The Art of War c-17

by Keith Douglass

  The one thing the detailer had not told Bellisanus about however, was Pencehaven’s formidable appetite. He easily ate as much as three men would, and the captain even worried with the doctor that he might have a tapeworm. But the doctor laughed, assured him it was just the blessing of the strong metabolism, and suggested that the supply officer stock up.

  “They’ve got a bet on, you know,” the XO said. While gambling was not allowed on Navy ships, wagers that challenged the professionalism of crew members were quietly allowed.

  “On who detects the submarine first?” the captain asked.

  The XO shook his head, a smile crossing his face. “Not exactly. They’re betting on who misses it first.”

  And that, the captain reflected, was his exactly how the two operated. Each one was superbly and unshakably confident that he would make the first detection. There was no point in betting on a sure thing. Allowing for the possibility that they might simultaneously detect the submarine, they elected to wager on who would screw up first.

  “Some of the other sonarman are making side bets as well,” the XO said. “The chief is keeping an eye on them to make sure it doesn’t get out of hand.”

  “Who did you bet on?” the captain asked.

  Now the XO did grin. “Sworn to secrecy, Captain.” He leaned forward, his voice quieter. “But if you’re a betting man, the only safe option is to bet on both of them. That way you at least won’t lose money.”

  NINE

  USS Lake Champlain

  Wednesday, May 5

  0310 local (GMT +3)

  The cruiser loitered just outside the Straits of Hormuz, on antiair picket patrol. Using her SPY radar and the AWACS aircraft circling further to the southwest, she had a complete and comprehensive picture of the entire Gulf area.

  Threat conditions were normal, if anything could be said to be normal in this part of the world. After decades of Mideast patrols, the real lesson learned was to be ready for anything.

  Captain Henry strolled into Combat, his ever-present cup of coffee in his hand. He walked over to his TAO and tapped him on the shoulder. “How’s it going?”

  LCDR Norfolk jumped. He had been concentrating on the voices in his headset, monitoring the progress of the undersea game being played out inside the Gulf. While it was not the cruiser’s primary mission, she did have ASROC torpedoes available that she could use to assist if necessary.

  “They got her pinned down, sir,” he said, using his trackball to circle around the enemy submarine symbol on his screen. “With two helos, there’s no way she’s getting away, not in these waters.”

  The captain nodded. “I don’t believe they’ll need our help, but we’ll stand by. I see you already got that under control.”

  The TAO was mildly gratified to have the captain notice his preparedness. “Yes, Captain. We’re ready.”

  The captain studied the tactical plot again, thinking over the TAO’s words. Yes, they were ready, but for what? Over the last several days, there had been several indications and warnings of increased preparedness on the Iranian’s part. Nothing hard, other than the new shore station springing up in the desert. Nothing you could really point to and say this is the first sign that the world is about to go to shit.

  Yet, even though he couldn’t articulate his reasons, the captain was certain that was exactly what was about to happen. He had done too many patrols in the Gulf area himself not to have a deep-rooted suspicion of anything out of the ordinary.

  The Middle Eastern nations were given to grandiose tactical schemes, on par with the time they tried to set the Gulf on fire by breaching oil pipelines. Although they had not stated that was their intention, the captain was quite certain that’s what they had meant to do.

  The captain pointed with his free hand toward the symbol indicating the new shore base. “You have them keep a real close watch on that area. There’s something about it—”

  “TAO, Track Supe! Launch indications from Intell — launch indications.”

  Just then, the new symbols popped up on the screen. The captain swore violently and sloshed hot coffee over his hand. “General quarters — now!”

  The distances and times inside the Gulf are so truncated as to allow virtually no reaction time. Even as the missile symbols rose up from the new shore station located near the Straits, the TAO flipped the Aegis cruiser into full auto. While reaction times of the humans who inhabited her might be too slow to deal with every threat, the computer was not. “If it flies, it dies,” the Captain said. “No questions — weapons free — now!”

  Within the depths of the computers system, tactical decisions were already being made. The computer weighted each bit of radar information and matched that detection with the previous ones over previous seconds, generating track data and linking detections into contacts. Then it evaluated altitude, speed, and course to decide whether or not it posed a threat to the ship or to the battle group. This took just microseconds.

  If the threat parameters were met, the computer automatically designated weapons to each track. The ship could ripple off its antiair weapons at speeds far in excess of those that any mere mortal could have achieved.

  The tactical plot resolved into four missile symbols, all of them inbound on the cruiser. As they inched their way across the display toward the ship, the cruiser shuddered violently. In sequence, four hatches in the vertical launch system popped open, and antiair missiles rose majesticly out of it, wavered for a moment, then turned to point unerringly at the incoming threats.

  But a head-on encounter was a bit like throwing telephone poles at each other. At a high rate of closure, there was no room for error, no room for the slightest course deviation. And if the standard missiles didn’t take out the threat, it would be up to the close-in weapons system, or CWIS.

  Iranian Shore Station

  0312 local (GMT +3)

  The telephone sitting on the station commander’s desk rang, making him jump. It was linked to a very special headquarters, and rarely rang. He hesitated for an instant, then, aware that his hesitation could send the wrong message, he picked it up and said his name.

