Joint Operations

TWELVE

Communications Specialist Wang slid one long, delicate finger under the foam rubber earpiece and scratched. Cool air crept under the pad, reducing the heat generated by the close-fitting earpiece.

He sat in front of a bank of advanced electronic equipment, most of it cobbled together from different pieces of U.S. gear. Thanks to the Clinton administration, they’d had no problem assembling the highly specialized equipment needed to detect and monitor a vast range of frequencies in the electromagnetic spectrum. The entire system was modeled on the U.S. Echelon program, a systematic way of monitoring every form of electromagnetic transmission for key code words and names.

But while funds had extended to the latest in electronic wizardry, his government was not as concerned about creature comforts as the Americans were. The earpiece he used was of the cheapest foam rubber available, hot and cloying over ears rubbed raw from hours of monitoring voice transmissions.

How did the Americans stand it? he wondered. By all reports, they had neither the dedication nor the patriotism of the crew on board this ship. They’d all been specially chosen, they were told, for this most dangerous and honorable mission. Wang tried to believe that himself, but he couldn’t help noticing, as did a number of his crewmates, that the thrill of danger wore thin after hours of staring numbly at the electronic console.

Still, his job was a vital one. While the gear could detect voice transmissions and sort them out into separate conversations, it could not tell what was important from what was trivial. Even if it had some rudimentary analysis capabilities, those would have been useless under current conditions. In the hours since the first launch, every radio frequency had been filled with the babble of a thousand voices. It took every bit of his concentration just to flip through the channels, continually scanning for anything of interest, simultaneously translating while trying to keep track of a hundred different circuits.

Wait — what was that? His hand froze over the frequency selector button. Something from the aircraft carrier? Yes, that was it. A cell phone communication, something about intercepting a stone. Or was it stony?

Without looking behind him, he raised a hand and motioned to his supervisor. He heard a slight click as the more experienced linguist started monitoring the frequency as well.

“Is it important?” Wang asked softly, careful not to disturb his supervisor’s concentration.

“I do not know. Keep listening.” In the background, Wang could hear his supervisor speaking to the watch officer, careful not to disturb his concentration. How the man could manage it, he had no idea. In the next few seconds, he realized they’d hit a gold mine.

Stony. That was one of the words, along with the variation Tombstone, that Wang had been told to listen for. Was it possible? His breathing quickened slightly.

His supervisor broke in immediately. “You have done well.”

Wang heard him passing the information over the tactical air circuit, vectoring one of the potent MiG-33s in toward the location they’d triangulated on.

The Chinese carrier had a series of electromagnetic receivers mounted along the deck, each one looking like a small chock or deck fitting from a distance. In reality, the system had a sensitivity that rivaled the U.S. Navy’s own passive intercept capabilities. By positioning different receivers at different places on the ship, one vessel could accurately triangulate the location of any transmitter.

Wang listened carefully, but there were no further transmissions over that circuit for Jefferson, nor were there any mentions of Stony or Tombstone. But it did not matter. The one brief transmission was enough to enable them to pinpoint the location of the vessel fairly accurately. The MiGs would do the rest.

Wang felt a moment of pride, realizing that he was indeed performing as vital a mission as his supervisors had claimed. He felt a fierce thrill of anger through his body, and wondered if the Americans on board the small Coast Guard vessel would ever know that it was he, Wang Su, who had been responsible for their destruction.

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, sir,” Jack Simpson said, frustration in his voice. “I don’t give a damn what all your sonars tell you. I saw the periscope right off my starboard bow. Now what are you going to do about it?”

Normally, the reserve officer was a quiet, easygoing man. His subordinates hated playing poker with him, because they could never tell when he held a good hand. And indeed, his ability to remain calm when everyone else was losing their perspective was one of the reasons he’d risen so quickly through naval ranks. In addition, within his own intelligence community, he had never had to deal with people who doubted his technical competency. Not after the first time they’d met him.

“Look, what did you say your name was again?” Simpson asked. “Do I need to get out the lines that the CNO himself can call you and tell you to listen to me?”

