by David Poyer
If Barrett ever went into battle, he would fight her from this chair. No longer did a captain fight his ship from the bridge. From there, he could see ten or fifteen miles. The net of sensors and electronics woven from CIC covered thousands of square miles. And the skipper, though he retained overall command, delegated the actual employment of the ship in combat to younger officers, recently trained in up-to-the minute threats and tactics.
As if conjured up by thought, Leighty appeared out of the dark and swung up into the chair next to Dan. Lenson nodded to him—formalities were relaxed here—and clicked a focused light on above him. He flipped open his wheel book. You could look things up in tac memos and naval warfare publications, but he didn’t like to accept cookbook answers. His handwritten notes read:
1. Place FC radar in sector scan along threat axis.
2. Detect target.
3. Designate to a weapons system and launcher.
4. Launch.
5. Reengage—shoot, shoot, look, shoot.
He kneaded his forehead, remembering how much calculation it took to get to the seemingly bonehead-simple step five. If a cruise missile was coming down the pipe at you, you didn’t fire one missile and wander happily away with your finger up your butt. An 80 percent kill probability was the best you could hope for. So you figured to fire more than once. But how many times? And how fast? The formula for overall probability of kill with repeated shots was:
Pk = 1 - (Pf)n
Pf was the probability of failure and n the number of rounds fired. If you fired one round, Pk was 80 percent, two rounds would be 96 percent, and three rounds somewhere upward of 99 percent.
But balanced against that was the need to conserve ordnance in battle. Successive attacks would deplete your magazines, letting the attacker break through. Also, you couldn’t fire too rapidly; the missiles would interfere with one another’s radar. And there wasn’t much time to get your rounds out there, not with the enemy missile boring in at ten miles a minute. He’d finally worked out a solution using a system of simultaneous linear equations.
Now Leighty was asking him, “Three-round engagement, Dan?”
“If we have time, sir. If not, we get two rounds off fast.”
“Do we make that decision?”
“Not anymore, sir. The threat-response algorithm is programmed into the ACDADS auto mode.”
Leighty grunted something and picked up a phone. Dan heard him talking to the XO, then tuned out as the airborne intercept controller, who directed aircraft assigned to Barrett’s control, yelled, “Tango four four reporting in, requesting permission to start runs.”
“That the S-three with the sleeve? Permission granted.”
“Tango four four wants commanding officer’s guarantee no live ammunition is loaded.”
Leighty grinned. “Sounds like they’ve been burned before. Check it out, Dan.”
Dan clicked into the fire-control circuit, confirmed bores clear with the gun mounts, then did the same with the missile launchers. He pointed to the AIC. “They’re safe. Give him an initial vector to make the first run in from zero-zero-zero relative. SSWC, place ACDADS in mode two and commence run one.”
The first events went smoothly. The tow aircraft made run after run from ahead, abeam, astern. Behind it, a drogue wobbled through the sky on five thousand feet of cable. At each run, the system gave a threat warning buzzer, assigned a director, and locked on. As the range closed, it assigned launchers, displayed an ordnance selection, and sent train and elevate orders. Shuffert, who was antiair coordinator, kept giving him thumbs-up. They did a quick huddle at the end of the fifth run. “How’s it looking, Shoe?” Dan asked.
“Everything seems to be running normal.” The black lieutenant sucked his lip. “I noticed some delay on the bow-on run, though. It was in to fifteen miles before we got a detect signal.”
“It was real low on that run, I noticed,” Chief Dawson put in. “Maybe a hundred feet above the water.”
“That’s where an Exocet’s gonna fly. Do you want to tweak some more, try to get more energy out there?”
“No, it’s in parameters. Let’s go with it.”
“Shoe?”
“Concur.”
Dan said to the captain, “Sir, we’re ready for a firing run.”
The jet drone was carried by another plane, call sign Lima two six, which had reported in during the tracking runs and was now orbiting thirty-five miles to the north. He called O’Beirne, up on the bridge, and advised him and the OOD this would be a firing run, for grade. Next he checked the surface track console, making sure there were no stray fishing boats or crossing merchants in range. Except for the trawler to the east, the sky and sea were empty. He told Shuffert to signal event 0608.
