Tipping Point

by David Poyer

  He sagged into the console, coughing from deep in his chest while the bullnose dipped, rolled, and precessed around to the new course. Maybe Higher was right. Nothing more for USS Savo Island to do here. In his eagerness to help, he might even have made things worse. Helped trigger what the world had hoped never to see: a nuclear war.

  He’d tried his best. But hadn’t all the diplomats, generals, kings, and prime ministers done theirs, too? In August of 1914.

  The leaden seas surged in. The cruiser headed into them, pitching until sharp crackles and bangs crepitated aft, ghostlike and unsettling. Far off on a shrouded horizon the silhouette of a Burke-class destroyer, Mitscher, mirrored their turn.

  Leaving it all behind. But taking it along, too.

  Well, he had his orders. Let it burn out.

  He only hoped it would.

  V

  AUGUST 1914

  18

  Carrier Strike Group One: The Eastern Indian Ocean

  TWO days later he stood with lids clamped tight, fists buried in the pockets of his coveralls, swaying as the deck beneath his boots rose and fell. Spray cooled his uplifted face, and from his lips he licked the salty kiss of the sea.

  He opened his eyes to a bright sky. The monsoon ceiling was wearing thin as Savo charged eastward, revealing blue above it, and here and there high wind-strained cirrus like shredding gauze. Her turbines sang at full power. Her intakes susurrated a continuous rush of intaken breath. Her wake tumbled and burbled like bluegreen and white wildflowers blooming on a heaving heath.

  The fantail was cramped with equipment. Mount 52 in the middle, with the Harpoon launchers to port. The HF receive antennas nodded over the wake like tuna sticks. On the missile deck, the gunners’ mates were doing lift checks on the aft module hatch and plenum covers. Fresh paint gleamed glossy, spray-beaded. Looped cables snagged sliding sheets of moisture in tidal pools.

  After an economical-speed transit, they’d joined the battle group at dawn. After Savo’s deep, satisfying drink from the tanker, with Cheryl in the driver’s seat while he got some much-needed kip, orders had come in. After replenishing, take station as directed by the ISIC—immediate superior in command, in this case, the rear admiral commanding the Carl Vinson battle group—and accompany it east. Their track lay past Sri Lanka, for the Malacca Strait. No one had yet mentioned a destination, but it was self-evident.

  The South China Sea.

  Boots braced against the heavy roll of a beam sea, he couldn’t help remembering other fleets that had deep-graven this same route toward the sunrise. Rozdhestvensky’s Baltic Sea fleet, the Russians doomed to annihilation at Tsushima. Prince of Wales and Repulse, pride of the Royal Navy, the great battleships foredoomed to destruction by Japanese naval air.

  He shivered. Not reassuring. So many empires had set out to conquer, and fallen in the dust.

  But his orders didn’t spell out things like that. They were markedly more laconic than in what he was already starting to think of, almost nostalgically, as peacetime. Only where to go, and how fast to get there.

  Beyond that, he had no need to know.

  In the night past, the group had threaded the Nine Degree Channel, the choke point near Cardamom Island, and bent their course south, to clear the subcontinent. Savo Island’s station was on the left flank, farther out than the usual antiair screening station. The high-side chats, even the battle group nets, had gone silent, and most of the screen had their radars off, leaving Savo and San Jacinto to maintain the air and surface pictures.

  He wondered, too, why no one had yet called to ask “what the fuck?” about his shootdowns. He’d sent the reports, a formatted message for every round expended, to Navsea, AmmoLant, Jenn Roald, Strike Group One, Dahlgren, and practically everyone else with a routing indicator. But heard nothing back.

  “Captain?”

  He sucked a brine-laden lungful and returned the salute of Angel Quincoches, the chief in charge of the VLS. Back in the Med, the swarthy, bowlegged E-7 had charged in while a rocket engine was still burning, ignited in its cell for a hot run. Along with Tausengelt and Slaughenhaupt, Quincoches had pushed back against Amy Singhe’s “leveling management” initiative. Which had put Dan in the position of trying to balance his most innovative and aggressive junior officer against his Goat Locker. Not that they deserved equal consideration; when you came down to it, it was the senior enlisted who got the blueshirts working in the holes when you were prepping for an inspection—or a war, for that matter. Piss them off, and Savo would fall apart. But he also didn’t want to step on someone who was only trying to improve things, as she saw it.