“You know we don’t pass names over an unclear circuit,” the intelligence officer on the other end replied coolly. “And I think I’m capable of evaluating your information without the CNO’s oversight.”

“Then you’d damned well better get moving, mister,” Simpson snapped. “I make the distance between that submarine and your aircraft carrier less than eight thousand yards right now. Unless you’ve got two helos airborne right now, enroute his datum, you’d better head to your abandon-ship positions.”

Silence on the other end for a moment, and he could hear muffled voices on the other end, as though a hand were covering the receiver. Watching the carrier as he waited, he saw a helicopter aft of her, which had clearly been in plane guard duties, veer away sharply and head toward Heaven Can Wait.

“I see your helo,” Simpson said, his voice now calm and collected. At least they were doing something. It might not be enough, but at least they’d go down fighting. “Tell him to come to his left a bit more — yes, that’s it,” he said as the helicopter corrected its course. “He should be overhead the location in about five seconds. There.”

A thin sliver of metal separated from the undercarriage of the helicopter and fell blunt end down toward the water. The splash it made was quickly lost in the gentle swells.

“All right, Jefferson!” Simpson howled. He turned to face his wife, glee on his face. “He listened to us — that asshole finally listened!”

A look of stark horror swept over Adele’s face. Her face was pasty white, her finger trembling as she pointed toward the water behind Jack’s back. “How — how far away from us is it?” she asked, her voice quavering.

Jack felt like a heavyweight champion had just landed a punch to his gut. He felt his own features start to mirror hers as he turned around to look. “Maybe two thousand yards,” he said, already running for the controls.

“And what’s the max range?” Adele asked, close behind him.

“Too much. If it doesn’t find the submarine right off, it’ll start circling for another target. Depending on whether it’s a wake homer or an acoustic homer, it will try to acquire an acceptable target.”

“Like us?” Adele asked.

Jack shook his head. “Most torpedoes have a depth setting on them. They won’t attack a surface ship.”

“Most. Not all.” It was clear from Adele’s voice it was not a question.

Jack nodded once, his hand already rock solid on the throttle controls, his other whipping the wheel around. “Most.”

He kicked Heaven Can Wait up to top speed, and felt the boat surge powerfully under his feet. Adele, forewarned by watching him, was firmly anchored with her hands clamped down on the railing.

“Not to worry,” Jack said, with more confidence than he actually felt. “We’ll soon be out of range.”

“How fast do they go?” Adele asked.

“Later, Adele,” he said, casting an anxious look back over his shoulder.

“How fast?” she insisted.

“Fifty knots, some of them,” he shouted, the noise from the water and the engine already drowning out his voice. “Some of them.”

He saw Adele brace herself against the vibration of the boat as it slammed up and down violently against the swells. The gentle water that had rocked them into their afternoon nap was now hard as cement as the boat accelerated rapidly to its top speeds of forty-five knots. Heaven Can Wait was a capable ship, but she was not built to endure high-speed chases through these seas for too long. She’d be all right for a while, though — long enough for them to clear the area.

Jack heard a tinny voice speaking somewhere in the area, and he glanced down at the cell phone in his shirt pocket. They were calling him, asking him something, but right now he couldn’t take his hands off the controls long enough to answer. Adele solved his problem for him, plucking the cell phone out of his pocket, keeping one hand firmly in place on the railing. “You’ll have to speak up,” she shouted into the phone. She held it close to her ear, nodded once, then looked over at Jim and smiled. “What’s the depth setting on the torpedo, sir?” she asked into the phone.

The answer came, and was evidently satisfactory. Despite the pounding of the boat, she relaxed ever so slightly. “I understand — yes, we’ll keep the line open.”

She looked up at Jack and smiled. “He said it’s set for forty feet, shallow for a diesel submarine, but still deep enough to avoid most of the pleasure craft in the bay.”

Good thinking, Simpson thought. And just how the hell had they managed to put the pieces together so quickly and change the depth settings on a no-notice submarine problem?

Maybe it wasn’t as no-notice as you think, one part of his mind suggested. After all, they are the United States Navy, and you’re just a reservist.

