Pacific Siege sts-8

by Keith Douglass

  I trust this makes our position clear.”

  The men in the TFCC looked at one another as if the Russian admiral’s words were about what they expected.

  Admiral Kenner pointed at the chief to continue. He picked up the hand microphone and went on reading in Russian from the prepared statement:

  “Admiral Rostow. I appreciate your position, but now is the time for words and not bullets. We are now off the coast of Kunashir Island, and will shortly be in communication with General Nishikawa. I understand your concern. This is a minute force led by a highly emotional traditionalist Japanese. I feel there is a strong probability that we can talk him out of his position so your military men on the site can re-establish Russian control. We look forward to working with you on this delicate problem. Thank you.”

  There was a moment of silence; then another Voice came back in English. “Admiral Rostow requests that this channel be kept open and monitored twenty-four hours a day for any emergency. Signing off.”

  The admiral lowered his brows and firmed his jaw. He turned, and looked at the screen showing the four aircraft.

  “Sir, the aircraft are approaching the islands. They were north of Hokkaido, then swung south toward the first Kuril island.”

  14

  Tuesday, 20 February

  USS Monroe, CVN 81

  Off Hokkaido, Japan

  Murdock settled into an out-of-the-way spot in the Tactical Flag Command Center and watched developments. He checked the screen on the tactical display. Each ship and plane in the fleet was shown, and evidently all was going according to plan. The big carrier was nearing the top end of the northernmost Japanese island of Hokkaido.

  Now all they had to do was slip between some Russian-held islands just beyond the point, and motor about twenty-five miles west to get to the target island. He wasn’t sure how close the whole task force would come to the island.

  The radio speaker came to life on the tactical frequency.

  “Home Base, this is Red Tomboy.” The voice was Lieutenant Harley “Red” Remington in his F14 Tomcat high overhead. “Home Base here. Go, Tomboy.” It was the CAG speaking

  “Guess you’re following our pictures.

  Our visitors are still coming in at Mach One from the southwest. Same orders?”

  “You’re on a meet-up course with them in about four minutes. Same situation. Two of their planes buzzed that little target town a couple of hours ago.”

  “This still a meet-and-greet program?”

  “Roger that, Red Tomboy. Unless you can talk Russian.”

  “No way, Home Base. We’ll monitor. Out.”

  High in the daylight sky, Red Remington switched back to the intercom, and talked with his RIO in the backseat of the Tomcat.

  “Pokey, we still got that pair of bandits coming in?”

  “Sure as little girls have small tits. Steady and on target. They will just miss the tip of Hokkaido’s Shiretoko Point, so they won’t overfly Japanese territory, and then be a nickel’s worth from Kunashir Island.”

  “Where do we meet them assholes?” Remington asked.

  “In that little strait between the island and Hokkaido, maybe halfway.”

  “You ever seen a couple of hot-loaded Migs up close and personal before, Pokey?”

  “Shit, no. Neither have you. These guys could blast us out of the sky.”

  “Yeah, and we can return the favor, and they both know it. Watch for any lock-on. He locks his radar on us, we quick do the same and fire first. A fucking radar lock-on is a hostile act, and gives us weapons free. That’s right out of the CAG’s mouth.”

  The RIO snorted. “Hell, he ain’t about to lock on. He’s way out here away from his buddies. Two on two, but we might have eight or ten more Cats up here somewhere just waiting.”

  Remington checked his instruments, then the heads-up display, and looked out where the Migs should be. Nothing.

  “I’ve got them on my screen,” the radar intercept officer said from the backseat. “Had them for a few seconds. Still straight and on course.”

  They were quiet for a minute. Red Remington grinned as he pushed the Tomcat through the air at slightly over Mach One. He loved this plane, wouldn’t be doing anything else in the world even if he could.

  There was a relationship between the pilot and the aircraft that he couldn’t explain. It was damned near spiritual.

  “They both are making their turn, so they’re just past that point, and coming around to a southeast heading,” Remington heard in his headset. “You should have them visually before long.”

