by Andrew Watts
Juan said, “I still can’t believe we’re doing this.”
Plug was flying the aircraft. Juan manipulated the FLIR—the infrared camera in front of the helicopter—so that they could see the merchant ship that they were approaching.
It was a giant.
The hull was painted light blue, with big thick black letters announcing that it was owned by MAERSK LINE. Stacks and stacks of shipping containers filled the deck, six stories high. A long, thin glass walkway towered one hundred feet above the water. It was the bridge. And their target.
Plug said, “Honestly, I’m surprised that we’re doing it too. But we asked the only guy on the ship who had any idea whether it would work, and he thought there was a chance. I mean, no one had any better ideas on how to hide from a submarine. I really just got the idea from a movie. But Senior Chief ended up throwing some big words in there, like broadband acoustic interference and all that. Next thing I know, everyone thinks I’m a genius. I think I’m going to start asking Senior Chief to sit next to me at bars when I talk to chicks. He can make me sound good.”
Juan shook his head. “A genius? Is that what you think you are?”
“No way, man. After today, I would describe us as more like pirates.”
Juan shook his head again. “I can’t believe we’re going with your plan. If we don’t get sunk, I owe you a beer.”
“Amen, brother. Alright, I’m coming into a hover right above the port bridge wing. AWR1, are the Marines ready?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll send them down with the rescue hoist once we get into position.”
Plug said, “Alright, I’m making my call. Here goes nothing.” He flipped his communications switch to the external frequency known as bridge-to-bridge, which all mariners used to communicate on.
“Maersk Atlanta, Maersk Atlanta, this is US Navy helicopter 471, come in, please.”
After a moment, the reply came in a thick New England accent. “Navy helicopter, this is Maersk Atlanta, we read you loud and clear. How may we be of assistance, sir?”
“Maersk Atlanta, it is my duty to inform you that under the Merchant Marine Act of 1936, your vessel has been declared an asset of the US Navy. Please prepare to be boarded. We’ll be sending down a few advisors on your port bridge wing. Thank you for your help.”
Plug then unkeyed the mike and said on his internal comms circuit, “Arrr, mateys. Commence the boarding.”
AWR1 said, “Sir, you’re in a good hover. Come forward two…one…stead. Alright, lowering the hoist.”
After a few moments, three members of Captain Darby’s MARSOC team were standing on the top of the container vessel’s bridge. They began climbing down a white metal ladder.
Juan saw a door to the bridge open, and the Marines entered. A few moments later, the radio came on again. “Navy helicopter, this is the captain of Maersk Atlanta. We have just had a conversation with the Marines. I don’t think that the Merchant Marine Act covers this particular situation. However, I have decided to alter my navigational heading to match up with your Marines’ recommendation.”
“Roger, Captain, your country thanks you.”
Juan kept shaking his head. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
Plug nosed over the helicopter, gaining airspeed. “Alright, let’s head back to Mom and get our next batch of pirates.”
Victoria walked down the passageway from the wardroom to Combat, carrying her thermos of strong coffee. It was five in the morning. She had only gotten about four hours of sleep, and even that had been interrupted by several phone calls from the tactical action officer.
As she passed various members of the crew, she noticed the different way they looked at her. A new level of respect.
“Morning, ma’am.”
“Good morning.”
“Morning, ma’am,” said the next.
“Good morning,” she replied as she continued to march along in her steel-toed boots.
Vigorous nods, solid eye contact. The way they used to treat the captain, she realized.
The first time she heard them refer to her as captain was when she entered Combat.
“Captain in Combat.”
For a brief second, she thought to chastise the junior officer who had said it. But she found herself instead saying, “Status update.”
The TAO walked over to her. “Hey, boss.”
“Hey. Have our friends snuggled up next to us yet?”
“Affirmative. We now have two US-owned merchant ships in a very tight screen next to our ship.”
“Excellent. Any pushback so far?”
“Nope. I think it helps having armed Marines over there. You sure you don’t want to inform Strike Group?”
