Show of Force

by Charles D. Taylor

  The two men finished their food and left the small cabin, Casey for the bridge before joining Charles in his tiny flag plot, where they would coordinate the force action.

  Even California-class ships have a small plot set aside for visiting admirals, but the designers never really understood that a flag carried his own watch-standers, all of whom showed up for general quarters. When the Admiral arrived, passing through the ship's CIC (Combat Information Center) to get to his own space, his men and Casey's seemed crowded in a very small area. He remembered seeing the designs for this type years ago, and how impressed they all were with the space in combat for both equipment and men. Not so today. Discipline was apparently the reason that chaos would never arise, and probably the only reason in such close quarters.

  “Good evening, Admiral,” Dailey said without moving from his spot in front of the big board. The display showed each of the six ships, their relationship to the cause of all this, Islas Piedras, the Soviet submarines, and the two aircraft, just dots well to the right of the formation, moving toward their targets.

  “Hi, Bill. You proud of yourself now?”

  “Yes and no. It's pretty easy when you're tied into that big machine at Hopkins. I just hope the weapons selection was correct on our part. We received an update a few minutes ago that indicates that those Riga jets have a greater missile capability than our files show.” He looked at the board and then at the screen to his right. “They're at three hundred miles and closing, Admiral. Same course and speed. Estimated time to split is approximately twelve minutes.”

  “Very well, Bill.” David eased himself into the comfortable chair bolted to the deck behind Dailey's position. It gave him a clear picture of 'everything that was happening at a given moment. A dim glow outlined a complexity of instruments, each strategically placed in the tight space to give the officers in charge an accurate picture of a constantly changing situation. There was calm since only two aircraft were approaching the formation, but Combat had been designed to instantly clarify any tactical situation with as little human confusion as possible.

  The moments ticked slowly away. Each man concentrated on his job, monitoring radar screens, updating tracking information, checking dials, and reviewing printouts on screens or from quiet printers. David noted the aircraft separating on the board and a look to Dailey, confirmed by a nod, indicated that the predicted split had occurred. Dailey, at his commander's urging, had programmed each aircraft to swing approximately one hundred and fifty miles to either end of the northward-moving formation before changing course toward its center. Analysis of strategy indicated that altitude would remain high at missile release. Both aircraft would maintain their course until the pilot's instruments indicated the weapons had locked on their targets and accepted the tracking mode. At that point, they would reverse course, taking evasive action before heading back to the Lenin. Captain Casey pushed open the door from the pilothouse stooping under the low frame, and worked his way through the maze near David Charles's position. “My men are ready, Admiral. I think a lot of people are looking forward to this. Most of them have never been in a situation like this. They all graduated after Vietnam, so it's mostly been reading books and shooting dummies at drones.” He looked up at the big board. “Looks like they'll be ready shortly.” , The jets had reached the apex of their outward flight and were turning toward the formation. The captain moved over to his own position where he would con his ship and control her weapons systems.

  “Bill,” said the Admiral, “I want to handle that missile problem here. Assign Virginia and Wainwright as firing ships just in case, with Truxton and Halsey as backup. I want Gridley to handle the missile-jamming backup to us. Order each ship to break formation and undertake independent tactics. In one minute I want Truxton to turn down the throat of that sub on the starboard quarter of the formation and go to flank speed. Just in case Kupinsky has anything planned with those subs, i want a sonar lock-on on that boat. They should do everything to harrass that sub outside of actually sinking it. That should move them a little farther away from us, I hope.”

  The instructions were quickly passed over the primary tactical circuit. There was little increase in sound, though activity was increasing at each station. The staff gunnery officer turned to Charles. “All launchers loaded for air action, Admiral. Truxton reports forward launcher ready with torpedoes, aft launcher for air action.”

  “Very well.” He turned to hear Bill Dailey's report.

  “Virginia reports foreign frequency lock-on . . . identified as missile guidance . . . it's a different frequency, Admiral!”

  “Northern bogey, missiles away . . . one . . . two,” from another station.

  “We're tracking them,” from Dailey. “Virginia reports the missiles are now on their own program . . . still unknown frequency.”

  “What the hell do you mean unknown, Bill? Can't we get control?”

  "Not yet, Admiral. Computer is analyzing. We may have to jam. Wainwright reports the same action from the south, sir.

  the tracking mode. At that point, they would reverse course, taking evasive action before heading back to the Lenin. Captain Casey pushed open the door from the pilothouse, stooping under the low frame, and worked his way through the maze near David Charles's position. “My men are ready, Admiral. I think a lot of people are looking forward to this. Most of them have never been in a situation like this. They all graduated after Vietnam, so it's mostly been reading books and shooting dummies at drones.” He looked up at the big board. “Looks like they'll be ready shortly.” „ The jets had reached the apex of their outward flight and were turning toward the formation. The captain moved over to his own position where he would con his ship and control her weapons systems.