  Remington scanned the sky ahead the way he had done countless times before. Still nothing. “Altitude? We on the right level here?”

  “They could be a hundred feet above or below us,” the RIO said.

  “Got them visual at one o’clock,” Red said. “I better check with TFCC.” He switched to tactical, and at once received a call from the ship. “Red Tomboy, you have visual?”

  “Just obtained, Home Base. Does he turn or do we?”

  “You ever played chicken, Red Tomboy?”

  “Not at this speed.” There was a pause. “Oh, yeah, he’s drifting to his left, he’ll overfly the island that way.”

  “Get on his starboard wing and stay five hundred feet off and keep with him. Be a good host, and show your visitor around. Take no hostile action unless they lock on. Confirmed?”

  “That’s a Roger, Home Base. He’s turning more, and we’re with him.

  Six hundred feet, and closing to five hundred. Straight and level.”

  Back in the TFCC, Murdock followed the exchange closely. If anything went wrong there would be no need for the third platoon of SEAL Team Seven. He could see the radar tracks as the four planes angled southeast toward the target island.

  “I’ll be damned, Captain,” Red Tomboy said. “The near Mig is moving in closer to me. The fucker is fifty feet away. I can see the bastard through the canopy.”

  “Stay steady, Red Tomboy. We don’t want to play wing-tickle with him at your speed.”

  “I’ll Roger that.”

  The air went dead for a few seconds.

  “Shit, Captain, he’s motioning me. He’s pointing down with his finger, then he’s waving for me to follow.”

  “Pull back, Red Tomboy. Pull back, and let him go down, and follow him. Stay with the two of them.”

  “Oh yeah. We will, Home Base.”

  Captain Irving Olson, the CAG, watched the images on the radar screen. He was the boss of all the planes on board, a pilot himself who now had trouble getting in enough air time to stay qualified.

  “Second contact,” he said to the men in the room. “So far, so good. At least we aren’t shooting at each other. So that’s about it, Admiral. Second contact, no gunplay, follow the leader. My guess is the Migs will buzz the military HQ down there the way the first two did to let that Jap general know they’re still around.”

  “Let’s hope that’s all that it is.”

  “Yes, Sir, I agree. How about sending a message to the Russian admiral asking him to curtail his overflights until we get this worked out a little better? In another two hours, we’ll have ships around the southern tip of the island where that little town is. We don’t want some trigger-happy sky jockey to start shooting up there.”

  “I hope the message to Admiral Rostow covered that, Captain.”

  “It didn’t specifically mention aircraft, but I guess the same message would apply. We’ll just wait and see what happens.”

  They watched the four blips on the screen approach, then pass over the small town on Kunashir Island, then curl around and climb away.

  “Home Base, looks like the guest shot is over. The Ruskie guy came up close and waved good-bye. Then they both kicked in their afterburners, and ripped back the way they had come.”

  “We copy that, Red Tomboy. You need a drink?”

  “Getting under half a tank. Probably should send us some juice or get us back home.”
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br />   “We’ll send out a tanker. Resume your station over the south end of the island.”

  “That’s a Roger, Sir.”

  The CAG was just ready to reach for the phone when it buzzed. He picked it up.

  “Yes, sir,” he listened. “Holy shit. Confirmed?”

  He pushed the ship’s telephone tight to his ear.

  “Yes, right away.” He passed the phone to Admiral Kenner, who listened, then hung up.

  “Gentlemen, we’re in a state of alert. We have unconfirmed but substantial reports of a Russian OSCAR, an attack sub, in the vicinity.

  He’s been shadowing us for two days as near as the ASW people can figure. They weren’t sure what it was. He’s been playing up and down in the thermal layer and staying just far enough out of range, but today the layer double-crossed him and one of our 3-SBs with a MAD boom that trails fifteen feet in back of the plane got a good fix on him.”