Victoria thought about that. She shook her head. “I think this is one of those ‘better to beg forgiveness than ask for permission’ moments. Besides, we already did it. No point in asking now.”
The anti-submarine warfare officer stood over nautical charts next to the chief sonar tech. The ASWO was an ensign who had been a college student at Notre Dame a year ago. Now he was tasked with overseeing a division of enlisted men who would locate a Chinese submarine and prevent it from sinking their ship.
The ASWO said, “Good morning, ma’am. Long story short, we still don’t have contact with the sub. We had a few sniffs last night, but they turned out to be false alarms. The helo launches at zero six hundred, and they’ll begin spitting buoys in certain areas, performing passive searches for us here, and here.” He pointed to a few locations on the chart.
Victoria said, “Alright. What else?”
“OPS asked me to tell you that—”
“Ma’am, Pelican 434 just checked in. On-station time is six plus zero zero.”
“Copy, thanks.” Victoria looked at the tactical display. She turned back to the ASWO. “You were saying?”
“OPS asked me to tell you that he was trying to get us a P-8. Looks like it just checked in.”
“Good, let’s have the P-8 clear out a path for us.”
The P-8A Poseidon was the Navy’s newest maritime patrol aircraft. Primarily used for anti-submarine warfare, it had replaced the aged P-3C Orion. The P-8 was essentially a Boeing 737 outfitted for Navy missions. It could carry thirty percent more sonobuoys than the P-3, as well as torpedoes, infrared cameras, electronic sensors, and even anti-ship missiles.
Most importantly, it was reliable. The 737 airframe was one of the most successful of this generation. The older P-3 had been notorious for breaking down in the chocks. But if the P-8 was scheduled, it would show up ready to fight.
One hour later, the P-8 had placed sonobuoys all along the Farragut’s intended track. In addition, the destroyer used its own sonar to listen for the Chinese submarine.
She nodded to the team in Combat and walked up to the recently repaired bridge. The repairs were being conducted all day long, but only a skeleton bridge team was up there now.
The bridge crew stood in a pitch-black environment. Dawn wasn’t for another few hours. Their eyes were adjusted to the low light. They needed to be able to see the most minor detail on the horizon, and any light on the bridge would hurt their night vision, diminishing their ability to see contacts.
“Air boss on the bridge!” someone yelled. That announcement was normally reserved for the captain. The ship’s new navigator, who was standing officer of the deck, walked up to her. “Morning, ma’am.”
Victoria looked at her watch. It was 0200. She needed sleep. Her head was groggy. “I guess it is morning, isn’t it? How’s the ship?”
“Doing better, ma’am. They’ve got all the navigational and bridge helm controls fixed. But there are still a lot of electronics, windows, and parts of the hull that need repairs.”
The sound of billowing wind filled the spacious bridge, as many of the windows and doors had yet to be repaired from the missile attack.
“Alright, NAV, thanks. You call me if you need anything.”
“Roger, ma’am.”
&
nbsp; The bridge tactical communications circuit came on with, “Bridge, Combat, is the air boss there?”
“Affirm.”
“Please have her rejoin us in Combat. Penguin 434 just got a sniff. We may have found the Chinese sub.”
24
Juan shot up out of his bed as the alarm went off.
“General quarters, general quarters, all hands man your battle stations.” The voice on the 1MC didn’t sound bored like it had during training a few weeks ago. Now it was alert. Intense. Angry.
Juan had been sleeping in his flight suit. He looked at his watch. Three a.m. One hour before he was supposed to wake up.
He threw on his brown leather boots and began tying the laces.
Plug opened his door and said, “Yo. Dude, we’re launching. Boss just called me. They found the sub. Get your shit on and meet me back in the hangar in five. Boss wants us off deck ASAP.”
“Got it.”
The announcement for flight quarters immediately followed the call to battle stations. He wondered how they had found the sub.
Juan ran through the main passageway of the destroyer until he got to the hangar. AWR1 Fetternut saw him and threw him his helmet. He put it on and fastened the chinstrap, then grabbed his heavy survival vest.
