by Clancy, Tom
Mack had been around long enough to know that sometimes lousy intelligence happened. That was why it was called the “fog of war.” But that didn’t make him feel any better. Not when it was his submarine and his crew at risk because of someone else’s mistake.
The one good thing that had come out of that mess—besides Cheyenne’s performance—was the P4 message he held in his hand. The P4, or “personal for,” message was an apology from USCINCPAC himself for the lousy intelligence Cheyenne had been provided before the last mission. Mack especially liked the part where the admiral had quoted the CNO (Chief of Naval Operations), currently the most senior officer in the Navy, as taking a personal interest in the intelligence fiasco.
He opened the message and read that part one more time. The CNO had directed a “reevaluation of procedures and decision-making personnel” within the naval intelligence chain of command. Mack smiled. That meant a lot of people were going to come under fire, and that was good. With luck, the next commanding officer and crew going into battle would be better prepared with accurate intelligence.
Especially since, Mack suspected, he knew who that next commanding officer was going to be. Cheyenne was still the best asset the U.S. Navy had in the area, at least for the kinds of missions that were being conducted, and Mack was pretty sure that they would be called upon again soon.
“Excuse me, Captain,” the executive officer said. He had just climbed to the bridge and poked his head through the upper access hatch. “They’re waiting for you on McKee. Sounds like something hot.”
“Thank you,” Mack said. “Any idea what’s up?”
“Well, sir, judging from the latest intelligence ...” The executive officer let the sentence taper off as Mack shot him a hard look.
“Not funny.”
“No, sir, not at all, but snafus do happen. I’m just glad that the crew was ready for the challenge.”
Mack nodded and the executive officer continued, “From what I can gather from the intelligence officer on board McKee, the Chinese merchant convoy that was assembling off the south coast of China has decided to make a fast break for the Spratlys. My guess is somebody figures that we didn’t make it out of that last scrap intact and they want to take advantage of that by trying to get some supplies through while there’s no one around to stop them.”
Mack nodded. That was a good reading of the situation. Except that the Chinese were wrong. Cheyenne had survived, and was, no doubt, about to be assigned to show the Chinese how wrong they were.
Captain Mackey was looking over the side of the bridge as the first Mk 48 was already being hoisted into the air and swung over from McKee to Cheyenne’s waiting crew. The job had to be hot if weapons were being transferred even before the mission debriefing.
Mack liked this assignment. He couldn’t recall the last time an American submarine went after a real merchant convoy. During World War II, the Japanese had not developed a real convoy system like the United States had with the British. Most of the ships American submarines sank were independents or just ships travelling together. Closely escorted convoys like this one just weren’t used.
Which meant that with this mission Cheyenne would get to set the standard for how a modern convoy battle occurred. Mack liked that a lot.
Cheyenne had more sophisticated weapons than were available during World War II, weapons that were faster and had a longer range, but so did the escort defenses. It would still be a case of Cheyenne getting into position as quietly as possible and then hitting the convoy before they could react.
“So we get to stop that convoy,” Mack said. He nodded and patted the side of the bridge. “We can do that.”
“Yes, sir,” the executive officer said. Then his eyes focused beyond the captain. “Looks like they’re getting impatient on McKee. The combat systems officer and operations officer are already over there.”
Mack glanced over at the submarine tender and nodded. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Let me know how long until the reload is completed when I get back. I suspect we’ll need to be under way again as soon as possible.”
The executive officer gave a quick salute and said, “Aye, aye, sir,” as Mack scrambled down the ladder to the control room. He then turned and looked out over the vast expanse of the South China Sea and wondered what the next few days would bring and how a modern convoy battle would really shape up.
Far out to sea, the same thoughts were going through the mind of the Chinese escort squadron commander as the convoy was steaming toward the Spratly Islands. The best speed some of the convoy ships could make was ten knots, which was far too slow to attempt a sudden dash to the Spratly Islands. But the South Sea fleet commander had been adamant about taking some of the AK troop transport ships and an ARS repair ship with the convoy.
So now he was in command of a slow convoy with an escort squadron that was too small and underarmed. Only one of his seven ships carried helicopters for ASW prosecution, a mission area that the entire Chinese fleet was sorely inexperienced in. But they did have a lot of ASW ordnance. Years of cooperation with the then Soviet navy had sponsored a reliance on massive firepower. If an American submarine was unfortunate enough to be caught trying to torpedo any of his ships, a tremendous amount of firepower was available to respond. The big problem would be finding the American submarine.
The United States had notoriously quiet submarines. The first indication the Chinese would have that an American was out there would probably be when a ship blew up. But that could not be helped.
The convoy commander tightened his knuckles until white skin showed clearly through the gloom of the closing night. Rapid response and good joss would have to answer for American technology. That and a good plan.
He permitted himself a slight smile. Since he could not dissuade the admiral from the convoy mission, he had at least tried his best to guarantee its safe arrival. He knew that the best weapon against a submarine was another submarine. Years of experience had taught him that. It was common sense and a frequently quoted slogan among American submariners, but none of the quiet diesel submarines in the Chinese fleet could keep up for long while underwater and running on its batteries, even with his slow convoy.
