Dangerous Grounds

by Don Keith

  “Captain, you sure?” Lieutenant Brian Simonson questioned. “We can launch those birds in this sea all right but we won’t be able to recover them if the weather weenies are right.”

  Wilson grasped the bridge rail and leaned out to look aft. The stiff wind threatened to snatch his blue ball cap and send it spinning off into the roiling water. Higgins was his responsibility, and so was everyone who sailed in her, including the two aircrews. But his orders from Mick Donohue didn’t leave any room for ambiguity. Topeka had contact on the rogue sub and was moving in to take a shot. She needed help right away. So might the men on that boat, if they survived. He was to launch both MH-60R helicopters to help and then steam toward the scene as fast as he could paddle. If the weather held, then the birds could be recovered on Higgins. If it got snotty, they would bingo to White Beach on Okinawa.

  That is, if they had enough fuel. And if the winds weren’t too bad. And if nobody was shooting at them. Those were all gargantuan “ifs.”

  Wilson shook his head affirmatively.

  “Yes, Mister Simonson, I’m very sure. Get those birds in the air. And I want Joe Petranko manning a fifty on one of them, just in case we need a little firepower.”

  Higgins was already swinging into the wind as Wilson stomped off the bridge and headed down to CIC. He could hear the pounding of feet through the passageways below as the crew rushed to flight quarters.

  By the time he was in his seat in the command center, the first SH-60 was spooling up for its perilous journey.

  The skipper looked at the tactical display on the center flat panel. It was mere inches on the display but something a little over two hundred miles between the green circle marked “Higgins” and the green, inverted semi-circle designated “Topeka”. And another ten miles to the red inverted “V” that was marked “Corpus Christi.” And it was another three hundred miles to the west to the blip that represented Okinawa.

  Commander Paul Wilson squinted at all the lights on the panel. Those birds had better be lucky. Damn lucky.

  “Captain, best solution, range two-two thousand, bearing zero-four-six, course zero-one-one, speed ten. Ready for a maneuver.”

  Sam Witte read off the information in a practiced monotone. For all anyone could tell, they could be in the trainer back at Pearl, fighting another simulated target. Not even a hint of nervous tremor in anyone’s voice. But it was all too real. That was Corpus out there. Those were friends and brother submariners they were about to ambush.

  “Very well,” Don Chapman answered, his voice just as flat and emotionless as Witte’s. “We’ll stay on this leg a bit more. When sierra-eight-four bears zero-seven-five, come around to bring her broad on the beam. We’ll spiral in until we are eight to ten thousand yards astern of sierra-eight-four and on her quarter.” The sub captain paused for a beat. “We’ll shoot from there.”

  Witte noticed that Chapman only referred to the contact as “sierra-eight-four,” never “Corpus Christi.” That was the professional way to do it. But it was as if they were about to blow to hell some anonymous practice target or a simulated enemy bogey on their sonar display, not a United States submarine populated by people who wore the same uniform as they, who cheered Navy touchdowns when they played Army just as they did, who had photos of girlfriends, wives and kids back home taped to the bulkheads near their bunks.

  “Yes sir,” Witte answered. “Projected time till maneuver is twenty-two minutes. Sierra-eight-four will be at range one-eight thousand yards at bearing zero-seven-five.”

  His words were strong, sure, despite the throbbing knot of nausea in the pit of his stomach.

  Sabul u Nurizam was now certain that he could feel Allah’s hand guide him. The feeling he had gotten on the mountaintop was now a driving surety. It was like a private voice, one that only he could hear, and that voice told him that he must get to Sarawak. His destiny awaited him in Bintulu.

  The sun was resting on the horizon, a glorious splash of red and orange, more brilliant than any sunset that Nurizam could remember. Surely this glorious display was another sign of Allah’s favor.

  The fast motor launch waited alongside the pier in Isabelle, just as he had ordered. No one took much notice when he climbed out of the big, black Mercedes SUV, sauntered down to the edge of the dock, and climbed down the ladder to board the launch. From here, Sarawak was a short journey along the Sulu Archipelago and then down the Borneo coast.

  A plane would have been much faster, but the time had still not arrived when Sabul u Nurizam could travel openly among his people. That time was near, very near. Then his worry would be avoiding the heaping adulation of the faithful instead of fearing capture or murder by the NBI infidels.