  The 3-SB is a Lockheed antisubmarine-warfare plane originally built during the Cold War as a submarine hunter/ killer. It was upgraded to its “B” classification early in the 1980’s. In addition to its acoustic ability, it’s a superb surface surveillance and command control platform.

  It’s armed with APS-137 ISAR radar, and Forward Looking Infrared Radar. It can carry Harpoon antiship missiles, MK-46 torpedoes, and sixty sonobuoys. The plane has a sophisticated acoustic sensor suite monitoring any sonobuoys it drops, and uses the Magnetic Anomaly Detector.

  “The crew picked up more than enough signals today to generate their suspicions,” the admiral said. “We’re not sure where their OSCAR went or what he’s up to, but that changes things drastically for us.”

  Murdock frowned. “How?”

  “For one thing, we won’t thread our way through the line of islands between us and Kunashir. We’ll want to keep more maneuvering room in case we need it. That means we’ll go farther north and around the fifth island and this side of the sixth. Then we’ll still have maneuvering room, and our shield ships can maintain positions around the Monroe.”

  Murdock nodded. “An OSCAR — that’s the Russians’ biggest, deadliest sub?”

  “One of them, Commander. She has nuclear-tipped torpedoes. If just one of those hits our hull at any point, it would blow us out of the water and vaporize everything for a mile around. You see why we’re concerned.” The admiral was talking with men at the displays.

  Later in Admiral Kenner’s quarters, he and a yeoman worked over a radio message to the commander of the Russian fleet.

  The admiral had written down what he wanted to convey, and the yeoman put it into as polite terms as he could muster. When he finished writing, he read it to the admiral.

  “To, Admiral Vladimir Rostow of the Russian fleet on board the Ataman, NP-400, aircraft carrier. Dear Admiral. I am Vice Admiral Nathan Kenner of the USS Monroe, CVN-8 1. Two of your aircraft just met with two of ours, and all four did a flyby on the Russian island of Kunashir. No offensive action was taken by anyone. It is our hope that you will allow the U.S. planes to monitor the island without the presence of Russian aircraft. We also hope that there will be no possible conflict between our two forces.

  “We will keep planes over the island on a twenty-four-hour basis, and inform you directly of any activity by the Japanese now occupying your Russian territory.

  “We will cooperate with you in every way we can to solve this problem without the use of any hostile action against the Japanese invaders of your island. We understand you have given them a seven-day departure deadline, now two days old.

  “Please respond.”

  Admiral Kenner listened to the words, made two small changes, and had the yeoman take it to the Communications Center, where it would be broadcast in Russian and English to be sure the Russians would hear it.

  Admiral Kenner did not mention the Oscar-class submarine. He was delighted that his ASW men had spotted it, but he frowned in concern at the same time. Why was it shadowing his task force? Was it practicing to see how close it could come without detection? Or was it in the process of working out an attack plan that it would carry out in the near future, as a part of a general attack by Soviet forces in several parts of the world?

  No, that was not logical. Russia did not have the capability to fight a global war. They were economically strapped. Their nuclear arsenal had been fractionated and mostly disbanded. Their Navy was in the best shape, but their Air Force was not in any condition to take on the U.S. No, the Oscar must be there for some other reason.

  Admiral Kenner knew he could not take hostile action against the submarine if it were just following them. He could scare it and the crew by letting them know that the U.S. fleet knew of its presence, by dropping practice depth charges and firing dummy torpedoes at it to show that he could battle it mightily before it had a chance to attack.

  Admiral Kenner peaked his fingers, and sat at his desk. He wondered how long he would have to wait before there was some response from the Russian admiral. Not long, he hoped. This was a nasty little job that had to be handled with diplomatic care. He was not a diplomat — everyone would tell you that. He wanted to get this matter closed up quickly so they could continue their journey past Hokkaido and down the Sea of Japan toward Korea and their real mission, which could involve military action. If anything happened with North Korea, he wanted to have the Monroe right in the middle of it.

  His telephone rang.

  “Yes?”

