Attack of the Seawolf

CHAPTER 29

“What’s your range to the carrier?” Pacino asked Lieutenant Jeff Joseph on Pos Two.

“Sir, showing seventeen thousand yards, but the solution is sloppy.”

“Close enough. Weps, spin up the Ow-sow in tube one.”

Feyley acknowledged. Keebes looked up at Pacino.

“Captain, once we launch that thing, we’d better have some air cover or that’s the end,” Keebes said, and turned back to the firecontrol computer.

“We won’t launch until the last moment,” Pacino told him.

Morris looked over at Pacino from the chart table.

“This had better work, Pacino.”

Pacino just held his gaze. No way he could promise it would.

Fleet Commander Chu Hsueh-Fan ignored Leader Tien Tse-Min as he looked at the radar repeater’s hooded screen while holding the handset of the radio-telephone to his ear. Other than the contours of the land to the north and south, the screen was empty in the Bohai Haixia Channel. The northern task force no longer existed. Chu left the radar hood and stared out the port bulkhead windows at the channel to the west, the flames slowly dying out on the horizon as the last of the ships of the northern task force sank. When he put his binoculars down, the look on his face was murderous rage.

“The northern fleet is gone. Sunk by torpedoes and cruise missiles from the submarines in the Bohai Haixia. While you sent our forces south and refused air cover to the north, we lost every ship and every man, men who trusted me and our Navy.”

“I disagree. Those torpedoes and missiles could have been launched from the mouth of the Bohai Haixia before the submarines went into the south passage. If not for the blunders of your southwest task force we would have caught the subs by now—”

Chu grabbed Tien’s tunic above the pocket, the button on the pocket flap falling to the deck.

“You damn fool, I’ve had enough. I relieve you of tactical command. Maybe the Chairman will let me live if I can recapture or kill at least one submarine today. But we are both sure to die with you in command.”

Tien, not so much a fool as to challenge Chu now, said nothing. If they survived, he would take credit. And Chu, it seemed, had been right …

Chu found the microphone to the bridge and turned his back to Tien.

“Bridge, Strategy, move the ship to a position two kilometers west of the line marking international waters, max speed. Alert the Yak squadron to man their planes. As soon as we reach our new position launch the Yaks and sweep to the west for submarines.”

“FLEET COMMANDER, THE SHIP IS SPEEDING UP TO FORTY-FIVE CLICKS, HEADING NINETY-FIVE DEGREES. YAK SQUADRONS ARE MANNING PLANES.”

“Very well. Alert the Ship Commander to begin an active sonar search with all hull arrays, short range first, then medium as we come around back to the west.”

The ship’s deck began to vibrate, then to tilt as the bridge put the rudder over and the ship went into a tight turn to the east. Chu steadied himself on a sideboard while he reached for the tactical net.

“All helicopter aircraft, this is fleet flag. Turn immediately and proceed at maximum speed to the western mouth of the Bohai Haixia and begin an active sonar sweep of the channel to the east. Use leapfrog tactics. Weapons release is authorized upon any submerged contacts.”

Chen then ordered the southwest task force flag to proceed north to the western mouth of the Haixia and sweep to the east following the helicopter forces. He next directed the southeast task force flag to detach two of his fastest and closest destroyer or frigate assets and vector them to the east mouth of the Haixia at absolute maximum velocity. The ships were to standby with the Shaoguan and form a search-and-destroy task force.

The reply came: “FLEET FLAG, SOUTHEAST FLAG, DETACHING UDALOY-CLASS DESTROYER ZUNYI AND LUDA-CLASS DESTROYER KAIFING, REMAINDER TASK FORCE EN ROUTE EAST HAIXIA AND PREPARING TO COMMENCE SONAR SWEEP FROM EAST TO WEST, SOUTHEAST FLAG, OUT.”

Chu looked at Tien.

“The submarines will be captured or dead within the hour. No doubt the Chairman will be very pleased with you.”

“You have not even left a token force guarding the south.”

“The channel is mined, PT boats are patrolling both sides of the minefield. No one would make it alive out of the south.”

The intercom blared out the bridge officer’s voice:

“FLEET COMMANDER, BRIDGE, THE SHIP IS NOW POSITIONED AS YOU ORDERED, TWO KILOMETERS FROM INTERNATIONAL WATERS, TURNING NOW TO THE WEST. YAK SQUADRONS WILL BE LAUNCHING AIRCRAFT IMMEDIATELY.”

Chu walked to the port bulkhead overlooking the flood lamp-lit flight deck, hoping to see his son’s VTOL jet taking off.

Aircraft Commander Chu HuaFeng jogged through the rain to his waiting Yak-36A, strapping on his flight helmet just before he reached the ladder to the cockpit.

