Tipping Point: The War With China - the First Salvo (Dan Lenson Novels) (18 page)

An antiship missile had to be smarter than the average weapon. It navigated not to a fixed geographic point, like a cruise missile, but to an area where the target was expected to be. It then had to pick a maneuvering warship out of the sea return and surface clutter, select the real target out of perhaps several ships in range, calculate the most survivable approach geometry, and home in. At any point, it could be foxed. Sea-skimmers were particularly vulnerable to having their radar altimeters pulse-doubled, which aimed them into the sea at six hundred miles an hour … fatal to the missile, but to no one else.

But this was an engagement he couldn’t totally win. He’d hoped to take advantage of the enemy’s dividing his force, hit hard and keep going. By and large, that was a done deal. The gun cameras showed smoke plumes on the horizon, along with the puffs of high explosive as
Mitscher
’s and
Savo
’s guns planted a hedgerow of shellbursts in front of any renewed attack. The remaining boats in the southern gaggle were roaring in circles, more and more withdrawing to consolidate with the larger group up along the Iranian coast.

He had no interest in taking them on. Right now, he had to extricate, before the air forces got involved. But the only graceful way out led across the possible submarine. The guy didn’t even have to torpedo him. If he’d quietly shat eight or ten mines across their line of withdrawal,
Savo
and possibly
Mitscher
too were toast.

The repetitive
whump … whump
of five-inch rounds going out ceased. The gunnery officer reported all targets beyond effective range, bores clear, forty rounds expended, no casualties. Dan rogered. Then flinched as Mills touched his elbow. “Um, we got a message on chat,” he muttered.

Dan lowered his gaze reluctantly; this wasn’t the time to screw his head into a computer screen. He’d assumed that once the lead started flying both Fleet and Strike One had been monitoring his tactical comms. Mills had been feeding them information too. So he grunted “Huh?” now as he read.

DARK HORSE:
Point of this operation is to establish free passage through SOH transit lanes. Is it commander’s intent not to complete transit?

“Fuck,” he muttered. Dark Horse was Fifth Fleet, in Bahrain. From the wording, it was some staff puke assigned to monitor the op, not Fleet himself. But he’d have to answer, and from the phrasing, a simple “yes” wouldn’t suffice.

It had been his intent, given the possible sub contact, and the increasing number of aircraft beginning to swarm like aroused hornets over the mainland, to cut south. From there, he could either put in to the U.S. naval facility in Jebel Ali to refuel, or else proceed, at a lower speed, up the Gulf to Bahrain. He typed back.

MATADOR:
Enemy air activity increasing. Intent is to withdraw south out of the transit area and await orders.

DARK HORSE:
Your orders are to quote complete passage unquote through SOH transit lanes. You have not completed passage unless you exit via the western entry/exit point of the traffic separation scheme.

“Oh, fuck me,” Dan muttered. Was this guy for real? Wasn’t transiting the Knuckle, and blasting the shit out of the Pasdaran, enough? With a sinking heart, he realized it might not. If
Savo
and
Mitscher
didn’t complete the full passage, tomorrow the Iranians would be crowing they’d driven them off, held the ground, and won the battle.

He scanned the displays, making sure he wasn’t fumbling the tactical picture. Two more missiles had been splashed, one by jamming, the other by a Standard from
Mitscher.
As he watched, a third Vampire continued inbound. They were coming in on the starboard quarter, overtaking, and popping up in such a way that he couldn’t tell even from Aegis where they’d been fired from. They just appeared, about twenty miles out, barely enough time to get EW on them before things got really interesting. He snapped his IC switch to the antiair circuit, to hear his own coordinator speaking swiftly, voice overlain at times by the EW operators’.
“Correlates C-802. Jamming ineffective. Seeing a hard turn now to bird’s port. Crossing engagement—”

“Stand by to take with birds.”

“Outside Matador engagement envelope—”

“This is Anvil. We’ll take with Phalanx.”

He tensed as, on the screen, the incomer neared
Mitscher,
and the babble of voices attained a new intensity. A quarter minute later Mills murmured, “Splash track 8617 … but
Mitscher
may have damage.”

“What kind? How serious? Get a report.”

“Wait one … They engaged with CIWS. Main warhead exploded prematurely, but airframe elements impacted aft.”