  Nurizam slumped down into the plush, over-stuffed cabin lounge. He waved his hand dismissively toward the pilot. It was time to be away.

  Nurizam, lost in his thoughts of glory and exaltation, didn’t notice the brass barometer on the forward bulkhead. It was reading seven hundred millimeters and falling rapidly, almost fast enough that he could have seen the needle move if he had glanced that way. The landmass of Zamboanga protected them from the building swells coming in from the east and hid the dark, angry line of clouds that was already building low on the eastern horizon.

  Once away from the wharf, Sabul u Nurizam allowed the hum of the engine to lull him to a pleasant half-sleep. As he drifted away, he was once again sure he could hear the voice of Allah, assuring him that this trip was a command that he must follow, that it was the final journey before this faithful servant would, at last, receive his just reward for his deeds on earth.

  Sabul u Nurizam had no doubt that his ultimate destiny was soon to be realized.

  General Kim Dai-jang slammed his fist down in rage. The Mecca explosion had misfired for some reason, incinerating a worthless stretch of sand, not several million of the Muslim faithful. The Arab world was arming, seething, but not with anything like the mindless anger he needed to best be able to fulfill his plan. And the Pun attack was already a couple of days late. It was vital that Asia be in flames before he made his move. His carefully crafted plan was falling apart. Someone would pay for the incompetence!

  But there was still a chance. He still had awesome power. He could force the Committee for State Security to do his bidding and begin the move south, even if the diversion was not what he had planned it to be. They were more than ready to rid themselves of that dilettante playboy Kim Jae-uk and now would be the perfect time to make that play. Then the next move would be easier, even if the second explosion never happened.

  He snatched up the special red phone, the one connected directly to the Peoples’ National Emergency Command Center.

  The watch officer, a general of the Peoples’ Army, answered before the pulse of the first ring had stopped.

  “Yes, General Kim Dai-jang. What is your order, sir?”

  “I will have an immediate emergency meeting of the Committee for State Security. We will assemble at the Command Center in one hour.”

  “I am sorry, General,” the watch officer answered, but the voice carried no trace of regret. “The Committee for State Security is meeting already at the Peoples’ Palace in Pyongyang. I don’t understand why you are not there.”

  Kim did not miss the sarcastic tone in the last words. The connection was quiet for a moment, with nothing there but the slight, cold hum of the secure connection.

  “What? That is impossible!” Kim finally sputtered. They couldn’t possibly meet without him. He was the most powerful man on the committee. No one could call a meeting except him. And if someone tried, he would know about it instantly.

  Then it struck him. The one other person who could call a committee meeting was Kim Jae-uk. And even the general’s usual sources would be silenced if Kim wished to keep news of the meeting from him.

  But this was not possible. The fool didn’t have the brains or guts to match power with General Kim Dai-jang.

  He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out t
he pistol and holster. He was just buckling it over his uniform tunic when a knock came at the door.

  General Kim Dai-jang walked the several steps to answer it. He was only slightly surprised to see an armed squad of soldiers standing at attention when he opened it. The young army captain snapped to attention as well, saluted, and said, “Good evening, General. You will turn over your side arm and accompany us to the Peoples’ Palace. You are under arrest for treason against the Peoples’ Republic.”

  General Kim looked at him wide-eyed for a moment.

  “You know I have done nothing except attempt to reunite my homeland once and for all. Nothing except try to return the entire peninsula to the people.”

  “Please, General. The weapon?”

  Kim dropped a hand to the pistol and let it lay there for a moment, feeling its solid coldness. This young captain had not even been born when his country had been torn into two. Or when Kim and his fellow patriots had tried to overcome the imperialists and reunite it once again.

  Now, in an instant, he realized that his efforts had been for nothing. That it was over.

  The general slowly pulled the weapon from its shiny, black leather holster, and gripped it as if he was about to hand it over to the serious-faced captain.

  But suddenly, with a surprisingly quick move, General Kim Dai-jang swept the weapon upward, jammed the barrel between his own lips and teeth, and before the captain and his men could make a move to stop him, he pulled the trigger.

  42

  Through the thick fog of sleep, Jon Ward realized someone was shaking his shoulder.

