First Strike

SIX

To an outsider, Advanced Solutions looked like any one of a number of small defense contractors known as the Beltway Bandits that lived and died off defense industry contracts. They sprang up overnight like mushrooms, flourished briefly on one or two contracts, and disappeared just as suddenly, either through insolvency if unsuccessful, or being absorbed into larger corporation if they were so lucky as to actually make a profit. Indeed, the exterior office had the requisite mauve and blue furnishings, metallic veneered name plates, and other accoutrements of prosperity that tried to give the impression of solvency without actually achieving it. The receptionist could spout knowledgeably about Advanced Solutions’s prospects, the current and anticipated contracts, and their hiring requirements. Unemployed aerospace professionals provided a steady flow of remarkably similar résumés, but Advanced Solutions never seemed to have any openings. And this, too, was typical of most Beltway Bandits.

But behind the facade, a highly professional and skilled team was at work. The two recruiters, nephew and uncle, were funded as a black operations project, so far off the books that their budget never even raised an eyebrow in defense oversight circles. Indeed, their expenditures were so small compared to most of their ilk that no one would have noticed anyway. They drew primarily on military personnel on detached assignment, and, with Uncle Thomas doing the brainstorming and Tombstone the mission planning, they were able to do far more with far less than any other covert organization. Their skills were specialized, not used in every conflict, but called in to play whenever the United States needed small, sensitive aviation missions executed with the utmost secrecy.

At present, the staff of Advanced Solutions consisted of only four people — the two Magruders, Greta, the receptionist, and Tombstone’s backseater, Navy Lieutenant Jeremy Greene, also a Tomcat pilot. On this particular morning, all except Greta were gathered in the conference room, a secure, carefully shielded space that was cleared for the most sensitive information in defense circles. They were reading the message traffic coming in from the fleet and getting their updates from CNN, just like the rest of the world, and most especially the military establishment.

Tombstone swore quietly as he saw yet another Russian transport land heavily on the airfield. One part of his mind, the part that didn’t give a damn about national security or anything else except flying, noted that the landing was a clumsy one. The transport bounced three times before it finally decided to settle down, and the Bear’s initial taxi had almost run her off the strip.

Beside him, his backseater seethed. An excellent pilot in his own right, he was increasingly proficient as a RIO, although the assignment often annoyed him. Still, all of their aircraft were configured for two pilots, and having him aboard assured him that someone could get them home even if Tombstone were incapacitated.

Of the three, his uncle was the quietest. His gaze was fixed on the screen, his fingers drumming monotonously on the fake-wood table. A deepening scowl framed his eyebrows and strong features.

“Damn, I should have stayed with my squadron,” the younger aviator said. He shot up out of his chair as though on afterburner and started pacing the room. “Something’s going down, and I’m not going to be part of it.

“Settle down,” Tombstone said mildly. He stared at the younger man, seeing himself fifteen — okay, twenty — years ago. “You really think we’re going to bomb the Russians out of Bermuda? A few quick strikes and it’s over? Because I have to tell you, that’s not going to happen. There’s too many civilians there, natives, tourists, everything else. No, this isn’t going to be over quickly, not at all.”

“You mean we’ll just sit here and let them land Russian forces on American soil?” The younger man demanded incredulously. “How can you sit there and watch this?”

An embarrassed silence hung in the room for a moment. Tombstone and his uncle exchanged a telling glance, one that was simultaneously confident and slightly amused. “What?” Greene demanded. “I hate it when you two start the telepathy stuff.”

Finally, Tombstone spoke. “It isn’t our soil,” he said quietly. “We forget that sometimes. We can’t just go storming in there without an invitation of some sort. A United Nations’ resolution, a request from the Bermuda government, something of that sort.”

For a moment, the youngster looked befuddled, but he recovered quickly. “I know it’s not a state. But it’s right off our coast! You mean to tell me that we’re going to put up with that? What about Cuba, or something like that? We didn’t put up with nuclear weapons there. Why should we put up with it in Bermuda?”

