Black Sea Affair

by Don Brown

  Pete was under standing orders to take action against this enemy if its ships and warplanes were observed "engaging in maneuvers that appeared hostile to the West Coast of the United States of America" – General Order 009-001. He was was now faced with the sole responsibility of deciding whether to apply it. If he attacked this armada, he would be the first American commander to execute 009-001.

  But what if he was wrong?

  His predicament shot through his mind like lightning flashing from east to west.

  Down scope! Emergency deep! Six-zero-zero feet! Take her down! Now!"

  At Pete's command, the Chicago dropped through the water like a roller coaster car on Space Mountain. Clipboards, pencils, anything not bolted down was slung across the control room like the steel orb in a pinball machine.

  Pete grabbed the handles on the periscope tube as his men hung on to keep their balances. The diving officer called out depth changes.

  "Five hundred feet, Captain… Passing five-five-zero feet… Approaching six hundred feet… Five-seventy-five, five-nine-zero, six hundred feet, Captain."

  "Very well, " Pete said. "All stop!"

  The freefall drop ended. The Chicago disengaged her propellers. She was now hovering in the water at six hundred feet below the surface. By diving deep, and by temporarily disengaging his propellers, Pete hoped to make his boat "disappear" into a black hole in the ocean, avoiding the passive sonar on board the aircraft carrier and her support ships, all of which could crush Chicago's hull with powerful torpedo depth charges.

  "Nobody flinch."

  Sweat beaded on the foreheads of the men in the control room.

  "Sonar. Conn. I want to know the moment that carrier passes over us."

  "Aye, Captain."

  He looked around at his men on the bridge. Their eyes were locked on him, hanging upon his every physical movement, as if his next words would be divinely inspired.

  Quickly and silently, he prayed for divine inspiration.

  "All right, here's what we're going to do. As soon as that carrier passes over us, we're going to turn the boat around. We're going to raise our depth to one-five-zero feet and get right into her wake. Then we're going to put two MK-48 ADCAP torpedoes right up her can."

  Their eyes widened even more.

  "I don't have to tell you how dangerous this maneuver will be. We're going to pop up inside her escort screen. We'll depend on the noise from her screws churning water to buffer our presence from their passive sonar. But I can't guarantee we won't be detected by one or more of her escort ships. But by then, hopefully it will be too late. As soon as we release our torps, we'll execute another emergency dive, and get the heck out of Dodge."

  "Conn. Sonar. She's passing right over us now, sir."

  "Very well. Right full rudder. Set course zero-nine-zero degrees. All ahead one-third."

  The Chicago swung around, pointing her nose due east, now following the direction of the enemy carrier.

  "Prep torps one and four. Make your depth one-five-zero feet."

  Chicago's nose pointed upward again, and she began climbing through the water.

  "Torps one and four are fully armed and ready, Captain."

  "Very well, " Pete said. "Depth?"

  "Approaching two hundred feet, Captain."

  "Good. Continue to climb. Continue to report."

  "Approaching one-seven-five feet, sir. Approaching one-six-zero.

  Depth now one-five-zero, sir. Ship stabilized."

  "On my mark, be prepared to fire torp one! Range to target?"

  "Range to target, five hundred yards."

  "That's too close to detonate, " Pete said. "Decrease speed to fifteen knots."

  "Aye, Captain."

  "Range now?"

  "Seven-hundred-fifty yards to target, Skipper."

  "Very well, continue to report."

  Another minute passed. "Range now one thousand yards to target and expanding, sir."

  "Very well – fire torp one!"

  "Firing torp one!"

  Swoosh.

  "Torp one in the water, Captain."

  "Fire torp four!"

  "Firing torp four!"

  Swoosh.

  "Torp four is in the water, Captain."

  "Dive! Dive! Emergency deep! Take us to eight hundred feet! Let's get out of here! Now!"

  CHAPTER 2

  United States Naval Base

  Pearl Harbor, Hawaii

  Accepting the salutes from two United States Marines guarding the sun-baked east entrance of the naval base, Pete Miranda pressed the accelerator with his right foot.

