Peacemaker

by Gordon Kent

  “Sir, AC 101 is the flight leader. Codeword for the F-14s is Shortstop.”

  “Shortstop, this is Catcher, over.”

  “Roger, Catcher, this is Shortstop, over.”

  “Shortstop, we have four possible bogeys inbound on radial 175, do you copy?”

  “Roger, we have them on datalink. We’re not radiating. We’re playing possum.”

  “Roger, Shortstop. Keep the P-3 and the S-3 covered. If the bogeys come within five miles of Philadelphia, you may engage. Repeat five miles, over.”

  “Roger, Catcher, I copy weapons free within five miles Philadelphia, over.”

  “Roger.”

  Captain Cobb watched the two F-14s turn north on his screen and come closer to his ship. They needed to be that far north of the Philadelphia to get good shots with their missiles at the Su-22s. This movement covered the P-3 but left the S-3 exposed, but the S-3 was low and would offer a tough target.

  “Sir, one of the Russian ships has just launched a helicopter. Turning toward us. Now it’s gone below the radar horizon.”

  Those were Sovremenny-class destroyers. They carried a missile as good as his Harpoon, if they could target it. Were they going to use a helicopter to do the targeting? Jesus, he was between a rock and a hard place—were these Russians really serious?

  Well, if they were, he was. “Combat, if that helicopter uses a targeting radar, take him.”

  There. He was committed.

  Now for sweet reason.

  “Somebody try to get me the Russian commander, before we all get hurt.”

  “Captain?” The communications tech on the bridge sounded impressed. “Sir? The Joint Chiefs are on the command frequency. He wants a report from you and some lieutenant-commander on an S-3 that’s—”

  “Get me the Russians! Keep trying. Screw the Chiefs. Get me the S-3.” On another channel, a junior officer said, “Admiral? The captain is a little busy right now—”

  “Fuck, I didn’t mean that.” His voice changed. “Sir?”

  Admiral Pilchard sat, surrounded by his staff, on the Andrew Jackson’s flag bridge, listening on the command frequency. Pilchard had already spoken to the President. He was too far away from the action to interfere: Cobb was the commander on-scene, and Cobb was the best of his captains. That’s why he had the independent command, after all. Admiral Pilchard had trained his ships and picked his men and made his decisions; they had come a long way from Fleetex. Now the men on the spot would make the hard choices.

  “Captain Cobb?”

  “Yes, sir, I have you loud and clear.”

  “Commander Rafehausen?”

  “Sir. Admiral, this is Commander Rafehausen. I’m asking Lieutenant-Commander Craik to do the talking from here.”

  “Explain what’s going on absolutely as quickly as you can. Are we in a war situation?”

  Cobb said, “Admiral, a probable Russian submarine has crippled the Philadelphia, and a Libyan vessel has attempted to board her. The boarding was resisted.”

  “Successfully.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Craik, sir, on the S-3. Sir, the Philadelphia is reporting she’s clear of boarders. And the submersible that crippled Philadelphia may have been Libyan, but she was not, repeat not a Russian, sir. I’ll stake anything on it. The Russian is a bystander.”

  “Commander Craik, are you saying that there’s two submarines out there?”

  “Yes, Admiral. A mini-sub and a probable third-generation Russian.”

  Again, Cobb jumped in, and this time he sounded angry. “Admiral, the Russian surface group to the north of me has just launched a helicopter and appears to be preparing to fire. The Russian submarine that was in the vicinity of the attack on the Philadelphia is now running toward me, as well. I am preparing to take defensive action, but, yes, sir, this is potentially a war situation. Sorry, sir, this is Cobb, of Fort Klock.”

  They heard rumbling from the Washington line, and then a new voice said, “We’ll get back to you.” Then silence. “Gone again,” Rafe muttered, and he switched back to the channel and said, “Catcher, we seem to have lost the Washington line, over.”

  “Roger, Pitcher, we copy.”

  Alan looked over his and McAllen’s screens one more time. The mini-sub seemed to be slipping under the Philadelphia, as he had hoped, and the Nanuchka was going down too fast to make cover for it if it ran. Alan cycled through his screens as quickly as he could. Two Libyan vessels were leaving the coast, but their speed showed as only twelve knots, way below max. Were they cautious, or did they know something he didn’t? He switched again and looked at the four Su-22s and then brought up Strike Common.

