As it was, we had planned to have her come onto our leeward side to shelter her a bit from the seas and the wind.
A sharp crack split the air, one we could hear even from the bridge.
The first shot line, the small cord tethered to a weight that was fired over to the carrier from the submarine. Attached to it were a heavier line, then another one, each one more substantial than the last. These would form the basis of the rig we would use to transfer a spare air compressor to the submarine, along with assorted other provisions and equipment.
It had been quite a chore, convincing the submarine's skipper that this was what he wanted to do. He hadn't initially, citing first the possibility of detection and later the dangers inherent in underway replenishment between a carrier and a submarine. The admiral had had to threaten to send them back to the States before the sub's skipper had capitulated.
So far, everything had run like we'd practiced this every day of the year. The high line was rigged, and the first transfer of loaded pallets was beginning.
With Tombstone and Skeeter safely back within the Aegis cruiser's air-protection envelope, at least one potential problem had been eliminated. But one of our biggest problems still remained ― the Russian submarines lurking somewhere below the surface of the ocean. Our last detection had been twelve hours ago, and at that time she'd been ten miles to the north. Too close for comfort, but perhaps far enough away that our submarine could sneak out of area and move alongside us without being detected. Just before we'd commenced the entire, tedious approach maneuver, Batman had launched tankers and S-3 Viking ASW aircraft. I thought about having them take along box lunches, just in case something went wrong.
Not only were the S-3s the best aircraft equipped to keep the Russian submarine out of area, and detect it if it tried to make a run on us, but they were also excellent aircraft for sea-air rescue. We also had helicopters in Alert Five, both SH60 ASW ones and straight SAR ones. God forbid that one of the submarine sailors should fall overboard, or one of our people either. But if it happened, we were prepared to deal with it.
The submariners had immediately laid down a long barrier of sonobuoys to the north, then laid a second line just for good measure. The two Vikings patrolled out up ahead of us, while two more monitored our northern flank and astern. I had no great faith in their ability to detect a nuclear submarine acoustically, not if said submarine were really determined to make a silent approach. But if it were there, at least we had a shot at catching it.
The walkie-talkie Batman clutched crackled to life. "Ready to transfer the first pallet, Admiral."
Batman lifted it to his mouth. "Go ahead. And notify me when it's complete."
"Aye, aye, Admiral."
We were standing on the bridge railing, outside of the bridge proper and exposed to the elements. The submarine was perhaps sixty feet off our port side. Two thick lines ran between the two ships, onto which were attached the pallets and parcels we were transferring to the submarine.
To an outsider, the bridge would have seemed like a noisy, frantic space. There were four radio speakers mounted on the overhead, another two on each bridge wing. Into those were piped the various tactical circuits, including those that we were required to monitor continuously. Adding to the din were the commands from the conning officer, standing on the bridge wing with us, the OOD who was on the bridge itself, and the repetition and acknowledgment of other orders and directions. In addition to Batman, the officer of the deck and the safety officer held walkie-talkies as well.
When the trouble started, it was with the most innocent reports.
"Home Plate, this is Hunter 701. Buoy seventeen pattern Bravo Six Niner is hot." The voice of the Viking TACCO was excited. "Classify this contact as a possible Russian nuclear submarine, Victor Class."
Batman stomped back into the bridge. "Get the Alert Five helos airborne. I want the bastard pinned down to the ocean floor until we decide what to do with him." He lifted the walkie-talkie. "Prepare for emergency breakaway. I say again, prepare for emergency breakaway. Do not execute until my signal. All stations acknowledge."
A chorus of aye, ayes came back across the circuit, and Batman turned to me. "So what are our chances now?"
I spoke up immediately. "Good, Admiral. There's no indication that the Russian sub has detected our submarine yet. He knows he's there; he's been tracking him for days. But he doesn't know he's alongside us now, nor does he have any idea of how critical the engineering problems might be. I say we continue as is." I pointed out toward the side of the carrier.