  Or was he paying her extra slack because of those dark eyes, those unexpected, yet so welcome, shoulder massages?

  “They come out with a helluva big plume, the Block 4s,” Quincoches was saying.

  Dan tuned back in. “Sorry?”

  The chief pointed at the fresh paint. “Hell of a big plume. Scorch the hell out of the paint. Sometimes, detemper the lift springs in the hatch.”

  “That’s the high-thrust booster. You checked ’em? We don’t want a hatch not to open.”

  “No spares,” Quincoches said gloomily. “Deleted ’em from our onboard allowance. That’s the problem with this just-in-time shit. They keep cutting onboard repair parts, but out here, by the time it’s just in time, it’s way too late. We better hope one of the controllers doesn’t crap out.” He looked off to where Mitscher still accompanied them. They would pick up Tippecanoe again as they passed the Maldives, giving them both an oiler and an ammunition ship. “Shed any light on where we’re headed, Captain?”

  “Don’t know a hell of a lot more than you do, Chief. Just that we’re steaming east with the strike group.”

  The chief shaded his eyes and peered ostentatiously around the horizon. “Ain’t seen ’em. Who we got with us? Sir?”

  Dan explained that the Carl Vinson battle group comprised Savo and San Jacinto, the two Tico-class cruisers, along with Mitscher, Oscar Austin, Donald Cook, Briscoe, Hawes, and Rentz. “And two subs, Pittsburgh and Montpelier. Loggies from Tippecanoe and Kanawha, and maybe pick up some more en route.”

  “I heard Franklin Roosevelt sailed early. From the West Coast.”

  “I’m not sure how you got that, but it’s possible. George Washington and Nimitz are already out here. In WestPac, I mean.”

  “Who we gonna fight? Bets in the Chief’s Mess are on China.”

  Dan forced a painful half smile. “I’m hoping it doesn’t go that way.”

  “The Paks and Indians still going at it?”

  “Far as I know, they’re still fighting.” In fact the Indian navy was at full wartime mobilization, with units deploying to cover the Wuhan task group, at the western end of the vast ocean, and others heading to the Malacca Strait.

  In the same direction as the Vinson group, in other words. But the IO was vast; they’d most likely never come in sight of each other.

  “What about the North Koreans? They’re making trouble again.”

  Dan studied the chief’s face, realizing he wanted something solid to put out to his guys. To be able to say I talked to the CO, and here’s the straight skinny. “Chief, I’d just say that we’re heading east, and the situation’s confused. China’s acting nuts. India’s acting nuts. The exec and I are busting our asses trying to get some answers for all of us.

  “But we know how to fight, and we’re ready. We proved that at Hormuz. So tell your troops, don’t sweat it. We won’t leave anyone holding the bag. Whatever comes over the horizon.” Dan slapped the man’s back. “Gotta get back to Combat. Keep at it.”

  “You know we will, sir,” Quincoches said. “Us middle management.”

  * * *

  HE reeled forward along the main deck, bent into the wind, putting out a hand from time to time to a bulkhead or a lifeline as Savo gyrated. The sea rushed past in a continuous roar, and now and again a spatter of spray trailed over the ship, glittering in the wind. He came out of
the starboard break onto the forecastle, slogged up to the bullnose, and stood facing the empty sea ahead, the wind ruffling his hair and rippling his coveralls. Channeling Kate Winslet in Titanic. Then faced aft, and strolled down the port side. The break was empty. They’d offloaded the three Iranians to the carrier, a big relief. Dr. Schell was still aboard, to make sure the crud was vanquished, but the plan was to offload him in Singapore. He undogged the weather deck door aft of the port refueling station. Climbed a ladder, another, and let himself into CIC.