As the technician enabled his ejection seat, his weapons officer strapped himself into the small aft cockpit. The attack model of the Yak was a single seater, but the ASW version had a rear seat for the weapons officer, who spent more of his time detecting submarines than releasing weapons.

Chu’s weapons officer, Lo Yun, was a young, aggressive officer straight out of the Quingdao Aviation School. Lo shared many of Chu’s opinions on the rebellion, on flying, on the navy as a career. He did not seem to mind that Chu’s father was the fleet commander, as so many of the other officers in the squadron did, always being careful of what they said when Chu was present. Lo was not afraid to be irreverent about their leadership, and more often than not Chu agreed with him. Chu was beginning to think of Lo as a friend, a very good friend. As he pulled the stick toward his crotch and the plane flew away from the deck, Chu suspected in the next hours a friend like Lo might well be as important as the weapons they carried.

Pacino stood next to Keebes overlooking the firecontrol console. The Pos One display showed the geographic presentation of the channel sea. At the opening of the Haixia, the Chinese aircraft carrier was stationed as if guarding the exit. To the southwest and southeast, the ships of the task forces were heading north to the Bohai Haixia Strait, as if abandoning the southern passage and coming to help the carrier scour the Haixia. For a moment Pacino wondered if Seawolf or Tampa had been detected. Yet there were no aircraft overhead, so how could they have been detected?

“Sonar, Conn,” Pacino called, “any aircraft contacts? Close or distant?”

“Conn, Sonar, no, but we have two surface contacts coming out of the southeast task force bearing one five nine, bearing drift left. Both contacts approaching at high speed between thirty and thirty-two knots. The rest of the task force is only doing twenty-four or twenty-five.”

“XO, designate the two contacts Targets Fourteen and Fifteen. Let’s get a solution on them and let me know their ETA to the channel mouth.”

“We’ll need to maneuver to the south to get a passive leg,” Keebes replied.

“Mr. Turner” Pacino called, “take the conn and drive the ship for a TMA solution on the incoming contacts.”

“Aye, sir. Skipper, if we start doing target motion analysis here in the passage we’ll lag behind the Tampa. She’ll be out there by herself.”

“Don’t worry,” Pacino said. “We’re going to be enough of a distraction that Tampa won’t be noticed.”

“Conn, Sonar,” Chief Jeb’s voice announced on Pacino’s headset, “the Mark 38 decoys are shutting down. Seven so far. The others will be down in a few minutes. The two inbound warships from the southeast are classified destroyers, one Luda-class, the other a Udaloy … Conn, all decoys have now shut down.”

“Conn, aye,” Pacino replied, feeling Keebes’s eyes on him. Pacino concentrated on the firecontrol display and on the chart, watching as the solutions developed to the two inbound warships, noting that the Chinese carrier. Target Thirteen, was maneuvering toward the east, toward the “finish line” denoting the boundary between international and Chinese territorial waters.

“Conn, Sonar, we’re getting helicopter engines.”

“Where are they?”

“The bearings are scattered, but it looks like most of them are concentrating in the west at bearing two eight five.”

“What do you figure they’re doing, Captain?” Keebes asked.

“Probably overflying the Javelin launch zone at the west mouth of the channel. Maybe they think we were there when we launched and they’re searching a zone around the liftoff.”

“From liftoff point to the east down the channel,” Keebes added, “which means they’re on the way.”

“Sonar, Captain, are the choppers converging on one bearing?”

“Yes, all choppers are now bearing two eight zero to two nine zero.”

“Coming or going?”

“Doppler’s not applicable here, sir.”

“What do your ears tell you?”

“Coming, sir. Definitely inbound.”

Pacino looked at Keebes.

“They’re sweeping eastward, squeezing us between the choppers on the west and the carrier on the east. And the only noises they’ll hear in this channel are us and the Tampa.”

“And Tampa is a lot louder than we are.”

“I know. Mr. Turner, can you arm and launch the Mark 80 SLAAMs without the periscope being up?”

“Yes sir.”

“Arm all of them.”

“What are you going to do?” Keebes cut in.

“Score a few choppers.”

“We’ve only got nine missiles.”

“That’s nine choppers,” Pacino said.

“Conn, Sonar, we are now getting jet engines out of the east. Looks like the carrier is launching the Yaks at us. Jets are inbound at high speed.”

“Sir,” Turner reported, “ETA of the destroyers at our position is eighteen minutes. But they should be in SS-N-14 range within nine.”

“Helicopters are getting closer. Captain,” Sonar Chief Jeb reported.

“Bearings to the aircraft are spreading.”

Pacino waited, ears straining, waiting for the first ping of a dipping sonar indicating the helicopters had found the Seawolf.

“Conn, Sonar, we’re getting distant dipping sonar pings, some east, some west. The closer ones are west.”

“So, Captain,” Jack Morris said, his arms crossed over his chest. “Did you think it would be this bad?”