"They're almost done, Admiral. If they can get that air compressor onboard and installed, it's going to solve a lot of problems."
Batman grunted. I watched him mull over the facts, accustomed by now to the way that he thinks this out, it would do no good to start arguing my position at this point. He had all the facts he thought he needed, and the admiral had no problem making decisions. Despite all his time in Washington and politically advantageous billets, Batman at heart was a fighter.
The SH-60 helicopters were launching off the stern of the carrier. In reality, they shouldn't have been conducting flight ops. Not with the submarine alongside. It violated one of the prime tenets of naval aviation. The winds weren't particularly good for them, but fortunately the helicopters aren't as picky about wind across the deck as fixed-wing aircraft are. Nevertheless, trying to conduct flight operations in the middle of a transfer of cargo between two ships was a prescription for disaster.
The first helo peeled away from the carrier just three minutes after Batman had given the order. Another followed as soon as it was safe. They formed up ― and is there anything more odd-looking than helicopters flying formation? ― and headed out to the horizon, toward the S-3s.
Still, Batman had not yet decided to kill it. Who knew how the rest of the story would play out once we reached the States ― the attack on Tombstone and Skeeter by the Russian MiGs? It might all be disguised as something very foreign from what had actually happened, if it suited certain political purposes. But sinking a submarine ― there would be few ways to avoid full-scale media coverage of that.
"Hot on buoy seven as well," the S-3 TACCO reported over the circuit.
"Home Plate, it looks like he's making a beeline for you."
"Helo assets inbound your location right now," the carrier replied.
With a top speed of around a hundred and twenty knots, it would take the helicopters about ten minutes to get in position.
"Home Plate, interrogative our weapons status?" the S-3 TACCO asked.
"Yellow and tight at this time, Hunter 701," was the answer. The aircraft was allowed to fire its weapons if attacked ― that right always lies with the commander of any aircraft or surface ship ― but for now he was not given permission to attack hostile contacts.
"Home Plate, he's coming shallow. He's at launch depth. Request advise." The concern in the TACCO's voice was evident now. The submarine had probably heard the S-3 above it, or it heard the noise of the sonobuoys dropping into the water. By now the water around it was virtually peppered with the small acoustic sensors and transmitters. It would know they were there ― and know it needed to escape. Or attack.
"What's the latest on their weapons capability, Lab Rat?" the admiral said quietly. "Any indication they're carrying the Tomahawkski?"
The Tomahawkski was the Russian version of the Tomahawk cruise missile. But so far as I knew, this particular class of ship was still equipped primarily with torpedoes.
"There are rumors that they've got Tomahawkski on board," I said. "I doubt it, though, Admiral. But I could be wrong."
Batman grimaced. "That's the problem with intel. There was always too many possibilities, and never any hard facts."
For a moment I felt called upon to defend my chosen profession within the Navy, but I refrained. The problem was, he was right. Intelligence deals with estimates, possibilities, indications and warnings. There are rarely hard facts, absolute indicat
ions that a particular platform is fitted with a certain weapon, or that the enemy intends to execute a particular plan. We do the best we can, but the war fighters on the front line are constantly frustrated by what they feel are intelligence evasions.
The short answer is ― we simply don't know.
"If he's got Tomahawkski, he could be a real danger to the carrier," Batman continued. Unspoken was the second part of that sentence ― that if the Victor were carrying antisurface missiles, Batman would need to act preemptively, to take the submarine out before it could launch. Neither of us wanted to depend on antimissile defense systems against one.
The fact that the submarine had changed depths, to one at which he could launch land-attack missiles, was ominous. Why would he forsake the relative safety of deep water unless he intended to launch?
"Admiral, last cargo transfer completed, sir." The voice of the officer in charge of the replenishment detachment sounded relieved.
"Should we proceed with emergency breakaway, or normal separation procedures?"