  “Red Leader, you see the Libyan air to the south?”

  “Roger that. Four Su-22s climbing out at 400 knots.”

  “Their ETA on us is six minutes.”

  Rafe cut in.

  “Alan, those Tomcats need gas soon.” He looked at Cutter. “How soon?”

  Cutter was way ahead of the action. “They need gas in one five minutes. One five. Less if they go to burner.”

  They all knew that in the crunch it was the Fort Klock, not the Philadelphia or the S-3, that had to be protected. Rafe went back up on Strike Common. “Shortstop, this is Pitcher, over?”

  Chris Donitz’s F-14 sounded as if it was alongside. “Roger, Pitcher, we got you loud and clear.”

  “Shortstop, I show you at one five minutes from refuel or bingo. Is that correct?”

  “Roger, Pitcher.”

  “Copy, Shortstop. Shortstop, check in with Catcher and go tank now. I mean now. One plane at a time.”

  “Roger, I copy, Pitcher. Break, break. Catcher, this is Shortstop, over.”

  “Shortstop, this is Catcher, over. I copy the last exchange and concur. One at a time.”

  On the Klock, Cobb had been watching the time-to-refuel clock, but he had planned to let them get gas after they engaged the Su-22s. But Rafehausen sounded as if he had a good head on his shoulders, and he was probably right. The Su-22 radar wasn’t worth much, and Rafehausen was almost too low to be seen, so that the F-14s could be spared without grave risk to the S-3. It wasn’t an easy choice, but it was the right one.

  Twenty miles to the south and twelve thousand feet up, the F-14s turned away from the threat to the south and raced for the tanker.

  “Valdez, go to Vertical. I’m on my way down. Cut anything you can.”

  “Way ahead of you. We’re checking Transmits and are gonna go back for Vert in about—five seconds—four—three—”

  Rose raced down the ladder outside the bridge and sprinted across the deck plates and the non-skid toward the module. The missile was just emerging from its cover, rotating in all three axes simultaneously, like a cobra emerging from its basket. The damage control effort had barely slowed for the firefight, and the vessel now seemed stable and more or less level. Valdez and the geek with the wave-action graphs would know for sure.

  She toggled the hatch and entered the module.

  “Hey, you look like hell,” Valdez said from the console. He was still in camos, tousled, sweaty—hardly a recruiting poster himself. “You okay, Commander?” He was worried about her, really worried.

  “I’m fine. I threw up a couple times and I feel great!”

  A new voice was on line.

  “Gentlemen, the President of Russia has just assured our President that his forces in this area have not engaged our forces. We are assured that the Russian helicopter launched by the, um, destroyer—” His voice sank a little as he seemed to turn away from his mike. “—was that a destroyer, Jack?—” and it came to full voice again to say, “will be recovered and that the Russian surface group will turn away to the—” Then he was gone again, farther this time but still audible. “Jack, are we sure he said north—north? Well goddamit, somebody check—Jesus Christ.” He came back. “Hello, Captain Cobb? Hold on a sec—” And was gone, talking to somebody else, “Well, it’s about time!” And back: “Yes, north.”
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  Cobb turned away and called Combat.

  “Combat, this is the captain. Do not fire on the Russian group. Weapons locked.”

  Ten seconds later, the Russian helicopter’s radar came on, illuminating the Fort Klock.

  “Periscope depth. Bow up twelve. Come up slowly.” Suvarov was perspiring, but he was in the game. One plane had followed the little submersible near the crippled American ship. Another, probably a P-3, had tried to find him. The plane that was hunting him had continued to follow his straight, fast course toward the American surface ships. He had done a long sprint and then a sharp maneuver and a drift. It was a textbook stunt, executed perfectly, and the aircraft was still dropping sonobuoys somewhere several miles astern. At two knots, he was invisible to them.

  Suvarov remained worried that the Americans believed that he was the one who had hurt the Philadelphia. Now that he had evaded their search, he felt free to correct that error, in part because it was insulting to be thought guilty of something so stupid.

  “Periscope depth in thirty seconds.”

