The other reason it would be foolish to climb to periscope depth was that it would take Leopard above the layer depth. With the summer weather, the top two hundred feet of the East China Sea was stirred by the waves and broiled by the sun, and was warm. At 210 feet, the water became frigid. The layer created a shallow sound channel, which would allow a longer range of detection of the battle group but make them blind to the approach of the Julang. With the Red SSN inbound, Dixon would have to attack the surface force from the depths. His weapons would hit them far over the horizon anyway, he thought. There would be nothing to see at PD, not even the distant smoke of their explosions. The telemetry from the
Predator was coming down to them from a buoyant wire antenna, which was acceptable for receiving data but could not transmit. Between the UAV and their sonar systems, they would have the surface group in their sights in no time. Still, the fact that the Predator had not yet seen the battle group was cause for concern.
“Captain, Predator UAV detect on infrared,” the computerized voice of the Cyclops system said. “Bearing to the infrared detect is north of the Predator. Range is unknown, but Predator is conducting aerial target-motion-analysis to obtain a parallax range. Time to approximate range is ten minutes.”
“Very well, Cyclops,” Dixon said. The facial array of the firecontrol team showed his people putting on their war faces.
“Attention in the firecontrol party,” Dixon said. “We have a far distant passive aerial detect of the incoming battle group We will be preparing to launch a time-on-target assault of the battle group Mark 58 Alert/ Acute Mod Plasma torpedoes first. Vortex missiles second, and Javelin cruise missiles last. Our weapon ration for this attack is one-half of our load out which is thirteen torpedoes, four Vortex missiles, and two cruise missiles. The other half of the room will be a reserve force for counterattack and to target the Julang SSN. Once this battle group is on the bottom, our orders have us proceeding back north on the track to attack Battlegroup Two, which will take the rest of the weapons inventory. By the time Battlegroup Two is on the bottom, we won’t have to worry about Three, since it will probably slink back to port with its tail between its legs.
“The initially launched torpedoes will orbit at range five thousand yards until all thirteen weapons are in the water, and will then proceed down the track at medium speed run-to-enable with a bearing fan-out to prevent inter weapon interference. At acquisition of targets, the units will speed up to high speed, and will detonate on their targets at time zero. Just as the weapons are departing their orbits for the transit to the convoy, we will be launching Vortex units. The Vortex time of-flight is one-sixth of the Mark 58 run, so Cyclops will
coordinate Vortex launches to ensure the missiles hit at time zero, with a boomerang trajectory on the east side of the convoy track so that the Vortex units will not home on the Mark 58s or interfere with the Mark 58 sonar searches.
“Because of the large weapon inventory being launched, the first-fired weapons will be orbiting for some time, which means they will be low on fuel, which means that at time zero the battle group will be much closer to us than if we were launching a single torpedo. The range to the closest unit at time zero will be inside ten thousand yards owing to this reduced torpedo range and to the speed of the incoming battle group This is damned close, and it is possible that we could be counter detected by a streamed towed array or by a dipping sonar of an ASW chopper, probably not from a detect on the ship, people, but on the launched weapons. For this reason, we will slowly, stealthily drive away from our launching position as soon as the last weapon is released. We will clear datum to the east, proceed fifteen miles, then turn north to perform a battle damage assessment. Everyone clear on the tactical plan?”
“Coordinator, aye, sir,” Phillips said.
“Pos one, clear, sir.”
“Pos two.”
“Pos three.”
“Geo clear, Captain.”
“Secondary, aye.”
“Weps, aye.”
“Officer of the Deck, aye, Captain.”
“Sonar Supervisor, aye.”