  Damn! Why couldn’t Ellen just let him sleep a few minutes longer?

  He was so tired. Just a few more minutes. He rolled over onto his side and reached out for her, to grab her, to pull her close and make her pay.

  “Commodore!”

  The voice was decidedly masculine. His eyes shot open. Ward knew then that he was lying on a rather uncomfortable couch in Seventh Fleet’s underground command center, not in his bedroom half a world away in Virginia Beach. And it was the staff watch officer, a young lieutenant commander that he didn’t recognize, who stood there with a clipboard in one hand. His khakis were wrinkled and sweat stains had soaked through the armpits. Gold wings glistened above his left breast pocket.

  “What is it, son?” he croaked.

  “Commodore, sorry to disturb you. We just received a relay from our P-3 out of Kadena. Topeka shot a SLOT buoy. She reports contact on The City of Corpus Christi. They have her about two hundred miles south of Kyushu. She’s heading straight for Tokyo Wan.”

  Ward jumped up and vainly attempted to straighten his rumpled uniform before charging past the watch officer and out into the command center. He was greeted by a hushed bustle of activity as the on-watch team tracked each incoming bit of information. The huge flat-panel display on the far wall was hooked up to the Joint Tactical Data Information System. It was showing a map of the Western Pacific and East China Sea between Taiwan and Japan. A green inverted half circle and red inverted triangle sat just south of Japan. That was Topeka and Corpus. Or, at least the best estimate they had for where the two boats were hidden. Off to the west a hundred miles or so, there was a green circle for the Higgins and in between were two green half circles, open up. Those would be the two MH-60R birds that had been launched from the Higgins. Farther out, in a roughly concentric circle, myriad symbols representing a dizzying collection of planes and ships were converging on the two subs.

  Ward took it all in with only a glance. For the ten thousandth time, he muttered a silent prayer that he could somehow be transported from this hole in the rock out to where he could save his son. But it wasn’t going to happen. He was needed here. His duty was to stop Corpus and her load of hellish nuclear fire from getting anywhere near Japan.

  “Commodore, we have a problem.” The watch officer stood at his shoulder. “Sea state is a strong six and building. Those birds off Higgins are reporting winds at better than seventy knots.”

  Ward nodded and pursed his lips.

  “Gonna play havoc with ASW.” The professional submariner was back inside his gray, sallow skin. “I thought that typhoon was tracking across the Philippines.”

  “Yes, sir. It is, but it’s growing into a real monster. It’s pushing rough weather all over West Pac. Guam is socked in. Kadena will be in the soup in a couple of hours. It’s gonna be real tight getting the MH-60s there. There’s already no chance to recover them back on Higgins.”

  Ward walked over to the central command console. He gazed at the screen for a few minutes and then said, “Here is what I want done. Get a P-3 out in front of Corpus and drop an A-comms buoy on her. Tell her to surface immediately and heave-to or we will shoot. Any more movement toward Japan and we will sink her immediately.”

  Ward knew he was violating his orders. The President, his commander-in-chief, had told him to shoot first and ask questions later. There was just too much chance that the nuclear sub could get away and once again disappear into the deep, only to eventually announce her position with a blinding explosion in Tokyo. ASW was just too tenuous and the stakes too high to take the risk.

  But, damn it! That was his son out there. His son and a crew of other people’s sons and fathers and husbands.

  He simply had to try.

  The watch officer nodded and spoke into the microphone.

  Ward stepped toward the coffee pot at the back of the room. Over his shoulder he ordered, “And get the White House on the horn.”

  Joe Petranko checked the safety harness yet again. He hated flying in helicopters, particularly in rough weather. A thousand feet below him, the Pacific, gray and angry roiled and bucked like some living thing. The MH-60R jumped and jerked violently against the buffeting winds, as rough a ride as the gunners mate could remember.

  Petranko ran his hands over the breech of the M-2 50-caliber machine gun. The contraption was a direct descendent of the World War II heavy machine gun. Nothing had really changed. Petranko liked that. It made for a very simple, reliable killing machine. He knew when he depressed the trigger, this thing would buck and roar like a mad lion, but it would spit half-inch-diameter, steel-jacketed M-20 armor piercing slugs where he pointed, every time. Not like those modern, remotely operated contraptions where the gunner sat in a cubicle and punched up a command on a computer screen like some damn video game. What kind of self-respecting gunners mate used a computer screen?