  The white Corvette C6 convertible rolled forward two hundred yards to the T-intersection at North Road, where Pete turned right, and then one hundred yards later made a forty-five-degree left on Pierce Street. This was followed by another forty-five-degree, one-hundred-yard left on Nimitz Street, which dead-ended two hundred yards later on Morton Street.

  Because of the short streets on the Pearl Harbor Naval Base, he never could get the 'Vette beyond fifteen miles per hour. Slight frustration crawled across his stomach as he sat at the stop sign at Nimitz and Morton.

  When he wasn't driving a nine-hundred-million-dollar nuclear submarine through the depths of the world's oceans, Commander Pete Miranda was plagued with one incurable landlubber's disease: an addiction to Corvettes.

  His disease was aggravated by the fact that his boat, USS Chicago, was home-ported at a naval base that provided little relief for his addiction. After all, Corvettes were born for speed out on the open interstate. Hawaii's scenic beauty surpassed anything on the mainland, but Oahu's compact size made it difficult to find a place to open up the C6 for any period of time. One could make only so many loops around Interstate H1.

  Pete waited as two U.S. Navy fuel trucks rolled slowly by, then turned right, creeping behind the second truck for the last hundred-yard trek down to the parking lot at COMSUBPAC headquarters.

  Sporting his "ice cream" summer white uniform, with black shoulder boards each bearing the three gold stripes of Navy commander, Pete stepped out of the car, leaving the convertible top down. He grabbed his briefcase from the front seat and walked quickly under the two palm trees flanking the walkway leading to the building's entrance.

  Two white-clad Navy shore patrolmen in Dixie-cup hats came to attention. "Good morning, sir." The SPs saluted.

  Pete returned the salute and stepped into the building, walking under the blue-and-gold sign proclaiming Commander Naval Submarine Forces Pacific, known in the Navy by the acronym COMSUBPAC.

  A quick turn down the hallway to the left brought him to the reception area of Rear Admiral Philip Getman, the two-star flag officer in charge of every American submarine operating in the Pacific Theater.

  A navy lieutenant commander, also in his summer white uniform, sat at the desk. "Commander Miranda for Admiral Getman, " Pete said.

  "If you'll have a seat, sir, I'll let the admiral know you're here, " the aide said.

  Pete sat at the end of the leather sofa farthest from the closed door of the admiral's office. The walls displayed a photographic history of the Navy's submarine force. From a black-and-white photo of the Confederate sub CSS Hundley, to color photos of USS Los Angeles and USS Ohio, for which the Navy's current attack- and boomer-class boats were named, they were all there.

  "Coffee, Commander?"

  "Please."

  When Chicago had arrived back at Pearl from her mission off San Diego yesterday, no celebrations or fanfare greeted her upon arrival. Her mission off the California coast had been top-secret.

  The only significant officer on hand for the arrival was Pete's immediate boss, Submarine Squadron 3 commodore, Captain Ronald "Rocky" Gaylord, who met Pete as he crossed the catwalk from the submarine to the concrete pier. "Welcome home, Pete, " Gaylord had said, slapping him on the back with a knowing nod of approval. "Great job out there."

  "We tried, sir, " Pete had said.

  "Admiral wants you in his o
ffice at zero-ten-hundred tomorrow morning."

  And with that directive from his boss, Pete was now sitting on the leather sofa outside the big kahuna's office, sipping on a cup of coffee that the admiral's aide had just given him.

  Pete expected this meeting. Chicago would probably be commended for its performance off San Diego. Probably a Navy Unit Commendation. As commanding officer, he would also be decorated. Under different circumstances, perhaps a Navy Cross. But the nature of this operation would prevent that.

  Who cared?

  Pete already had a chest full of medals and didn't really care if he got any more. As long as he could drive submarines – and Corvettes – he was a happy camper.

  The door opened. "Morning, Pete, " Admiral Getman said. "Come on in."

  Pete entered the office, greeting the admiral and his boss, Captain Gaylord.

  "Have a seat, " the admiral said, settling back into his own chair. "Pete, I'll cut to the chase." An unexpected seriousness pervaded the admiral's manner. "AIRPAC is upset that you sunk their aircraft carrier."

  Pete suppressed a self-satisfied grin. "I would hope so, sir."