“Oh, we won’t,” Tombstone assured him. “You can be sure of that. But it’s not a simple matter when a foreign government is involved. And the question of civilian casualties — well, every nation in the world knows how sensitive we are to that, especially since the Middle East. All they have to do is invite CNN to broadcast pictures of a dozen sunburned tourists being held at the airfield and we’ll back off immediately. We’re not going to risk their lives. And, even if we are invited to take action, there will be some pretty strong restrictions to avoid collateral damage, not only to the tourists and people, but to the tourist industry infrastructure as well.”

The young pilot flung himself into a chair, a look of disgust on his face. “Special forces. Get the hostages out, then bomb the bastards.”

“And that can’t take place overnight,” Tombstone said, striving to keep a tone of reason. “Look, everybody feels the same way you do. But going in without the proper preparation just means people get killed.”

“It’s not like we’ll have anything to do with this anyway,” the pilot said, his voice dejected. “This will be strictly an active-duty operation.”

For the first time, the senior Magruder spoke. “Don’t be so sure.” They all turned to look at him.

“Talk,” Tombstone said. “What do you have in mind?”

“It’s not what I have in mind,” his uncle answered. “But I did talk to Don Stroh early this morning. He has some interesting insights into this, to say the least.”

“Seal Team Six?” Tombstone asked.

His uncle nodded. “As you said, the only way to do this is with special forces. And since its on foreign soil, the CIA is right in the thick of it.”

“Did they know it was going down?” Tombstone asked, a hint of disbelief in his voice. “Because, if they did, and they didn’t do anything to stop it, then—” He stopped, as the full import of his words hit him. If the CIA knew this was happening and didn’t put out a warning, then there’s going to be hell to pay.

But his uncle was shaking his head. “I don’t think so — at least, not in advance. There may have been some signs of it, in retrospect, but hindsight is always twenty-twenty. No, they didn’t know and decide not to tell the rest of us. It’s not a Coventry situation.”

During World War II, after the Allies had broken the Enigma Code, they had intercepted a message indicating that the Germans planned a bombing raid on the village of Coventry. They were faced with the agonizing choice of warning the village and stopping the attack with air power, or allowing the attack to proceed in order to avoid compromising their intelligence sources. In the end, it had been decided that revealing to the Germans that Enigma had been broken would cost more lives than allowing the attack on Coventry.

“So, now Don Stroh is calling you?” Tombstone asked.

“Who is he, anyway?” the younger pilot asked. Tombstone glanced over at his uncle, who shook his head.

“What?” the younger pilot demanded.

“You don’t have a need to know,” the senior Magruder said bluntly. “For now, let’s just say that Don Stroh is sometimes involved in some military operations. And this time, we may be tasked to support him.”

“How?” Tombstone asked.

“As you said, one of the problems is that a foreign nation is involved. It would seem to be in our interest to avoid having the United States look like it’s the solution to this problem. Rather, we would like for Russia, Bermuda, and the United Kingdom to solve this one on their own. So, any involvement by the United States is going to be in the form of covert operations.”

“Are you saying we’ve been asked to get involved?” Tombstone asked.

“Certain people have certain information about what’s going on behind the scenes. In particular, apparently there is a renegade Russian general in charge of this. He’s holed up in Chechnya, and you can guess how much the Russians want to start a new offensive there. It’s like digging a rat out of a hole — you need a good terrier to do it.”

“I still don’t see what we have to do with this,” Tombstone said.

“You have to remember, the Russian military is in a state of disarray. Many of their officers and enlisted men have not been paid in months. Their loyalty, quite frankly, is questionable. And this man, this Korsov fellow, is a popular officer. But the last thing we want is further instability in Russia. Therefore, this mission has to be accomplished by the Russians — or, at least, it has to appear that the Russians have done it. The objective is to behead the snake. Without Korsov, the entire operation will fall into disarray.”

“I still don’t get it,” the younger pilot said. “What does this have to do with us?”

For the first time since he’d turned on the television, a trace of a smile crossed the senior Magruder’s face. He looked squarely at his nephew and asked, “How you feel about flying a MiG?”