  Petranko felt his stomach—and breakfast—jump into his throat as the helicopter dropped a much-too-sudden hundred feet. Sometimes he wished that Captain Wilson didn’t have quite so much faith in him. He could be sitting, warm and safe, back in the Petty Officer’s mess on Higgins, instead of out here in this flying eggbeater, looking for a rogue submarine in the middle of a hurricane.

  Suddenly Petranko’s earphones perked up. The pilot was talking to the sensors operator.

  “Hey, Mac. Get an A-comms buoy ready. Some nutty captain at Seventh Fleet wants one dropped at coordinates twenty miles in front of us. Standby and I’ll relay the message to you.”

  Petranko watched as the Petty Officer pulled a long cylinder from a stowage rack in the back of the bird. Petranko made a note to himself to get to know the helo detail a bit better first chance he got. It was really bad form to die out here with a bunch of people you didn’t know.

  The petty officer loaded the cylinder into the deployment tube, hooked up a couple of connectors, muttered something into his microphone and pushed a button on his control panel.

  Joe Petranko didn’t even hear the whoosh as the A-comms buoy dropped into the irate ocean below them.

  Lieutenant Commander Sam Witte looked up from the computer display. The dots were all neatly stacked in a vertical line. No doubt about it. He had the target dead nuts. It was like watching a snail meander its way across his flagstone patio back on Oahu. Corpus was running a steady course and speed, not the slightest hint of a zig. And now he had his own submarine exactly wh
ere the captain wanted it to be when he decided to shoot: five thousand yards aft of the sub and deep on her port quarter.

  Witte tried to swallow. His mouth was too dry. Nothing went down.

  It was time to shoot, before the nuclear sub somehow got away from them. Or turned around and found them. Then the hunter would become the hunted in an underwater free-for-all if anybody on the other boat were alive. If whoever had control of the vessel knew how to fire its deadly weapons.

  But it still didn’t feel right. They would be shooting friends. No, more than friends. Shipmates. And shooting them in the back.

  Sam Witte took a deep breath and, in a voice far calmer than he felt, said, “Captain, I have a shooting solution. Recommend firing point procedures.”

  Don Chapman moved quietly to stand next to Witte. He glanced at the computer screen for a second and then, in a commanding voice, said, “Firing point procedures, master one, tube two. Tube one will be the back-up tube.”

  Witte immediately replied, “Solution ready.”

  The Officer of the Deck called out, “Ship ready.”

  Marc Lucerno glanced at his weapons monitoring panel and then yelled out, “Weapon ready!”

  “Shoot on generated bearings.”

  “Jesus,” somebody in the control whispered.

  Marc Lucerno pulled the heavy brass handle to the left. A row of lights blinked from red to green.

  “Standby,” he said, in a voice that surprised him with its strength. First time he had ever done this for real. First time. He yanked the handle to the right, the way he had drilled a thousand times before. “Shoot tube two.”

  Down in the torpedo room, two decks below where Chapman, Witte, and Lucerno wrestled with their feelings, a solenoid valve opened and ported fifteen-hundred-pound-per-square-inch air into the chamber behind the firing piston. The piston slammed forward, shoving seawater ahead of it and up into a series of slide valves arranged around the aft end of number-two torpedo tube. The high-pressure water gave a mighty shove to the Mark 48 Mod 6 ADCAP torpedo sitting in tube two, flushing it forward. The first few inches of travel broke the A-cable connection just moments after the bits and bytes of the final firing solution were downloaded into the torpedo’s microprocessor. The forward jerk generated enough G force to close the acceleration switch in the aft end of the torpedo just as it cleared the torpedo tube shutter door. The switch made an electrical circuit that fired a tiny explosive squid in the torpedo’s swish plate engine. The charge pushed the engine so that it was already up to speed when Otto fuel was sprayed into the combustion chamber. The tiny engine was attached to a pump jet that shoved the torpedo forward. As it came up to its pre-enable speed, steering vanes brought the ADCAP around to a course that would intercept with The City of Corpus Christi in a little over four minutes.