“Time to find out if all this shit we bought works,” said Leighty. Dan glanced at him. It was the first time he’d heard the fastidious captain use a four-letter word.
He looked at Shuffert, sitting tensely at the weapons-control console; at Dawson, at the systems-monitoring panel, one earphone slipped off. Both were watching him, hands hovering over the proper switches. The door from the bridge undogged. It was O’Beirne, the observer.
“Archer turning inbound. Now bears zero-zero-four, range sixty-eight thousand yards.”
Dan said quietly, “Put her in auto.”
“Automatic, aye … mode three enabled.”
Leaning forward, he could see the glowing symbol that was the launch aircraft, thirty miles out. He and Dawson and Harper and Williams had done all they could. It was up to the computers now.
“Lima two six reports drone separation … engine start … control test … drone under control. Commencing run.”
“Have we got a separate paint on the drone?”
“Yes, sir.”
The deck shuddered beneath their feet, and he tensed before he remembered the computers were controlling the helm now, too—controlling the engines, controlling everything.
“ACDADS has identified an incoming threat, level two, bearing zero-zero-six, range fifty-two thousand yards, speed four hundred and sixty knots. Altering course to unmask weapons.”
He looked out across the room, feeling ice touch his spine. No one was doing anything. Dawson turned his palms outward, eyebrows up, a “Look, Ma, no hands” routine.
The ship was moving, thinking, acting on its own.
The rudder-angle indicator swung to counteract the momentum of the turn, then centerlined. The gyro repeater steadied, presenting Barrett’s port beam to the incoming drone. Designation lights blinked on. “Threat level one. Locked on,” a petty officer called. “Very well,” Dan murmured, thinking, Next they’ll give it a voice. All we’ll be good for then is typing up the after-action reports.
“Target bears zero-zero-eight, range forty-five thousand yards, speed four hundred and eighty knots, altitude, three hundred feet.”
Dan watched the second hand of his watch creep around. It wasn’t all peaches and cream, having the ship think for you. You had all the same worries, but there was nothing you could do.
The intercom at his elbow said, “Uh, TAO, Bridge: Why are we training the guns out to starboard?”
“Say again, Bridge? This is a missile run, to port.”
“Well, the guns are training out to starboard.”
He was opening his mouth to ask Dawson what was going on when he heard the unmistakable slam of a five-inch going off, then, a second later, another from astern. “Cease fire! Cease fire!” he yelled. “Abort the run. Break track. Take back control. Centerline all the launchers, now.”
A minute later, a jet engine howled past overhead, muffled by the superstructure. The observer shook his head, making a note on a clipboard. Dan wiped sweat off his face. He felt Leighty’s look like an icicle laid across his cheeks.
“I thought the guns were unloaded, Mr. Lenson.”
“Sir, they were. Adamo checked the bores himself. They shouldn’t have fired, anyway; this was a missile run.”
&
nbsp; “Okay, obviously something’s hosed. Can we refire? Or should we scrub the trial? How much longer have we got the drone for?”
“One second, sir, I’ll check … .” To Shuffert and Dawson, he said tightly, “Okay, something’s screwy. What? Think fast; we only got this drone for another fifteen minutes.”
Neither seemed to know. He picked up the FC circuit and barked, “Why did you fire?” But as far as the gunner’s mates knew, the guns had done exactly what the computers were telling them to. He made a fast decision.
“Okay, forget full auto. Put ACDADS in mode two.”
“You’re going to try again?”
“Yes, sir, but in semiauto this time. It’ll give us a threat buzzer and recommend action, but the console operators actually designate targets and approve loading ordnance to fire position.”
“I know that, Dan.”
“Yes, sir, I know you do. Just making sure everyone’s using the same dance card.”
Leighty nodded, approving another firing run. Dan told the AIC, who relayed it out to the drone operator on the plane.