“He said keep an eye out for any explosions or debris,” Adele shouted, clearly relieved that they were outrunning the torpedo. What she didn’t know, Jack thought, was that a margin of error was built into every intelligence estimate of their range.

He concentrated on ship handling while Adele kept a sharp eye aft for any information that could be related to the carrier. Five minutes later, he was relatively certain they were out of danger. He throttled back into a comfortable cruising speed and changed course slightly. “Still talking to them?” he asked in a more normal tone of voice.

Adele nodded. “But he said he might be too busy to talk to me for a few minutes. Jack, they’re talking about MiGs.” Her deep blue eyes pleaded for reassurance.

“MiGs are fighters,” he said, drawing her close with the hand that had been on the throttles earlier. “They’re interested in other aircraft, not little pleasure boats like us.”

“But what if they know? What if they know that we’re the ones who reported the submarine?”

“They won’t.” For the second time in as many minutes, Jack had spoken with more confidence than he felt.

“But look,” Adele said, pointing back toward the vessel they’d seen heading for the carrier. “Somebody is shooting at the water, aren’t they?”

A slight buzz, barely at the edge of their perception. Aircraft unlimbering their nose guns.

“Yeah, they are,” he admitted reluctantly. “But those aren’t MiGs, honey. Those are Tomcats — F-14s. The good guys. And just to be safe, I think we’d better get out of the area,” he said, releasing her to goose the boat back up to a higher speed, settling it in at around thirty-five knots, well below maximum but still faster than was comfortable.

“If those are Tomcats, then who are those?” Adele said, pointing back toward the mainland.

Sunlight glinted off four sets of wings as new aircraft barreled directly toward them.

“Let’s not wait to find out. Hand me the cell phone.” Jack reached out and took it from Adele. “You still there?”

“Yes, Captain, we are.” There was a new note of civility in the other officer’s voice. “Any reports on our torpedo run?”

Jack refrained from pointing out that he’d been a little busy getting out of range to watch carefully, but said, “No sign. No explosions, no water spouts, no debris. I’d count this one a miss, sir.”

“I was afraid of that. Well, you’ve got the number, now.”

“Wait. That small boat that’s got Tomcats overhead — if you haven’t seen it already, I think they’re about to have playmates. Four other aircraft, look to be MiGs, maybe a twenty-nine, maybe a thirty-three, I can’t tell, yet, but they’re headed directly for your Tomcats.”

“Got ’em,” the voice from the carrier said. “We’re going to be a little bit busy here for a while. Suggest you clear the area. You don’t want to be directly underneath — well, just clear the area. Check back in with me when you’re at a secure location.”

The line went dead. Jack pushed the OFF button to conserve energy. Sure, now they tell him to clear the area. Even if it was too little too late, it was still good advice.

“You watch the aircraft, I’ll watch the water,” he said, handing over the steering to Adele. “Just stay to this heading until we’re out of sight of all of this.”

The helo attack on the submarine first reported by Centurion had taken up most of Bam-Bam’s attention for the last several minutes. While he waited for damage reports or any indication that the sub had been hit, he turned his attention back to the two small boats converging on the carrier. The lead helo reported that the submarine contact had not been hit, and that it had turned tail and was running back into the Centurion’s area of responsibility. Bam-Bam ordered them to break off prosecution and leave the bastard to Centurion’s tender care. Now, with one of the small boats identified, he turned his attention back to the one still in doubt.

“What the hell’s going on out there?” Batman roared. “That can’t be Stony, not if the Chinese are so eager to keep us from taking a shot at that boat.”

Lab Rat shook his head. “But why would they be sending a small boat out toward the carrier?”

“Hell, I don’t know,” Batman raged. “Spotter for the submarine, maybe a kamikaze-type suicide mission. We’ve been over the scenarios often enough, over the damage a small boat can do to this bird farm. You’re the intelligence officer — you tell me why!”

