'Advance to Contact' (Armageddon's Song)

by Andy Farman

  The patrol was going through the withdrawal phase where haste counted for more than stealth, where they would have just have woken up all the countryside within earshot. As they splashed through the mud he shivered and turned back to his vehicle, that dry thing with bullet proof sides and a heater, which could get him out of trouble at 40mph. Thank God he’d had the sense not to join a military formation that walked everywhere, even when it was raining.

  CSM Probert was happy with the way his men had performed in the night rehearsal, as he checked the time and saw they were ahead of schedule so he gave them ten minutes to have a smoke and relax.

  Somewhere to their rear a soviet airborne unit was probably doing the same thing, before jumping off and attacking the logistic support elements of the ad hoc NATO division.

  It had become clear that a large number of the soviet paratroopers had escaped destruction at Braunschweig, because on reoccupying the town there had been a distinct absence of bodies in the fighting positions. Airborne forces have an annoying tendency, in the opinion of their more conventional opponent’s commanders, of not obligingly remaining still whilst the killer blow is being landed.

  An OP had spotted a recce patrol from the Russian airborne within sight of a mobile vehicle workshop, and those same enemies must also have seen one of the main ammunition storage areas that lay close by.

  Somehow the soviets had infiltrated unseen past the rear protection, but rather than call in fire, which some may survive, the route they’d taken had been identified and a patrol tasking was generated. Subsequently the orders had arrived at Pat Reed’s CP and CSM Probert now had the task of laying an ambush for the enemy when they returned to do harm to the NATO support units they had found.

  Mao carrier group, Java Sea, near the Sunda Straits: 2011hrs, same day:

  Captain Hong frowned at the rain that sheeted across the bridge screen. The storms that had delayed the invasion force for several days were not yet done with them as they left the relatively safer waters north of the island of Java.

  This was there second attempt at entering the Indian Ocean; the first had been through the Lombok Strait to the east. They had lost one of the converted container ships when a super typhoon struck in mid passage, so ferocious had been the winds that the large vessel had been driven onto rocks where she broke her back and went down with all hands.

  Vice Admiral Putchev had endured the pressure being exerted from Beijing until the meteorological reports indicated an end was in sight, but had only then relented after making both governments agree to a change in the plan.

  Instead of steaming a few hundred miles off the west coast of Australia, a plan he always had doubts about, the invasion fleet would hook around deep into the expanses of the Indian ocean before approaching the landing sites.

  Having ridden out some of the most powerful storms on record

  The Russian was not on the bridge at the moment, but touring the areas of the vessel a senior officer of the People’s Republic would not consider venturing to, and speaking to the hands working in small departments that were as vital to the running of the vessel as the more high profile and technical ones.

  Hong had tried to explain to Putchev that the reason officers below his rank existed, was to perform such tasks. Putchev had replied by smiling at him as a teacher would a gifted student who hadn’t quite got the answer, but was nonetheless confident the student would find his own way to it eventually.

  With some many vessels squeezing their way through the straits in distinctly increment weather the captain remained close to the bridge radar repeater.

  Hong was still peering intently at it when the radar swept over the edge of a landmass in mid channel.

  “That is Krakatoa, or at least part of what is left of it.”

  So intent was he on the repeater that Captain Hong had not heard the Russian admiral enter the bridge. He looked up to see Putchev peering out through the starboard screen, although there was no possibility he could have been able to glimpse the island in the present poor visibility.

  “Did you know it was once supposed to be a tropical paradise?” The Russian looked at him over his shoulder, his eyebrows raised as if expecting an answer, but none came so he continued on with the history lesson.

  “It was once a single island, not the four uninhabited chunks you see on the charts…but by all accounts it was eighteen square miles of heaven on earth.” His voice sounded wistful as he spoke, and despite their current situation Hong’s curiosity was aroused. “So what happened to it?” The schools Hong attended had not included natural history on the syllabus, the teachings of the man whom this vessel was named after were thought to have far more influence on the planet than mother nature.

  “One of the largest volcanic events in recorded history blew up two thirds of the island.” Putchev replied. “A tidal wave fifty feet high as a result, killed tens of thousands and the explosion could be heard three thousand miles away.”

  Hong looked back at the repeater, trying to fathom the forces that could have accomplished such destruction.

  “The Americans even made a movie about it.”

  The last item of information quite obviously did not have much of an impact on the Chinese officer, and Hong just smiled back politely.

  Putchev tried again.

  “Maximilian Schell and Brian Keith were in it.” But Hongs smile remained the same.

  The admiral shrugged, oh well. “Whoever wrote its title couldn’t read a map and compass though.”

  Hong looked back at the Russian.

  “Why?”

  “It was called ‘ Krakatoa, East of Java.”

  It took several hours for the fleet to slip through the channel to the west of the island of Java, past the four shattered fragments that remained of Krakatoa and then take up a heading of 225’.