  “Dead slow. Radio mast up. Prepare to dive.” Suvarov did not really believe that World War III was about to start, but it was best to be sure.

  “Get me the American Guard frequency.” He could see the distaste on Lebedev’s face. To Lebedev, the Americans were the eternal enemy. Bred in the bone. Suvarov knew he would have a talk with the man. Times change, and so do the tribe’s enemies, he thought.

  “Ready, Captain.”

  Lt Chris Donitz got the tanker to turn south so his Radar Intercept Officer could keep the F-14’s radar on the Su22s. He didn’t think anyone had ever started an air-to-air engagement from under a tanker, but he was willing to experiment. The second he came off the tanker, he would have to start toward a merge; the Libyan jets were that close. He brought his wingman back toward the tanker, detached the fuel line, and started his run.

  Alan was watching the returns as the mini-sub moved into the shelter of the Philadelphia. His concern was that it might try another attack. He busied himself setting the depth charge for its shallowest setting. It was pure rule of thumb, but he wanted the mini-sub at least five hundred meters from the Philadelphia before he tried it. And the weather was closing in again. If it got rough, he’d never see the damn thing even if Rose’s marines managed to hurt it.

  “American aircraft, this is Russian submarine on Guard frequency. American aircraft, this is Russian submarine on Guard frequency. Do you copy?”

  Holy shit! Alan slammed his finger on the press-to-talk switch.

  “Russian submarine, this is AH 702. I copy.”

  “AH 702, this is Russian Navy attack submarine Shark. I have not committed any hostile action, over.”

  “Shark, this is AH 702. I copy.”

  Suvarov smiled. Should he tell them? He should. Whoever was out there in the mini-sub had tried to involve him, had at the very least taken advantage of his presence. The admiral would have told him if it was part of the plan. Wouldn’t he? Suddenly Suvarov looked at Lebedev. An ugly thought had crossed his mind. He felt slow. He released the talk switch.

  “Lebedev, do you have something to tell me?” There was steel, titanium in his voice.

  Lebedev just looked at him, aghast. Good. Sergei might have sacrificed an old friend, but a son, never. And Sergei was not one of the old men who wanted the Cold War back. Suvarov thought of all the times he had wished for the old days. No. The Mafia was better than the other. Spare parts were not the only things to live for. Suvarov thought for perhaps five more seconds. Screw Moscow. Suvarov would not allow himself to be used. If some egghead in Moscow wanted a war, he could whistle for it. Besides, he could register the protest very well this way. Yes. A little help for the poor, acoustically challenged Americans.

  “AH 702, this is Shark. We detect a small submersible in the area of your damaged ship, over.”

  Alan smiled. If the Russians, with their superb sonar, said there was a mini-sub, then he and McAllen were not dreaming.

  “Roger!” At that moment, Alan lost the mini-sub’s blip. It must be right under Philadelphia’s hull. “Shark, do you have the submersible located?”

  “Roger, AH 702. It is close under your damaged ship, at a depth of one-six meters.”

  “Shark, this is AH 702. I am commencing prosecution of the submersible. Please clear the area. Thank you for your help.”

  “AH 702, this is Shark. We will comply. Please note that we engaged in no hostile action and have aided in your resistance of this terrorist action, despite our feelings concerning your illegal launch.” Suvarov smiled. There. It was like firing a torpedo.

  Alan had no time for the last. He hoped he could remember it. Right, they were protesting the launch. Rafe seemed to have the gist, was relaying it to higher levels in front. Alan called the bridge of the Philly to pass the word to the marine gunny that the enemy depth was sixteen meters.

  Rafe spoke up. “Where to now?”

  “Stay right over the Philadelphia. I don’t know where that little bastard’ll go when the Claymores go off, but it’ll go someplace. If this doesn’t work, I’m going to ask Rose to try to move the Philadelphia.”

  “With what?

  “I dunno. Swim fins?”

  “Roger.”

  Cobb heard the conversation with the Russian on Guard. The Russian helicopter was gone from radar, and its radar signal was gone, as well. He was breathing, but not freely: the Libyan Su-22s were three minutes out from the Philadelphia, and the F-14s were moving toward an engagement.

  He poked a button to get the ASW frequency.