Lab Rat felt a slight shiver run through his fingers, and clasped his hands in front of him to keep it from showing. Too many hours, too many long hours crouched in front of consoles, hot air blasting down his neck while the metal in front of him radiated heat, trying to sort through the often contradictory indications and warnings, electronic intercepts, and other intelligence that came pouring into SCIF. The first strike on Pearl Harbor had only been days before, but already he felt twenty years older, the sheer horror of it, the unbelievable anger raging through the ship that anyone would dare reach out and touch American soil.

“Well?” Batman demanded. “Who is it, Lab Rat? Stony or some Chinese deception plan to get in close to the carrier?”

“It’s ours,” Lab Rat said.

“You certain?”

Lab Rat shook his head. “There aren’t any certainties in this world. You know that, Admiral.” He raised his head, clenched his hands even tighter, and stared at the more senior officer.

Batman looked astounded. Lab Rat was normally the most calm and confident of all his officers, invariably quiet and well-spoken. It was unthinkable for him to be anything but completely courteous. But what do you expect, one part of Batman’s mind asked. You ask the impossible. Just because the impossible has happened — this whole attack — you expect equal miracles for your side?

“So how do we tell?” Batman said in a more reasonable tone of voice. “Within the next three minutes, I mean.” He pointed at the screen. “Because when that blue gaggle intersects that red gaggle, we’ve got no more choices left to make.”

“I have an asset in the area,” Lab Rat said immediately. He fished his cell phone out of his pocket and punched in the number that Jack Simpson had given him. “I don’t know if they’re close enough to tell, but maybe. Hell, there’s even a chance that they’re not who they claim to be. But under the circumstances, it’s worth a shot.” He plugged the jack in the back of the phone into a patch panel nearby, circumventing the carrier’s electromagnetic shielding by wiring its small internal antenna to one of the massive arrays atop the carrier’s mast. He listened to the ring signal, and then said, “This is the carrier. I’ve got a question for you to answer for us.”

“You want us to what?” Jack Simpson asked. “Conduct an intercept?”

“That’s right,” the other voice said firmly. “We have to know who’s on that pleasure craft — good guys or bad guys. And as you might notice, our fighters are otherwise engaged at the moment.”

“Yeah, but — ” Jack glanced over at his wife. An offended expression started to cross her face. She reached out and grabbed the phone from Jack.

“What is it you need to know?” she demanded.

There was a pause, then the voice said, “As I was telling your husband, we need to know who’s on that pleasure craft. Can you get back in and see if it’s Americans or Chinese?”

“Of course we can,” she said firmly. “My husband is an officer — and I’m an officer’s wife. We’re on our way.” She handed the phone back to her husband, a fierce expression on her face. “Don’t ever let me catch you pulling that shit again, you understand?”

Jack could only nod, speechless and overwhelmed by his admiration for the fierce warrior he’d married.

Before Adele had even hung up, he’d turned toward the small boat that they’d seen flashing light at the carrier. Within five minutes, staring through the binoculars, he had his answer.

“Hit redial,” he said, as he approached the other vessel. “Tell them that whoever is on that boat, they’re not Chinese.”

“That’s it,” Bird Dog said. “Little bastard’s at two and a half miles. He’s toast.”

“Hey,” Gator protested. “Two miles. And we’re weapons tight.”

“And he’s not. Look.” Bird Dog rolled over inverted and stared down — up — at the surface of the water. “You see that group up forward? Ten gets you twenty that’s a Stinger they’re holding.”

“Bird Dog, you ass. Roll this bitch back over before I puke.” The sight of the sea rushing by, seemingly just outside the canopy, was disconcerting.

“Did you see it?” Bird Dog asked, swiftly rolling back into the proper orientation.

“I didn’t see shit that looked like a Stinger.”

“You weren’t looking hard enough.”

“Hard enough to see that that looked like Navy uniforms they had on.”

“Bullshit. Just tan pants and shirts. And there was a guy in BDUs, too. Carrying a machine gun.”

“I didn’t see a machine gun, either,” Gator argued. “For all you know, that’s a charter out of the Officers’ Boat Club that got caught out on the harbor when it all went down. It could be that they’re trying to get back to Jefferson because that’s where they came from.