“Roger. Damage assessment as soon as possible.” He contemplated asking Stonecipher for it, but didn’t; the other CO would have enough on his plate without Dan riding him.

He sucked a deep breath, and with it the unmistakable scent of sandalwood. Then hands were on his back, his neck, digging in, loosening the knots locking up his neck and upper back. Despite himself, he leaned back, sighing, closing his eyes. Letting the tension ease, just for a millisecond.

Then opened them again, to catch Mills’s astonished stare, and Wenck’s, and most everyone else’s at or near the command desk, too. He mumbled, “Uh, thanks, Amy. I mean, Lieutenant. But you … It felt great, but that’s enough of that, I think.”

“It’s Healing Touch. Looked like you needed it, Captain.” She patted his shoulder, then headed back to the Strike console.

Jesus. Okay, back to business … check the display again. He rubbed his face as the display flickered and renewed, as GCCS and the SPY-1 and Sonar and NTDS and the aircraft overhead flooded him with seamless torrents of data. His opponents didn’t have anywhere near this information, this fast, but it was overwhelming him. The southern group had broken. Boats were streaming back across the lane. The northern group, on the other hand, seemed to be holding position, absorbing the fleeing units and turning them around in a chaotic, uneven, but partially reorganized line.

If he was going to go past again, he couldn’t give them time to re-form. If an enemy starts to buckle, you don’t let him catch his breath. He murmured to Mills, “Maintain course, but drop speed to twenty. Make sure
Mitscher
gets that.”

Four seconds later, the 21MC clicked on. “CO,” he snapped. At his elbow, Longley was trying to pour fresh coffee. Dan waved him away impatiently. Then changed his mind as the CS set a plate with two doughnuts beside it. Plain but sugared, just the way he liked them.

“Captain, exec, on the bridge. Just got the order to drop to twenty. We still headed south?”

Everybody was a step ahead of him today. Well, that was good. “Reconsidering that decision as we speak, XO. Why d’you ask?”

“Got a merchie coming down the pike toward us. Still on the horizon, but looks like he’s headed outbound.”

Dan checked the vertical display again. Astonished, first, that he hadn’t picked it up. Second, that some idiot was so far out of the loop he hadn’t gotten the word that war was breaking out in the strait. But there it was, fifteen miles out, a fat, dumb, doubtlessly happy tanker bopping along at eight knots toward the outbound traffic lane. Which lay empty at the moment, except for the pulsing diamond of the still-stationary suspected submarine. Dan keyed Sonar again. “Rit, I really need an updated classification on that fucking datum.”

This time he got Zotcher’s voice, though
. “Working on it, Captain. It’d help to have another MAD pass, though. And a sonobuoy drop.”

“We don’t have time for another pass.” He had to decide. As if goading him still further, when he looked down again, lines had popped up on his chat.

DARK HORSE:
Please advise intentions re completing assigned mission.

Dan typed,

MATADOR:
Prefer to divert to Jebel Ali. Possible submarine contact in southern TSS.

Stonecipher came up on the voice circuit.
“Anvil here. Okay, back in business. Debris impact aft took off one of the comm antennas and the starboard Harpoon launcher. Fortunately the canister was empty. Two guys with minor burns from fuel splash. Redundancy on the antenna. Ready for combat. Over.”

The computer screen scrolled up to read,

DARK HORSE:
Clear transit corridors of hostile forces. Use necessary means.

“Did he really say that?” Mills breathed, beside him. “‘Use necessary means’?”

Dan shook his head, hesitating for one more second. Blew out, shaking his head again. Then typed,

MATADOR:
Coming NW to 310. Flank speed. Will reenter inbound lane E of Bani Forur and exit at established western check-in point.

He repeated this over the red phone to Stonecipher, adding, “Follow in my wake.” Then spun in his chair and shouted across the compartment, “Bingo fuel, Red Hawk?”

“Bingo, ten minutes.”

“Plant a sonobuoy on Goblin Alfa. Then vector back here for hot refuel.”

The antisubmarine coordinator told him 202 had launched with a full loadout of ordnance but no sonobuoys. “We didn’t expect ASW, Captain. Made the decision to load up with extra bullets instead.”

“That’s okay—well, fuck.”

“Another run isn’t going to tell us anything we don’t already know,” Mills said.