“Very well,” Dixon said as he looked at the faces of the firecontrol party. “Now listen up for our antisubmarine tactics. I expect the Julang to be ten to twenty miles ahead of the convoy. That is fairly unfortunate, because if the convoy is at range five miles at zero time, it means our weapons will be going by the Julang on their run to the targets. The Julang could be alerted either by our weapons or by our launching transients, or both. Our launching time period will end while
Julang is still outside the fifteen-mile range circle, but if he detects on the first weapon, we should expect Chinese torpedoes in the water to come before we complete our last launch. Sonar, this means you’ll need to be searching for the Julang and an incoming salvo of East Wind torpedoes at the same time we’rein the middle of launching, while you’re still keeping an eye on the convoy to make sure he doesn’t zig. You’ll have a very busy watch, Chief. Are you up for it?”
“Captain, Sonar Supervisor, we can do this in our sleep.”
Dixon smiled, as much at the confidence in Chief Hern don’s voice as to show the firecontrol party his own confidence. Perhaps the biggest indicator to the crew of the status of the battle was the expression on the captain’s face, which made command at sea that much harder—he had to act like he was winning, even in defeat, or he would lose the crew.
“Captain, Cyclops,” the computer said. “Incoming battle group at range six four nautical miles from own ship, bearing zero zero six, course one eight five, speed thirty-five knots.”
The previously pulsing diamond became a solid bloodred color, no longer flashing.
“Sonar, Captain, any detection at bearing zero zero six?”
“Conn, Sonar, no.”
“Torpedo Room, Captain,” Dixon said. “Report status.”
“Tubes one through four selected to auto for turnover to Cyclops, Captain,” the torpedo chief reported. “Rack loading system selected to auto, all systems nominal.”
“Conn, Sonar, new broadband and narrowband sonar contact, multiple surface contacts merged to a single bearing, designated Sierra nine five, bearing zero zero four, probable surface convoy,” Chief Herndon’s raspy voice reported in Dixon’s ear. He looked over at the window where Herndon’s bony face was pictured, the chief’s expression a frowning mask of concentration.
“Very well, Sonar,” Dixon said. “Designate Sierra nine five as Master One, Red Chinese Battlegroup One.”
“Master One, Conn, Sonar, aye.”
“Coordinator,” Dixon said to XO Donna Phillips, whose
battle station was the firecontrol coordinator, “we’re on a launch hold until you can classify the high-value targets and achieve torpedo bearing separation.”
“Coordinator, aye, Captain, we’re correlating Predator and sonar data now.”
Dixon waited impatiently. He couldn’t just put out a baker’s dozen of Mark 58 torpedoes down the bearing line to the convoy —he could, but they would all make their way to the loudest or biggest target. He’d end up putting thirteen plasma warheads on one aircraft carrier, and all the antisubmarine warfare destroyers would survive and hunt the shooter down. The only way Dixon could launch his salvo would be to discriminate between the targets, to determine the location of each ship not just now, but thirty minutes in the future, with respect to the other ships of the convoy. The Predator data and sonar data would be fed into Cyclops, and the computer would determine the location of each of the target heavies, and relay that data to the firecontrol virtual display and to the memory of each of the torpedoes. Once that was done, the torpedoes would not interfere with each other or gang up on a single target, which was a beautiful thing, but took valuable time. Dixon tapped his Academy ring on the stainless-steel handrail surrounding the conn, until finally Phillips had the answer.
“Captain, Coordinator, target discrimination and assignment complete. The nineteen priority heavies are load
ed into the battle space We have a firing solution.”
The display suddenly changed. Instead of a single pulsating diamond, a multitude of diamonds appeared, each with a different symbol. There was the aircraft carrier, the ASW destroyers, the missile cruisers, the heavy battle cruiser the frigates, and the fleet oilers. There had to be two dozen combatants, but the most dangerous nineteen had been identified in bright red, the untargeted stragglers becoming a dull rust color. Hopefully, those ships would turn north to assemble with Battlegroup Two, or lose heart and head home. If they were foolish enough to try to search for the shooting submarine, they would not succeed, and would soon grow discouraged. There were more torpedoes in case one of the untargeted carried a dipping sonar, but odds were the survivors would be far out matched, and they carried no cruise missiles to endanger India in any case.
