Training again took over. He watched the bubbles, blocking out all other thoughts, and saw which way they were moving. Up — follow the bubbles. With his lungs screaming for air, he kicked hard and felt a flash of deep, deadly pain in his right leg. Broken? No time for that now — if he didn’t make it to the surface soon, he was certain his lungs would explode.
It seemed to go on forever as he struggled to reach the surface. Minutes, maybe hours, passed. The water around him grew lighter and lighter, and then, just when he thought he could bear no more, that he must suck down a lungful of anything, even seawater, to douse the pain building there, he broke free at the surface.
His life jacket had deployed automatically, but the buoyancy alone but not have been enough to get into the surface in time, he thought.
He sucked down great lungfuls of air, coughing up seawater as he did, desperate to get oxygen into his brain.
As the pain in his lungs eased, the agony in his right leg took over. Noise flooded in — the slap of waves, slapping him in the face, the loud noise of a helicopter overhead beating the water down around him. He concentrated on staying afloat.
Seconds later, there was a splash in the water near him. A rescue diver swam over, approached him from behind and put him in a carry position.
“It’s okay, I got you. I got you,” the swimmer said, his voice almost as calm as the LSO’s had been. “Are you hurt?”
“Leg,” he gasped, still unable to spare the oxygen to say more.
“It’s all right — don’t talk, just breathe. I’m going to slide you into a stretcher, sir. Just take it easy. You’re okay.”
“Rat?” he gasped, aware that the question would make no sense to the rescue swimmer. “RIO?”
“They’re going after her,” the swimmer said. “Let’s just get you onboard, sir, and you can see for yourself.” There was a splash as the stretcher was lowered from the helo overhead. The rescue swimmer slid him into it, manhandling him but trying to be gentle with his injured leg. Once he was strapped in, the helo ascended, then ferried him over to the carrier and lowered him gently to the deck. Corpsmen surrounded him, efficiently stripping off his ejection harness. Four sets of experienced hands ran over his body, checking for injuries.
Fastball tried again. “My RIO?”
The corpsmen ignored him. After a few seconds, satisfied that he was conscious and not bleeding, they picked up the stretcher and hustled for the island.
Yeah, clear the area for Rat’s helo, if she didn’t already beat me here. She’d like that, wouldn’t she? Get picked up first from helo. She’d say it was because RIO’s were smarter or something.
He tried to think of where he had been in relation to the carrier, tried to calculate whether the angle at which her ejection seat shot out would put her safely in the water or—no, don’t even think about it. She didn’t come down on the deck. She didn’t slam into the side of the ship. She couldn’t have — it didn’t work like that. No, she had to be all right.
USS Jefferson
0320 local (GMT +3)
Everyone in TFCC wanted desperately to give an order. Any order, it didn’t matter what. The compulsion to take action even when there was nothing they could do was almost overwhelming. And Batman, more than all the others, wanted desperately to do something.
He’d watched the Tomcats approach, quietly confident that each one would get back onboard safe and sound. They had lost no aircraft to antiair missiles, and there were no enemy fighters. Absent the operation of Murphy’s Law, there was no reason to suppose that all the aircraft wouldn’t be recovered safely.
But then, as always, the unexpected happened. Batman had watched in horror as Tomcat 103 departed from a perfectly normal approach into uncontrolled flight. He had watched the Tomcat wing over, out of control, driven only by one engine. It was possible to recover from such a casualty, but it took experience, more experience than he thought Fastball possessed. He had been certain they were both dead.
And in those moments of horror, he saw the pilot demonstrate true nerves of steel. How many of them would have had the presence of mind to hold off of the ejection, to coldly calculate the moment when the aircraft would be oriented properly to the sea, that split second in which the flight crew could safely eject into empty air instead of being rocketed down into the sea? It had been such a chance, almost unbelievable, because it was every chance that the Tomcat would not have returned to the proper orientation at all.
Yet Fastball had pulled it off. Batman vowed silently that if he pulled through, he would be wearing an air medal before the day was over.
“What about the RIO?” Batman asked for the tenth time. “Any word?”
“No, Admiral,” the TAO said for the tenth time. As though he could add anything more, since he and Batman were both listening to exactly the same communications from the SAR helo.
Damnit, it couldn’t end like this. That boy had pulled off too amazing a stunt to have the story end with a dead RIO. No, she had to be out there — she had to be. “Keep them out there. Keep them out there until they find her.” Or her body, he added silently.
Suddenly, the SAR helo broke into an excited yell. “We got her! We got her!”
A cheer broke out in TFCC. “About time,” Batman said coolly, hoping that none of them could tell how truly touched he was. “Typical RIO — off on their own.”
The seconds ticked by with agonizing slowness as he watched the recovery unfold on the monitor mounted high in one corner of the compartment. Why was the helo approaching so slowly? Couldn’t they do it any faster than that? Batman raged inwardly, resolved to have a stern conversation with the SAR helo pilot when he landed, knowing all the time that if anyone was more worried about the recovery than he was, it was the helo crew. They took it even more personally than the admiral did.