  “Bill,” said the Admiral, “I want to handle that missile problem here. Assign Virginia and Wainwright as firing ships just in case, with Truxton and Halsey as backup. I want Gridley to handle the missile-jamming backup to us. Order each ship to break formation and undertake independent tactics. In one minute I want Truxton to turn down the throat of that sub on the starboard quarter of the formation and go to flank speed. Just in case Kupinsky has anything planned with those subs, I want a sonar lock-on on that boat. They should do everything to harrass that sub outside of actually sinking it. That should move them a little farther away from us, I hope.”

  The instructions were quickly passed over the primary tactical circuit. There was little increase in sound, though activity was increasing at each station. The staff gunnery officer turned to Charles. “All launchers loaded for air action, Admiral. Truxton reports forward launcher ready with torpedoes, aft launcher for air action.”

  “Very well.” He turned to hear Bill Dailey's report.

  “Virginia reports foreign frequency lock-on . . . identified as missile guidance . . . it's a different frequency, Admiral!”

  “Northern bogey, missiles away . . . one . . . two,” from another station.

  “We're tracking them,” from Dailey. “Virginia reports the missiles are now on their own program . . . still unknown frequency.”

  “What the hell do you mean unknown, Bill? Can't we get control?”

  "Not yet, Admiral. Computer is analyzing. We may have to jam. Wainwright reports the same action from the south, sir.

  Time to missile impact Virginia, one hundred and five seconds . . . Wainwright, one hundred and seventeen."

  Admiral Charles watched the beginning of the action on the screen before him. Each ship had undertaken its own evasive action. The missiles appeared as blinking dots closing their targets. He noted Truxton moving to the southeast. The electronics officer to his left was visibly nervous as he awaited a solution to the new frequency guiding the four missiles. Once the target solution fed into the missile by its launch computer was complete, and the aircraft acquisition radar broke contact, it was twice as hard to search the memory core for a solution. Seconds passed quickly.

  “Sixty seconds to Virginia, seventy-two to Wainw
right.” “Admiral, they're on a frequency we can't control,” reported Dailey. “We can't take over guidance systems. Jamming recommended. I've switched Virginia and Wainwright to local control for antimissile fire.” He looked over at a screen at his right. "Those birds are moving slowly enough so we should be able to bring them down if we can't jam in time."

  “Forty seconds to Virginia, fifty-two to Wainwright . . . wait one, Wainwright birds increasing speed!”

  “That's the extra fuel cell, Admiral, the latest idea to confuse antimissile solutions. Wainwright has to jam now. They'll never be able to recompute for antimissile fire with the correct solution. Gridley will jam with her 'eye' box.”

  “Casey!” David called over to the California's captain. “Bring down that southern bogey. We can't gain control of those missiles.”.

  The captain nodded to his own gunnery officer, seated to his left. The man spoke briefly into the headset he was wearing, pushed a button on the console in front of him, waited a moment, then pushed another. “Birds away, Admiral! How about that one to the north?”

  “I want one to get back with the message.”

  One of the blinking dots on the screen disappeared, followed by Dailey's report, “Virginia intercepted one of her missiles . . . wait a moment . . . her computer reports the second one's erratic. It's tracking improperly, probably jammed by Gridley. It'll splash down off target.”

  “What's happening to Wainwright?” Dailey's arm was in the air, fingers open to signify quiet. They waited. He listened, hand opening and closing. “One missile off track . . . jammed.” He half-turned in his seat, arm still his answer to Kupinsky. Its pilot knew only that one of their missiles had struck, damage unknown, before his partner was gone. A tie score.

  “Another report on Wainwright—”Emergency steering rigged . . . fire in berthing compartment under control... no damage to launcher or magazines . . . Wainwright estimates two hours to rejoining under full control."

  The Admiral folded his arms thoughtfully for a moment before rising. The simple show of force was getting serious. He turned to his Chief of Staff. “You can secure everyone now, Bill. Reverse formation course in twenty minutes to wait for Wainwright and put the action report out to Washington. As soon as they can, I want your electronics people to get those tapes on that new missile frequency into the machine for analysis by the games people. You can be sure Alex is going to be a lot tougher on us next time.” He turned to the commanding officer of California. “Sometimes I wonder if we weren't just as well off with those old ships bristling with guns . . . and a man aiming them!”

  FROM THE LOG OF ADMIRAL DAVID CHARLES

  I have been reading back through this log again. As a matter of fact, I even went back to some of the earlier entries when this started out as my JO’s journal. I thought perhaps that as an ensign on the old Bagley I might have learned something, now long forgotten, that would keep Alex and me from intensifying this game. But somehow there just wasn’t anything I could get a handle on. There was too much back then about daily routine, just like the old journal that had to be turned in to your department head in the earlier days. I found entries about splicing line, diagrams of the steam cycle that I had learned my second year at Annapolis, shipboard electrical systems that I never learned, damage-control procedures, and so many more things that were stuffed into the head of an ensign. But there was nothing there I could dig into.

  I did find some entries I made about Sam Carter after I decided this was going to be my journal, and that no department head was going to be allowed to read it. He hasn’t changed much. He still follows a very narrow path that makes it easy to understand him. He didn’t kiss anybody’s ass in those days, and he still doesn’t. He’s no politician either, so he’ll never make Chief of Naval Operations, but I’m sure he never thought he’d get this far.