“Bullshit,” Bird Dog repeated. “By the time I come back around and get in position, they’re going to be at two miles.”

“I know. Okay, line up on them, but you’re still weapons tight, remember,” Gator said.

“Weapon’s tight my ass. Lobo wasn’t all that weapons tight the other day and she went after a MiG,” Bird Dog muttered.

“Oh, so that’s what this is about? Your girl chases a MiG, you gotta chase something?”

“No.”

“You happen to see Lobo’s name on the flight line when we launched?” Gator pressed. “Or Hot Rock? Or their RIOs?”

“No,” Bird Dog said, doubt in his voice now. As he talked, he put the Tomcat in a hard bank, crossed over the bumpy stream of his own exhaust, descended another hundred feet and lined up on the stern of the boat. He toggled off a short burst of gunfire, the rounds striking the water two hundred feet off the starboard side of the boat. Every tenth round was a tracer. Even if the boat had missed the sound of the Vulcan canon or the stitches of water, they would have seen the tracer rounds.

“Stop that right now,” Gator snapped.

“Just verifying that I’m mission capable, RIO,” Bird Dog said innocently. “What’s your problem?”

“The reason you don’t see them on the flight deck is because they’re grounded, asshole. Maybe permanently. And Batman didn’t take any prisoners — he grounded the fucking RIOs too, for not having the balls to keep their pilots under control. So hear me when I tell you this — you fire off one round, one single round, before you’re weapons free and I’m punching out. By myself. You can hightail it back to the carrier and explain to Batman and CAG why you came back without your RIO and your canopy, and why you fired on an unarmed civilian boat. You got that?”

“If I hit it, it’s because I’m weapons free and it’s inbound on the carrier,”

“Fine. Find yourself another RIO,” Gator snapped.

“You’re always threatening me like that, and you haven’t punched out yet,” Bird Dog observed. He was now barely a quarter mile astern of the boat. He jogged back slightly on the throttle and retrimmed the aircraft for level flight. “You don’t have the balls to do it. And there are sharks down there.”

“Sharks, hell. I’d rather face them than Batman if he’s pissed at you. I get a leg bit off, at least I’ll get a medical discharge instead of a court-martial.”

Bird Dog fell silent. The warm throb of the Tomcat’s engines wrapped around them like a muffling blanket. “Call Jefferson, ask them what the status is,” he said finally, a note of resignation in his voice.

Gator breathed a sigh of relief. He toggled over to Tactical and contacted the operations specialist who was acting as air intercept controller. “Interrogative the status of that boat inbound,” Gator asked.

“Check fire, all stations, all aircraft,” a new voice said over tactical. “This is TAO Jefferson — boat inbound on Jefferson is friendly, repeat, friendly. Check fire all stations, weapons tight.”

“Holy shit,” Gator breathed, “A friendly.”

“You copied that, Tomcat 201?”

“Roger, copy redesignated as friendly. Who the hell’s on that boat?”

“Admiral Tombstone Magruder and escort,” the AIC said promptly. He paused for a moment, then said, “TAO says for you to stay overhead and make sure no one bothers him on his way in. You copy? Escort duty, 201.”

“Roger, copy all,” Gator acknowledged. He switched his mike to ICS from Tactical. “Bird Dog, we’ve got five minutes to get our story straight. Start talking.”

The ass end of the carrier loomed up out of the swells like an improbably massive cliff jutting up out of the middle of the ocean. Even though Tombstone had seen it many times from this aspect, mostly from liberty boats launching, the sheer size of the carrier always awed him. It seemed so small when you were airborne, vectoring in on final approach, your balls climbing up into your stomach every time as you wondered how in hell you were going to get sixty thousand pounds of Tomcat down onto a deck that looked like a postage stamp. It never got any bigger in the air, not unless you were unlucky enough to come in too low — unlucky or just plain not good enough, although they never thought of it in those terms. From the air, it was always too small, too far away, the gray tarmac rushing up to you at impossible speeds as you tried to maintain altitude, pitch, and orient on the center line and the three wire.