But they could be strategically placed in carefully selected locations and thus be in position to listen for, detect, and then kill any American submarine that attempted to attack the convoy.
He had no doubt that an American submarine would find and track the convoy. He had no doubt that an American submarine would attack the convoy. He had no doubt that a few, perhaps even several, of his ships would be sunk by the American submarine. But he also had no doubt that the American captain would never suspect that a string of hidden Chinese submarines would be strewn along the convoy’s path like a manned minefield.
The American captain would pay dearly for attacking the convoy.
On board Cheyenne, plans for the attack were being made.
“Be seated, gentlemen.” Captain Mackey waved his officers to sit down on the wardroom chairs and bench seat. “Here’s the situation. A Chinese merchant convoy under close escort is headed toward the Spratly Islands with supplies, troops, and a repair ship. As we’ve already found out, the UN total exclusion zone doesn’t mean anything to them. Our job is to intercept the convoy and prevent it from reaching the Spratlys by any means necessary.”
Mack paused to let that information sink in. “Okay. The operations officer will let you know what we’re up against.”
Mack leaned back in his chair and watched his officers as he listened to the briefing. Mack smiled to himself. They were ready. Their last foray had been a crucible to harden them into battle-tested veterans.
As Mack assessed his officers, the operations officer went on with his report. “The convoy itself is comprised of four military troop transports, one ARS-type repair ship, four merchant container ships, and one merchant tanker. The convoy escort is made up of two Luda class destroyers, four Jianghu class frigates, and one Luhu class
destroyer carrying two ASW helos. The convoy should be able to make thirteen knots, but our satellites are tracking it at only ten. We should be able to be in position just after they pass the exclusion zone at dusk in two days. Looks like they want to make the run in darkness to avoid detection for as long as possible.”
Captain Mackey sat upright in his chair after the operations officer sat down. “Thanks, ops. Any questions?”
There weren’t any, so Mack allowed the meeting to break up. “Okay,” he said. “You all know what to do. We’re under way at 0600. We’ll station the maneuvering watch at 0500. Dismissed.”
The executive officer crossed over to the coffeepot, poured two cups, and slowly added sugar to both. “So how do you intend to play this, Captain?”
Mack leaned forward, interlocking his fingers beneath his chin. “I’m not sure on this one,” he said. “It’s a different ballgame going after a convoy. There’s no one primary target to focus on, planning how to attack it and avoid getting caught. Instead, we’re going to have to make an attack, break off to reload as necessary, and then get back into position to re-attack. And keep on doing it until all the ships in the convoy are sunk or turn around.”
“Too bad we don’t have a deck gun like the old boats.” The executive officer sipped his coffee as he set the other cup in front of Mack. “But at least we’ve got range with both weapons and sensors against these guys. And we’re faster, so getting back into position should be fairly easy. It shouldn’t be any problem as long as we don’t get too cocky.” He looked down at the captain’s untouched coffee. “But you’re still not comfortable with it. What’s wrong?”
“The escort squadron commander is what’s wrong,” Mack said.
The executive officer looked up at his captain. “Why does he bother you?”
Mack paused as the messenger of the watch entered the wardroom and, standing at attention in front of his captain, reported professionally, “Captain, the officer of the deck sends his respects and reports the hour of 2000.” He then handed the 2000 report sheet to the captain. When Mack had acknowledged the report, the messenger of the watch left the wardroom as quietly as he had entered.
When the messenger had departed, leaving the two of them alone once again, Mack straightened, took a long drink of coffee, and carefully set the cup back down. Getting to his feet, he moved toward the wardroom door and then paused with his hand on the doorknob. “Because their commander is reportedly a previous submarine commanding officer, one of their best,” he said. “Why would a submariner be in command of a surface escort group and baby-sitting the convoy?”
As the captain left the wardroom, the executive officer began to worry, too, and to wonder what would happen when Cheyenne located the convoy.
“Diving officer, make your depth 247 feet,” Mack ordered. Cheyenne had met up with the Chinese merchant convoy and had maneuvered into position. “Fire control, have you got a firing solution on the lead escort?”
“Yes, sir,” the executive officer replied. “We’ve got firing solutions on almost all of them, but the best solutions are the lead escort and the front two troop transport ships, Masters 54, 55, and 56, respectively. Should I select a fourth target for torpedo tube four?”
“Negative,” answered Mack. “I want to keep tube number four standing by for a snap shot in case another submarine shows up like before, or one of those escorts gets too close and damned lucky.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Has anything changed with regards to their defensive posture?”
“No, sir. The escort ships, except for one, are still in a ring around the convoy at an estimated distance of eight to ten thousand yards. All escorts that have an active sonar system are pinging away for all they’re worth, but we’re still beyond their detection range.”
Mack thought to himself that the Chinese submariner, the escort squadron commander, was wisely shielding himself on board his Jianghu class frigate by steaming in the middle of the convoy.
