by Jeff Edwards
“It’s a risk, sir,” Chief McPherson said, “but a calculated risk. Once they make it out of the straits and into the gulf, it’s going to be a hell of a lot harder to find them. They’ll have a lot more room to maneuver, and a lot more places to hide. Our best chance is to bottle them up before they get out of the straits, and they know that as well as we do. They’ve got to be expecting us to try for a choke point at the northern end of the straits.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Ensign Cooper said. “But what’s to stop them from running the choke point at high noon?”
“Sub skippers don’t like to attack when visibility is good,” the chief said. “It’s too easy for a lookout to spot a periscope, or for an aircraft to see the silhouette of the sub’s hull through the water. Given the choice, a submarine commander will either attack after dark, or as close to sunrise or sunset as he can get. The human eye has trouble picking out detail under changing light conditions.”
Ensign Cooper nodded. “They hit the Brits after dark, and they hit us after dark. When did they hit the Kitty Hawk?”
“Just as the sun was coming up,” the executive officer said.
“So they’ll probably try to run the choke point after the sun goes down?” the ensign asked.
“That’s what we’re hoping, sir,” the chief said. “As I said, it’s a calculated risk. If they decide to crash the party early, we shoot about a dozen ASROCs in their general direction to keep their heads down, and we run like hell.”
“Fair enough,” the ensign said.
The Combat Systems Officer looked thoughtful. “We should lay a sonobuoy barrier to the south,” she said. “Passive buoys only, so the subs won’t be able to detect them. The subs will have to pass through the barrier to transit the straits, and we’ll see them coming.”
“We’d need to launch a helo to monitor the buoys,” the XO said.
The captain shook his head. “Negative. No helos. The Germans have displayed an excellent ability to localize low-flying aircraft from the sound of their rotors. I don’t want to take a chance at tipping our hand. One sniff of a helo and those subs will be alerted.”
“What if we don’t launch it?” the Operations Officer asked. “If we’re in the mood to be tricky, why don’t we leave the helo on deck, lights out, and rotors not turning? The flight crew can sit in the helo and monitor the buoys in the dark, right from the flight deck. If they keep their engines spun up for a rapid launch, they could still be at Ready-Five.”
“Yeah,” said the CHENG, “but they’ll be burning fuel the whole time they sit there. What if we have to launch, and the helo’s nearly out of gas?”
“We could hot-pump the helo,” Ensign Cooper said. Hot-pumping was a method of refueling helicopters on deck, with their engines running and their rotors still turning. It was a technique most often used when a helo needed to land, take on fuel, and get back into the air as quickly as possible. “The rotors are usually spinning when we hot-pump a helo,” he said, “but there’s no reason that they have to be.”
“Good point,” the captain said. “We’ll keep their tanks topped off constantly. If we do have to launch, they’ll have a full bag of fuel.”
* * *
The discussion continued for another fifteen minutes before it became clear that they were rehashing the same ideas. The captain looked around the table. “Anybody see any good reasons why this plan won’t work?”
No one said a word.
“Does anyone have a better idea, or a refinement that we haven’t discussed?”
Again, no one had anything to say.
The captain stood up. “All right, then. I’ll run through this with the COs of Benfold and Ingraham, and give them a chance to poke holes in it. But unless one of them thinks of something that we missed entirely, this is the plan we run with.”
CHAPTER 37
USS INGRAHAM (FFG-61)
NORTHERN STRAITS OF HORMUZ
SUNDAY; 20 MAY
1844 hours (6:44 PM)
TIME ZONE +4 ‘DELTA’
Auxiliary Machinery Room #3 was a labyrinth of piping, pumps, relay panels, and electrical junction boxes. The compartment was home to several critical engineering systems, including high- and low-pressure air compressors, the fresh-water distillers of the potable water system, and #4 and #5 fire pumps. But through the center of the maze ran the most important piece of equipment in the compartment: the propeller shaft, known to the engineering crew who maintained it as simply the shaft.
Over two feet in diameter, the huge steel shaft performed much the same function as the drive shaft on a car, only instead of carrying power from the transmission to the rear axle, this shaft carried power from the ship’s main reduction gears to the screw that drove the ship through the water.
