“Or it could be classified above our level,” the XO pointed out.
And that was a hoot, wasn’t it? Of all the areas of classified data within the military — indeed, the entire national security system — few were more closely guarded than those secrets associated with the operation of a nuclear submarine. Why would intelligence not trust them with the information, particularly when it directly affected their area of operations? The captain shook his head, as always slightly bemused by the issue.
“Well, it does change the way we’re operating in the Gulf, doesn’t it?” he said bluntly. “It changes everything.”
And that would be reason enough for someone to want us to think that. To slow us down for a bit, to make us think there’s more going on than there should be. Because it’s one thing to take on a Middle East military unit — hell, they don’t have the hardware or the training to use what little they do have. That’s why they’ve been depending on nuclear, biological, and chemical weapons — maximum bang for the buck. But if I were running Iran’s show, I wouldn’t mind having the U.S. think that there were other parties involved. That maybe our own alliances were shifting in ways we didn’t really expect. Because it does change things, doesn’t it?
“Let’s bump this up the chain of command,” the captain said. “Let the carrier know, and sideline it back to Fifth Fleet as well. Maybe if we start asking questions, we’ll jar loose some data. It’s worth a try, at least.” And we’ll let those who are supposed to sort out this sort of stuff figure out what’s going on.
I’ll pass the word to the sonarmen, though. Let them keep their eyes and ears open for it. Because the odds are, if the Russians are involved here, we’re going to have to deal with them before we get guidance. And particularly if they head for the carrier. Because I’ll be damned if I’ll let one within weapons-release range of the carrier.
If Bellisanus had slept in the last three days, the XO didn’t know when it could have been. He had been in the control room almost continuously, his eyes roving constantly over the instruments, alert to every minute change in the submarine’s operating condition. Yet even after days of sleeplessness — hell, they were all running short of sleep, weren’t they? — the man showed no trace of the fatigue that must be building up in his body.
How did he manage it? the XO wondered. And would he himself ever be able to sustain that level of effort if he were in command of a ship such as this?
It wasn’t often that the XO doubted his own capabilities. He glanced around the control room again, listened to the faint sounds of reports being relayed over the sound powered phones. Bellisanus had left training primarily up to him, and if he did say so himself, he thought he’d done a pretty good job of it. The crew was relaxed, confident, but not too relaxed. There was an undercurrent of cold professionalism running throughout the ship that told him that if and when — and it would be most assuredly when — the time came that the submarine had to fulfill its mission, she would not be found wanting. The sense of being part of something larger, of having contributed to the molding of this collection of people into a tight-knit, potent team made him feel humble.
Humble? He realized with a start that that was exactly the right word. Not proud, not gratified, not anything else that was personal. Just humble that the Navy should have chosen him to lead this group of men.
And maybe, just maybe he had one more responsibility. He glanced over at the captain, until he felt a surge of certainty that it was true. He moved quietly to the captain’s side, then with a slight shift of his head, indicated that he would like to speak privately. It was this way with men that spent so much time in close quarters as a team. The merest glance, the slightest gesture, could convey the depth of meaning that didn’t need words.
The captain walked over to a corner of the control room and leaned forward. He was perhaps three inches taller than the XO, and it was not something the XO noticed unless they were in close quarters. Right now, it felt entirely right to be looking up slightly to this man who bore such a burden.
“You could use some rest, Captain,” the XO said quietly. He motioned to the control room, taking in all the crew members. “They’re doing well. It’s quiet right now. But it won’t always be like that. I can handle this for now, sir, but there’s going to be a time when the only thing that keeps this ship safe is you. And, with all due respect, sir, I need you in top-notch condition then. Not now.” The XO waited.
The captain drew back slightly, and for just a moment the XO thought he’d overstepped his bounds. Bellisanus started to speak, then shut his mouth with an audible click. He looked at his XO with new respect.
“I insist that the men get food and sleep,” the captain said slowly. “But I’ve always thought myself exempt from those requirements. It’s something, you know… well, maybe you don’t, not completely yet. But you will someday when you have your own ship.” He paused for a moment, and XO thought that the captain was going to gently suggest that the XO mind his own damned business.
Then the captain continued, “And when you command your own ship, I hope that you are blessed, as I have been, with an XO like you. There aren’t many people who can tell the captain to go get some rest. That you consider that part of your responsibilities tells me you’re ready for command.”
Then, without further word, not even a caution to call him immediately should it be necessary, the captain turned and left the control room.
The XO stared after him, even more humble now. He turned back to the crew. There was not a flinch, not a quiver, not a trace of uneasiness with the captain out of the control room. That gave him more confidence than any words of reassurance from the captain could have. Because the captain’s judgment was that of one man, albeit a man with several decades of experience in submarines. This quiet, this confidence from the crew, though, was the judgment of a collection of men with over 200 combined years of time onboard a submarine. He challenged himself to do his best to live up to the vote of confidence.