“Commencing run two. Target inbound.”
At fifty thousand yards, the threat buzzer triggered. “Designate to forward launcher,” Dan said, leaning forward to watch the big SSWC screen.
This seemed to work better. The system locked on in semiauto and tracked. It assigned the incoming threat to the forward missile launcher, with the aft launcher in backup. When it recommended fire, he glanced at Leighty, who nodded curtly. Shuffert flipped up the switch cover and depressed the red switch.
The drumming roar made them all jump. Caught up in symbology, procedure, drill, you forgot there were real weapons out there. The first missile was on its way. Dan scratched itchy armpits as another bellow announced the second round had leapt off the aft launcher. The angular separation meant they could fire round two from there a second and a half sooner than a refire from the same launcher.
“Bird one away … bird two away.”
“Check fire bird three. Stand by.” He’d see if two would do it, maybe save the expense of an extra instrumented Standard. On impulse, he hit the intercom. “Bridge, TAO: Can you guys see the drone yet?”
Vysotsky’s hoarse voice. “Negative, got our glasses on the bearing but no joy yet.”
“How’s our birds look, XO?”
“Number one and number two both normal fly-out … . Wait a minute … . Oh no.”
Simultaneously, the petty officer at the fire-control console yelled, “Missile number one, no tip-down! Passing over the target!”
“What the hell happened?”
“Target still incoming, bearing zero-nine-eight, range nine thousand yards.”
“Fire number three, Mr. Lenson?”
“No. Check fire. Check fire—”
“TAO, Bridge: I hold the drone visually. It’s low—”
“Stand by for number two intercept, now now now—lost track!”
“Ah, fuck,” Dawson groaned.
The intercom from the bridge said, “It’s still coming. Hey, right at us. Hey, this thing’s way too fucking low.”
The captain reached up. His hand went to the radio circuit to the launch aircraft, still orbiting to the north. “Lima two six, this is Echo November Actual. To the drone controller: Pull up. Increase altitude immediately or turn away. You are headed directly for us with no offset.”
No reply from the plane. Two seconds … three. “Still coming at us,” said the 21MC. “Right at us—”
Leighty cut it off in midsentence. “Left hard rudder, turn into it! Phalanx in AAW auto, now!”
“Phalanx in auto,” Shuffert shouted.
The low bass brruummmp of 20-mm slugs going out washboarded the bulkheads. Then it cut off.
Dan closed his eyes. CIC was silent, waiting.
The 1MC crackled, keened, then announced: “This is not a drill. Ah … fire. Fire, fire! Class bravo fire on port side. Repair Three provide.”
FORTUNATELY, the drone was lightly built and had been almost out of fuel when it hit; the repair party, already dressed out and on station at general quarters, had grabbed their gear, run fifty feet, climbed a ladder, and snuffed the flames with water mist before they got well started.
Dan went down as soon as the ship secured from GQ. He picked his way over three-inch hoses as the damage-control party rolled them up and carried them away in flat heavy cartwheels. The smells of kerosene and smoke coated the back of his throat. He swallowed nervously. They reminded him of another ship, another fire … . The light airframe had punched a jagged hole through the shell plating abreast and below the aft five-inch mount. The fire had been contained within the boundaries of the laundry and, near it, the master-at-arms shack. Smoking debris littered the deck. Looking out through the smoking hole, he saw the sea slipping by as Barrett dawdled along at steerageway.
He looked up, to see Vysotsky in the doorway. “Anybody hurt, sir?” he asked.
“One of the laundrymen.”
“Not … dead?”
“No, no. Second-degree burns, smoke inhalation.” The executive officer touched a bulkhead, then examined his soot-smeared hand. “Good thing there’s no warhead on a drone. What the hell happened?”
“We’re not sure yet, sir. Either we had two missiles fail the exact same way or else we’ve got a bug somewhere.”
“Your troops working it?”
“Yes, sir. We’ll have a report for the skipper and the observer as soon as we find out what went wrong. Uh, what did it look like from topside, XO? You were up there, weren’t you?”
