Fighting Her Father's War: The FIghting Tomcats

by M. L. Maki

  Klindt says, “Okay, then, let’s go over what we know. Let’s start with you, Denton. What do we know?”

  “We know we have no communication with any other U.S. Military force worldwide. We have no satellite connection and no GPS or Loran.”

  “Clerk, are you taking notes?”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “Barr?”

  “He about said it, sir. We’ve picked up some signals on side band, but I do not know the encryption. We don’t always pick them up, either.”

  “What about the flight over the atoll?”

  Hunt says, “Nothing, sir. When they overflew the island, uh, atoll, there was nothing there, overgrown jungle, no buildings, no antennas, nothing, sir.”

  Barr asks, “One of the fighters noticed another aircraft on the way back. Have we identified the aircraft yet, ma’am?”

  “The pictures were a little grainy, but it appeared to be a Japanese patrol plane of World War II vintage, some sort of restored aircraft.”

  “What else?”

  “The Hewitt is still missing,” says Warren.

  “True, with no indication whatsoever about what happened to her,” says Klindt.

  “The Hewitt had a girl captain, maybe she decided to go to the mall,” says Hughes. He glances at Sam and she just shakes her head.

  “Are there any other details we can glean from this? What I mean is, I believe we know a lot more than we think we do. There’s knowledge that just doesn’t have a context yet.”

  Richardson says, “Well, sir, we know we went through one hell of a lightning storm, and I’ve heard that not one single electrical component anywhere on this ship, or any of the ships, aircraft, anything, was damaged.” They all nod their heads.

  “Put that on your list, clerk.”

  “I am, sir, I may be a monkey mate, but I can actually write pretty fast.”

  “What else, guys?”

  Hunt says, “A suggestion, sir, maybe we should whiteboard this, so we can all look at it.”

  “Thank you for volunteering, Hunt.” She smiles, gets up, walks to the board and lays out the points already discussed.

  “Just a question for clarification, did I understand you right? There’s no communication with the satellites, not even a carrier wave?” asks Mohr.

  “Yes, sir, that’s it,” says Denton.

  “The nights have been pretty clear, has anybody gone out and actually looked for one? Then we can aim our antenna exactly at it and see if it’s just a weak signal,” says Mohr, looking around the table.

  Barr asks, “How do we find the satellite? Aren’t they a long way away?”

  Sam grins at Mohr as he smiles, “You know Petty Officer Barr, you’re damned smart, but you need to crawl out of your box once in a while and look up. We’re pilots, we see things. Satellites can be seen at night. They trace across the sky. They probably have a record on board somewhere as to where various satellites are at any given time to make it easier. The geosynchronous ones are sometimes a little hard to find.”

  “How do you find something so small, that far away?”

  Sam says, “It’s the only fast-moving star up there.”

  Mohr adds, “Yep, it’s like this: you see there’s this huge burning ball out in the sky way out there that some of us call the sun. I know you guys hardly ever see it, but, it’s still out there, believe me. Anyway, it shines on objects way out there in outer space, and the objects are shiny with things like, oh, I don’t know, solar cells to create electricity, they reflect the sun’s rays. So, you see this glinting, glittery thing sailing across the night sky, pretty amazing, huh?”

  Klindt finally says, “Mohr, do you have a sarcasm button I can dial down?”

  “No, sir, it’s pretty much stuck on wide open all the time.”

  Hughes says, “I have a solution for that, Captain. It’s called duct tape. It generally dials down the attitude quickly for uppity officers.”

  Sam goes, “Ow!” And Hughes grins.

  “Okay, gentlemen, let’s get back on topic. Mohr, your idea is a good one and we will implement it tonight. Meanwhile, let’s continue.”

  Hughes say, “You techno-weenies said something about picking up other frequencies and stuff. What kind of music stations have you drawn in?”

  Denton stiffens, “We haven’t really been looking for music. We’re not supposed to tune in music channels on the radio.”

  Sam smiles, “I know you guys in radio follow specific rules and regulations, but we’ve just been hit by an extraordinary event. Please think outside the box. AM, FM, not just short wave, not just sideband, all the low frequencies, we need to look at everything.”

  Hughes adds, “This is bull shit. There’s no fucking way you techno weenies don’t listen to the radio. Do you think we’re all fucking idiots? You guys got the most expensive receiver in the world. You can’t tell me you don’t use it.”