  He listened for moment, and replied, “Yes. It shall be.” He replaced receiver, and turned to look at the rest of the crew. It was a small group, one that lived and worked together in close, isolated circumstances. Here on the tip of the Strait, their small installation was isolated from everything else by three fences and numerous guards. The compound itself housed living quarters as well as the actual purpose for the site. It was completely self-contained.

  He stood, and took a deep breath. “It is the time we have been waiting for — the time we’ve trained for.” He turned to his second in command. “We are ready, are we not?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then execute Plan Vengeance.” Immediately, the room broke into a flurry of activity. Technicians darted to consoles, and others ran down the stairs to the underground compartment below. The commander scribbled a set of coordinates on a piece of paper and gave it to his second. “Now. It must be now.”

  “You realize what this means?” the second said, his face composed and a look of religious fervor in his eyes. The commander nodded. “Yes. It means that within the next thirty minutes, we will look into the face of Allah himself.”

  In the underground bunker below them, technicians ran to the missile launch room. There, the long-range antisurface missiles lay staged in their quad canister. It was a knockoff of the American design for Harpoon missiles. The Harpoon design had been reverse-engineered by the Chinese, and these substitutes made available to a select certain few on a very limited basis.

  Outside, dozens of laborers rushed to shovel the thin layer of sand covering the outer hatch off. That accomplished, they manually retracted the massive steel plate. The covering of sand was necessary to disguise the launch hatch, both visually and thermally. The sand proved to be an excellent insulator, and even infrared satellite photography showed no change in the surface tempera
ture around the installation. It was one of Iran’s most heavily guarded secrets.

  Within three minutes of the order, an amazing time for men who dared not practice their skills, the launch hatch was clear. Below, the technicians manned consoles, and on the commander’s order, launched four antisurface missiles at the USS Lake Champlain.

  The first missile suffered from the inattention of a Chinese technician who had been hungover on the day he had assembled the delicate microcircuitry in its guidance system. While it launched satisfactorily, it quickly veered off course, heading south for a while, then turning back inland. It eventually detonated in the desert when it ran out of fuel.

  The second missile fared slightly better. It launched as it should, rose to altitude, and immediately homed in on the Lake Champlain. But a bit of sand that had worked its way into the housing clogged the fuel line, and, although it had more than sufficient fuel onboard, the clogged line starved the rocket motor propelling it. While still ten miles from the carrier, the engine shuddered, coughed, then went dead. The missile fell into the ocean to join the growing collection of debris there.

  The third and fourth missiles, however, performed just as advertised. They bore straight in on the Lake Champlain, everything functioning smoothly.

  The third missile was six miles away from the cruiser when an antiair missile caught it. Although the standard missile only grazed it, the impact was enough to shatter the casing and send the Harpoon tumbling into the ocean.

  The fourth missile, however, was still on course. The standard missile targeting it bore in with uncanny precision. But the head-on encounter at the higher rate of closure proved to be the problem. A gust of wind caught the Harpoon, veering it ever so slightly off course just at the moment of impact. The standard missile whizzed by, its wake rocking the Harpoon, deflecting it slightly, but it soon regained its course. It bore in steadily on the cruiser.

  USS Lake Champlain

  0314 local (GMT +3)

  “Three down, one to go,” Norfolk said. The cruiser launched two more missiles at the Harpoon, but even as he watched the geometry unfold, the TAO knew that they were too late. It would be up to the close-in weapons system to save them now.

  And even if CWIS worked perfectly, tracking the missile with its independent radar system and firing its 2000 rounds per minute of depleted uranium pellets, there was still a substantial danger to the ship. Even if the missile were destroyed, it would not be completely obliterated. The air around them would be filled with shrapnel and those that hit could be almost as damaging to the cruiser as a direct hit.

  The close-in weapons system picked up the target immediately, and its R2D2-like form swivelled as it followed the missile inbound. When it judged that it had an optimum range and angle, the CWIS started firing. It sounded more like an angry whirr than a gun going off.

  Everything functioned perfectly. The missile was peppered with super-dense projectiles, and immediately disintegrated. But the mass of metal that composed its body, along with its warhead, continued on their same path, and rained down on the cruiser.

  Inside Combat, the impact sounded like hail on a tin roof. One bit of shrapnel shattered a window on the bridge, adding sharp shards of Plexiglas to the barrage pelting the bridge team. Two larger chunks penetrated the skin at Combat, and ricocheted through the compartment, causing considerable damage. Six more found their targets just above the water line, piercing the skin and generating leaks.

  But the worst damage came from those bits of the missile that found the antennas and radars on Lake Champlain. There was no way to harden them from the possibility of damage.

  The first one ripped across the -49 radar, immediately rendering it useless. The second slammed into the SPY-1 system, destroying two-thirds of the small radar elements housed there.

  Inside Combat, the screens went blank.

  USS Jefferson

  0315 local (GMT +3)

  One by one, the four missile symbols disappeared from the tactical screen. There was utter silence in TFCC as they watched the drama unfold.