“Yeah. Hell, I thought everything was going fine. Both rounds looked sweet off the launchers. They were flying the normal up-and-over profile. One of the lookouts yelled that he had the drone. I saw it just for a second, a little red guy way out there a couple inches above the waves.
“Then suddenly, we all realize the missiles aren’t tipping down. They’re way the fuck up there and still climbing. They go over it, way over it. The drone keeps coming. Tracks in like it’s on rails. It starts to nose up the last couple seconds, like the operator’s reaching for altitude, but then the Phalanx cuts loose. Just about blasted my ears off—I was out on the wing. The drone’s hit. Starts to wobble. The engine starts cutting out. Blatt, blatt, blatt. Then it quits and just kind of tumbles down into the side.” He smacked his hands together. “Flash. Boom.” He looked around at the wrecked machines, soaked tile, toppled racks of wet, filthy uniforms. “We’re going to have to get this cleaned up, get a patch on the hull … . I’m just glad we had everybody at GQ. Anyway, what now? We’ve still got a gun event, don’t we?”
“I recommended we call it off, sir. There’s something wrong, and if we don’t know what, it’s not safe to shoot.”
“That doesn’t leave us looking very good to start refresher training next week,” said the exec. “Is it too late to rethink that decision? We could shoot in local control, couldn’t we? There’s a casualty mode for NTDS—”
“Yes, sir, we can plot by hand, but not fast enough to track an incoming drone. And we can’t launch a missile at all without the fire-control system up.” Dan looked at the dirty oily water on the deck, a stray black sock crumpled like something small and dead. “I’ll check again, sir. But the skipper seemed to agree—with calling it off, I mean. Something’s out of whack.”
“Well, in that case.” They looked at each other. Then the XO added, “He’s very … concerned about the men.”
“Seems that way, sir,” said Dan, suddenly alert. The way the XO was holding his gaze, there was something else, another message or question behind the words. But he didn’t know what it was. He cleared his throat. “Is there, uh, anything else, sir?”
“Anything else? No, I guess not.”
“I’d better get back up, find out what went wrong.”
“Yeah, do that,” said Vysotsky. When Dan looked back, the XO was still watching him.
15
THE blast of a whistle. “Mo
ored. Shift colors.”
Dan sagged against the splinter shield, watching as the linehandlers paid out five-inch nylon, doubled it, busy spiders webbing Barrett back to land. They’d raced the setting sun up the Cooper, and now security lights buzzed and popped and one by one hammered down green light like a thin sheet of corroded brass over the deserted shipyard.
When he went back inside, Leighty had left the bridge. He handed the binoculars to the quartermaster and stumbled toward the ladder. His feet hurt. His whole body felt sticky. His stateroom, clean uniform, shower … Instead, he went aft through an emptying ship.
The DP center was icy as a walk-in freezer and silent as a medieval library. The whisper of the air conditioning, the click of keys, and the occasional whir of tape drives only deepened the hush. Dawson and Mainhardt and Williams were snapped to pubs and computers. Sanderling was packaging cards for mailing. O’Bierne was sipping coffee at the workbench.
Dawson glanced up. “Hey, Lieutenant.”
“Evening, sir,” said Chief Mainhardt. They didn’t look happy at being interrupted, but to hell with that. He gestured Dawson over behind one of the computers.
“Yes, sir,” said Dawson, his voice falling on the last word.
“Okay, Chief, we’ve had to scrub two days’ worth of exercises—which I don’t know when we’re going to be able to make up. We’re scheduled so tight between now and deployment, we don’t have time to pull our socks up.”
“I know, sir. We thought the system was operational. But I think we got it squared away.”
“Already?”
“Well, it’s not up yet, but I think we figured out why it went down. A bad card. We’ll swap it out, see if that does it.”
“Sounds reasonable.” He looked around, met the observer’s eyes. “Commander, helping us out?”
“I’m an interested party. If it isn’t something wrong with your system, then we’ve got a problem with our missiles.”