Carrier 13 - Brink of War

by Keith Douglass

  I studied the display of slanting lines and swirls in front of him, not trying to pretend that I understood every bit of data. I didn't--not really. Translating the details of a lofargram was an arcane science that my enlisted technicians spent years learning to do.

  "How close is she?" I asked.

  "Not far," Wilson supplied. He pointed at a narrow white space between two contact positions. "I make it less than five miles. And closing."

  "And it's not a Russian--it is one of ours." The watch officer looked away.

  "We don't ..." I stopped, suddenly realizing what the uneasy evasion I'd gotten from the admiral meant. We did have submarines in the area.

  And only he knew about it.

  For a moment, my temper flared. What was the use of having an intelligence officer if the intelligence officer didn't even know the locations of our own ships? Sure, I understood security--there might have been very good reasons to tell Batman about our submarine and not me.

  Intellectually, I could understand that. Nevertheless, it pissed me off.

  "Shit," Wilson said softly. He had an ear cocked in the direction of the loudspeakers mounted on the forward bulkhead. "And that's not all."

  The noise of the radio circuit speakers is so much of a part of life onboard the ship that you tend to tune them out, focusing only on what you need to know right then. Absorbed in the question of what the hell a U.S. submarine was doing in the area, I had not been paying attention to the USW control circuit.

  Hunter 701's TACCO was screaming bloody murder. His sensors were showing three new submarines within fifteen miles of the carrier. They were all making flank speed, headed directly for us and the datum of the U.S. submarine we had just located.

  I picked up the internal telephone system to call CAG. The title CAG is actually a misnomer. When aircraft first started going onboard ships, the man in charge of all the squadrons was called commander, air group. In modern naval aviation, the correct title is commander of the air wing.

  However, since those initials spelled out CAW, it's unlikely to ever catch on as the acronym.

  The CAG is always a senior Navy captain, an aviator by trade. He owns all the aircraft assigned to the carrier. In conjunction with the ship's captain, also a senior naval aviator, he provides the aircraft and mission scheduling necessary to fulfill the carrier battle group commander's wishes--in this case, Admiral Wayne. The aircraft carrier's captain owns the repair facilities, the deck space, and the support crew that runs the flight deck. The CAG owns the squadrons themselves.

  "Tell the officer of the deck to come around," I added. The OOD would be responsible for maneuvering the aircraft carrier in order to generate wind across the deck. With this many submarines in the water, the admiral was going to want wall-to-wall S-3B and helo operations in progress until we sorted out the good guys from the bad guys.

  I could hear the announcement now, coming out of the 1MC, the ship's general announcing system. Then the feet pounding down the decks as sailors and officers scrambled for their assigned positions. Within a couple of minutes, I knew, the control tower looming ten decks above the water level would be fully manned.

  Getting additional aircraft and helicopters in the air was the ship's problem. Mine ran a good deal deeper than that. I left CVIC and headed down the passageway to see Admiral Wayne.

  I found the admiral in his flag plot, studying the large-screen display that dominated the forward part of the room and conferring with his tactical action officer. The cause for their concern was clear--symbols indicating hostile submarines and subsurface contacts cluttered the large blue display. Another symbol, labeled Hunter 701, was orbiting overhead.

  I could hear the engines of more aircraft spiraling up above as the ship launched more USW aircraft.

  "My people say one of those is ours," I said. I studied the display for a moment, trying to determine which one it was. I had the uneasy feeling that it was the one in the center of the pack, and not the submarine closest to us.

  There's no money to be made in expressing your annoyance to your admiral. It's called a collar count--the one with the most weight wins.

  Always. No matter how right I might be, how justified in the civilian world in being annoyed, this was one battle I would always lose.

  But an experienced officer knows how to express his displeasure without being disrespectful. It's all in keeping your voice carefully neutral while letting the words convey the difficulty of fulfilling one's duties when operating under less than full information. I knew Batman would get it--he's been playing this game far longer than I have.