“Firing point procedures,” Dixon announced. “High value heavies one through nineteen, time-on-target attack, torpedo salvo with tubes one through four with reloads to fire units one through thirteen, Vortex battery firing missiles one through four, and Javelin ship killer cruise missiles last, units one and two.”
“Ship ready,” Kingman reported.
“Weapons ready,” Lieutenant Commander Jay Taussig, the weapons officer, reported.
“Solution ready,” Phillips snapped.
“Cyclops ready,” the computer said in its calm voice.
“Cyclops, take charge of the torpedo room, all tubes and all weapons, and shoot on programmed bearing,” Dixon barked. He had never given this order other than in exercises, and inside the firecontrol gloves, his hands shook. “Take charge of the torpedo room, all tubes and all weapons, and shoot on programmed bearing, Cyclops, aye,” the computer replied, the system’s cadence now faster, sounding almost excited—a recent improvement to the software since the computer’s calmness during a casualty or a battle situation was out of context and irritating. “All systems nominal at launch minus sixty seconds.”
There was nothing to do but wait, Dixon thought.
“Launch minus thirty seconds, Captain,” Cyclops said rapidly. “Water round torpedo tank air ram bottle pressurizing. Air ram bottle fully pressurized. Units one and two on internal power. Units one and two, firecontrol solution locked in. Launch minus ten seconds.”
Dixon bit his lip. This was the point of no return.
“Units one and two solution set,” Cyclops announced. “Unit one standby. Unit one—shoot. Unit one—fire.”
A burst of sound punched Dixon in the eardrums and the deck shook, the sensation coming not directly from the torpedo launch but from the violence of venting inboard the air ram that pressurized the water round torpedo tanks, the interior of the ship jumping from the high-pressure air. “Conn, Sonar, first fired unit, normal launch.” “Unit two standby,” Cyclops continued. “Unit two—shoot. Unit two–fire.”
The helmet seemed to detonate a second time as the second torpedo was launched.
“Conn, Sonar, second fired unit, normal launch.” “Cutting wires to units one and two,” Cyclops said. “Outer doors one and two shutting. Outer doors tubes one and two shut. Draining one and two. Opening outer doors tubes three and four. Outer doors tubes three and four open. Units three and four on internal power. Units three and four, solution locked in. Unit three standby. Unit three—shoot. Unit three-fire”
Another tube launch transient smashed Dixon’s ears, and the sequence continued as Cyclops continued to pump out torpedoes. Dixon waited for the first Vortex tube launch. The three-hundred-knot missiles were so fast that they would be fired last but impact first.
At three in the morning Beijing time, Captain Lien Hua was in his rack in the captain’s stateroom with four blankets and a down comforter covering him. The cabin was comfortable when Lien was awake, but for some reason it always felt cold in the night, perhaps his reaction to missing his wife. And more nights than not, the twins liked to sneak into their parents’ bed, and Lien typically went to sleep wrapped around the warm body of his wife, but in the morning found himself separated from her by two snoring five-year-olds, and he would awaken in happiness. Here, while he enjoyed command at sea, he hated going to sleep and hated waking up in the narrow bunk even more.
Usually Lien was a light sleeper at sea. A tap at his door, a noise from the ship, the soft buzz of his phone to the control room, or a change in the flow from the air handler would make
him sit bolt upright, alert and on edge. Sometime during the night, he was inevitably awakened by a noise, and he would get up and walk the ship, usually not more than ten minutes. Once he assured himself that all was normal, he could return to a light sleep before the morning meal. But tonight he slept more deeply than he could remember. At four bells of the mid watch the messenger had knocked quietly, and he did not react, the knock coming louder. Lien woke to the man standing over his bunk holding a clipboard of the radio messages. He forced himself to sit up, turn on the reading light, and scan the pages, initialing each one, then doused the light and collapsed back into a deep sleep.