  His seat fitted him like a major leaguer’s glove. The smells of warm leather and coffee and old sweat mingled with the glacier-breath of air-conditioning. He shrugged on the foul-weather jacket hung over the chair, and ran his gaze over the displays. Dave Branscombe was on, but on his far side, in the CIC officer’s chair, brooded the goddesslike profile of Amarpeet Singhe. Dan nodded to them both. “Dave. Amy. What’s current?”

  “Trying to get Amy up to speed, be able to slot her in on TAO if we have to.”

  “With your approval, of course, Captain,” Singhe added. “And we’d have to put in for a waiver to BUPERS.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, I want the senior watch officer’s and the exec’s input on that. And you’d have to sit for a TAO board.” Dan wasn’t entirely comfortable putting her in the hot seat, but he couldn’t deny they needed depth on the bench. He had only three qualified TAOs, which meant he had no backup if one took sick, or couldn’t pull duty for some other reason.

  It was his decision, in the end. As long as she didn’t screw up, it’d probably slide on through a paper drill. But if she did, and his enemies up the chain found out … No, screw that. He couldn’t start thinking in those terms.

  The TAO situation was just the tip of the iceberg; the same problem was surfacing in his other departments. He couldn’t steam in hostile seas for days on end without a fully manned watch. Yet he didn’t have enough bodies to man his strike, self-defense, Aegis, sonar, and TAO seats. The only solution was to step up their efforts to qualify lower-rated personnel. And that meant deferring maintenance, so those personnel could spend their time training. “Okay, fine. I’ll tell Matt to set up a board. So, what’s happening?”

  “Well, not that much since you were last here, Captain.” Branscombe glanced at the screens. “Still air defense coordinator. Still getting spotty, slow updates on Geeks. But the HF jamming’s stopped. Or maybe we’re just out of range now.”

  Dan examined the leftmost screen, which showed the battle group’s steaming formation. The carrier was far to the south, with the logistics ships tucked under her wing and her helicopters probing for any submerged adversaries. The next sphere out were the cruisers and destroyers. The frigates were a hundred miles ahead, tails streamed, searching the long-range, low-frequency bands for the telltale beats of submarine screws. Disagreeable to think of any ship as of less value than another, but when you came down to it, frigates were low-manning and low-cost. That made them the whiskers a strike commander liked to poke out ahead of more valuable platforms.

  Also out ahead, and ranging all around the moving force, antisub fixed-wings were laying sonobuoys and working surface surveillance. In this situation, and even more so as they closed in on the strait, the group commander would be sweating bullets about threats in the area of approach.

  As to their own submarines, they weren’t on the radar. Obviously. The task force commander’s staff, and SubPac of course, knew where they were, but no one else. Which was how they liked it.

  “Merchant traffic?”

  “Pretty much stopped, Captain. Everybody who’s in port is staying in port.”

  He examined the center display, a fusion of GCCS and task force data, including Savo’s own picture. The few Chinese merchant vessels still under way had either turned around or diverted to neutral ports. An Indian destroyer had intercepted one, in the Arabian Sea, and was escorting it into Jamnagar. “When do we hit chop longitude?”

  “Midnight, sir.”

  As they steamed east, the strike group was leaving Central Command for the Pacific Command. Another clue to their destination. “And we’re ready?”

  “The exec was going over it with us.”

  “Us being…?”

  “The TAOs, the CIC officers, and the watch team supervisors.”

  “I conducted a review of the relevant pubs and ROEs,” Singhe said.

  “That’s right, Amy did part of the brief. To help her get up to speed.”

  “Good, that’s good.” Dan sighed and massaged his cheeks. He needed a shave. And a shower. And more sleep.

  The red phone beeped. Branscombe answered. Listened. Glanced at his watch. Said he’d pass that information, and signed off.

  “What is it?” Dan asked.

  The TAO started writing in his log. “COs’ conference, on the carrier, sir. Uniform is wash khakis or ship’s coveralls. Helo’ll be here in an hour.”