  Klindt says, “Colorful observation, Hughes, colorful, but astute. If we’re going to get to the bottom of this, we need the truth. So, gentlemen, to what have you been listening?”

  Denton’s expression sours, and he lowers his head, then looking up, he says, “Sir, we sometimes pick up stuff out there. AM is pretty short range, but sometimes it bounces. FM is pretty much line of sight, so we’re not picking up any of that. The AM channels we are picking up have been mostly oldy, moldy stuff.”

  “What?”

  “Well, mostly big band and jazz from the States. I haven’t even found Rush Limbaugh, and he’s huge.”

  “Is that about all of the relevant facts? Anything else, anything?”

  Sam says, “So, what we have right now is:

  Freak lightning storm that caused no damage.

  Loss of communications via satellite and all other high frequency comms.

  Hewitt is missing.

  Loran station could not be located.

  Old airplane of possible Japanese origin.

  Old music on AM frequencies.

  Klindt says, “looks like a good list to start, so let’s brain storm what it means. I’ll go around the table, each of you pick a possible cause for one or more of the issues we are facing. You’re first, Lieutenant Warren.”

  “Sir, I think it could’ve been an EMP. An EMP could’ve caused…”

  “Hold on, Lieutenant, just ideas first. Later we analyze. You’re next Senior Chief.”

  “Looking at it, sir, a solar flare could effectively act exactly like an EMP, and could cause some of our problems, if not all of them.”

  “Hughes?”

  “The Russians have a secret weapon they fired at us that functions similarly to an EMP or solar flare.”

  “Denton?”

  “I’ve got nothing, sir,” he shrugs his shoulders, “mass hallucination?”

  “If that’s it, it’s been a downer of a trip thus far, Barr?”

  “I don’t know, sir We’re in the wrong part of the ocean for the Bermuda Triangle.”

  “I know, but the idea is tempting, isn’t it, Mohr?”

  “Well, sir, Spock would say it’s irrational, but I would say we’ve left our own space time continuum.”

  Hughes says under his breath, “Shit, I’m a nuke, and I don’t even know what that means.”

  Sam asks, “You don’t read science fiction, Hughes?”

  “No, ma’am, I’m more Field and Stream.”

  “Back on task, people, Hunt?”

  “Well, sir, Mohr has a point, but what if there was an EMP, but it was directed only at the satellites? But, that doesn’t explain the lightning storm, the Loran site, or the Hewitt. I got nothing.”

  “This is the part where we just bring up ideas. We don’t bring them up and knock them down. So, your idea is a directed EMP?”

  “Yes, sir, at this point.”

  That leave me, and I would have to say we don’t have enough information, but based on what we do know, some sort of electrical flux, like a Tesla coil. But, that’s too lame. So, I’m going to vo
te for time travel.”

  CHAPTER 8

  I-7 JUNSEN CLASS JAPANESE SUBMARINE, 1816, DECEMBER 20, 1941

  Commander Hirotaka Chiba could not believe his luck. The largest American carrier he had ever seen, and it wasn’t even zig-zagging. With his six forward firing torpedo tubes, he just has to wait as this monster ship steams right into his firing solution. “Flood tubes 1, 2, 5, and 6. Set depth to 20 feet.”

  Submarine fighting is a patient job. The amount of time needed to load and fire torpedoes, forces patience. Commander Chiba mumbles, “Haste leads to death, and worse, failure.” Then loudly, “Stand by to mark bearing.”

  “Yes, sir,” says Petty Officer Sato Nishimura.

  “Distance is 26,000 meters. Set torpedoes to slow. I want them all on the same bearing. They’ll spread enough on the way.”

  “Yes, sir, setting torpedoes to slow,” repeats the phone talker.

  “Ready, mark.”

  “Bearing 312, Commander,” says Sato.

  “Bearing 312, set, Commander, says the Firing Chief Officer, Chief Isidro Hataki.

  “Fire 1, 2, 5, and 6.”

  “Firing 1, 2, 5, and 6,” and the sub shudders as compressed air forces a slug of water to expel the torpedoes, one aft the other. Four deadly Type 93 Long Lance torpedoes speed at 35 knots toward the Carl Vinson.