“Swimmer in the water,” the speaker announced. “He’s on her, he’s on her — yes! We have a thumbs up!” Again the cheer, and this time Batman joined in.
So she was alive, but how badly was she hurt? She was unconscious, but she was breathing. The carrier housed an advanced medical suite capable of performing almost any medical miracle in the world. If anyone could pull her through, short of a major trauma facility, it would be the doctors and medical staff onboard the Jefferson.
The same procedure that they’d followed with Fastball was repeated, a stretcher lowered into the water, and transported to the flight deck. Batman watched the corpsmen crowd around her, then hustle her into the ship before they’d even completed their initial assessment. It was bad, it had to be.
Keep her alive, boys. Just keep her alive, Batman prayed silently. I’m counting on you.
Just as the helo touched down, the TAO let out a yelp of surprise. “Admiral — look!” At the same moment, Lab Rat dashed into the compartment, a look of consternation on his face.
“What the hell?” Batman asked as he turned to stare at the screen. It showed four missiles in flight from Northern Iran headed for the coast. “Get those fighters back up,” Batman shouted. There were still ten Tomcats in the pattern, but most of them were at the low-fuel state — sufficient to get onboard, but not nearly enough for aerial combat.
But even as he watched, the situation became even more puzzling. Because the missiles were not aimed at the Jefferson or the battle group at all. Instead, they were arcing out from a facility further to the east and headed directly for the station the Tomcats had just destroyed.
Batman turned to Lab Rat. “What the hell?”
Lab Rat shook his head. “No data. But, if I had to guess, I’d say Iran’s in the process of putting together their version of the truth.” As they both watched, the missiles disappeared from the screen just as they reached the bombed-out facility.
TWELVE
USS Seawolf
Straits of Hormuz
Wednesday, May 5
0450 local (GMT +3)
The submarine moved silently toward the entrance to the Gulf. The Straits
of Hormuz were a particular dangerous area for her. The water was shallow, barely deep enough to cover her conning tower. The traffic was also much denser, and by the time they completed the transit, everyone would be worn to a frazzle.
Powder had just finished setting the maneuvering detail when the captain finally reached his decision. He motioned to the XO, drawing him off away from the rest of the crew.
Bellisanus studied Powder for a moment, taking his measure. A good man, with a bright career ahead of him. The captain knew if things went terribly wrong, it would affect not only his career, but that of his XO as well.
That was the reason for his decision to make this an order. He would insist that the XO log his protest in the deck log, as much to protect him as anything else. Had there been any other way, he would have taken it.
Funny that the thought of sacrificing their life in the service of their country was something that every man had already dealt with, at least on some level. Particularly on a submarine, where they were isolated from the rest of the world and knew at some deep, instinctive level the dangers of sailing beneath the surface of the water. Not a single man on the ship would hesitate, if it were necessary — not that they would die eagerly, but they would if they had to. So why was he worried about his XO’s career?
“You understand the tactical situation, XO,” the captain said, his voice unusually formal.
“Yes, Captain. I do.” A determined look crossed Powder’s face. “We’ve got to get into the Gulp to protect the carrier, but the situation has gone to shit. We can’t stay holed up here hiding next to the pipeline.”
He knows. He’s already figured out what he would do, and it’s exactly what I intend. That doesn’t mean he has to like it — and that doesn’t mean he should take the fall for it.
“You know what international rules require when we transit the Straits — we have to surface, show flashing light. It makes a lot of sense. The traffic here… they’ll be able to see us. And we have the right-of-way over everyone else, under the same rules.” He paused and saw the XO’s expression grow more determined.
“Of course, Captain. I understand.” The XO waited.
“XO, I’m making this a direct order. It is my intention to log your disagreement in the deck log — no, you have no say over that. This is ultimately my decision, and no one else’s. If subsequent events…” the captain stopped, not entirely sure the phrase covered the consequences that they would face if something went wrong.
When he spoke, the XO’s voice held a note of quiet confidence. “You want to go in submerged, don’t you, Captain?” He nodded, as though the captain had already answered. “I concur completely. And the men are ready for it — we can handle this, Captain.”
A wave of profound humility swept over the captain again. To serve with such a man — how had he indeed been so blessed?
“I do not accept your concurrence, XO,” he said quietly. “Listen to me, understand this… you will face the same decision at some point in your career, and I intend for you to have a career left when this is over. We need people like you commanding these ships. Don’t be a fool, Powder. Do it my way.”
“Not a chance, sir. I concur completely in your decision, as does everyone else on the ship. If you falsify the deck log and indicate that I disagree, I will immediately log a retraction. It’s absolutely necessary to go in submerged, as dangerous as it might be. If we are detected going in, then it makes our task all the more difficult. That’s the whole point of having a submarine here, isn’t it, sir,? To be an undetected force?”
“Dammit, Frankie!” The captain’s voice was full of exasperation. Not that he hadn’t expected this — indeed he would’ve been surprised had his XO reacted in any other way. “This is no time for you to attempt to usurp command prerogatives. When I give an order, I expect it to be obeyed.”