It was only after they were well clear of the channel and in deeper water, running at a depth of 500 feet, that the impact of what they’d done really struck Forsythe. Before that, they’d been running on adrenaline, reacting to the gunshots, frantically struggling to get underway, and then sweating out exiting the harbor channels and avoiding other traffic. Cowlings had proved to be unflappable. It was as though he had done this every day of his Navy life, although Forsythe knew nothing could be farther from the truth. Cowlings had never gotten the ship underway without the captain and the XO on board, and he had certainly not done it without tugs, except perhaps the simulator. And never, ever, with only a third of the crew on board. Yet, to look at Cowlings, you would have thought this was a completely normal and unremarkable operation.

And Forsythe saw how that attitude transmitted itself to the crew. Without even leaving the Control Room, Cowlings seemed to be everywhere at once, keeping track of the engineering configuration, dictating messages to Second and Sixth Fleet, and, in one quick moment, even ordering the senior mess management specialist to conduct an inventory of their supplies, reminding him that they would need to eat at their battle stations if the ship went to general quarters.

Already the ELF, or extremely low frequency, receiver was slowly printing its digitally coded messages. The data rate over ELF was extremely low, and the messages consisted of pre-formatted codes to cram the maximum amount of information into the minimum amount of bandwidth. But after they out-chopped the harbor, once they settled in at normal cruising depth and speed, it wasn’t even the fact that they had no operational orders in hand to tell them what to do next that brought home to Forsythe the seriousness of their situation. No, it was that no one came to relieve him. Normally, at this point, they would have secured the sea and anchor detail, and commenced the normal watch standing rotation. However, with only a third of the crew on board, the reduced manning just blew the hell out of any watch bill ever conceived for the ship.

Cowlings looked over at the chief, and they seemed to reach an understanding about something without a word being spoken. The chief nodded.

“Chief, you have the conn,” Cowlings finally ordered. He motioned to Forsythe. “Captain’s cabin.”

Forsythe knew a moment of shock. Underway, the officer of the deck belonged in Maneuvering, right there, supervising the conning officer and other watch stations. Cowlings was only five steps away, since the captain’s cabin was located immediately behind maneuvering, but even that small distance amounted to heresy.

As though reading his mind, Cowlings grimaced. “It’s the least of the compromises we’re going to be making at this point. We need to talk. I’m keeping the deck because I don’t want him solely responsible if something goes wrong.”

Once they stepped in the captain’s cabin, all the energy seemed to drain out of Cowlings. He slumped down in the captain’s chair, boneless, and seemed to have barely enough energy to point at the captain’s couch. Forsythe took a seat, remembering not so long ago when they had been in the same positions in the engineer’s stateroom.

“So. Here we are.” Cowlings took a deep breath, and shook his head, as though unable to believe what they’d done. He closed his eyes for a moment, rolled his neck to loosen the shoulder muscles, and then rubbed his temples with his fingertips. With his eyes still closed, he said, “Good call, getting them moving immediately on the mooring lines. I’m not sure we would have made it otherwise.”

“Are we in a lot of trouble?” Forsythe asked hesitantly. “I mean, I’ve never heard of this being done before.”

“Neither have I. Not since Pearl Harbor. But there’s no point in second-guessing that now. Under the circumstances, I did what I thought was necessary to protect the ship.”

“We did,” Forsythe said firmly.

Cowlings shook his head. “It doesn’t work that way.” He finally opened his eyes and stared directly at Forsythe. “I was the command duty officer and I’m the one qualified as officer of the deck underway. Whatever else happens, you are in no way responsible for that decision.” He held up one hand to forestall comment. “Don’t get me wrong. We have to stand together on this, at least in front of the crew, and I appreciate the fact that you understand that. But let’s get it straight between the two of us. It was my decision, and I will take sole responsibility for it.”

“But you—”

“Enough, Ensign.” The note of command in Cowlings’s voice was unmistakable. “We will not discuss this again.”

“Yes, sir.” Forsythe fell silent.

“So, the question is, what do we do now?” Cowlings continued, reverting to his earlier tone of voice.

“Come to communications depth and find out what’s going on?” Forsythe suggested.