  * * *

  FOLLOWING his escort down the vanishing-point passageways of the supercarrier, he fought the urge to throw up. Eighty thousand tons of steel and machinery moved in a seaway, but it didn’t move much, and the change from Savo Island’s faster roll was disorienting. The helo, from Vinson, had hopscotched from ship to ship before returning to the carrier. He’d left Cheryl in charge, feeling a twinge as Savo shrank to a gray dot on the wide blue. But on the whole, confident she’d do as well as he could. Maybe better, without the self-doubt and occasional paranoia he seemed to harbor like a malignant growth in his gut.

  The conference wasn’t in the wardroom, as he’d expected. His guide led him and the others from his helo up ladder after ladder until they were far above the flight deck. Headed for the flag level, he guessed.

  Two armed sentries scrutinized his ID, checked each CO against a list, and at last ushered them into the tactical flag command center. The TFCC was a conference room and operations center, where the strike group battle watch officers stood duty and conducted planning and briefings. It had red phones, computers, large-screen displays, projectors, and unclassified and classified videoteleconferencing capability. The other skippers were at the far end, gathered around a mess nook with the usual pastries and doughnuts. He valved coffee into bone china, complete with saucer. Shook hands, and introduced himself to captains and commanders he didn’t know. They all seemed to know him. Or at least his name. Which might be good, or might not.

  He tucked a hand under the arm holding the cup and slouched, tuning in to the talk and speculation. Picking up bits that could be jigsaw-puzzled together for a general picture, at least, of what was happening.

  Since World War II, the Navy had been built around carrier battle groups, or strike groups, as they were latterly called. Each supercarrier was accompanied by its bristling guard of cruisers, destroyers, and submarines. In peacetime, the groups relieved one another at sea, in port, and in the yards in a rotation planned many years ahead.

  In wartime, those in port could be pulled back together and put to sea, and those in the yard reconstituted. Unfortunately, there was no real reserve anymore. Since the end of the Cold War, appropriations had gone into maintaining the active forces, with the Navy Reserve almost entirely a manpower pool. The Coast Guard was behind them too, but in anything resembling a real war, their lightly armed, sensor-deficient cutters would be just inviting targets.

  Now the whole vast machine was groaning into action, and millions of tons of metal and hundred of thousands of seamen were on the move. Nimitz and Washington were already in the western Pacific. Strike Group Eight, Eisenhower, had been ordered out of the Gulf into the Arabian Sea, to replace Vinson as she headed east. In like manner, Strike Group Ten was getting under way from Norfolk to move into the Med. Strike Nine was moving up its deployment date, and Strike Four and Franklin D. Roosevelt had—as Chief Quincoches had mentioned—gotten under way early from San Diego.

  A familiar face: Jenn Roald. Her pixieish, sharp-nosed profile homed in through the throng. She looked up and patted his sle
eve. “Dan.”

  “Commodore. Good to see you.” They shook hands. “I see you’re the screen commander.”

  “And you’re our ABM escort. You really shot down a Pakistani nuke?”

  “That’s what the Indians say it was.”

  “I want to hear about it. Everything you couldn’t put in the message. But not right now. Your crew’s okay? No recurrence on your Legionnaire’s disease?”

  “The doc’s still aboard, running tests. But we might just have it licked.”

  “And how’s the groper case coming? You’ve got NCIS over there, right?”

  “Trying to make the arrangements. Nobody yet, though.”

  “Meanwhile, you’re keeping your women safe? Warning them to stay in pairs, and so forth?”

  He was about to say “of course, as much as I can,” but a lieutenant wearing a gold aiguillette stepped in. The “Flag Loop,” as the aide was called, lifted his voice. “Attention on deck.”

  “Please carry on, gentlemen, ladies,” Tim Simko said. Short, dark-haired, round-headed, the commander, Strike Group One, looked amazingly unchanged from when Dan had played lacrosse with him at Annapolis. Yeah, the Naval Academy, when they’d dreamed of battle and glory. Now he hoped they could avoid it. Only fools dreamed of war, and only the ignorant thought it glorious. But he wasn’t sure if that meant he’d grown wiser, or if he’d just seen too much. “Everyone got coffee? If you’ll take seats, we’ll get started.”