Caveman ran by, giving Juan a thumbs-up. “Hey, man, the bird’s already preflighted. External power’s on, and I made sure everything is set up in the cockpit. You guys should be ready to go. I’ll be down in the LSO shack.”
Plug stuck his head outside of the cockpit, “Hurry up!”
The ASWO ran up to Juan, handing him a sheet of paper. “Here! It’s the latest we got on the submarine. It’s them. The P-8’s tracking it now, but they don’t have a torpedo.”
“What? Why not?” Juan shook his head. “Whatever.”
“Good luck.” The ASWO jogged back out of the hangar.
Juan saw members of the crew walking in through the hangar door, carrying the engine plugs that kept out seawater.
A minute later, Juan and Plug both strapped into their pilot seats, with AWR1 checking the sonobuoys one last time. Their hands raced over switches and circuit breakers, making adjustments and checking for proper positioning.
Juan went through his checklist. “Seats, belts, pedals, and mirrors—adjusted?”
“Adjusted.”
“Cockpit window emergency releases—aft and shear wired?”
“Let’s go, let’s go. We don’t have time for all this,” said Plug. “Shut your door. I’m starting up number two.” Plug slammed his door shut and gripped the number two engine power control lever, thumbing the silver starter button.
Everything happened fast. The high-pitched whine of the General Electric T-700 engine spooling up. The plane captain pointing at the engine and spinning his free hand as he did. Plug started the number two engine, then he removed the rotor brake and throttled the power control levers forward. The rotors began spinning with ferocious speed, and Juan’s heart beat faster as he realized that they were about to go into combat.
“471, Deck, you have amber deck for breakdown, green deck for launch.”
“471 copies.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Juan saw the blue ocean water rising and falling with the ship’s movements. The ship heaved and tilted wildly. The destroyer was racing at twenty-two knots, finishing its turn into the wind.
Plug, gripping the controls, called, “Chocks and chains.”
Juan used hand signals to communicate with the plane captain that they were ready to remove chocks and chains. The plane captain pointed at the two enlisted men standing next to him and signaled them to go in. They sprinted in from each side of the helicopter and removed the chocks and chains as fast as a NASCAR pit crew. Juan could hear the heavy steel chains dragging on the deck as they brought them back in front of the aircraft for inspection. The pilots gave them a thumbs-up, and the enlisted men disappeared inside the hangar.
Juan looked through the windscreen and saw his fellow 2P, Caveman, standing in the LSO shack with his headset on, ready to open the steel trap that held them in place on the deck.
“Deck, 471, ready to lift.”
“Roger, 471, beams open.”
Plug said, “Coming up and aft.”
The power pull was aggressive. Much more than Juan was used to, or comfortable with. The instruments that measured engine power and torque rose up into the yellow zone, even flickering red for a moment. But Plug knew the limits of the bird. The MH-60 shot up and aft, paused for a nanosecond, pedal turned to the left, and then nosed over, climbing and accelerating. The blue ocean water and grey steel of the ship’s hull raced past them.
Plug said, “Get the P-8 on the horn. Check in with them and get the latest info. AWR1, you too—both of you, get all your combat checks, sonobuoy launch checks, and torp launch checks out of the way now. I want to be ready to drop our torpedo the second they tell us they’ve got a target.”
“Roger,” said Juan.
“Roger, sir,” said AWR1 Fetternut.
“Pelican 434, Cutlass 471, standing by for your updated sitrep.”
The P-8 began reading off information on all of its sonobuoys and the latest details of the submarine track.
“Cutlass 471, Pelican 434, how many torpedoes do you have?”
Juan said, “471 has two Mark 54s aboard.”
“Roger, Cutlass 471, we are ready to prosecute the sub. We’re tracking her passively right now, but she probably knows it. We intend to go active as soon as you’re on scene. We’ll vector you in for the torp drop.”
“Roger, Pelican. ETA twelve minutes.”