Gas Turbine System Technician–Mechanical Third Class Michael Carpenter laid his hand against the housing for the line shaft bearing that supported the shaft. He could feel the throbbing vibration of the huge propeller, right through the thick steel housing of the bearing’s oil sump. Of all the spaces on the ship, this was where you could feel the power of the turbines the best. You could hear it better in the Main Engine Room, where even the acoustic enclosures could not eliminate the jet engine scream of the twin General Electric LM-2500 gas turbines. But you could feel it better here, in AMR #3.
Standing in the bilge next to the line shaft bearing, with only about a half-inch of steel hull plating between his feet and the ocean, Carpenter could feel the hiss and rumble of the water as it passed under the hull. Just a few yards aft of where he was standing, the tremendous bronze screw churned the water into froth as it drove the ship forward.
The sample valve was located on the bottom of the oil sump. Carpenter unclipped the locking arm from the hand wheel of the sample valve and pulled a glass sample bottle from the left hip pocket of his coveralls. As Engineering Messenger of the Watch, part of his job was to take regular oil samples from key pieces of engineering equipment. The oil lab, which operated twenty-four hours a day, would test the samples for seawater, metal filings, dirt, or other contamination that could degrade the lubricating property of the oil. Carpenter opened the valve a crack and waited as the dark amber liquid began to ooze into his sample bottle. Hot oil-scented air surged up from the open valve, the signature aroma of heavy machinery at work.
Something flew past his head and ricocheted off the bearing housing. It startled him, and he jerked away involuntarily. The object fell into the bilge. It was a balled up piece of paper.
Carpenter turned in time to dodge a second paper projectile that was also aimed at his head. Standing a few feet away was Seaman Wayne Harris, a general wise-ass and Carpenter’s best friend.
Harris grinned, showing his mulish front teeth. “Hey shit-for-brains, let’s go up to the starboard break and smoke a ciggy-butt.” His voice was loud. It had to be to carry over the sounds of the machinery.
“I’ve got to get this oil sample up to the lab,” Carpenter said.
“So get a move on,” Harris said. “We can swing by the lab on the way up.”
Carpenter checked the oil level in the sample bottle out of the corner of his eye, not willing to turn his back entirely on Harris, who was a bit of a prankster. The bottle was about two-thirds full. “What’s the rush?”
“Your Hot-a-malan girlfriend is up there taking a smoke break. She usually likes to smoke two, so she doesn’t feel like she wasted the trip. If we hurry, we can catch her.”
Gitana Delgado was Guatemalan, not Hot-a-malan, as Harris insisted on calling her. And she wasn’t Carpenter’s girlfriend. Not that he would have minded …
It struck Carpenter for about the thousandth time how lucky Harris was that Gitana Delgado didn’t take his nickname for her personally. With a word or two in the right direction, she could have nailed him for sexual harassment, or maybe even racial discrimination. The Navy didn’t play games with either one of those subjects. If you had opinions on someone’s gender or ethnic back
ground, you had damned well better keep them to yourself. Gitana could get Harris into serious trouble if she wanted to. Carpenter smiled. For that matter, she could probably kick Harris’s ass. Gitana spent a lot of time in the gym, and everybody knew that Harris’s most developed muscle was his mouth.
Carpenter looked around suddenly, as he felt the hot oil flow over his fingers. Damn. He had overfilled the bottle. He shut the valve quickly and tried to get the lid on the sample bottle without spilling any more than he had to. As soon as the lid was on tight, he pulled a rag from his back pocket and wiped the bottle down. He slid the bottle into his hip pocket and surveyed the mess. He hadn’t spilled much. Just a few ounces. Nothing major.
He flipped down the locking arm and pinned the sample valve in the locked position. That done, he knelt down and used his rag to mop up the tiny puddle of oil in the bilge. There. No harm done.
He looked up at Harris. “All right, I’m done. We have to make a quick stop by the lab, and I have to tell the Engineer of the Watch that I’m taking a quick smoke break.”