The captain slid the door to his stateroom shut, and eyed his rack with longing. He knew the XO was right, and he had known himself for several hours that he was starting to verge on complete and utter exhaustion. But that his XO had spoken out amused him slightly. Had he had that much confidence when he had been an executive officer? Had he?
He couldn’t remember, but he hoped so. Without even kicking off his shoes, the captain stretched out on top of his rack. He pulled the blanket over his torso to ward off the constant chill from the air conditioner and shut his eyes. An hour, maybe two, he promised himself. That was all it would take right now to fight of the hard edge of exhaustion that was threatening his judgment. He also knew that on some level he was so attuned to every sound and motion of the submarine that he would be awake immediately if he were needed, even before the XO could call him.
Bellisanus shut his eyes, and was immediately asleep.
SIXTEEN
Viking 701
North of USS Jefferson
Wednesday, May 5
1215 local (GMT +3)
Rabies pulled the S-3 into a slow, gentle bank. A gaggle of Tomcats were due to vector in for refueling shortly, and he was on station waiting for them. He’d just tried out his latest composition on his new enlisted antisubmarine warfare specialist, and had been quite gratified at the reception. He wished he could say the same for his own appreciation of the sailor’s latest efforts. Indeed, he had made favorable comments, but only because it was polite to do so. In truth, Rabies marveled that the man did not know how tone deaf he really was.
As he worked on the refrain to an idea that had struck him late last night, he kept up his scan of the ocean below. The rest of his crew watched as well, but he knew they were not as committed to the visual search as he was. Well, he would prove them wrong — just wait and see. Maybe he wasn’t flying a USW mission, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t find a find submarine. Within the parameters of his refueling tasking, he had considerable flexibility.
Just then, his fondest hopes were fulfilled. At an angle, he saw the patch of darker ocean, with a small pole sticking up in the center of it. His heart started beating faster, and he knew the thrill of initial contact on a submarine.
“I got it, I got it,” he crowed, jubilant. “No more shit from you guys, OK? Because that down there sure as hell ain’t no whale.”
Twenty minutes until the Tomcats were due — plenty of time to check it out. “Hold on, boys — we’re going in.” He put the Viking into a steep dive, and headed for lower altitudes.
Beside him, his copilot stirred uneasily. “They got Codeye you think?” The advent of antiair radar and weapons being installed in the sail of a submarine in the last decade had put a whole new twist to USW. No longer did they stalk a target that could take out their carrier or another ship, leaving the Viking to bingo. No, now submarines had the audacity to be able to attack the ones who were stalking them directly. The helo community in particular, with their slower speeds and operating at a lower altitude, were particularly wary.
Rabies shook his head, intent on flying. “All of the intelligence briefs say no. But,” he concluded reluctantly, “Intelligence has been known to be wrong before. I’ll play it safe, OK?”
“Let’s get them,” the copilot agreed.
Behind him, the TACCO was designating the contact as a contact of interest, putting out word of the visual sighting on the data link that transmitted information between all platforms in battle group and to higher authority.
Looking down from two thousand feet, the outline of the submarine was clearly visible. She was coming shallow, a communications mast sticking out over the surface of the water. Rabies gloated over his good luck.
Good luck, hell. Just sheer professionalism, that’s what it is. How many other tanker toads would be watching for something like this?
“Give me a flight-to point,” he ordered. Almost immediately, the series of symbols appeared on his screen. Rabies vectored over to them, and the TACCO released sonobuoys at each designated point.
“We ought to be able to get something, her coming so shallow like that,” the TACCO opined.
“I got prop noises,” the enlisted man said excitedly. “Real faint — she’s hardly moving at all — but they’re there. And,” he continued, studying the acoustic display for a moment, “Some electrical sources. Yes, sir, we got us a submarine. And it sure as hell ain’t ours.”
“Hunter 701, be advised we are vectoring two dippers for hot turnover on this contact.” The voice of the USW commander onboard Jefferson was gleeful. “Good work, Rabies. If anybody was going to get him, it was going to be you.”
Good work? Then why the hell am I still flying tanker duty? Maybe this will convince the CAG that I ought to be off the rotation.
“Return to altitude and continue with assigned mission,” the USW commander continued.
“Viking, this is Hound Dog. Interrogative your channelization, sir?”
The TACCO relayed the sonobuoy channel assignments to the helo so that the helo could begin monitoring the correct frequencies. “OK, we got him, sir. I’m holding your data link and your sonobuoys. Don’t worry, we’ll nail him down.”
“But…” Rabies started, then fell silent, fuming. It was his submarine, dammit! His submarine! Why the hell did he have to turn it over to the helos?
Because the helos couldn’t pass gas to the thirsty Tomcats inbound. Sure, they were nifty to have for localization, with those dipping sonars that they could move around at will. But it seemed so unfair, that they were taking his sonobuoys, using his data, and they would get credit for the kill.