“You call this bad, Morris? So far no one’s launched a single weapon at us. Wait till the ordnance starts going off before you get in a sweat.”

But what Pacino was thinking as he stared at the firecontrol display was: Where the hell was Donchez’s air support?

The Nimitz-class carrier USS Ronald Reagan steamed through the rain and the mist and the dark, plowing through the Korea Bay’s whitecaps, her search radar rotating once every ten seconds, the American flag flapping from the highest yardarm of the tall central mast, the masthead lights illuminating the spray of the rain and the number 76 painted on the island, her air wing’s aircraft secured in the hangar decks in the bowels of the 105,000-ton ship. A ring of dim red lights in the island marked the bridge, where the officer of the deck drove the ship, the ships of Surface Action Group 57 in formation around the carrier, each in her assigned position and monitored by the bridge crew.

One level below, the flight-operations center was quiet, the room stuffed full of consoles for the radars and communications gear that would provide tactical control of the air wing once it was airborne. A level below flight ops was the tactical flag command center, also known as the flag plot room, where Admiral Richard Donchez stared out over the darkened flight deck of the Reagan and held the red handset of the NESTOR satellite secure-voice radio-telephone to his ear, a deep frown on his face.

“Mr. Secretary, I have a lot of American lives at stake here. I can’t get the submarines out without air cover. I need an hour of flight operations and I can neutralize the Chinese fleet — yessir, I know that … I understand that, but do you realize they will bomb these ships to the bottom of the bay? We’ve monitored every weapon launch by the Seawolf, and by our calculations she is out of weapons. That’s right, sir … I know, but if you count sunken ships, that’s at least one torpedo per sinking. The Chinese have several squadrons of ASW helos and jets up, scouring the bay. The subs only have a few miles to go, and they’re out of there …”

Donchez paused for a long moment, listening, rubbing his forehead. Finally he nodded and spoke, saying only “Roger, Donchez out.” He replaced the red handset, then looked up at Rummel.

“Sir, what did the SecDef say?”

“He’s worried that our international partners will think we’re beating up on the poor Chinese. That we still don’t want it known that we were in the bay spying. That this is an embarrassment to the Administration. That this is more firepower than we asked for in the first place. That torpedoes shot from subs are one thing, that carrier-launched aircraft are another. That this whole thing is turning into the President’s personal flap. He said he was convening a meeting with the President and the national security staff and that he’d make our case. He said he’d contact us in an hour.”

“That could be too late—”

“I know. Get the SAG up here.”

Rummel called the bridge and told them to send the SAG to Flag Plot. It only took a few minutes, during which Donchez hunched over the oversized Go Hai Bay chart.

The door opened and shut behind Rear Admiral Patterson Wilkes-Charles III, the commander of the surface action group, including the carrier, the fleet and the air wing. Wilkes-Charles, a tall, thin blond man, was in working khakis, his only insignia his admiral’s stars and his surface warfare pin over his left pocket. It was unusual for a SAG to be a surface officer, even though the task force was primarily surface ships — usually SAGs were ex-carrier commanders.

Carrier captains were inevitably fighter pilots first, surface ship commanders second. But Wilkes-Charles had commanded a frigate, a destroyer, a nuclear cruiser and Aegis cruiser, as well as a helicopter carrier, just before his promotion to rear admiral. He was the hero of the surface warfare community, living proof that a black-shoe officer could command a carrier group without flying an F-14 fighter first. Wilkes Charles had been marked as a golden boy when he was a midshipman at Annapolis, groomed for command, always the first promoted in his class of officers.

Still, Donchez couldn’t help but wonder why. Wilkes Charles had never been close to combat, had been in Korea during the Gulf War, and had never done anything special during his command tours to justify the Pentagon’s apparent love of him. But then, neither had he run aground, had any serious accidents, gotten divorced, gotten drunk in front of the brass, or any of the other things that could ruin a Navy career. He was competent, personable, friendly, but hardly original or aggressive. Still, he was the SAG, which meant he controlled the operational deployment of the surface and air forces, which in turn meant Donchez would need to go through him to get this operation going.

“Admiral Donchez, good to see you. Should I have some sandwiches brought up, sir? Would you like coffee?” Wilkes-Charles smiled, his even teeth shining even in the red fluorescent lights.

“No thanks. Pat,” Donchez said. He decided to give it to the SAG straight.

“Listen, Pat, we still don’t have authorization from the President to go.”

“We’re at a point of no return, Admiral.”

Donchez looked at him, wondering if he were hoping to avoid a fight over the bay, something that could definitely go wrong, stopping his career-flight to the top.

“Exactly, a point of no return. Which is why we’re going to launch aircraft now. I want you to get your F-14s and F-18s airborne immediately, as well as your EA-6s and a couple Hawkeyes. And don’t forget the Viking ASW jets and all the LAMPS choppers we’re carrying.”