“Stop dragging ass,” Harris said. “My lungs are overdosing on oxygen.”
Carpenter bumped into Harris on purpose as he walked toward the ladder. “Sorry. Excuse me. Pardon me. Coming through.”
Harris followed him. “Shithead!” A few seconds later, the watertight door closed behind him with a bang.
* * *
Down in the bilge beneath the line shaft bearing, a fresh spot of oil appeared on the steel deck. After a second or two, it was joined by another one. And then another. The sample valve on the bottom of the oil sump was locked in its current position. It was nearly closed, but the disk was not completely sealed against the seat. The drip became a trickle.
CHAPTER 38
USS TOWERS (DDG-103)
NORTHERN STRAITS OF HORMUZ
SUNDAY; 20 MAY
2115 hours (9:15 PM)
TIME ZONE +4 ‘DELTA’
Chief McPherson swirled the last bit of coffee around the bottom of her cup and glared at the dark liquid with accusatory eyes. She knew the coffee was cold, and she could see the grounds in it. She thought for a second about getting a fresh cup, but she would be going off watch in about a half hour, and she didn’t want the caffeine kicking in just when she was trying to catch a few winks. Not that she’d sleep for long anyway. She’d be back in CIC in an hour or two. She was having a hard time staying away, even when she wasn’t on watch. In fact, she probably wouldn’t hit her rack at all. Maybe she’d just catch a catnap in a chair at one of the unused consoles.
She was very careful not to actually do the math in her head. Because, when she did, she’d have to admit to herself that she had been awake for two days and counting. The logical part of her mind knew that dedication and willpower only went so far. Her energy reserves were running low, and she’d have to put in some major sack time in the not-too-distant future. But she was all right for now. Or, rather, she would be after a little nap.
She looked up at the big red digits on the CIC battle clock. She and the sonar watch teams were due for turnover at 2145—in a little less than thirty minutes—and that nap was starting to look better all the time. With any luck, the subs wouldn’t show up during the watch turnover, the way they had the last time.
She slurped the last swallow of coffee and made a face when the cold, sludge like liquid hit her taste buds. She was in the process of picking stray grounds off the tip of her tongue when it hit her. She stared dumbly at the CDRT for several seconds with her tongue still sticking out. Last time, the subs had struck during the watch turnover. But what about the time before that?
Her tongue retreated into her mouth. She punched keys on the CDRT, calling up a history of encounters with the German submarines. The data she was looking for came up quickly. The subs had tangled with the Antietam SAU at 2152, right in the middle of watch relief for the 2200–0200 watch. The day before, in the Gulf of Aden, they’d nailed the Kitty Hawk strike group at 0647, during the turnover for the 0700–1200 watch.
The pattern fell apart when she looked at the attack on the British ships in the Straits of Gibraltar. That one had taken place at 0348, and the Brits wouldn’t have been turning over the watch then.
Or maybe they had been …
In the late 1990s, in response to reduced manning, the U.S. Navy had shifted from six watches a day to five. Instead of the traditional rotation, with six four-hour watches per day, the Navy now ran a five-section rotation, with four five-hour watches and one four-hour watch—the 2200–0200.
What if the Brits were still running an old-style six-watch rotation? That would put the Gibraltar Straits attack, which had occurred at 0348 hours, right in the middle of the 0400–0800 watch turnover!
The chief stared at the list of attacks on the CDRT and shook her head slowly. “Every time,” she said softly. “You crafty bastards hit us during watch turnover every single time. Right when we were at our most disorganized. And you were even smart enough to account for the differences between our watch rotation and the British rotation.”
She glanced up at the battle clock above the Aegis display screens again. The large red digits read 21:22. The early birds would start trickling in about ten minutes from now, but the majority of the reliefs would show up at about 2140. She keyed her mike. “TAO—USWE, I think I know when the subs are planning to attack, sir.”
The Tactical Action Officer on watch was Lieutenant Nylander, the Operations Officer. His voice sounded as tired as Chief McPherson felt. “USWE—TAO. Practicing a little black magic over there, Chief?”