The double click on the comms was all the response he got, letting him know that the P-8 understood.
Juan triple-checked that all his torpedo launching checklist items were complete and that all of his switches were in the right place.
Plug said, “AWR1, are you listening to their buoys?”
“Yes, sir, I’ve got ’em tuned up.”
“Have you got a track?”
“Yes, sir. You can see it on your screen…now.”
Juan switched to his ship communications frequency and related all their information back to the ship.
The ship’s ASTAC said, “Roger, sir. We’re copying everything from link. Good hunting.”
Plug said, “Traffic, twelve o’clock high, no factor.”
Juan looked up and saw the grey P-8A flying straight and level. Every few seconds, a barely visible cylindrical object would drop from its underbelly. These were the sonobuoys. Brightly colored mini-parachutes slowed their descent towards the ocean.
When they were within a few miles of the target, Juan made his call to the P-8. “Pelican 434, Cutlass 471, we’re ready for your vector.”
“Roger 471. We just put our DICASS sonobuoys in the water. We’ll be going active shortly.”
A few moments later, Juan turned up the knob to hear the sound from the sonobuoy through his helmet audio. An electronic-sounding high-pitched noise emanated from the speakers in his ears. It was the pinging noise from the active buoys.
The Chinese submarine captain stood watching his team of young officers and crew as they did their work. The captain had ordered them to rig for red lighting so their eyes would adjust prior to going to periscope depth. The dim red lighting fit the tense mood of the men.
These men had worked on very little sleep for the past week. Stalking their prey. Executing the previous attacks flawlessly. And now, finishing the kill.
After their initial attack, they had gone deep and silent, listening to the breakup of the hulls from the sinking ships, and tracking the lone American destroyer that had gotten away. The captain had expected the orders to follow it, and destroy the US Navy warship. It had been the primary target, after all. But he hadn’t expected the urgency.
Twelve hours after the attack, he had gone up to periscope depth, which had allowed them to establish a satellite link with South Sea Fleet. He had updated the fleet with t
he battle damage assessment. The response had been immediate.
SINK US NAVY DESTROYER 099. CRITICAL AND TIME-SENSITIVE CARGO ON BOARD MUST NOT REACH MAINLAND. SINK US NAVY DESTROYER 099 PRIOR TO REACHING 200 MILES OF SHORE, AND WITHIN 48 HOURS OF RECEIVING THIS MESSAGE.
Before receiving those orders, they had been following the destroyer to the northwest, but allowing it to open distance. The captain was worried that if they traveled too fast, the submarine would make so much noise that the destroyer would hear them. The US Navy warship had a helicopter on board. One with a dipping sonar. He wanted nothing to do with it.
But after the orders from South Sea Fleet had come in, the submarine captain had commanded his men to sprint ahead and change course to due north. They lost time while reeling in the towed-array sonar, as that activity limited their speed. Once the towed-array was in, however, the captain was able to use the nuclear-powered submarine’s impressive speed advantage to cut off the destroyer’s path to land. The US Navy warship’s initial travel direction put them farther away from land. If they had cargo on board that they needed to take to shore, they would surely have to turn back east at some point.
During the six-hour sprint to the north, his sonar men had lost contact with the destroyer. When they slowed down, they once again brought out the towed-array.
The initial readouts from the sonar room were confusing. None of their sonar contacts had the obvious signature of the destroyer. There was one very suspicious contact that was heading east at high speed, however. The sonar technicians had informed the captain that the contact sounded like a group of ships, with characteristics similar to both a warship and a large merchant.
Without visual confirmation, the captain couldn’t be certain that this was his target. The captain didn’t want to fire on it until he knew.
Attacking that group of ships would hurt him in several ways. One, it would help the Americans to learn his position. It would also waste his valuable anti-ship weapons. With the war that had obviously just begun, they were now worth their weight in gold. Also, firing his weapons without seeing his target would mean that his chances of success were greatly decreased. And lastly, he didn’t want to risk sinking an innocent merchant ship.