  8” 12’ S, 100” 23’ E: 338 miles ENE of Christmas Island. 2240hrs, same day.

  The captain and crew of Her Majesties Australian submarine Hooper, could have been forgiven for thinking that the typhoon which had announced the season of storms had begun early, was still blowing up top if it had not been for the daily met reports. Six of the weather fronts had crossed their area of operations one after the other.

  Whenever they had come up to snorkel or raise the communications mast they had felt the effects of the angry seas that had been absent at greater depth. It was not on the scale a surface vessel would have experienced, but the Hooper’s helmsmen earned their rations each time.

  Returning now to three hundred feet her captain awaited a rating to bring to him the decoded signal they had just collected.

  Clearing datum was the first piece of business they had to deal with, seeing as how they had stuck a hand up where an alert enemy could have seen it, albeit a very small arm in a very vast ocean.

  “Sonar?”

  There was a few moments delay before his query was answered. The retarded effectiveness of their sonar suite was not so much a chink in their effectiveness as a weapon, more of a gaping hole.

  “Control room, sonar…only traffic we have is that same tanker out of Madagascar?” The vessel had been the only shipping they had heard in over a week. “It’s still ten miles northeast and heading for the Sunda.”

  Now there’s a crew who will kiss the soil of Gods good earth when they make port, the captain thought. Doubtless they were being paid premium rates with a bonus at the end, for carrying a highly volatile cargo of gasoline and diesel fuel, but it was not a job he would have applied for.

  Aside from the threat from aircraft and surface ships which could choose not to see its neutral Argentine flag and registry, any one of the storms it had endured could have, and most probably almost did, send it to the bottom. Certainly the ships radio and radar had been taken out, because they had never once picked any emissions on their ESM mast.

  The captain did not have the watch and when the decoded traffic was handed to him he carried it to his cabin to read in private, but a knock ch
anged that.

  “G’day boss, they say how long before Borroloola relieves us on station?”

  “Come in, Number One.” The captain heeled closed the draw he had been resting his feet on and sat upright on the edge of his bunk, before getting his legs out of the way so his First Lieutenant could squeeze past and comply.

  “So when can we go home and get fixed?”

  “Borroloola is still in port.” The captain told him. “She will not be leaving for another three days.”

  “She’s still in port…bloody hell skipper…they do know that our sonarmen are reduced to sticking a drinking glass to their ear and holding it against the side of the hull to listen?”

  The captain shrugged, because there was no point in doing anything else.

  “They don’t think the PLAN are coming through here, and because they don’t think the PLAN are coming this way, we will be being relieved early, but we aren’t a priority.”

  The First Lieutenant sighed.

  “So did they get a satellite to stay up long enough to see where they are?”

  “The last one lived all of an hour before it got killed, so I am guessing the answer to your question is no.”

  His second in command was looking straight ahead and did not respond.

  “Number One?”

  The captain could see his subordinates eyes weren’t focussed on the bulkhead he was otherwise staring intently at, obviously lost in his thoughts.

  “You go to work each day while I stay home and keep house. When you come home you just read the paper…it’s like we just don’t talk anymore.” The First Lieutenant remained fixed on whatever was biting him, and oblivious to what his captain had just said.

  “Where did the magic go?” the captain asked himself aloud with a theatrical sigh.

  The First Lieutenant turned his head suddenly; his expression bemused

  “Pardon?”

  The captain handed across the signals.

  “There isn’t anything in here that indicates fresh intel on the carriers location. The typhoon should be passed in the next twelve hours, so at least no one’s knocking down the weather satellites, yet.”

  There was nothing else to be said on the subject, so a change in pace beckoned

  “The troops are holding up good, sir?”

  “They are that…I just wish this damn tub would follow their example.”

  “I think we will have a couple of days slack once we get back to Perth, would a party be in order sir?”

  “Number One, despite our encountering nothing more threatening than the weather on this cruise, I think that a record breaking beach party is definitely called………” The speaker for the ships PA system crackled, interrupting him.

  “TorpedoTorpedoTorpedo…action stations torpedo…..!”

  Feet thundered along passageways as the crew responded. The captain’s cabin was next to the sonar shop and both officers were there before the sentence was completed.

  “…Range six thousand metres, bearing zero four five…I have one… now two torpedoes in the water!”

  “What heading are they?” The First Lieutenant demanded, frustrated that the information was being processed too slowly. It wasn’t the fault of the sonarman, he knew this.

  “Standby sir…heading zero four four, someone just shot at the tanker, sir!”

  “Can you hear the shooter?”

  “No sir.”

  “It has to be another submarine skipper, nothing sane will be flying in this weather.” The First Lieutenant went on. “In other words, something got to within six kilometres of us and we didn’t hear him until he fired.” It was a statement rather than a question, but he got a response anyway.

