and local variances in the earth’s magnetic field.

  For all its precision, however, it couldn’t tell you what the mass below you was. Shipwrecks, ore deposits, and underwater pipelines could all lead to false results. Most of the known ones were well charted, and ASW experts always double-checked a chart before putting weapons on target.

  “I know what we’re over,” the TACCO broke in. “Believe me, I’ve been over her a thousand times, maybe. This is different.”

  Rabies and the copilot exchanged a disgusted look. “Yeah, yeah,” Rabies said. Still, he put the S-3 Viking into a hard righthand turn, glancing down to check the location of the smoke, and brought the S-3 in low over it at right angles to his previous course.

  “Madman, Madman,” the TACCO sang out again. Another smoke flare was punched out of the underbelly of the potent little torpedo bomber.

  “You’re sure about this?” Rabies asked. “Because I gotta tell ya, I’ve got this gut feeling that tells me we’re about to look awful silly.”

  “No way.” The TACCO’s voice was confident. “I’ve got a live one. The sonobuoys will confirm it.”

  “Unless he’s lying dog-o on batteries,” the AW pointed out. “We might not get any acoustic signals at all.”

  “All right, all right,” the TACCO said. “I know that. And believe me, I also know where the Arizona memorial is.”

  The Arizona, sunk during the attack on Pearl Harbor by a Japanese kamikaze pilot, was one of the most well explored shipwrecks in this part of the world. Every inch of her noble carcass had been thoroughly plotted on charts.

  “Whatever this is, it’s about fifty feet to the north of where the Arizona should be,” the TACCO said. “Come on, how many times have we briefed this? The best place for a submarine to hide is right next to a well-known MAD anomaly on the ocean floor.”

  “You sure he would get that close?” Rabies asked.

  “He could, if he’s got a good skipper. And all indications are that this is a smaller submersible. Sure, that would be too close for comfort for any of the big boomers, or even one of the larger attack submarines. But for a little fella like this, no problem. So do I get my sonobuoys or what?”

  With a sigh, the copilot punched out the first of a series of barrier and localization sonobuoys. The TACCO recommended positions for them or in front of them on his own tactical display console, and indeed the aircraft could have ejected the sonobuoys completely on its own at the appropriate locations without any human intervention.

  “Okay, I’ll call it in,” the TACCO said, sheer satisfaction in his voice. “I got you, you little bastard. I got you now.”

  USS Centurion

  1537 local (GMT –10)

  Petty Officer Pencehaven arched his back and pressed his shoulder blades hard against the plastic chair. Even ergonomically built, even padded in thick plastic and cotton batting, there was no way the chair was anything but a device of torture after a couple of hours. Especially when it was so deadly quiet outside. If he’d had some more contacts to track, had the possibility of a hostile submarine contact on his screen, or anything even remotely resembling something interesting to do instead of listening to the soft hiss of biological noises and water in his earphones, staring at the green waterfall display until his eyes ached, anything at all, the chair wouldn’t be quite so uncomfortable.

  It wasn’t particularly fair, either. Pencehaven glanced up at the clock and swore quietly. Another two hours until Renny Jacobs came down to relieve him. And that asshole was always early, thank God. Sliding his way into Sonar, smirking like somebody was going to give him a gold star for showing up fifteen minutes early. Well, if he wanted to be a suckup like that, let him. Watches were scheduled for a four-hour stretch, and you didn’t gain any brownie points by being early every night.

  Still, even a random visit from Jacobs would be good for a distraction about now. Oh, sure, there were plenty of possibilities. They all knew that there was a submarine in the area, and they all knew that it would be one that wouldn’t look like anything else on the sonar screen. That alone was enough to keep Pencehaven from settling into a complete stupor, the possibility that he might miss first contact on a new class of boat. Still, after the first hour, even that possibility wore thin.

  He shifted from side to side, trying to loosen a stiff muscle that ran along his spine. Overdid it in the gym last night, working out on the weight bench. You had to make an effort to stay in shape on board a submarine, and Pencehaven made it a point to be the most buffed out submariner on the boat. Jacobs might have a sharp set of ears on him, there was no doubt about that, but Pencehaven was absolutely certain that he could kick the skinny young man’s ass anytime he wanted.

  He spent a few minutes musing over the possibilities of beating the crap out of Jacobs just for the hell of it, and then became aware of a faint… well, it wasn’t exactly a sound, it was too soft for that. It was more like a rub, the sound of silk gliding over rough skin, just the way it had been when he’d last been on liberty — wait, there it was again. He shut his eyes, suddenly oblivious to the ache in his back, the uncomfortable chair, and the possible outcomes of his long-standing feud with Jacobs.

  There it was again. Rub, whish, rub — what the hell was it? He glanced over to make sure the tape recorder was running, then studied the green waterfall display in front of him. He zoomed in on one particular object, and studied the inverted V’s piling up on each other, and tried to extract some signal from the random noise generating spikes there. Sure, the computer was good at it, better than he was most of the time, but there were always times when the computer missed something. Especially when it was an intermittent noise, and one that sounded… well, the only way to put it was fuzzy around the edges.

  He tapped the screen with his pencil. There. Maybe just — yes, that was it. But the spikes of green signal were barely sticking out of the surrounding noise. He watched, correlating the rising signal amplitude with what he was hearing through his headphones.

  Suddenly, irrevocably, he knew for certain that he had it. There was no way to exactly quantify what it was that convinced him that it was so, but he was certain nonetheless. Without hesitating, he toggled his microphone on. “Conn,
Sonar, submarine contact, bearing one-three-five, range — well, around five thousand to ten thousand. I need you to maneuver to clarify the bearing for me.”

  “Sonar, are you certain?” Pencehaven recognized the voice of the commanding officer.

  “Yes, sir,” he replied confidently. “I’m certain.”

  “Because the bearing you’re indicating along with the range latitude you’re giving me correlates very closely to the Arizona memorial. You knew that, right?”

  Pencehaven swore silently. Yes, now that he thought about it, it did correlate to the Arizona. It could be a current washing through a portion of the old wreck. Why didn’t they clean it up? There was no sense in leaving rusting metal down on the ocean floor just to clutter up the sonar and navigation picture for the rest of them.

  “Yes, sir, I know that. But it… it…” Suddenly, Pencehaven wasn’t exactly sure as to how to explain it. “It sounds weird, sir. Not like anything else we’ve heard down here.”

  There was a long pause on the circuit, then, “Okay, we’ll slip on over there and take a look. What’s the source of the signal?”

  “It’s mechanical and hydraulic, sir. I’m not exactly certain what. Intermittent. And I can’t put a name to the exact equipment.” Pencehaven was aware that a note of desperation was creeping into his voice.

  Why didn’t the skipper believe him? They knew that there was a submarine in the area, one that wasn’t in the acoustic library. This was just the sort of thing that you would expect to hear.

  “Maybe a bilge pump of some sort, sir,” he said, grasping at straws. “All I know is it doesn’t belong there.”

  “Okay. Like I said, we’ll get a little closer.” Pencehaven could hear the doubt in the commanding officer’s voice.

  He stared in frustration at the screen, resisting the urge to tap his fingers on the console. Why wouldn’t it give up one sharp, clear transient, some electrical signal that he could clearly peg as being foreign. Was that so much to ask? Who the hell could run so silent except for a U.S. submarine? But it wasn’t one of theirs, of that he was certain. He knew the acoustic signature of every piece of equipment on every U.S. boat. No, this was something different, his earlier certainty returned.