Jacobs seemed to anticipate Pencehaven’s every thought, and was always one step ahead of him, adjusting volumes, refining track frequencies, handling all the details from his side of the console while leaving Otter free to perform his black magic. The chief, wisely, simply stepped back and let them work.
Suddenly, Otter stiffened. He stopped breathing, and glanced over at Jacobs. Jacobs turned pale. “Captain, the aft ship is picking up speed. Look.” A few microseconds after Jacobs spoke, the lines displayed on Otter’s console shifted slightly.
“How much?” the captain demanded.
“Two, maybe three knots. I don’t know what she’s thinking — if she keeps this up without a course change, she’s going to hazard the vessel in front of us.”
“It may be temporary,” Otter said, speaking for the first time since falling in between the two behemoths. “Closing the distance, maybe traffic coming up behind her. Wait,” he finished, and shut his eyes, held his breath for about twenty seconds. Then he opened his eyes and said, “Yes, that’s it exactly. There’s another ship behind them coming into fast, and they’re giving her some room. But it sounds like it will pass well to the west of us.”
“Orders, captain?” the XO asked.
“Take us slightly to the east, just slightly. I don’t want to bottom down, nor do I want to be crushed. And bring us up to match speeds with the stern contact,” the captain ordered. Almost immediately, he could feel the vibrations under his feet change as the submarine added two knots to her speed.
The captain glanced over at Otter. He looked relaxed, but then Otter usually did. “That do it?”
Otter nodded. “Should, Captain. I don’t hear anything new ahead of us, and I think it will… yes. She’s slowing back down, Captain. We can slow back down and maintain station.”
The captain breathed a sigh of relief.
For the next four hours and ten minutes — and it actually turned out to be fifteen minutes, but the captain did not hold that against the navigator — the captain paced between Sonar, the control room, and the navigator’s chart table, keeping a careful eye on everything. Powder retained the officer of the deck position the entire time as well, and his smooth, competent voice giving rudder and conning orders did much to steady the nerves of the crew. By the time they cleared the Straits, it had become absurdly routine, this ponderous underwater dance between the submarine and the two surface ships.
Finally, when they were able to open distance on the merchant ships and head for slightly deeper water, everyone on the crew breathed a sigh of relief. That they would ever consider three hundred feet of water a safe haven would have been absurd under any other circumstances. But after what they had been through for the last four hours, it was exactly the case.
“Engineering, this is the Captain. Any change in hull integrity on damage control status?” Bellisanus held his breath. After their daring submerged transit, his major concern was the damaged sonar dome and the noise it generated.
“No change, Captain,” the engineer replied. “We’re still watertight.”
“And now,” the captain said, “Let’s get down to business.” He turned back to navigator. “You have the search pattern laid in?”
The navigator nodded. “First leg, come left to course 270, speed five knots,” he advised. “Leg length thirty minutes.”
For the next twenty-four hours, the submarine would execute a silent search of this part of the water. And when the carrier was ready to inchop, Seawolf would be certain of one thing — that she was the only submarine in these waters.
THIRTEEN
Iranian Shore base
Wednesday, May 5
0800 local (GMT +3)
The large Aeroflot jet traveled down the runway, awkward and ungainly now that it was on the ground. A few streaks of rust showed on its side, and there was a trickle of hydraulic fluid from one engine.
Wadi contemplated it gravely. Perhaps not the best aircraft, but then again, there were no Iranians riding in it. It would do for the cargo it transported, in some ways more precious than gold or oil.
The aircraft finally came to a halt near the hastily erected terminal building. A boarding ladder was pushed up to it as the hatch opened. Two security guards came down the ladder and stood guard as the aircraft disgorged a flood of civilian technicians.
The heat hit them like a physical blow. While many parts of Russia were not hospitable, there was not much in the world that could match the baking sun in the Middle East.
Wadi’s assistant stepped forward. He spread his arms wide in a gesture of welcome. “We are very glad to see you, my friends. Very glad indeed.”