But here, looking up at the bulk of the ship jutting up from the sea, it was as though it were an entirely different ship.

“Big bastard, isn’t it?” the general asked.

Tombstone nodded. “She packs enough firepower to get the job done. No more.”

“Well, then.” The general moved over to the side of the small craft and started expertly handling the lines. A couple of the junior officers jumped to assist him, along with a Coast Guardsman. He accepted help from Captain Henry, but waved the others away. Tombstone watched his smooth, sure movements. “Done this before, I take it?”

“I’ve sailed all my life,” the general said.

“Maybe you joined the wrong service?”

The general shook his head. “Even if I thought that, it’s a little bit late in my career to be changing services, don’t you think?”

On board Jefferson, the fantail was flooded with sailors, all of them clad in safety gear. The controlled chaos took shape into a receiving party under the direction of a crusty old chief petty officer.

The Coasties edged the boat in, then tossed the lines to the waiting sailors. Soon the boat was snugged up against the bumpers, and the team prepared to depart.

“Right behind you, Admiral,” the general said, solving the delicate question of who was senior and who would debark first. Tombstone appreciated the courtesy, but reflected that they would have far too little time in the coming weeks to worry about seniority among admirals. Besides, once they were aboard Jefferson, it was all Batman’s show, anyway.

Tombstone climbed handily up the ladder, returned the salutes from the waiting officer, then said brusquely, “No bells. We’ve got work to do.”

The commander standing in front of him nodded. “If you’ll follow me, Admiral.” He saluted each of the more senior officers as they came aboard and then led them forward toward the interior of the ship.

Five minutes later, they stepped into the admiral’s conference room just off TFCC. A meeting was in progress, led by Batman.

“ — until we get some reinforcements,” Batman was saying, then broke off his sentence. He stood, rounded the table, and approached Tombstone, holding out his hand. “Good to see you again, Admiral. I understand you’ve come to help us out?”

Tombstone nodded. “Not that you need it.” He turned and introduced the rest of his team, following in his footsteps like a path of ducks.

Batman nodded. “Find a seat if you can.” He pointed to a ring of chairs around the outer bulkheads of the compartment. “We’re just going over the situation as it stands now. Just got some interesting news from the guys on the ground. There’s a SEAL team in there — you may have heard of them. Second squad from SEAL Team Seven.”

“Man, that was fast,” Tombstone said.

“Fast, no. They were up in the mountains doing some cross-training with the British SAS when the world went to shit.”

Batman looked somber. “It’s a helluva thing, Stony. Who would have thought we’d see it in our day?”

“I’d have thought you already got the story from Tomboy.”

Batman nodded. “She briefed me as soon as she got onboard. But is there something more to it?”

Tombstone shook his head. “Surely you’re not accusing me of planning my honeymoon around national security, are you?”

“No, I guess not. Still, mighty odd coincidence.”

“That’s what it was — a coincidence.”

“Well, like I said — pull up a chair and let’s get started.”

Batman briefly filled in the newcomers on the situation in the air, ending with, “Hard as hell to do anything about it while they’re over the island. We run the risk of killing more Americans than they already have.”

“So I take it the SEALs have some plans?” the general said, the first words he’d spoken since his greetings to Admiral Wayne and his staff. “They usually do.”

“We’re talking to them on SINCGAAR, and comms have been good all day. They’re going in tonight to take care of the hostage situation at the Comm Center. I don’t expect to hear from them during the operation — they’re operating on red signature orders — but we may see some fireworks.”

“And then what?” the general asked, his voice almost demanding.

“There’s an amphibious task force sitting off the coast,” Batman said. “As soon as we get the go order, we’re in.”

“Without air superiority?” Tombstone asked sharply, visions of metal shards in the air, fragments of flesh burning as jet fuel exploded around him, companies strafed into oblivion as they made the beachhead filling his mind. “It’ll be a disaster if we do that.”

“I know. That’s what we’re talking over right now — how to take those damned skies back from those bastards. Any ideas you’ve got, speak up.”

“Let’s see what you’ve got so far,” Tombstone said. “Then we’ll talk.”