“Soon enough. When I’m sure we’re safe.”

Fifteen minutes later, the reply from Second Fleet was short and to the point. Under no circumstances was the Seawolf to return to Bermuda. Instead, she was to remain on station until relieved by the USS Tulsa. Second Fleet ordered Lieutenant Commander Cowlings to assume temporary command of the submarine until relieved by his commanding officer, and to advise Second Fleet in the event that he was unable to comply, either through lack of training or material deficiencies, with any detail of the order. Arrangements were being made to provide a qualified senior officer as commanding officer within a few days, but there was currently no ship with helicopter capabilities within range. Cowlings was advised that Second Fleet had every confidence in his ability to carry out its orders as stated, and wished him good luck. And, finally, almost as an afterthought, Second Fleet noted with approval Cowlings’s decision to get the ship underway and the ability of the crew on board in carrying out that order.

“Well, it looks like we dodged that bullet,” Cowlings said, passing the message to Forsythe. “They put that all at the end of the message to make a point — that what we did was just what we’d been trained to do. If they’d made a big deal about it, it would be like saying we surprised them by doing the right thing. Second Fleet’s got a way with subtle compliments, wouldn’t you say?” He glanced over at Forsythe. “Guess that makes you the temporary executive officer. Can you handle it?”

“Sir, I’m not even a qualified officer of the deck underway yet,” Forsythe said. “How can I be the XO?”

Cowlings stared at him for a long moment, and said softly, “Under the circumstances how can you not?”

“Conn, Sonar. Sir, contact. Subsurface, classify possible Russian Kilo class diesel! And there’s two — correction, three of them, sir!”

Forsythe stood behind the sonarmen at the display. Not an unknown subsurface contact, not even one Russian — then suddenly there were three. And there wasn’t any assurance that there weren’t more.

“I think we know who was responsible for the gunfire,” Cowlings said quietly. “Battle stations, Chief. And set quiet ship.”

“Aye-aye, sir,” the chief answered. He turned to the navigator and said, “Pass the word — now.”

The petty officer left, and moved back down the long passageway running down the centerline of the submarine, whispering “Battle stations. Quiet ship.” A red light began flashing in the control room, indicating battle stations.

“Chief, come left to course two seven zero. Drop us down to nine knots — and get us down to below the layer depth, if there is one. I want to clear the area, and do it quietly.”

“Recommend seven hundred feet, sir,” the sonar man said. “There’s a radical drop-off just above that — if we stay below the layer, chances are they’ll never hear us. And besides, I’m not sure, but that may be below their normal operating depths.”

“Make it so.” Then, for the first time since they’d heard the gunfire, Cowlings appeared to hesitate. Indecision flashed across his face, and Forsythe noticed that his breathing increased slightly. “Chief, have weapons ready in tubes one and two. Keep the outer door shut, but I want them flooded as soon as we are below the layer.”

“Roger, sir. I understand.” The chief’s face settled into an expression that Forsythe had never seen before, but one that looked entirely too well-practiced. “Like the old days, sir.”

“Yes, I imagine it is. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Sir, the contact report is ready to transmit and we’re still above communications depth,” Forsythe began. “Nobody else knows there are subs in the area. Shouldn’t we—?”

Cowlings cut him off. “Get your priorities in order, mister. Protect the ship first. That means getting clear of these fellows. Until we’re clear of them, I don’t give a shit who knows that they’re there.”

Forsythe felt his face flush. “Of course, sir.”

Cowlings studied him for a moment, his expression stern. “If anything happens to me,” Cowlings said slowly, “here are my orders. I want you to first take every measure possible to preserve the safety of the ship. Second, you are to clear the area, avoiding all contact with any unknown surface or subsurface vessel. As soon as you are in a position of safety, you are to come to communications depth and immediately advise Second Fleet of your situation. Under no circumstances are you to delay reporting my… incapacity… to Second Fleet. And you are not to attempt to prosecute any contacts or in any other way do what you think I would do under the same circumstances. Get clear and report in. Got it?”