  "Looks like one of ours," I said. Batman would know I was thinking about our earlier conversation, the one in which he'd assured me there were no U.S. submarines accompanying us.

  He got it--I could tell immediately from the look on his face--a slight stiffening of his cheeks and the twitch of the corner of his mouth.

  But still, he said nothing.

  I took a step closer, and lowered my voice. "What do you want me to tell SUBLANT--if anything?" I was referring to the top secret circuits, cleared for the most sensitive information around, that I had access to in CVIC.

  "Nothing--for now," the admiral answered quietly. "Anything we know, they know."

  "Including the fact that their submarine may be in trouble?" I asked.

  I pointed at the large-screen display. "I don't think she was counting on that much company."

  Batman shook his head, his face still impassive. "They knew what to expect, coming up here. We'll give them what support we can, maybe try to scare the little bastards off. But nothing overt, nothing that can be interpreted as a hostile act." He turned to face me now, and I saw the concern in his eyes. "There's too much at stake, Lab Rat. Too much, right now." "What do you mean, too much at stake?" I asked. "We're on a friendship mission, a cultural exchange military style, if you will. Isn't that right?"

  And again, the admiral shook his head. "That, yes. But there's more to it than that." A brief, wintry smile crossed his face. "You've already found out I'm not telling you everything. Let's just leave it at that, shall we?"

  In between the admiral's comments I could hear the questions, orders, and concerns of the Hunter 701 pilot coming across tactical.

  "She's going deep, she's going deep. Put another two sonobuoys on her. We can't lose her now, not while ..."

  "But what does that mean, Admiral?" I pressed. "Just how deep are we in this?" "Deep enough," the admiral said. His eyes were fixed on the speaker.

  Admiral Wayne was a Tomcat pilot. He had been one for twenty years, flying wing-to-wing with Tombstone Magruder for more tours than I cared to think about. We knew a fair amount about USW--most admirals do--but it certainly wasn't his speciality. Watching him now, I could almost see his mind mapping out the possibilities, tracing the actions and tactics of the Viking pilot against the submarines.

  Where the hell are those other Vikings? Jesus, we have more than we can handle in here! TAO, what the hell is-?"

  "She can't go that deep," the admiral said, almost to himself. "It won't make that much difference--not here. The Russians know that. Surely the skipper knows it, too."

  I knew what the admiral was talking about. The ocean up here was a barely liquid frozen slab of water, dense, with a uniform temperature and gradient that created a perfect isothermal layer. Sound waves were affected only by the depth of the water, since the temperature was constant. But the water was not deep enough to create truly long-range transmission paths. Indeed, playing USW in these frozen waters was truly a challenge. The temperature and depth profile combined to create convergence zone transmission that bore no resemblance to its cousins in warmer climates.

  Somebody better tell that boomer to get out of the way. Sierra 002 is headed right up her ass. Damn it, can't we get word to them somehow?

  The submarine symbols of the large-screen display moved with chilling slowness. The blue symbol, representing the friendly submarine--or at least we beli
eved it was the friendly--was tracking south, apparently oblivious to the company in the water. The Soviet--excuse me, Russian--submarines were vectoring in from the north, east, and south, slowly and inexorably boxing her in.

  Surely she must know. One of the unvarying rules in the undersea warfare environment is the reciprocity of sound. If you can hear them, then they can hear you--like the signs you see on a tractor's rear-view mirrors that warn If you can't see me, I can't see you. If the Russians' submarines could hear the U.S. submarine well enough to track her, then the U.S. submarine must know that the Russians were there. Must--the superiority of our acoustic gear in terms of sensitivity and processing ability was just too great.

  But then why weren't they doing anything? Attempting evasive maneuvers, making a course change, even getting the hell out of the area?

  Did they think that the carrier and her air wing would protect them? Hell, we weren't even supposed to know she was here!