“Yes, Captain. But the good of the ship comes first. And that includes everything from the material condition to the crew’s morale. Just how do you think it will affect them if we make believe there’s a disagreement between us? Because there’s not, you know. There’s not at all. So, sir, in my estimation, ordering me to log a disagreement with your decision would do more harm to the ship than good. Therefore, I must respectfully decline.”
The captain swore quietly. He had counted on some resistance from Frankie, but not to this degree. How the hell was he supposed to cover for his XO if his XO refused to cooperate?
He wasn’t. Commander Powder was ready for command himself. And one of the qualities that had gotten him to that point was a sense of honor. He would not be party to this — and if he had, the captain knew that it would have struck more deeply at the man’s soul than any later reprimand for what they were about to do. The captain smiled slightly. While it was true that command was among the most lonely positions in the world, there were moments such as this that made it all worthwhile. Yet it was still his decision alone, and he would bear the ultimate responsibility for it.
“Then let’s do it,” the captain said quietly. “XO, take the deck. Take us in.”
Captain Bellisanus watched the numbers on the fathometer roll over silently. The fathometer was a low power, highly directional seminar, virtually undetectable. As the numbers inched their way down, the floor of the Straits crept up to meet them. With each foot of depth they lost, they increased the risk to the ship.
Additionally, the captain had elected to transit at the very edge of the marked channel. With the proper timing, he hoped to be able to fall in with a line of merchant ships, and carefully keep distance between them. They had waited for an hour, watching for just the right spot.
“Conn, Sonar. I think we might have a shot, sir,” Otter said in his quiet, normally sunny tone. “In about five minutes, Captain. Want to take a look?”
The captain stepped back into sonar and looked at the plot Jacobs and Pencehaven were maintaining. Sure enough, it looked like there was a sequence of merchant ships coming up and maintaining station well. There was just enough space to slip in between them, riding the outside of the channel, if they could be counted on to maintain their stations.
Otter pointed at the lead contact. “That one there, she’s riding shallow. So is the one right after her, but the third one in the line looks loaded down. I figure our best bet is to slide in between the two shallow draft ones. That gives us a little bit more clearance in case—” Otter stopped abruptly. He looked over at his captain for encouragement.
“Always good to have a margin of safety,” the captain said mildly. “Any clue as to what they are?”
“Tankers,” Otter said promptly. “The third one is a container ship, probably a RO-RO.”
“Give me a time hack,” the captain said.
“Three minutes at…” Otter stopped and watched the second hand on the chronometer. “… now!” Although their desired target was still five minutes off, Otter had to allow for the time it would take the submarine to build up speed. That much metal in the water doesn’t instantaneously attain the desired forward speed.
Three minutes — a lifetime when you are trying to stay submerged and play a delicate game of follow the leader, sliding your massive submarine into the line of ships moving ponderously. The seconds ticked by, and no one spoke other than Otter to give the deck officer — the XO — time hacks at two minutes, one minute, thirty seconds, and then a countdown from ten seconds on. As Otter reached zero, the captain felt the slightest vibration change under his feet. The XO brought them up to eight knots at standard accelerations to match the speed of the ships. Simultaneously, he moved them slightly to the west, maintaining position just on the edge of the channel.
The captain watched the green lozenges on the sonar plot march closer and closer, advancing incrementally toward their own position. Then, after the XO had started his approach, he held his breath. Once they were in position, it might be easier going, but for the next few minutes, everything depended on Otter’s ability to position the other contacts by passive
acoustics alone, and the XO’s skill at steaming in formation.
For a brief moment, the captain considered lighting off the active sonar system. Just one ping, no more. Hard evidence to verify that the geometries unfolding in front of him were correct.
But no, even one ping would be enough to blow exactly what they were trying to accomplish with this dangerous, most certainly illegal maneuver.
It was always easier to ask forgiveness than permission.
The speakers picked up the low rumble of the merchant ship just in front of them. Massive thrashing merchant propellers, probably powered by diesel engines or low-pressure steam turbines, churned up a violent mass of bubbles in front of them. The cavitation was particularly severe because the vessel was so lightly loaded, and her propellers were shallow.
In addition to posing some danger if they did not detect any maneuvers on her part, the noise generated by two large ships close aboard effectively blanked out their detection capabilities any further out. Their world was defined for and aft by screamingly noisy merchant ships who gave no thought to quieting techniques.
“How long?” the captain asked the navigator.
The navigator was hunched over his plotting table, carefully supervising the maintenance of a paper plot to supplement the computerized one. He measured off the distance of the Straits transit with his dividers, and did the quick calculations mentally. “Four hours, ten minutes,” he answered almost immediately.
The captain studied the chart again, although there was no real need to. He had this particular stretch of water memorized. There were no obstructions that he could see ahead, though one could never be certain in these waters.
Otter stared at the scope, his eyes focused, his hands clamped over his headset. To the captain watching him, he seemed to shimmer, to merge with the advanced electronics and computers that made up the heart of his sonar gear.
The Art of War c-17 Page 10