  USS BENJAMIN STODDERT, DDG-22, SONAR ROOM

  ST2 John Givens is on watch with just one and a half hours left and looking forward to a shower and the Louis L’Amour novel he’s reading. It’s good, and he is so bored. The sonar equipment aboard Stoddert is archaic by 1990 standards. It’s sensitive and it works, it’s just clunky. Sonar is located in the bowels of the ship, between the forward emergency diesel generator and the magazine for Mount 51. To make matters worse, the air conditioning doesn’t work down here, making it muggy and warm.

  And so, he sits, bored, listening to the noises of the ocean. Then he hears a distinctive woosh, then a buzz. He doesn’t believe it. He’s trained for this for years, but never actually, for real heard it. Then he hears it again, then twice more. With a trembling hand he grabs the phone to combat, “Combat, sonar, contact bearing 284, range 24,ooo meters, designate Sierra 1. Torpedoes in the water, say again, torpedoes in the water. I count three, no, four, four torpedoes in the water, bearing 284, range 22,ooo meters and closing on the Carl Vinson at 35 knots.”

  STODDERT’S BRIDGE

  CDR Kevin Douglas, commanding officer of the Benjamin Stoddert, a stocky man, and as his habit on the bridge, is standing near his chair, legs spread to compensate for the movements of the small ship. He uses his chair as a desk for sorting the papers needing his attention. When he hears the call from sonar, the papers are quickly forgotten. Shouting, “Go to General Quarters,” he picks up the phone to sonar, “Sonar, Captain, are you certain they are torpedoes?”

  “Yes, sir, 100% positive, it can’t be anything else.”

  “Do you have range and bearing to the sub?”

  “Approximate, sir, now at 282, at 26,000 meters.”

  “Right, Yankee search and confirm.”

  Soon the distinctive ‘boo waa’ sound of active sonar is heard throughout the ship. After the second pulse, sonar is back on the phone, “Captain, sonar, confirm target Sierra 1 is 282, at 24,000 meters. Confirm inbound torpedoes.”

  Captain Douglas picks up the ship to ship radio and announces to the whole task force, “Task Force 72, this is Stoddert actual. Torpedoes in the water, say again, torpedoes in the water inbound to Carl Vinson. Relative bearing on you is 265. Carl Vinson, I recommend violent maneuver to starboard. Benjamin Stoddert is engaged.”

  USS CARL VINSON, RT CLASSROOM

  “Time travel, sir, you’ve got to be shitting me,” says Hughes.

  Denton and Barr nod their heads in agreement with Hughes and Mohr says, “Could be, could be, I wouldn’t rule it out.”

  From the 1MC, “Gong. Gong. Gong. General quarters, general quarters, all hands man your battle stations. Up and forward on the starboard side, down and aft on the port, now, general quarters. Gong. Gong. Gong.”

  As everybody scrambles to clear the room, Sam starts wiping the board. Klindt barks “Wipe the board,” then realizes she already has. Turning to Hughes, “Your notes to me,” reaching for them.

  CARL VINSON BRIDGE

  Captain Johnson orders, “Emergency ahead flank!”

  The lee helm repeats the order, rotates the engine order telegraph to indicate the ordered bell, and when the engine room responds says, “Emergency ahead flank, ordered and answered, sir.”

  The conning officer acknowledges the lee helm as Johnson is on the 1MC, “Carl Vinson, we have just been fired upon by a submarine and are taking evasive maneuvers. I need you to focus on setting zebra second deck and below. Prepare for a rough ride. This is not a drill, all hands to stations.”

  The whole ship shakes as the engines spool up, with massive amounts of steam dumping into the turbines, causing the ship to accelerate through the water. The 260,000-shaft horsepower the engines produce accelerate the 90,000-ton carrier, just not quickly.

  Johnson goes to the starboard bridge wing and looks out, surprised to see the streaks of white in the distance. With binoculars he watches the torpedoes closely, timing his maneuvers. He sees Stoddert fire on ASROC missile launched torpedo, then orders, “Left full rudder, back two thirds on engine one and two.”

  USS BENJAMIN STODDERT, DDG-22, BRIDGE

  It’s really busy on the Stoddert, a Charles F. Adams class guided missile destroyer commissioned in 1964. For twenty-five years this plucky ship has sailed the waves, seeing action in Vietnam, and recovering Gemini and Apollo space capsules. She rolls to starboard and accelerates, “Lee helm, tell the engine room I want every ounce of power they have. I don’t want to hear about limitations, restrictions, or anything else.”