  But then again, it could be one of those massive operational screw-ups. The submarines were told one thing, we were told another. In our case, that would be nothing. If the powers that be had let a U.S. submarine enter these potentially hostile waters without telling her of the true tactical situation, it was criminal. Someone would face the long green table over this, I was sure. Just as long as it wasn't me. If she shoots now ... The pilot's voice, which had earlier been rising to almost a frenzy, sounded almost resigned now. He had torpedoes on his wings, but no shot.

  Not this close to a friendly. Even absent a formal declaration of a no-attack zone, he could not in good conscience put a weapon in the water this close to an American submarine.

  "But what the hell are they doing?" Admiral Wayne said. He turned to me, a puzzled look in his eyes. "Sure, they're closing on her. But there's no indication of hostile activity yet--at least, not anything I'm willing to classify as that. They are in their home waters, and we're operating without any notice to them. Just what the hell am I supposed to do?"

  Within the minimums now.

  I could see from the screen that the Hunter pilot had assessed it correctly. The Russian submarines were now well within torpedo range of their prey.

  But would they fire? What possible justification would they have for attacking a U.S. submarine, even in these waters? For all that she was in their home waters, our submarine was outside the twelve-mile limit, well within international waters. Bad manners, extremely bad manners, but not an act of war.

  Want some company up here?

  The flight deck above my head had been silent for several minutes now, so I should not have been surprised when the new voice entered the tactical net. It was another S-3B, one of the alert aircraft that had been on the deck just moments before.

  Yeah, come on. Let some other people play here, too.

  And the third voice, this one as uncertain and erratic as a young man going through puberty. In the background, I could hear the hard thump of a helicopter's rotors. I knew Batman was as relieved as I was.

  There are not many things that threaten the submarine as much as a couple of ASW helicopters working in conjunction with a long-range Viking aircraft. The helicopters are equipped with dipping sonars, and an acoustic transducer that is lowered from their underbelly by a long cable.

  The operator can select the depth, positioning the receiver in exactly the same layer of water as the submarine.

  A tactical display was catching up now, showing the location of the two ASW helicopters as well as the additional S-3B. A potent force, enough to deal with three Russian submarines. Would be, except for the small problem about putting weapons in the water.

  No, don't do that. You can't--damn him, he's closing!

  There was a new rate note of alarm in the first pilot's voice.

  Home Plate, Hunter 701. Sierra 002 is showing down Doppler. He's heading away from us, and away from the U.S. submarines--and toward you.

  "General quarters!" the admiral snapped. The TAO was a microsecond ahead of him. Before he even finished the order, the hard, incessant bonging of general quarters filled the ship.

  Finally, the U.S. submarine reacted. She almost looked uncertain, changing course slightly several times, before staying up on her original course. She continued south for several minutes, then made one final turn.

  Back toward us.

  "What in the hell does she think she is doing?" the admiral muttered.

  "The safest place to be right now is far away from the carrier."

  "Maybe we're not the only ones with secret orders, Admiral," I said, suddenly aware of the possibilities. "You knew about the submarine--I didn't. Maybe the sub skipper has orders you don't know about. Like to protect the carrier."

  "I don't need a submarine with this much air-power," the admiral snapped.

  "The best submarine hunter is another submarine," I pointed out quietly. "You've seen that before."

  The admiral stared at something I couldn't see in the corner, growling softly at me. I kept quiet. Finally, he said, "We stick to the original plan. Whatever that submarine is doing, that's their business. And the same thing goes for the other submarines now--as far as I can tell, they have made no overt or hostile actions. And I am not about to start an international incident by getting too nervous too soon. After all, we're here on a friendship mission."

  Some friendship mission. I could still hear feet pounding down the passageways as the ship set general quarters. It takes time, sometimes too much time, to mobilize six thousand sailors to their battle stations. Ten minutes--anything less is considered good.

  As the minutes dragged on, the admiral appeared to reach a decision.

  He turned to the TAO and said, "Every ship in this battle group remains at general quarters, until I see that submarine moved out of torpedo range.

  After that, you tell those skippers to stay in at least condition two. I don't want any surprises, people."