  “Admiral, we have a response from the Russians.”

  “Read it to me.”

  “Yes, sir. It says: ‘ Kenner. I have received your message. It is totally unsatisfactory. The United States Navy has no business in this affair. This is between the Japanese general who invaded Russian soil and the Russian military forces.

  “‘We ask that you remove your screen of ships from around the island, and that you keep your aircraft on your deck while Russian pilots assess the situation and provide the force needed to defeat the rebel Japanese. We give you one day, twenty-four hours, to remove your ships and to keep your aircraft out of Russian airspace.

  “‘By order of Admiral Vladimir Rostow, Commander of the Russian Task Force Twelve.”

  “That’s it, sir.”

  Thank you. Send a copy to my cabin. Is the CAG there?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Admiral, Captain Olson.”

  “Irving, you heard the response. Is he bluffing?”

  “Yes, sir, with his afterburner on. His two Migs were pussycats.

  Waved at our guys, motioned for them to follow to do a buzz over the town, then waved good-bye.”

  “Joys of command, Captain.”

  “Admiral, I suggest we keep our air CAP over the town. How long is it going to take us on this fucking detour before we get our ships around the island?”

  “No more than two hours. We’ll be in position by dusk. Our E-2C says the Russians are still more than six hours away.”

  “Think they’ll come into the strait between the island and Hokkaido?” the CAG asked. “Not a chance. Would you want your task force bottled up in there?”

  “It’s twenty-five miles wide.”

  “That’s what I mean. No maneuvering room.”

  The line was silent for a time.

  “So, Admiral, any new orders?”

  “No. Keep your planes up. Dawn to dusk should do it. We don’t need twenty-four-hour watch. Dawn tomorrow.”

  “The Oscar?”

  “Maybe yes, maybe no. He might be playing tag with us. I know some of our skippers do the same thing with the Russian fleet. So far we haven’t lost one, but we could. So could this Oscar take a final dive.”

  “Aye, sir. Steady as she goes. I’ve got some work to do.

  Anything else?”

  “That’s all, Irv. Get to work.”

  Admiral Kenner hung up the phone, and motioned to the yeoman that he should leave. He did. The admiral went to the couch in the corner of his quarters, took his shoes off, and stretched out.
He wondered what had happened in North Korea. Nobody had sent him a word about it since this panic came down about the rebel Japanese general. He’d have to check on CNN. They would know what was going on as soon as the Pentagon did.

  The damn OSCAR. What the hell was it doing harassing his fleet?

  That would be the next thing he’d ask Admiral Rostow on the Russian carrier.

  15

  Tuesday, 20 February

  USS Monroe, CVN 81

  Off Hokkaido, Japan

  That evening, after chow, Murdock got his men together in the training room. He looked around until he spotted Jaybird. “Sterling, did you bring that little laptop of yours along?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did I tell you not to bring it?”

  “Not this time, Commander.”

  “Get it, let’s plug it in and see what we can find on the Internet.”

  “We playing war games, Commander?” Jaybird asked.

  “In a way. I’m smelling non-lethal here, and I know that NAVSPECWAR back in Coronado must have a half-dozen things on the shelf.

  Before I ask them for some of them, I need some nomenclature, some ideas, some names. Hope you have a good search engine.”

  “Yes, sir, Netscape. I can find anything.”

  Ten minutes later, they had the laptop computer plugged in to the 120, and hooked up to a phone line. Somebody said that more than sixty percent of the men and women on the ship used computers and E-mail to keep in touch with the home folks.

  “Okay, do a search on non-lethal weapons. Must be a lot of stuff.”

  “You mean we might actually have to go into that island without our weapons?” Jaybird asked.

  “If things go from bad to worse, and Russia gets frisky, and the Japanese Diet holds its position, and the Japanese give us permission to go in at all, it could be with kid gloves and no bang-bang.”

  “Great, just what I signed on with the SEALs for, some combat wrestling and judo practice,” Jack Mahanani said.