Ilya Gromko, the leader of the group stepped forward. “Thank you. If we could perhaps get out of the heat, we can discuss the progress schedule. My men are eager to get to work.”
And to get out of the Middle East, I suspect, Wadi thought. He let no trace of his thought show on his face. “Of course, of course.”
He led the way into the terminal building, where they were rewarded with an icy blast of air-conditioning, then they crowded into the room. “All work will be done, of course, in air-conditioned bunkers,” Wadi said.
“For investments, if you like. Especially hardened.” He paused to let this reminder to the man that they were in dangerous territory. “Do you anticipate any additional problems?”
“No. Not as long as we can get the parts,” Gromko said.
“Oh, that will not be a problem,” Wadi assured him. “My government has the most cordial of relationships with yours.” As well as hard cash. Very convenient, that the nation who has the technology we need is sorely strapped for that. Hard-up enough, certainly, to send a full crew here on the mere possibility of a contract.
“I have reviewed the production schedules. Most impressive.”
The Russian leader grunted. “It’s not anything we are not used to. The stories I could tell… well, I shall not bore you. We will conduct our preliminary assessment this evening. After that, I will assign six men per aircraft. An assembly line, three days per aircraft. I would estimate no more than two weeks to have all the aircraft operationally ready. Do you have sufficient pilots to fly them?”
Wadi drew himself up straight. The man was offensive, intolerably so. Yet for the time being, he needed his help.
Of course he had the necessary pilots, all of them eager to join battle. They had the benefit of the most advanced training, tutors, and the instructors who attended the U.S. Navy’s best school decades ago. And as for the skills they did not possess now, well, there was no shortage of combat instructors for a nation as wealthy as Iran. And if that didn’t work, there was always the threat of their biological weapons.
But for now, he must allow the insult to pass. He yearned for the day when he no longer needed these man nor their talented hands and spare parts. And most assuredly the Soviet Union — Russia — would be offended if he executed them for offenses that would have warranted execution had they been citizens.
Oh, but someday soon, they would pay. And pay dearly. After Iran took its place in the civilized world as a superpower once again.
FOURTEEN
Flag Bridge
USS Jefferson
Wednesday, May 5
1200 local (GMT +3)
Batman paced the length of the flag bridge that was located immediately above the ship’s bridge. His watch team, consisting of a flag watch officer, a quartermaster, boatswain’s mate, and an assortment of pilot fish, watched him uneasily. They were all familiar with his restless temper and moods, his need for physical action when under stress. They had seen it often in TFCC, when Batman eschewed sitting in his elevated leather chair and tried to pace in the much smaller compartment. Here, at least there was room for him to move without stepping on everyone’s headset cords.
At most times during the transit into the Gulf, Batman had been content to remain on the 03 level, checking their progress in TFCC and watching the plat camera monitor. But this time
, some deep instinct seemed to have gotten him all wound up. And while none of them could pinpoint the cause — indeed, Batman himself could not put it into words — his staff immediately picked up his attitude. There was something wrong, something out of the ordinary, something waiting for them.
Lab Rat was also concerned, but his worries had a specific cause, one that Batman knew as well. The shore station in the desert in Iran was continuing to expand. Intelligence reported that an Aeroflot jet had touched down there yesterday, and although a sandstorm had masked most of the details, it couldn’t be good. Additionally, there was some HUMINT, or human intelligence, coming out of the region that indicated Iran was on the move and in a big way, serving as a focal point for the constant pernicious aspirations for Arab unity. With last night’s walkout at the United Nations by all the Middle Eastern delegates, the situation was not looking good.