  "I wouldn't say we're the ones being surprised, not at all," I heard myself say. There was a small, shocked silence inside the flag plot.

  Then the admiral laughed. It was not a particularly pleasant sound.

  "I guess not. We're rather the ones that started this whole thing, aren't we?" He pointed at the tactical screen, indicating the U.S. submarine.

  "Or at least--she did. But if I'm going to be able to keep up my part in this operation, we have to act like nothing is happening. Like it's a goodwill mission, that there's nothing unusual about submarines making a run on us. After all, it's only for another week."

  Another week. I remembered the meteorology report I'd seen the day before. The weather guesser warned all hands to stand by, that colder weather could strike virtually anytime. The storms that blew out of the north were unpredictable, difficult to anticipate.

  I glanced at the camera showing the flight deck and, beyond that expanse of metal, the cold ocean around us. Even on the low-resolution camera, I could see the thin crust of ice forming on the horizon, the beginnings of the winter ice that would block this port in solid until the next spring.

  The icebreakers, of course--as a condition of participating in this mission, the Russians had guaranteed us primary use of their potent icebreaker force.

  And just how long would that last? We had both thus far violated the basic rules of our agreement to prevent incidents at sea, with almost fatal consequences. Although no one had taken a shot yet, the admiral had six aircraft airborne just itching to fire a torpedo, a friendly fouling his field of fire, and Russian submarines up the butt.

  Just what was it that the admiral was not telling me? First had been this presence of the U.S. submarine, and now it was this ill-defined and barely-hinted-at question of bigger stakes. We were supposed to be operating in support of the friendly competition, in short, not reverting to our old Cold War tactics against one another in the Soviet Union's old backyard.

  Just what did Admiral Wayne know? And, even more importantly, when would he tell me?

  The answers would probabl
y be everything--and when hell froze over.

  From what I could see on the flight deck camera, that's exactly what was about to happen.

  7.

  Sunday, 20 December

  1300 Local (+3 GMT) Arkhangelsk, Russia

  Vice Admiral Tombstone Magruder

  Over time, reality and dreams mesh until what remains is a mixture of truth and imagination. It taints one's reactions, coloring how one views current events and set scenarios. All reality is anecdotal.

  The same can be said for what I once thought about being a flag officer. I had power, the power to do good. The power to affect the outcome of conflicts, to shape the squadron--and later a carrier battle group--in the way that I thought most effective to form a cohesive fighting force.

  Much of that happened. I had had command of the superb fighting squadron, VF-95, the best Tomcat squad that ever existed. And command of Carrier Battle Group 14, one of the most grueling, challenging tours of my entire career. I had learned it was much easier to do the fighting and dying yourself than to order other men and women out to do it at your command. I hadn't expected the feeling of helplessness watching them launch, knowing that some of them wouldn't come back. Nor had I known then that so much had been kept from me, that the government had failed to live up to the promise that I made to every aviator who flew combat missions at my command that we would get them out. How could I make them believe me, when I knew I had believed--and been lied to.

  The cockpit that was once as familiar as my childhood bedroom was now just the smallest bit disconcerting, at least in the first few seconds after I strapped in. I had to make a conscious effort to readjust my way of thinking, to once again become the fighter pilot that I was. But in as few odd, painfully nostalgic moments, I stripped off the outer veneer that circumstances forced me to wear, and within seconds was as at home with the knobs, buttons, and flight controls as I ever was. In a way, it was like being born again.

  But would I have changed my career path if I could have? Probably not. Competition is ingrained in every pilot from the moment he or she steps into basic training. You claw your way to the top of your class, knowing that if you are the best, the very best, you will have your choice of aircraft when you graduate. Later, as a junior officer, you learn what the checkpoints are--what tours of duty are considered desirable for promotion competitiveness, what assignments spell out a dead end to your career. We scramble and scratch for the former, and to avoid the latter, fully indoctrinated in the quest for power we call building a career in naval aviation.