Forsythe stared in confusion at Cowling. “But what do you mean, sir? Nothing is going to happen to you on the Seawolf—or, at least, if something happens to you, it’s not likely I’ll survive, either. So I don’t see the point—”

Cowlings cut him off. “This isn’t a discussion, Ensign. It is a one-way conversation. And yes, I’m fully aware of the capabilities of this boat.” He leaned forward, jabbing his finger at a Forsythe to emphasize the point. “Anticipate the unanticipated. Whatever you plan for will not happen. So the more things you plan for, the less chance there is for things to go wrong. And, remember, there is not a finite number of mistakes in the world. Even when you’ve thought of everything, something else will happen.”

“Yes, sir. I understand.”

But Forsythe didn’t, not really. And, furthermore, his pride was hurt by Cowlings’s lack of confidence. After all, hadn’t they gotten underway shorthanded? And hadn’t he, Forsythe, correctly identified the potential danger and preparations for getting underway even before he spoke to Cowlings? Okay, so he was on his first cruise. But there was a first time for everything, wasn’t there? Like Cowlings getting underway without the captain and without tugs.

If he’s dead, I’ll be in command. I won’t have to obey his orders. The Navy will expect me to use my best judgment, and, given the fact that there are three diesel submarines out here and no relief in sight, I know what my best judgment tells me.

“So where do we start, sir?” Forsythe asked. “We can’t attack three submarines at once, can we?”

“Of course we can’t.” Cowlings voice was firm. “And, besides, maintaining continuous contact on them probably isn’t a way to go about it.”

“But that’s what our orders are, aren’t they?”

Cowlings shook his head. “Just to locate them. Look, the Russians know these waters. They spent decades on ballistic missile patrols around Bermuda, before they developed long-range missiles. They know how to operate in this area with two or three boats at a time, and I’m willing to bet that they’re just as cautious about mutual interference as we are. And with these diesels, it could be a real problem when they’re on battery. So, what they’ve probably done is divide up the area around Bermuda into different operating areas. Three operating areas at least — although we can’t be certain that there aren’t more boats out there, can we?”

“I guess not.”

“So, what we have to do,” Cowling said, sketching out his plan on a piece of paper, “is pull the data on their historical operating areas during the Cold War and figure out if they’re still using the same boundaries to avoid mutual interference. At the same time, we need to find out exactly what they’ve got deployed here. It might not be just diesels. A few old Yankee or Delta ballistic missile boats could be in the area, too. We need to know the exact composition of their forces as well as where they probably are so we’ll have a general idea of where to start looking for them if the balloon goes up or if we have to do something about them.”

There might be more — yeah, that makes sense. And, why just diesels out here? Why not a couple of old Yankee class ballistic missile boats?

“So,” Cowlings continued, “We stay around the edges for now. Get more detections, try to figure out what their boundaries are. At the same time, we want to maintain a weapons posture that will allow for immediate weapons free. Not that I think it’ll come to that, but let’s be prepared.”

“It won’t happen if we prepare for it?” Forsythe said, echoing Cowlings’s earlier statement.

Cowlings nodded. “Right. So, we’ll start with the southernmost contact and work our way north. Now start putting together a plan while I see the chief about the galley.” A weary smile passed over Cowlings’s face. “A well-fed crew is a happy crew.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay, then. Let’s get on with it. As I recall, you’re pretty sharp on sonar. Go take a look at things, decide what we have to do to get locating data on each of those three contacts. Talk to the sonarman — he understands how to do this. And the chief’s no stranger to this, either. Get back to me as soon as you have a plan, but no later than one hour from now.”

“Yes, sir. And where will you be?” Forsythe asked.

“Well, I figured you and I aren’t going to be getting much sleep for the next couple of days. I want one of us awake at all times. Therefore, since you’re going to be in Manuevering for a while, I’m going to take a nap.” Cowlings stretched out on the captain’s couch and kicked off his shoes. “First lesson of combat operations — eat, drink, sleep, or piss anytime you can. Because the odds are, you won’t have time later.” With that, Cowlings shut his eyes. “Turn off the lights on your way out.”