  "No, I'm serious, Pete. Admiral Hopkins" – he was referring to Rear Admiral Joe Hopkins, Commander U.S. Naval Air Forces Pacific, known by the acronym AIRPAC – "wants you reprimanded for what you did."

  Pete gaped. Was this a joke?

  "With all due respect, sir, what's AIRPAC's problem?"

  "Like I said, Pete, you sunk their carrier."

  Pete locked eyes with Captain Gaylord, who looked down at the floor, and looked back at the admiral.

  "Isn't that what submarines are supposed to do, sir? You know our motto. There are two kinds of ships in the Navy. Submarines, and targets."

  "Yes, I know our motto. And in real life that's exactly what you're supposed to do. You were supposed to sink the carrier. But, Pete, this was a war game."

  Pete glanced at Captain Gaylord again. The gray-haired Navy captain was subtly nodding his head, as if agreeing with Pete. "I understand that it was a war game, sir, " Pete said. "And the purpose of the game, as I understand it, was to practice the implementation of General Order 009-001 under realistic conditions. We practiced implementation of the order. We executed the maneuvers that I ordered and frankly, we won. So I ask again, sir, with all due respect, what's AIRPAC's problem?"

  "Look, Pete, here's the problem." Getman leaned forward. "As you know, our submarines war-game against our aircraft carriers all the time. It's the same ole story. You know it. The sub versus the carrier. In these war games – which we try to make as realistic as possible – sometimes the sub wins. Sometimes the carrier wins.

  "Most of our sub commanders bat about.500 in these war games with our carriers. AIRPAC can live with that, because that means that their carrier captains are also winning about half the time. But there's a political problem here. It costs a lot more money to sink an aircraft carrier than to sink a submarine. AIRPAC wants to go to Congress to ask for more money to build these new Gerald R. Ford-class supercarriers to replace the current Nimitz-class ships.

  "Congressional critics say that the carriers are way too expensive. You know the argument – too vulnerable to being sunk by a submarine. Frankly, I agree. I'd rather have a hundred new Virginia-class attack subs than one new supercarrier."

  Pete nodded his head in agreement.

  "But AIRPAC's problem is that these liberal congressmen want to know war-games statistics as ammunition to argue against carrier spending. It's politics, Pete. The problem with you, Commander, is that you don't lose."

  Pete shook his head and took a sip of the coffee, which was as disappointing as the direction of this conversation. "What am I supposed to do, sir? Let the carrier win?"

  Getman pulled open his drawer and extracted a six-inch, hand-wrapped Dominican cigar. "Gentlemen, care for a smoke?" Though federal regulations prohibited smoking in government buildings, Getman smoked his stogies whenever and wherever he pleased.

  "No, thank you, sir, " Pete said. Captain Gaylord likewise declined.

  "See, Pete, here's the problem, " Getman said, lighting the stogie and drawing from it, then releasing a concentric smoke ring which wafted to the ceiling, "AIRPAC says you cheat."

  "Sir?"

  "Look, I didn't say you cheat. Admiral Hopkins at AIRPAC did." Another smoke ring. "Politics, my boy. You pop up behind USS Carl Vinson, playing the role of an enemy aircraft carrier, launch your torps before they know you're there, and the skipper of the Vinson, who just so happens to be under consideration for flag rank, by the way, gets embarrassed.

  "If fact, he's double embarrassed because it's not the first time you've done it to him. On top of that, neither he nor his escort ships can find you or sink you as you slither off into the deep. Can't be his fault, can it?" A rhetorical smoke ring followed the question.

  Pete watched the smoke ring vaporize into the twirling ceiling fan. "May I ask just how AIRPAC claims I cheated, sir?"

  "They claim you violated the rules of engagement by not simulating realistic combat conditions."

  "Sir?"

  "You popped up on the carrier's tail and chapped his rear with your torps at point-blank range."

  "Yes, sir, we did. So what? They neither caught us, nor spotted us, nor sank us."

  It appeared for a second that the admiral wanted to grin. Instead, he remained poker-faced. "AIRPAC says in real life it's unrealistic that you'd pop up right in the middle of a carrier battle group for a point-blank shot at a carrier like that. They claim that would be a suicide maneuver that would not be tried if we were using live fire, and that you only took the risk because you wanted to pad your war-game statistics."