  “Launch the alert-five Tomcats,” Batman snapped. “Then get everything else we have on the deck turning. If this is the start of a full-scale attack, we’ve got to be ready.”

  The flight deck exploded into a melee of confusion. To an outsider, it would look like utter chaos, but to Batman’s experienced eyes, everything was running quite smoothly. Pilots were pouring out of the hatch from the handler’s office, having hastily signed out their aircraft. They ran around each jet, doing an abbreviated preflight, and then were up the boarding ladders and into cockpits within minutes.

  Yellow shirts coordinated the entire evolution, snapping out commands to the green-shirted technicians and brown-shirted plane captains who were dealing with small maintenance problems, critical maintenance problems and moving the aircraft around. The Tomcat that was down for a hydraulic gripe was quickly towed aside as more fighters jockeyed behind him, each pilot eager for his shot at the catapult.

  Batman felt his gut churn as he watched the fighters launch. Every second that passed by seemed more and more perilous. When would the wave of missile attacks start? And the enemy fighters? Could they get enough air power up quickly enough to cover for the crippled cruiser?

  At the moment the final missile fragments hit Lake Champlain, the tactical screen wavered for moment, and then Lake Champlain disappeared from the screen. She was still floating, and evidently suffered no serious structural damage other than the destruction of her radars in one antenna. Then she reappeared, being reported in the LINK by the other ships, as well as the AWACS, but had no independent transmit and receive capability herself.

  The battle group circuit crackled and then Lake Champlain’s skipper came on. He summarized the damage to the two radars, then concluded, “We’re in no danger of sinking, but it’s going to take a while to get our radar and data link capabilities back up — if we even can. I’ll need priority on a couple of parts, I think. As it stands now, I have to rely on CWIS.”

  Had the data link at least been up, Lake Champlain could have targeted her missiles using radar data from another ship. That was standard procedure, and no problem for Lake Champlain or crew.

  “Can you shift to a different antenna for LINK?” Batman asked.

  “It’s not the antenna, sir, it’s something in the processor. I don’t know if it was an electrical short, vibration damage, or what, but the entire console tripped offline during that last hit. I have technicians on it now, but we’ll have to change out just about every part in her. It’s going to take a little time.” Batman could hear the frustration in the captain’s voice. Without a radar, the cruiser was virtually useless. Without her data link, the cruiser’s missiles were no of use.

  “I keep waiting for the next set of missiles to target the carrier,” Batman said. He glanced at the status board, and was relieved to see he now had fourteen Tomcats and Hornets airborne. There was also tanker support, as well as E-3 electronic support and SAR helos. “But it looks like it’s not going to happen. I guess their objective was to knock out our advanced radar capabilities.”

  “We’re down for a bit, but we’re not knocked out completely,” the captain said, his voice determined. “But as I said, Admiral, it’s going to take time.”

  Batman made his decision instantly. “I want you to close the carrier, then. Take station on our starboard beam, five thousand yards. You’ll be well within our antiair envelope, and at that range your CWIS won’t pose a danger to us. I’d much rather defend you close in — that way, I don’t have to break off an extra set of fighters for you.”

  “Aye-aye, Admiral,” the captain responded. “I don’t like it, but—”

  “But you’ll do it. Not only is it an order, but you know as well as I do that you’re a sitting duck while everything is down. I know it’s tough, but get your ass in close for now. The fighters will carry the load for now.

  As he watched Batman saw the symbol representing Lake Ch
amplain execute a turn and head back for the carrier.

  Batman picked up the phone linking TFCC with SCIF, the special intelligence unit located immediately next to TFCC. “Where did it come from?”

  Lab Rat answered, his voice calm and certain. “The Straits. We have the launch indications from national sensors, and AWACS confirms it. Right there.” A new symbol popped into being on Batman’s tactical screen. It was located on the eastern side of the Straits of Hormuz. “We’re certain of it, Admiral.”

  Batman turn to the TAO. “How many of those Tomcats are loaded with bombs?”

  “Four. The rest are strictly antiair.”

  “Break off all four Bombcats, as well as two fighters for escort. Ten minutes from now, I want to be looking at a sheet of fused glass where that installation is right now. You got that?”

  The TAO nodded, but he looked uncertain. “Admiral… no clearance from higher authority? I mean, it is an attack on the land mass.”

  Batman wheeled on him. “You think I don’t know that? When I need some snotty-nosed junior officers to question my decisions, I’ll pin the stars on your collar instead of mine. For now, you follow orders. You got that, mister?”

  “Yes, of course, Admiral.” The TAO was visibly shaken by the intensity of Batman’s anger. His fingers trembled slightly as he picked up the radio to make the call.

  Batman watched him for a moment, then turned back to the screen. Okay, maybe he had blown his top. But there wasn’t time for questions, was there? Not when there could be another wave of missiles raining down at any second. And had he made a mistake committing two of his fighters as escort for the land attack? He wondered if he should clear it with Fifth Fleet… okay, maybe he should, but dammit, it was his cruiser that was crippled. They attacked him, not vice versa. An entirely different set of circumstances than if he launched the attack without provocation.