Most of the commentators, including ACN correspondent Pamela Drake, viewed the walkout as purely symbolic. They seemed to find it incomprehensible, despite the continued fighting in the Middle East, that the Arab nations could actually intend evil or that they could constitute a threat to the American forces there. Lab Rat viewed their analysis as shortsighted and self-serving. There was no more volatile area in the world, as far as he was concerned, and Iran did nothing without a purpose. As the Shiite Moslem groups claimed more and more power within the United States’s former ally, the situation became more precarious. He doubted that all of the Middle Eastern nations could ever put aside ancient rivalries long enough to form a united front, not for long anyway, but last night’s actions certainly increased volatility in the region.
Batman’s pacing had an almost hypnotic effect on Lab Rat. He found himself shifting his weight to follow the admiral’s pacing, felt a compulsion to join him. Finally, simply to break the hypnotic effect, Lab Rat moved out from behind the chart table and stood in the middle of the bridge.
At five feet two inches, Lab Rat was dwarfed by the admiral’s mass. In recent years, Batman had had a tendency to put on some weight around the middle, adding bulk to his already large frame. Although he was a few inches shorter than Tombstone, Batman easily topped six feet. His shoulders were broad, his face deceptively placid except for the brilliant blue eyes.
At first, Lab Rat thought that Batman did not see him and would simply stride right over him as he paced. But Batman stopped and stared down at the diminutive intelligence officer. “You got something for me?”
“No, Admiral. And you?”
Batman shook his head. He touched Lab Rat on the shoulder, and said, “Come with me.” He led the way out to the starboard bridge wing. As soon as they stepped out, the heat and humidity hit Lab Rat like a blow. It was well over 100 degrees, with the humidity at least 90 percent. The air itself sucked the energy out of your bones, reducing you to a mass of flesh that barely wanted to move.
Batman seemed not to notice. He stared at the coast to the right, an almost hungry look his eyes. “You see that? You know what the problem is here, Lab Rat? Everything is too damned close together. There’s no reaction time, no margin of safety — you can’t afford to be wrong even once. And the bitch of it is, by stationing a carrier here all the time, we’re accomplishing just what the Arabs want us to.” He glanced over at the intelligence officer.
“How’s that, sir?”
Batman straightened up and made an all-encompassing gesture. “The thing we forget is that this area is ancient. So ancient we can’t even begin to understand it. Any solutions to the problems here will have to come from inside the Middle East. The peace we impose is an illusion.” He slumped down and put his elbows on the highly polished wood railing. “And yet we come here anyway. And every time we do, we help them achieve the one thing they can’t do on their own — build Arab unity. Because the enemy of my enemy is my friend, you know? We give them something they can all hate together, a reason to put their differences aside for a little while. And when we do that, maybe we get them to start working on solving their own regional problems. We can’t play police here forever — it’s just not feasible.”
Lab Rat nodded. Batman’s position was not an unreasonable one, although he doubted that most politicians thought that way. Everything he’d seen on the media following the walkout at the United Nations seemed to indicate that no one was taking it seriously. It was a gesture, the commentators said, a demonstration of unity. Nothing more.
But like Batman, Lab Rat thought it was very much something more. Everything had a purpose, and it wasn’t necessarily the meaning that an American mind would assign to it.
And in a way, could you blame them? How would the United States feel if a coalition of outsiders started imposing their will on American society?
To the right, Iran. To the left, Iraq. Both nations had so much in common, a history they shared that spanned centuries, and every reason in the world that they ought to be left to settle their own affairs.
He glanced further astern and saw the crippled cruiser limping along, mainly keeping station. Her search radar was turning, and Lab Rat knew that inside her hull, technicians were working feverishly to bring the other systems up as well.
Batman followed his gaze. “Yeah… and there’s that. We can’t let them get away with that, not at all.” He slammed his fist down on the railing in frustration. “Rock, hard place — for once I wish there were some easy answers.”
FIFTEEN
USS Seawolf
Wednesday, 5 May
202 local (GMT +3)
“Conn, Sonar. Possible machinery noises to the north.” Jacobs spoke with quiet confidence. Pencehaven had left the sonar shack for a few minutes, probably for a snack and a head break, but Bellisanus had no doubt that Jacobs was completely competent on his own. Still, since this was a passive detection, he’d wait for Pencehaven’s concurrence. Now how not to offend Jacobs while still buying some time?