  “Pitcher, this is Catcher, over.”

  “Catcher, I read you. Go ahead.” Cutter had the mike now. Alan was talking to the Philadelphia and Rafe was turning tight circles only a hundred feet over the Philadelphia’s bridge.

  “Pitcher, what are your intentions?”

  “Catcher, we are prosecuting the mini-sub. Do we have weapons free?”

  Alan hadn’t even thought to ask. I thought we’d already been through that, he thought.

  “Roger, Pitcher. Confirm weapons free on the mini-sub.”

  McAllen had the depth charge ready. Alan handed him the release. Alan had never dropped one, and McAllen was known as a good hand with an accurate drop. Alan brought the Philadelphia back onscreen. He thought of how close he was to Rose, realized that it didn’t feel close. It was a very relative distance, and “close” felt very far away just then.

  “Zulu Bravo, this is Pitcher. Bug zappers now.”

  “Roger.” It was a male voice talking. “Bug zappers firing NOW.”

  The Claymores went off with loud underwater pops that were clearly audible to McAllen on the passive buoys. Six pops, two more muffled than the rest. McAllen watched his sonograms like a kid watching a video game.

  “Got him,” he said softly. “Not a kill, but something’s making more noise. I’ve got him on passive, now. He’s moving-g-g-g—”

  Rose hovered over Valdez as his fingers fluttered on the keyboard. He made several input errors; his adrenaline still had him pumped. The loud “whack” sounds of the Claymores detonating somewhere under them didn’t help. Rose put one of the tech reps to checking Valdez’s input, just in case.

  Rose turned so that she could get the attention of all the scientists and technical people who had crammed into the launch module.

  “Okay, folks, I need to get this thing off the deck ASAP. Like in minutes. Tell me what else we can skip in the sequence and still get a functional launch.” She looked from face to face—Anson, calm, but it wasn’t his specialty; Nguyen, eager, helpful now; Maulcker, always a pain in the ass. “We just tried to flush a submersible from under us. If it doesn’t work, they may hit us again. Our mission is to get Peacemaker into orbit. Now, how do we do it the fastest?”

  They looked at each other. Two guys began to speak at once; if anybody had bothered to listen, they would have turned out to be saying mutually contradictory things. Every
body wanted to protect his own area—engineering, telemetry, rockets. Behind her, she could hear Valdez’s fingers clicking away at the keyboard. Nguyen broke from the group and came close to her and spoke up.

  “Commander, I think we can cut immediately from Launch minus five minutes to the Launch-minus-one-point-two-minute hold, run a status check, and count her off. I did the figures. Everything else is redundant. At least, technically.” He had the grace to wince at the last. Maulcker started to protest. She turned away. Valdez looked at her, his eyes eager. She nodded. Valdez counted down to Launch minus five and pulled a switch.

  “Launch-minus-one-point-two-minute planned hold!” He looked over the launch board. Everything showed green. “Running final diagnostic. Shit, there is a lot of telemetry in that data stream, ma’am. Diagnostic good to go.”

  She nodded to him and spoke into the launch recorder.

  “Launch minus one minute twelve seconds and we are go for launch. Countdown restarts at seventy-two seconds to launch.” The lights still showed green. Rose crossed her fingers.

  From ten kilometers away, Lebedev registered the small explosions. “They are attacking.”

  Suvarov smiled. “Get me the Poltava. Then let’s get out of here.” He did not want his beautiful boat lingering for further detection by the other American aircraft, which would be an embarrassment. He also did not want to tempt fate.

  The Americans had been given the message about their launch. He had carried out his mission. His boat, and his group, had held to the line exactly.

  “Message from Moscow via satellite, Captain.”

  Suvarov did not have to read it. Stand down.

  As usual, he was way ahead.

  He looked around the bridge with a deep satisfaction. His hand clasped Lebedev’s shoulder. “Well done, every man. Let’s go home.”

  The mini-sub seemed suddenly to move very quickly. She also seemed to be heading for the surface. Wounded? Willing to surrender? They have a Stinger? Or a small torpedo for the Philadelphia? Alan was chilled by the last thought. If the Philadelphia could not offer them refuge, they might try for a shot—but they’d need to get some distance from the target to arm the warhead.