"Emergency breakaway," Batman said promptly. "Tell him over the sound-powered line to get buttoned up and get back down below. And I want him vectoring out in front of us. With so much air-power on top of that Russian submarine, I don't want to take any chances."
"Missile launch, missile launch," a voice broke in over the tactical circuit. Probably the pilot of the S-3, rather than the TACCO. "Home Plate, I say again ― vampires inbound."
That decided it for Batman. He snatched up a radio microphone for the tactical circuit and said, "Hunter 701, you are weapons free on all Russian subsurface contacts. I repeat, weapons free."
The bloody speed leader of the missile materialized on the tactical screen, streaking up from the submarine contact symbol. You could see the intended target easily, tracing out the direction of the speed leader. It was headed directly for Jefferson.
The Aegis skipper saw it, too. "Got it, Jefferson." As he spoke, the screen showed the designation of the missile as a contact by the cruiser and a weapons assignment. Seconds later, a Standard missile shot out from the cruiser symbol.
"Jefferson, roger your last," the S-3 broke in. "We have a firing solution. Fire one." A pause. "Fire two." Evidently the pilot had been prepared for just this moment.
The submarine-launched missile continued its track inbound. Five inches of screen separated its symbol from that of the Jefferson, and the distance shrank measurably while we were watching.
Four inches A second, then a third missile arrowed out from the cruiser, the speed leaders intersecting that of the inbound missile.
Three inches The OOD onboard Jefferson activated the collision alarm.
"All hands brace for shock" came over the 1 MC. I saw the TAO reach down for his seat belt and buckle himself into his chair. I sat down on the deck, my back to a bulkhead.
Two inches The first missile the cruiser had fired was clearly a miss, although a close one. The two symbols passed so close to each other that they merged for a moment of time. I thought for a second she'd gotten it, but then the blotch of symbology broke apart into the incoming missile and the Standard missile. The second and third missiles still had a chance.
One inch The second missile veered away from its projected course and headed out toward open ocean. Something in the guidance system, maybe a propulsion problem ― we'd probably never know. "CIWS tracking," the TAO announced, repeating the report he'd heard over his headset. The Close-In Weapons System ― our last-ditch defense against incoming missiles. Not much of a defense, either. At the ranges at which it was effective, the shrapnel from the missile would do devastating damage to the flight deck, the superstructure, and the aircraft spotted on the deck.
The missile looked so close that I thought I'd be able to touch it.
Surely the lookouts could see it by now. Or maybe not ― even traveling that fast, it was still at least twenty miles out, a telephone pole arcing through the sky toward US.
Suddenly, a cheer rang out. "They got it ― they got it!" On the screen, the last Standard missile had merged with the incoming vampire, barely closer to it than any of the other anti-air shots had been.
But close enough. The plat camera aimed back at the stern of the carrier showed a black-and-white picture of an oily, billowing mass of smoke and fire.
With the missile destroyed, we now had to face taking out the platform that had launched it. The TAO reached out and turned up the volume on the USW CR. The S-3 TACCO's voice boomed out, giving us a running commentary on his own attack. "Two fish away. Acoustic indications ― they're lit off, entering search pattern." The torpedoes were programmed to commence a standard search pattern once they hit the salt water. "Searching… Searching… Contact. Torpedo one entering attack profile." The sonar dome inside the nose of the torpedo would have gone to the high-frequency, search-sector ping once it detected a target of interest. It was homing in on that now, guided partly by the acoustic sounds emanating from the submarine, as well as the reflection of its own sonar transmissions off the hull.
"Active countermeasures ― Home Plate, I have active countermeasures in the water. Submarine is evading ― he just knuckled and headed deep."
I stared off at the horizon, which was bland and featureless. There was nothing that would indicate to the naked eye that a deadly battle was taking place beneath its surface. Only cold, slate gray water and a few clouds. The aircraft and helicopters themselves were indistinguishable.
"Second torpedo acquiring. Commencing approach run."