“No, sir. Just your run-of-the-mill crystal ball. And if you’ll step over here to the CDRT, I’ll show it to you.”
“On my way,” the TAO said.
* * *
Two minutes later, he keyed his mike. “Bridge—TAO. Call away GQ.”
“TAO—Bridge. Say again?”
“Bridge—TAO. Call away General Quarters. Do it now! We’re about to be attacked. I’ll give you the details in a minute.”
“Bridge, aye!”
The raucous growl of the General Quarters alarm began to blare from every 1-MC speaker on the ship. After a few seconds, the alarm was replaced by the amplified voice of the Officer of the Deck, “General Quarters, General Quarters. All hands man your battle stations. Set Material Condition Zebra throughout the ship.”
The alarm and announcement were repeated, and as soon as the speakers fell silent, the TAO keyed into Navy Red. “All units, this is SAU Commander. Post-mission analysis of every encounter with the hostile submarines shows that the Germans have attacked during scheduled watch turnovers on every single occasion. I say again—the Germans have shown a preference for attacking during scheduled watch turnover. Recommend all units set General Quarters and prepare for USW action, over.”
The ship’s standard for manning battle stations and setting material condition Zebra (all watertight doors and hatches closed) was seven minutes. It was just a few minutes before taps, and a goodly portion of the crew would be asleep already. They’d be lucky to do it in twelve or fifteen minutes. The TAO decided to try to speed things up by getting the crew’s attention. He keyed into the 1-MC and spoke to the entire ship. “This is the Tactical Action Officer. We have reason to believe that the ship will be attacked by hostile submarines within the next ten to fifteen minutes. This is the real thing, people. Get to your stations now! The safety of this ship depends on it.”
* * *
The XO made it to CIC in about two minutes, followed by the captain about three seconds later. They were both still zipping coveralls and tying shoes as they gathered at the CDRT. The XO rubbed his left eye. “What have you got, Brian?”
The TAO nodded toward Chief McPherson. “Chief? It was your idea, you tell them.”
Chief McPherson pointed to the flat screen display. “The Germans always attack during watch turnover, sir.”
The CO ran a hand vigorously over his hair several times. “Are you sure
?”
“Yes, sir,” the chief said. “They’ve done it every single time. With us and with the British Navy.”
Seats were filling all around CIC, as watchstanders in various stages of battle-dress took their stations. Over the 1-MC, the Damage Control Assistant’s voice said, “This is the DCA from CCS. General Quarters time—plus four minutes. All stations expedite setting Zebra.”
The captain looked up at the battle clock. It read 21:31. “Well, Chief, we’ll know if you’re right in the next fifteen minutes or so.”
* * *
CCS reported that all stations were manned with material condition Zebra set at 2135. The TAO nodded. Eight minutes was not bad, considering the circumstances.
* * *
A couple of minutes later, Benfold reported ready for battle, followed by Ingraham a minute or so after that.
* * *
The critical moment, 2145, came and went with no sign of the submarines. By 2155, everyone was stealing glances at the clock. At 2158, Chief McPherson said, “Come on … I know you’re out there …”
Another minute passed. The chief was about to say something when a message came in over Navy Red. “SAU Commander, this is Ingraham. Contact report to follow. Time, twenty-one fifty-nine Zulu. My unit holds passive broadband contact, bearing three-one-five. Initial classification: POSS-SUB, confidence level low, over.”
Chief McPherson looked at the CDRT. “Three-one-five? That’s on the other side of the formation. How in the hell did they slip past us?”
The TAO keyed up Navy Red. “SAU Commander, aye. Your contact designated Gremlin Zero One. My unit standing by to launch Firewalker Two-Six when contact is localized. Request you confirm your Gremlin is northwest of formation, over.”
“SAU Commander, this is Ingraham. Affirmative. Gremlin Zero One is behind the formation and outside the straits. Believe contact has penetrated our barrier. Request permission to break formation to pursue, over.”
“Ingraham, this is SAU Commander. Stand by, over.”
The TAO looked at Captain Bowie. “What do you think, sir? Do we let Ingraham break formation?”