“But, sir, I can’t do that. You just said Washington hasn’t given us permission—”

“Washington won’t let us shoot. No one said we can’t fly. Get those aircraft up and keep them fueled with tankers. The minute the President says ‘go’ I want every fighter and attack aircraft crossing the line and mixing it up. Until then our boys will fly to an orbit point this side of the line of demarcation.”

“We’ll launch, sir. But I can’t keep everyone fueled indefinitely. We’ll have to come back sooner or later.”

“I know that. Get going.”

Wilkes-Charles left. Donchez listened to the announcements on the Circuit One ordering flight ops, watched the deck fill with planes as the elevators lifted the jets onto the deck, watched as pilots manned the planes and taxied over to the catapults. The ship turned into the wind at full speed, the steam from the catapults wafting over the ship, half-obscuring the men working on the aircraft. And quickly, the first F-14 Tomcat supersonic fighter was positioned on the number-one catapult. Ready for liftoff.

“Conn, Sonar, the helicopters have all flown over. All chopper contacts now bear east. I don’t think we were detected.”

“That anechoic coating does a good job against active sonar,” Pacino said, but Keebes’s face remained grim.

“Conn, Sonar, we now have multiple high-frequency transmissions from a helicopter HS-12 dipping sonar, bearing zero nine eight. We think they’ve locked onto Friendly One.”

“They’ve got the Tampa, Skipper,” Keebes said.

“Range to the Tampa?”

“Ten thousand yards.”

“Mr. Turner,” Pacino said, “take her up to seven nine feet. Lookaround number-two scope.”

Officer of the Deck Turner brought the ship shallow to a keel depth of seventy-nine feet, then reported the depth to Pacino. Pacino rotated the hydraulic control ring for the periscope and waited for it to come out of the well. When it arrived he snapped down the grips and pressed his eye to the cool rubber of the eyepiece. Outside, the sky was dark, the sea choppy, the rain beating against the lens. The remaining light was steadily vanishing.

“Chief of the Watch, rig control for black,” Pacino ordered. The lights were turned out, which made clearer the view out the scope.

To the east he could make out the dark shape of the Chinese carrier in the distance, much of its hull obscured by the curvature of the earth, only its superstructure visible. He turned the scope to the southeast, looking for incoming destroyers, saw nothing. He did a quick surface search and found nothing close, then tried an air search, nearly impossible in the rainy dark.

But at the bearing to Friendly One, the Tampa, he thought he could see the flashing beacons of helicopters.

“Mark 80 status?” Pacino asked.

“Armed and ready, sir.”

“Launching now, one, two, three, four—” Pacino counted to nine, waited, still looking out the periscope toward the position of the Tampa, not concerned about being detected since he had just informed the entire Chinese fleet of his presence with the missiles, and besides, detection fit his tactical plan. The missiles in the sail silently floated out of the water and flew into the sky, heading for the helicopters gathered around the position of the Tampa.

Several missile trails appeared at the top of Pacino’s periscope view, the nine Mark 80 SLAAMs en route to the helicopters flying over the Tampa. One, then two, then a half-dozen fireballs bloomed in the dark at the bearing to Friendly One. Pacino lowered the periscope and fished in his coverall pocket for his eyepatch. As he strapped it on, he called for the Chief of the Watch to rig the room for red. The fluorescent red lights in the overhead flashed on.

“Attention in the firecontrol team,” Pacino announced. “The Chinese now know we’re here and I’m expecting company any minute. Once the choppers and jets pin us down we won’t have an opportunity to launch the Ow-sow, so even though the carrier is still eight miles to the east and the Tampa is still four miles from international waters I’m going to put up the Ow-sow now. With luck the carrier will be distracted enough so Tampa can slip through and make it over the finish line. That is it, guys. Weps, status of the Ow-sow?”

“Dry loaded in tube one, sir. Power is up, gyro is up, self-checks are go, solution is input to Target thirteen, and read back is sat.”

Feyley turned to look at Pacino.

“We’re ready to launch. Captain.”

“Flood, equalize, and open the outer door, Weps. Firing point procedures, tube one, ASW standoff weapon, Target Thirteen, the carrier.”

“Ship ready,” Turner said.

“Solution ready.” Keebes.

“Tube is flooding now, sir.” Feyley.

Pacino waited, cursing the time. The helicopters would be up on him any minute.

“Conn, Sonar, we have incoming helicopters, from the bearing to Friendly One.”

“Sonar, how many?”

“Hell, Captain, ten, fifteen — so many onscreen it’s hard to say.”

“Tube one ready. Captain,” Feyley said.

“Shoot,” Pacino ordered.

“Fire!”

The tube fired, the noise violent and loud in the room.