  “You’re a real ‘glass half empty feller’ number one. What I would have said was, would they be firing on an unarmed tanker if they knew we were close enough to spit at?”

  To the north of them the tankers look-outs never even saw it coming, and the first weapon detonated against the heavily laden vessel amidships, igniting the sixty thousand tonnes of gasoline and twenty tonnes of diesel in a massive explosion that was clearly visible over the horizon on the Mao’s bridge.

  The near total darkness of before was now broken by a glow, preceded by a rolling ball of fire that climbed several thousand feet into the clouds before dissipating but the glow from the sea remained, reflecting off the cloud base.

  Captain Hong noted that their present course took them on a line uncomfortably close to the fiery gravesite.

  “Admiral, may I suggest a change of course by three points to port?”

  Putchev shook his head.

  “No Captain that will not be necessary, the winds are westerly at this time of year, I do not anticipate them changing.” His thoughts had been with the crew of their latest victim and his voice carried the regret he felt.

  “By the time we come up to it the flames will be extending well to our starboard.”

  Captain Hong heard the tone of his commander’s voice, and although he did not share the Russian’s feelings, he did understand know him well enough now to know what it meant.

  “Sir, they could have announced our presence to the enemy, and they were transporting fuel that would be running Indonesian tank and aircraft engines later.”

  “They were sailormen just as you and I are. They were non-combatants with families, and we are not at war with Indonesia captain, nor Argentina either.”

  “Not yet Admiral but we will be, and remember that intelligence reports Indonesian forces in Australia.”

  As the carriers Mao and Admiral Kuznetsov headed south, so too did the Australian submarine Hooper as she cleared datum at a mere three knots.

  Her captains intention was to put distance between his vessel and the last known position of the enemy submarine that had torpedoed the tanker before reporting on events, but two hours later even their sonar could hear the sound of surface vessels heading their way.

  The arraignment of vessels heading south, and their types took shape slowly on HMAS Hooper’s plot. Her captain had his hands thrust deep inside his pants pockets studying it, the picture of an invasion fleet that had only one logical destination, and included some dream targets for a submariner.

  The First Lieutenant was practically salivating as the contacts were updated with their type, and in some cases even the name of the vessel.

  They had the two carriers signatures in their database, as did every allied vessel, courtesy of HMS Hood, and whilst the captain was considering all possible courses of action, the junior officer was working out an attack on the capital ships in his head.

  “Okay then.” The captain broke the silence at last. “I want firing solutions on all identified warships, with ASW hulls given priority.”

  “We’re attacking then, sir?”

  “Not today we’re not, Number One.” Turning to address everyone in the control room, the captain gave his orders. “Apart from a few patrol vessels the rest of the navy is a God awful long way away, and we are the only vessel to have sighted the enemy.” He allowed that to sink in before carrying on. “I intend to let the bastards pass us by before calling this in, and then we will shadow the enemy, reporting as we go.”

  All eyes were on him and he knew he commanded their trust, but those faces, from the youngest Rating to the oldest Petty Officer present were a reminder that he held their lives in his hand.

  “We are at something of a disadvantage because they can hear better than we can, so I want a contact report prepared and uploaded into an ECB, ready for instant release should we come under attack, plus I want a second ECB readied on a one hour delay.” That second Expendable Communications Buoy would be released once the fleet had passed them by, but would remain at its release depth for sixty minutes before rising to the surface and broadcasting its data in a burst transmission to the nearest communications satellite. Should its transmission be detected, the Hooper would be well clear of the area by that time.

  The captain didn’t add
that once the weather cleared they would have the enemy fleets ASW aircraft to contend with also, and their survival relied upon all the ships systems being on top line, which they weren’t. The smart ones had already worked that one out for themselves, but none voiced the fact that HMAS Hooper’s days were most probably numbered at best in single figures.

  Five miles SW of Vormundberg, Germany: 0214hrs. 19th April.

  CSM Probert had brought his men in by groups from the Final RV, placing them into a formation that was triangular in shape, with gun groups at each tip.

  The size of the position was dictated by the ground and its available cover, which in this instance gave them a perimeter roughly seventy-five metres long on each side.

  They were inside a mixed forest, tall pine trees in managed blocks were a firebreak away from older deciduous and commercially unviable species of conifers that had existed here long before human exploitation had arrived. The ambush site was within a block of the tall pines with forty or so metres of recently deforested ground separating them from the logging track the enemy recce patrol had used. Beyond that track, up a low bank of sand and shingle was an area occupied by shorter elm, birch and scrub oak, with gorse in clumps stretching away to the next plantation block.

  Eight of the riflemen formed the flanking sides, and the bulk were positioned along the triangles base, in a line that ran parallel to the track. The centre of that line was the ‘killer group’, with two additional gimpies on loan from the other two platoons for the duration of the ambush, and the gun groups at the flanking corners of the base were his early warning/cut off groups. It was a formation that provided flank security and a strong rear protection from counter attack.