  “Aye, sir, you want every ounce of power and no limitations.”

  “Helm, amidships,” says CDR Douglas, and picks up the 1MC. “Good evening Stoddert warriors. I know I just called general quarters, but I want all the repair lockers to muster in the forward or aft deck house. I want all hands, except aft steering and engineering to muster to main deck and above. We don’t have much time, so let’s hustle, folks. We’re driving into harm’s way. Today and always, I’m proud to be your Captain, Douglas out.”

  The ship to ship radio sounds with Captain Johnson’s voice, “What are your intentions, Stoddert?”

  As the Stoddert accelerates to 33 knots, placing itself between the torpedoes and the Carl Vinson, Douglas answers the call. “Doing our job, sir. Please stand by to pick up my crew. It has been an honor to serve with you and your fine vessel, Stoddert out.”

  STODDERT, 2ND DECK FORWARD IN A PASSAGEWAY

  The crew scrambles to follow the Captain’s orders. Every escort ship sailor knows it is expected of them to place their ship in harm’s way to protect the carrier. Like most people, they don’t really believe that day will ever come. The zebra fittings slow things down a bit until the crew relaxes them so they can get by. Still, most of the 354 men serve below decks. There is no way they can all make it out on time. The fear is palpable, but they stay calm. ET3 Donny Stakes from Nebraska, finds his best friend, FC3 Karl Smith from Saginaw, Michigan, ahead of him trying to go up a forward deck hatch as they abandon repair locker 2 in second division berthing. Karl’s a big strong guy, gut a bit overweight, and Donny says, “Hey, Karl, bet you wished you’d taken a few less trips through the buffet now.”

  “Why is that, wise ass?”

  “Sharks like their meat tender and well-marbled.”

  “At least I’ll float. You don’t have a pond big enough to learn how to swim in Nebraska.”

  STODDERT ENGINEERING LOG ROOM, 3RD DECK NEAR SONAR

  In the log room, the main office for engineering department, YNSN Wallace Sealy, from Detroit, is busy reviewing requisitions, oblivious to what is happening around him. His headphones are plugged into a Walkma
n in his pocket and all he knows is the violent maneuvers are making it hard for him to stay in his chair. And, the racket is ruining his music. MM2 Own Brown, from the Bronx, is sweeping for stragglers and finds Sealy, “Hey! YoYo, what the hell are you doing?” He pulls the headphones off Sealy.

  “Hey, man, what the hell? The Cheng isn’t in. Try later.”

  Brown yells, “Hey Bub, get your ass outa here. There’s torpedoes in the water inbound aimed right at your dumb ass. Get moving!”

  AFT STEERING

  Aft steering exists in case the bridge loses steering control. MM3 John Baker is on the sound powered phones, standing watch with BMSN Mitchell Blumm from Tennessee. They can feel the aggressive movements back here, and see the swinging rudder arms as the ship maneuvers. Even with the running hydraulic pumps, they have no problem hearing the captain’s orders. On the phones, Baker hears BMSN Dupree, the port lookout say, “Four torpedoes, there are four torpedoes coming at us. They were shot at the bird farm, but the captain is maneuvering us in the way.”

  Baker asks, “How do you know? You can’t see torpedoes anymore like back in World War II.”

  Dupree says, “I can see these.”

  As reality sets in, Baker says, “Hey, Mitchell, I left my cap in the rope locker in the aft deck house. Could you go get it for me?”

  “Your hat is on your head.”

  “No, man, my lucky hat.”

  “I’m not supposed to leave.”

  “Yep, and I also know I want you out of here. Go. Just go get my hat. I can run this and no one will know.”

  Blumm starts walking to the door going forward and stops, “You don’t have a lucky hat. What are you up to?”

  “Listen, dumb ass, do what I say, ok? Just do it. Go up to the aft deck house, fucking now.”

  Blumm, confused, follows his instructions and walks through the water tight door, dogging it behind him, then walks through the aft EDG area. He is shocked to see it empty. The EDG is manned for GQ. He continues forward to engineering berthing where repair locker 4 normally musters, expecting to get into trouble. No one is there. When he makes his way to the ships aft passageway, he finds crew milling around. His division officer, the First Lieutenant, is trying to get people organized and headed for the mess decks. The div-o says, “Good to see you, Blumm. Muster with the port life rafts. We’re going to need them, so stay squared away, ok?”