“Skipper, Sonar,”
the 21MC at his desk blared, deafeningly loud. Dan turned it down and pressed the Transmit key. “CO.”

“Rit here. A MAD run’s not gonna tell us anything we don’t already know about this turkey.
”

“Mr. Mills was just saying the same thing.”

“He’s right. But instead of charging on in, how about we squirt a couple 46s out on that bearing? Let the fish do the work?”

Dan rubbed his chin. The Mark 46s were lightweight homing torpedoes, their digital brains programmed to hunt down submarines in shallow water. Ticos carried them down on the damage-control deck, aft of Medical, to eject with compressed air though tube doors just above the waterline. “What’s the speed differential? Those aren’t fast torpedoes, Rit.”

“They’ll get there ahead of us. And if that’s a minisub sitting on the bottom, he’s gonna do something when he hears those high-speed props headed his way. Pop a bubble decoy, at least.”

“Makes sense. Join us on the ASW circuit, Rit.” Dan snapped his selector. To the ASW officer, Lieutenant Farmer, and out of the side of his mouth to Mills, he muttered, “Okay, waterspace management. There’s not the slightest chance this could be a friendly?”

Mills shook his head. “We don’t operate subs in the Gulf. Nor do any of the trucial states.”

“Uh-huh. Winston?”

The ASW officer agreed with Mills. Dan rasped, “All right, set up. Two Mark 46s out along the bearing, set for circular search around the datum. Get ’em out there ASAP.”

“Copy weapons free, two-shot salvo.”

He confirmed, then leaned back, easing a breath out, looking up at the display. The never-sleeping beam swept over the southern Gulf, the Arabian Sea, the eastern Indian Ocean. He saw and knew with the wisdom of Athena. Wielded the thunderbolts of Zeus. Yet still, obeyed the iron commands of Mars.

Through the fatigue and fear a sudden disenchantment surfaced. Out there, his shells and missiles had torn men apart. Burned and drowned them. His side called them fanatics. They called themselves patriots and believers. But the ineluctable realities of the energy markets meant they had to die, and that sailors had to risk their lives killing them.

He could almost hear Nick Niles grunting
Above your pay grade, Lenson.
Eyeing him with that amused disgust the vice admiral reserved for him alone, it seemed. He imagined Blair shaking her head too. He took another deep breath and scrubbed his face with a palm, stubble and grit and oil grating on his skin.

The double thud of compressed air shuddered the compartment.
“Fish one away … fish two away. Mark, start of run. Time to target, time one five.”

The Mark 46 ran out at over fifty knots.
Savo
would arrive at the datum twelve minutes after the torpedoes began a circle search, pinging and listening. Either they would sense a submarine and attack, or declare the area clear.

A third possibility existed, of course. That the other skipper could fox or evade his weapons, and loose his own as
Savo
and
Mitscher
passed close aboard.

A shiver ran up his back, and his neck knotted. Each breath took an effort, drawn against a narrowing in the throat, a weight on his chest.

But he had his orders. To throw the dice, and let the god of war decide.

He told Mills to have
Mitscher
open the interval, lag back two miles, and directed Red Hawk to vector to the destroyer for a hot refuel. If the worst happened, they’d be safe, at least. Then he clicked to the General Battle circuit and tried for a confident tone. “This is the Captain. All ahead flank. Indicate turns for thirty knots. Come to course for the Western Entry Point. And stand by.”

*   *   *

TWO
hours later he sagged in his seat, soaked with cold sweat turned to liquid ice by the air-conditioning. Wenck had the helo deck camera up on one of the displays. Black columns of smoke stained the dusty horizon: the sinking, burning boats they’d hit during the first attacks.

His torpedoes had completed runout, circled, but detected nothing. Then, ending their brief consciousnesses, had self-detonated, raising huge plumes of white water to port and then starboard as
Savo
and, miles astern,
Mitscher
passed through. Either there was no submarine, or it was keeping its head down. The northern gaggle had made short threatening dashes as if to charge, but were turned back each time by low passes of the carrier air. They’d launched no more missiles, and taken no action as the huge, deep-laden tanker, a Chinese flag, as it happened, churned past. Maybe they’d already made their point: that they could close the strait anytime they liked. And weren’t afraid to die doing it.