"I've got him on the sonar dome," the first helicopter pilot reported.
"Holding good contact. I think the bastard's going deep, trying to get below the thermocline and try to evade. Going active now."
"Launch three. Launch four." The Viking pilot was taking no chances, peppering the water with warheads.
"He got him. Home Plate, this is Hunter 701," the pilot said, sheer glee plain in his voice. "I have explosive noise, breaking up. Should be ― yes, there it is. Home Plate, oil slick and debris in the water.
Classify one Russian submarine as destroyed."
"Admiral, flight deck supervisor. The submarine is clear of us, sir, and requests permission to submerge. She sends her thanks."
Batman nodded. "Tell her captain that he owes four guys on a Viking a steak dinner. They just rid that sub's neighborhood of a few pesky rodents." The strident gonging of the General Quarters alarm cut off his last word.
There are some advantages to being an admiral. One of them that during General Quarters, even with the entire crew of the carrier scurrying to their battle stations, you can still get through. The stream of sailors hurtling through the passageways at breakneck speeds parted slightly as Batman approached, even though we were going counter to the ordered flow of traffic. I stayed close on his heels as we made for TFCC.
We pounded to the conference room and into the small compartment located at the back of it. A sailor thrust flash gear and a gas mask at me as I got to the compartment.
The large scale display told the entire picture. Two waves of MiGs, fourteen per wave, were just leaving the coastline of Russia. This wasn't any escort force. Coupled with the submarines lurking to our north, it meant only one thing. As the gonging of the General Quarters alarm stopped, I heard the first sounds of the Tomcats turning their engines overhead. The structural steel and tarmac that separated us from the most potent weapons ever built in this century could only diminish, not block out, the thunderous sounds of those powerful engines.
Then another sound chimed in, the lighter, almost insect-like scream of the Hornet engines turning. Powerful in their own way, the perfect adversary against the MiG, yet lacking the legs and sheer firepower of their larger brothers. Either Tomcats or Hornets alone had disadvantages, but together they were deadly.
Russians have their own ways of making war, and this attack was no exception. Even before we'd left home port, we had worked up how we would fight an air war if necessary. The decades of
the Cold War had taught us how the Russians liked to fight. They come in waves ― heavy, massive waves of aircraft, throwing sheer tonnage of steel and weapons against a carrier battle group. They seek out the carrier, the vital soft heart of the fighting force. Without it, the battle group retains some capacity for self-defense, particularly when there's an Aegis cruiser along. But even though that battle group might be able to stave off missiles, it couldn't fulfill the primary mission of an aircraft carrier and battle group to wreak devastation and damage on the soil of another nation.
Our Aegis cruiser was turning now, taking up her assigned station at flank speed. Her skipper was on the circuit, reporting all stations ready for battle. His ship would already have set General Quarters, being so much smaller than the carrier. Three minutes, four tops. It wouldn't have taken much longer. For the aircraft carrier it took longer.
Nevertheless, even before General Quarters was fully set, Jefferson was already poised to wage war. I heard the notification come from the officer of the deck ― Pri-Fly had requested a green deck, and the OOD had granted it. Seconds later, the scream of engines overhead built to a higher level, then the noise that can be best described as a roller coaster, the catapult driven by steam yanking the aircraft forward and accelerating it in a space of seconds to the speed necessary to stay airborne. One cat shot. A few minutes later, another. The flight deck had hit its rhythm, and was shoving aircraft into the skies faster than I could keep count. But the MiGs were faster. Even as our last fighter left the deck, the first missiles were inbound. They traced their way across the screen, bloody red symbols deadly stark against the blue background.
The Aegis was on them. The second the first one crossed our missile engagement zone, the cruiser fired. I watched on the closed-circuit television, dividing my time between that and the tactical display, as missiles rippled off the deck of the Aegis. She was equipped with a vertical launch system, which made engaging that many targets at once theoretically possible. Theoretically ― no nation had yet put it to a test.
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