  I found those things he told me the day Jorge died, off Cuba, and I guess that’s when I started loving him, right after I finished hating him. As an ensign, I didn’t realize he was as torn up about that mess as I was, but he let me blow off steam and then sleep it off. He chose not to discipline me. And when I woke up the next day, I found a few more tears for Jorge and his men, and then I realized what Sam had really been telling me. That lesson about power and when to use it and when to hold back really makes sense even today. He’s using it now and, in a way, I’m still his tool. It’s almost like he was back on the bridge of Bagley and I was running up and down that beach in that whaleboat, except now I’m on a bridge watching the shells fall around other ensigns and I’m going to have to take my chances in losing them. Power is probably even the wrong word. Sam couldn’t describe it very well that day so long ago, and I didn’t begin to comprehend what he meant until the next day. People, or countries, that have power can also decide when to use it or when to sit back and let others suffer.

  The other thing that’s really hit home is the section at the War College on the German General Staff. Some of them never saw a battlefield. As warlike as the German nation was supposed to be, they realized that brains were the key to victory. Battles were fought daily by unknown men who either died or survived to the next battle. But victory was in the planning, the strategy, in understanding your enemy, and all that had to be done before armies met or fleets steamed into each other’s range. You could almost say it was predetermined and the forces that met in battle were just carrying out the plans of brilliant people sitting far away from the scene to determine which staff was smarter. Hell, the Germans educated their staff better than anyone else in the world. They had to think for themselves. I found the line from Prince Frederick Charles that I had written down for some reason. He was tongue-lashing a major who apparently had not been thinking for himself—“His Majesty made you a major because he believed you would know when not to obey orders.” I have to keep remembering that I have more firepower in this force than any other commander has ever had before. At the same time I’m deciding how to use that power, I’ve got to remember that each captain and each group commander has to have his own opportunity to make decisions. If I keep them tied into the central computer, they won’t have the same opportunity to protect their ships if an attack is heavy enough to exhaust the computer’s ability to defend the force. If there’s one thing I’ll have to keep telling myself every hour, it’s to let them make their own decisions when it becomes evident that my own staff has reached their capacity.

  I should spend more time worrying about Alex and his forces. The Russians have never gathered a strike force like this before. It is the first time they’ve shown that they are more than an antisubmarine navy. They are going on the attack, and Alex Kupinsky is one of the most brilliant officers I have ever known. And the Russians have followed so much of the organization of the German General Staff. I don’t think they have ever had the combined brilliance of that staff, especially the one with which Hitler started the war, because the Soviets have always believed finally in sheer quantity when all else seems to have failed. No one can produce cannon fodder like the Russians. But with all the educating they have done in the very fine schools Alex has told me about, I really believe that deep down they will always be suspicious of delegating responsibility and that their lesser commanders will not be able to operate on their own. It’s the same story of centralization of authority that has been the key to power in the Kremlin for so long. I’ll bet Alex is following Gorenko’s orders, just as they were worked out in the Kremlin, and that he’ll feel me out a bit first and then come charging right across the Indian Ocean like they’ve been charging across open fields for centuries. They’ve always been able to drive out invading armies either by sheer numbers of troops or the ability to hold out until winter. No one but Russians can survive a war during the Russian winter.

  But I don’t think, even with all their schools, and Alex’s abilities, that they understand winning in the open ocean. That’s where America has a tradition and Alex has learned that lesson more than once. I’m going to read more ab
out the General Staff, though. Perhaps there’s something I haven’t seen yet.

  I’ll stop here. I’m rambling. Too many loose thoughts, but perhaps I’ve come across something and just don’t know it yet. I’ll read this over in an hour or so.

  MY DEAREST DAVID,

  I think that tonight I miss you more than I ever have before. It’s because Sam and Ann Carter came for dinner tonight. They’re such close friends and they mean so much to me when you’re away, but tonight she was quiet, always changing the subject whenever we talked about you and where you might be. And Sam was very, very quiet, and you know how he’s the life of the party whenever he’s had two drinks.

  Maybe that’s the first thing that began to scare me. He nursed one drink all night, and spent most of the time just listening to our small talk. And whenever I’d talk about you, he wouldn’t look me in the eye. I even asked once if you were all right, and then he did say that yes, absolutely, you were fine. Then he got a call and had to go back to the Pentagon at ten o’clock at night. They seemed almost relieved when they left.

  Before writing this letter, I went in to check on the kids. Your daughter always sleeps like a lamb, and young Sam had just fallen asleep. He was out with his friends for a while. And that’s the other strange thing. You know how Sam Carter just dotes on our son because he hasn’t any children of his own. Well, tonight, he didn’t have much to say to him at all. He didn’t ask him about school or sports, or if he still wanted to go to the Academy, or any of the things they kid each other about. And when young Sam left the house this evening, Sam went over to him and put one hand on his shoulder and squeezed it and shook hands with him, something he’s never done before. It was almost like he was taking your place and saying, “Now you’re grown up, son.”