If there was a kill. So far, weapons were still white and tight. But sooner or later, with submarines, it always came down to those moments when the battle group was left with no other choices. The primary rule of warfare was to kill the enemy before he killed you, and submarines were one of the threats that worried the battle group the most.
With a sigh, Rabies took the Viking back up to tanking altitude and began his slow circle again, waiting for the Tomcats as he watched the localization continue on his battle link.
Iranian Shore Station
1220 local (GMT +3)
Wadi swore quietly in his mind, but he was careful not to vocalize his curses. As strong as his position was now, it would not do to give the ayatollahs any reason to doubt the purity of his soul.
But surely if there ever had been a reason for swearing, it was the events that were unfolding on the paper chart in front him. His second in command stood to one side, a look of fear on his face. His master’s fits of temper were well-known to all of them, as was Wadi’s tendency to execute the bearer of bad news.
“How did they know?” Wadi asked quietly, his voice deadly with menace. He turned to his senior planning officer. “I gave strict orders that the submarine was not to be located. And now I see one of their USW aircraft in the area. Your explanation?”
His subordinate breathed a sigh of relief. Evidently, there would be no messengers executed today. And in the Arab world, that was meant literally rather than figuratively.
The senior planner was just as shaken, although he drew some measure of comfort from his relationship to the ayatollahs. “Our plan was designed to maximize use of the submarine’s ability to remain undetected,” he said, searching for just the right words. “But one cannot completely eliminate luck from the battlefield, and it appears that that has been what has interfered with our plans now. This must have been so on their part, because the skill of our submarine commander is—”
“Is seriously in question at this point.” Wadi shot him a deadly glance. “Unless, of course, it was your planning that resulted in this fiasco.”
Someone would die for this mistake today, the ops planner knew. He silently prayed to Allah that it would not be him. “I will institute an investigation immediately,” he said with more confidence that he felt.
Why could Wadi not understand that there was little certainty in warfare? You would think that he would know that, with his vaunted years of experience so often held out as a model to the others. Yet when things went wrong, he invariably looked for someone to blame it on, not realizing that uncertainty and chance is the very essence of any battlefiled?
Wadi drew in a deep breath, held it for a moment, then his expression cleared. “Very well. There can be no doubt at this point that they have detected our submarine. There are two helos directly overhead, she reports, and one of their Vikings in the area as well. Should they decide to attack, we have no options.”
“Then what would you do, sir?” the planner said, amazed at his own own boldness. In the long run, it would not work, this attempt to shift responsibility back to Wadi. If things went wrong, it would still be his head that would roll. Yet he sought in this his only chance to survive.
Wadi studied the chart for moment longer, and a cruel smile spread across his face. “The best defense is always a good offense, is it not? That is the teaching from every major battle experience. So, we will take the offensive.” He pointed to the symbol that represented the carrier. “Starting with that ship.”
The planner turned pale. “Our forces — sir, we will be ready shortly, but right now we are not—”
Wadi turned on him. “More evidence of your incompetence?” he snarled, leaving the words hanging the air as though they were poisonous gas.
The planner backpeddaled quickly. “No, no, of course not. It will be as you say.”
“Then make it so without further delay.” Wadi turned back to the paper chart and studied it, scowling as he did. What he would not give to have the electronics and data link that the American had, where information was instantaneously exchange between all units. Instead, he was forced to rely on this virtually Stone-Age technique of mapping out ships and aircraft on paper, the information woefully out of date even as it was plotted. Warfare moved too quickly in these constrained waters, with this modern technology.
Still, if wha
t he hoped to achieve succeeded, Iran would then be graced with the ultimate in battle technology. There would be no more of this. Instead, they would have the admiration of the entire world.
SEVENTEEN
United Nations
New York
Wednesday, May 5
0800 local (GMT –5)
Ambassador Sarah Wexler stormed into the suite that housed the Iranian delegation. She ignored the receptionist’s angry howls and headed straight for the ambassador’s office. She barged in, fire in her eyes, and positioned herself in front of his desk.
At five feet, two inches, Wexler was hardly an imposing figure. She was slim, her age showing in her face and figure, but not in the steely determination with which she approached the grave matters discussed in the international forum. She was known as a tough negotiator, one with a keen understanding of the shifting alliances that govern most of the world, and not above a little skullduggery of her own.
But now, it was clear, Wexler was not in her diplomatic mode. She slammed her fist down on the desk and glared at the large man sitting behind it in traditional garb. “Just what the hell is the meaning of this?” she shouted, leaning forward to stare directly in his eyes. She knew how uncomfortable a woman in a position of authority made the Iranian ambassador, and most of the time she curried to his cultural idiosyncrasies. But this was no time for being anything other than what she was — the international representative of the most powerful nation on earth. “I demand an answer, sir. And right now.”
The ambassador moved back slightly, and rose from his expensive leather chair to tower over her. “Calm yourself, Madam Ambassador,” he said softly. “It is so unbecoming to see you like this.”
The Art of War c-17 Page 12