On the upper-level deck, First Officer Zhou Ping sat in the captain’s chair on the command deck of the command post. The command post was a brightly lit room with a white tile floor, a collection of yellow-painted consoles with broad sloping lap sections. The port and starboard walls were not straight, but horseshoe-shaped consoles with four wheeled chairs in front of each. The port side was a ship control sector —the control panels that ran the ship wide systems, such as high-pressure air, ballast tank vents, the trim system, the drain pump and bilge tanks, the sanitary tanks, and the forward electrical systems. The starboard panels were the tactical units, starting with the forward weapons control panel, then four combined sensor and tactical control panels, where the data from sonar could be displayed on an upper screen while the lower screens displayed the Second Captain computer system’s calculations of the whereabouts of the enemy. The two horseshoe consoles joined at the forward wall of the room at the wide single console of the helmsman’s station, which looked like a fighter plane’s cockpit with a stick and rudder pedals, an engine order telegraph, and several computer screens. In the center of the space, elevated by twenty centimeters, the periscope stand and captain’s console were surrounded by stainless-steel handrails, the area known as the command deck. The room was quiet and loud at the same time—the sound of the air vents a low-pitched roar, the four hundred-cycle computer systems and the gyro a high-pitched whine.
During the mid watch Zhou was accompanied by the helm officer at the helm console, a ship control officer at the port console, and a tactical systems watch officer at the starboard console. The other seats were empty, the chairs prevented from rolling around the room by a floor lock. The room seemed much too bright, suddenly. Zhou ordered the room lights switched to red, which was his usual mid watch preference, but sometimes it made him feel drowsy and he would fight the sensation with the room lit more brightly. In the red light, he felt more relaxed. He took out the pack of cigarettes, a popular White Chinese brand, and stared at it, telling himself he had to quit. But not this watch. He put one in his mouth and brought the flame to the tip, the smoke making him feel more alert. He exhaled and glanced at the sonar display on the command console, flipping screens from the broadband to the narrowband processors to the acoustic daylight imaging.
The sea behind them, to the north, was full of the angry thrashing screws of the task force. But other than the sonar traces from the convoy, the sea was empty. Of course, at the convoy transit speed of thirty-five knots, the flow noise of the water over the hull and the increased machinery noise from running at fifty percent reactor power would make detecting an unseen submarine in the sea impossible. The signal from such an adversary would be faint, the noise level high, and the signal-to-noise level below the minimum threshold for detection. It was insane driving ahead of the convoy like this, matching their speed, it made them deaf. There was an alternative —a gallop-and-walk tactic, which would allow them to slow to a
five-knot sonar search speed to clear the seaway, then speed up to a greater velocity than the surface force to avoid being run over by them.
Except to average thirty-five knots, if he lingered at five knots for even ten minutes, his gallop speed would have to be forty-one knots, which would be a sonar search disaster, since any speed over thirty-nine knots required the reactor to be
shifted to forced circulation. The intricacies of the reactor were not Zhou’s concern, since that was the domain of the comrade chief engineer, Leader Dou Ling, a stubborn grime covered bastard who acted as if he were in command of the Nung Yahtsu. But Zhou did know that rigging for forced circulation meant starting four reactor coolant pumps, each the size of a small truck, and the noise from the pumps was the loudest noise the ship could make. Not only would that risk detection by a Western submarine, it would make sonar reception completely impossible, and signal-to-noise ratio would crash. But then, the ten minutes would be worth it to allow the narrowband processors to check out the sea for a contact.
Zhou shook his head, knowing that the narrowband sonar processors were a gift and a curse in one package. They would require far more than ten minutes to integrate the sonar data from a small slice of ocean just ahead of them, the discrimination circuits requiring more like eighteen minutes per slice of ocean. With narrowband taking too long to be useful, a gallop and-walk could only use the broadband sonar, and in truth, a few minutes of reduced ambient and own-ship noise would be a beneficial thing for the broadband sonar. Accordingly, Captain Lien had ordered a five-minute drift at five knots for every hour, the remaining fifty-five minutes spent at thirty eight knots to allow the ship to average thirty-five knots. The next drift period had arrived at the top of the hour as the chronometer needle on the beautiful instrument Lien had donated to the ship came to twelve of three o’clock.
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