“Lot of traffic out there, Renny,” Bellisanus said carefully.
“Yes, sir. But this is subsurface. Come see, sir.”
“Take her, XO,” Bellisanus said. He walked the short distance to the sonar shack and stuck his head in. “So let’s see it.”
“There.” Renny pointed out a thin set of lines tracing their way down the green waterfall display. “Main power, SSTGs.”
The ship’s service turbogenerators, or SSTGs, provide main electrical power for a submarine. They run off main steam produced by the reactor, stepped down to an appropriate temperature and pressure. On most submarine, SSTGs were among the most heavily shock mounted and noise isolated of equipment.
“You’re sure about that?” Bellisanus said, wanting more confirmation even as his guts told him that Renny Jacobs was right.
“Yes, sir. That’s an SSTG, not a motor alternator.”
And that made it worse. Because an SSTG was only found on a nuclear submarine, and the Iranian diesel they’d been warned about wouldn’t have it.
“Whose?” Bellisanus asked.
“Russian,” Jacobs answered. “I’m pretty sure, but not absolutely.”
“Any other possibilities?”
“A Russian knockoff. Or… and this is going to sound pretty crazy sir, but it’s possible… a submarine that’s towing an acoustic augmenter to make us think she’s a Russian submarine.”
“And it couldn’t be a surface ship with an augmenter?” Bellisanus asked.
Pencehaven came back into Sonar at that moment, and leaned over Jacobs’s shoulder to study the display. Bellisanus caught the faint odor of peanut butter on Pencehaven’s breath.
“Yep,” Pencehaven said, and settled into his seat. “SSTG. Could be an augmenter, though. Awful stable.”
“I guess it’s possible,” Jacobs admitted, and suddenly Bellisanus felt a whole lot better. You couldn’t beat the ears on Jacobs, but once in a while you could come up with an alternative explanation that he’d buy. “Yes, sir, now that I think about it, that’s certainly possible.”
“All right,
then. We don’t have any intell on any Russian submarine in these waters, so for now I’m going with that possibility. We’ll make a slow transit up there to keep our own flow noise down and have a look. And keep an eye on that signature in case it turns out to be a motor alternator instead.”
“Yes, sir,” Jacobs said, but Bellisanus could hear the denial in his voice. It might be something towed by a surface ship, but there was no way he was going to convince Jacobs that it might be a motor alternator.
Bellisanus went back into the control room and filled his XO in, concluding with, “Have Ops draft up a message. Let’s rattle their cages a bit, see if somebody knows something that they haven’t bothered to tell us.”
“Aye-aye, Captain,” Powder said. He turned the deck of the submarine back over to his skipper and went aft to find the operations officer.
As Bellisanus settled back into his normal scan of people, gauges and machinery, one thought kept nagging him. If it was an augmentor — and the more he thought about it, the more convinced he was of that — then why did someone want to make him believe that there was a Russian submarine in these waters? And more importantly, who was behind it?
After a brief consultation with his navigator and another moment checking the location of the El Said’s hulk, the Seawolf headed north in search of her prey.
“The Russians wouldn’t risk it,” the captain said bluntly. “They’ve been supportive of U.N. efforts in the Gulf ever since the earliest days. Remember how odd that was, during Desert Storm? Seeing the Russians listed as a friendly force?”
The XO nodded. “But they haven’t actively contributed military forces to peacekeeping in the last five years,” he pointed out. “Wonder what that means?”
“It means just what you think it might. We can’t be entirely certain that they haven’t deployed an asset down here.” He held up one hand to forestall comment. “I know, I know — there’s no intelligence on the Russian unit being in the area. But intelligence has been wrong before.”
The Art of War c-17 Page 11