“Very well,” Mack said. He took a deep breath and slowly turned to survey the entire control room. Everyone was at their battle stations and primed for action. A sense of tense anticipation hung in the air. Not a nervous anticipation, but the kind that came from the pit of the stomach, awakened every nerve, and expanded the senses. The hunter had found his prey and it was time to kill.
“Torpedo room, fire control. Make tubes one, two, and three ready in all respects, including opening the outer doors.”
The standard repeat back came over the sound-powered phones crisp and clear. Captain Mackey himself acknowledged and then crossed to the chart tracking the convoy’s route while he waited for the crew in the torpedo room to carry out their duties.
Before long the executive officer reported, “Tubes one, two, and three are ready in all respects, Captain. Outer doors are open.”
“Very well.” Mack went back to the BSY-1 fire-control and weapons-control consoles in “Fire-Control Alley.” “Firing point procedures, tube one, Master 54.”
The combat systems officer reported the target’s current course, speed, and range from the weapons-control console.
Captain Mackey acknowledged the information and then announced over the open microphone. “Sonar, conn. Stand by.”
“Conn, sonar. Standing by.”
“Match sonar bearings and shoot, tube one, Master 54.”
“Match sonar bearings and shoot, tube one, Master 54, aye, sir.”
As lights lit up on his console, the combat systems officer reported, “Captain, tube one fired electrically.”
Moments later the sonar supervisor said, “Conn, sonar, unit from tube one is running hot, straight and normal.”
“Sonar, conn, aye.” Turning to the fire control party, Mack said, “I don’t want to shoot tubes two and three until after the other escorts, especially the Luhu class destroyer with the ASW helicopters, have settled down a bit. They’re bound to chase their tails for a few minutes after their lead escort goes down.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” the fire-control coordinator answered for his operators. In a softer voice, speaking off line so that only Mack would hear, he asked, “Excuse me, Captain, but why not take the other shots at the two merchants now before they get wind that we’re here, or even go after more of the escorts?”
Mack smiled. That was a good question, and he answered it out loud so that everyone could hear him. “This first torpedo is for effect,” he said. “I want them scared. Our orders are to prevent them from reaching the Spratlys. I’d rather force them to turn tail and run than have to kill every sailor and soldier on those ships. But until they do turn and run, I intend to focus our weapons on the primary targets—the convoy ships. It’s a poor showing for an escort to arrive with minimal damage and no ships left to be escorted. Now, time to acquisition?”
“Thirteen minutes, twelve seconds, sir,” reported the combat systems officer.
When the torpedo closed on its target, it would turn on its active sonar and, after locating the target, would then shift to attack speed. At that range, the lead escort ship would have very little chance to react, and no time at all to escape. The only chance the ship would have was if it detected the initially silent inbound torpedo with its own active sonar pounding through the water.
If that lead escort ship made a rapid course maneuver or a sudden increase in speed, Cheyenne would know that the torpedo had been detected. But when the Mk 48 acquired its target, both the convoy and the escorts were still maintaining their course and speed.
“Conn, sonar. We have a detonation on the bearing to Master 54. All escort ships are increasing speed, continuing to ping with active sonar.”
“Sonar, conn, aye. Fire control and sonar, keep a steady track on Masters 55 and 56. I want to shoot as soon as things settle out. Shut the outer door on tube one and reload with an Mk 48.”
Several minutes ticked by slowly while the crew of Cheyenne waited for the response of the ships overhead.
“Conn,
sonar. Escorts have settled back into their stations. Master 54 had several secondary explosions and it sounds like it’s going down.”
“Sonar, conn, aye. Sonar, any indications of assistance or rescue efforts provided to Master 54?”
“Conn, sonar, that’s negative, Captain. They all just steamed right passed it without slowing.”
“Sonar, conn, aye.” That bothered Mack. The Luda hadn’t exploded or sunk suddenly, so there was no reason why one of the convoy ships shouldn’t have at least slowed to pick up survivors. Something was wrong, but Mack wasn’t sure what.
“Captain, we still have solutions for Masters 55 and 56 being passed to tubes two and three.”
Mack looked over at the executive officer. “Very well, fire control. Firing point procedures, tube two, Master 55, and tube three, Master 56.”
Once again the deadly drill was carried out and two more torpedoes sped from Cheyenne toward their targets.
“Conn, sonar. Units from tubes two and three running hot, straight, and normal.”
“Time to acquisition will be sixteen minutes, forty seconds,” reported the combat systems officer.
Again Cheyenne’s officers and crew waited. The torpedoes knifed through the water, but this time toward ships that were dependent upon others for protection—a protection those others could not provide.
“Conn, sonar. One of the escort vessels closest to us, the other Luda, Master 57, has started to increase speed and is executing a rapid turn!”
“Sonar, conn, aye. Which way is Master 57 turning?”
“Conn, sonar. It’s turning right toward us, Captain. Back along the torpedoes’ paths.”