  Pete wanted to sling his lukewarm coffee across the room. "Sir, that's ridiculous. I'd remind the admiral of the premise of the exercise, of which the carrier and their escort vessels were aware. We were simulating conditions under which I, or any other Navy commander in the area for that matter, would decide how to implement General Order 009-001.

  "Vinson was playing the role of an enemy carrier with its stated objective under the rules to get within range and launch a hypothetical nuclear strike against San Diego using below-the-horizon, smart-guided missiles launched from low-flying planes.

  "Under that scenario, sir, I did in fact take a risky maneuver. But before I did, I considered and calculated the danger to my sub and my crew. I also considered the incalculable devastation that would be rained on America if I did not act. If this had been a live-fire exercise against a real enemy, Admiral, I would've done the same thing."

  Admiral Getman laid the stogie in an ashtray. "I believe you, Pete. My problem now is that AIRPAC demands I formally reprimand you for violating the rules of engagement."

  "Reprimand me? Sir, that would end my career as a naval officer."

  "Don't worry, Pete. As much as it might actually help your reputation in the sub community if I reprimanded you for chapping a carrier's backside in a war game, I'd only do so if PACCOM or somebody higher up the chain tells me to. I don't think that'll happen." Getman was now chomping on the cigar, which had gone out. "I am, however, going to ask that you consider voluntarily stepping down as commanding officer of the Chicago."

  Pete's stomach sank. "Relinquish my command? Sir, I'd rather you reprimand me."

  "Pete, I'm not telling you to step down from command of Chicago. But we've got something else in mind. It's a mission calling for volunteers. It's highly dangerous, and you're the only sub driver in the Navy that could pull this off. If you say no, that's fine. You can finish your tour as skipper of Chicago and your career will not be affected.

  "The objective for this mission has been signed off on by the president, but even he doesn't know how we're planning to try and carry out his order. Not yet anyway. If you say no, no one will ever know about this mission, and especially not any future promotion boards when you're up for captain."

  Pete sat for a moment. "Sir, I'll do anything my country needs me to d
o, and anything for the Navy. Whatever it is, I'm in."

  Getman smiled. Finally. "Pete, you've got two kids back in Virginia. Why don't you let us brief you on this mission first?" He nodded to Captain Gaylord. "Rockie?"

  "Yes, sir, Admiral." Captain Gaylord stood and unrolled a poster-sized color photograph of an ocean-going freighter. Pete noticed that the freighter in the picture was flying a Russian flag off its stern."This, Commander, " Gaylord began, "is the Russian freighter Alexander Pop-ovich. I'm showing you this photo because this freighter, and a number of others like it, is becoming an increasing threat to Western security."

  "Maritime terrorism threat?" Pete asked.

  "Not only a threat, but this particular freighter now has a track record of selling out to terrorists."

  "How's that, sir?"

  "U.S. intelligence has shown that the skipper of this vessel, a Russian national, has taken a ton of money from the Islamic terrorist organization, the Council of Ishmael, to use his ship for the furtherance of terrorist activities.

  "The Russian captain has Caribbean bank accounts where he's parked this money. Most recently, this ship was used to transport a kidnapped hostage through the high seas, where she was eventually transported to a terrorist camp in the Gobi Desert in Mongolia. Remember the name Jeanette L'Enfant?"

  Pete raised his eyebrow. The name sounded familiar. "Wasn't she the one who was held hostage with Lieutenant Commander Colcernian?"

  "Bingo. One and the same. And we've just tracked another sizable deposit from the Council of Ishmael to this skipper's Caribbean account. Our intelligence believes this is another down payment for a job they're asking him to do. We don't know what, where, or why. But there's no telling what else this skipper might try unless he's stopped."

  Pete mulled that for a second. "What can I do to help?"

  "The president wants to sink that freighter. He wants him put out of the game permanently."

  "That shouldn't be a problem, " Pete said. "It's just a freighter. An unarmed freighter against a sub – no contest. Nazi U-boats proved that with their attacks on allied commercial shipping in World War II."