Joint Operations

THIRTEEN

A submariner from even five years earlier would not have recognized the periscope operations now under way on board Centurion. There was no black pipe protruding from the water, no telltale fan of disturbed seawater or rooster tail behind it. Instead, a tiny black bump barely marred the surface of the ocean, extending up only far enough to clear the tops of the waves.

The boat was equipped with the latest in fiber optics technology, and a single thin thread mounted on a stiffening support rod allowed complete flexibility in periscope operations. There was no more sluing the periscope stand around to take a three-hundred and sixty degree view, no manual changes of the resolution, and no switching between the search scope and the attack scope. Instead, the fiber optic line supplied a highly digitized picture that looked oddly clean to the team in the control room.

“At least we know where the good guys are now,” Captain Tran said. He tapped one slim finger on the profile of the USS Jefferson, now centered in the scope. “I don’t like being this close to her, but it’s not like we have much choice. Not with the other submarine in the area.” He glanced over at the sonar gang, his eyes asking the question he didn’t need to voice.

“Nothing yet, sir, but sooner or later she’s going to have to come up to snort,” the chief sonarman said. “Odds are she’ll run back away from the carrier to do that, and as soon as she does, she’s in our area.”

Tran nodded. The inherent limitations of the diesel submarine made her most vulnerable to detection and attack at nighttime. Still, they’d seen more than their share of unusual capabilities on this contact. And if it was really determined not to be detected, it might find a convenient hole to lie up somewhere for the night, running on minimum hotel power and conserving its batteries. Maybe stretch it to one, two days without snorkeling. More than enough time to creep silently through the clear waters and make a run on Jefferson. And if that happened…

No, it wouldn’t. Because he, Captain Franklin Tran, was going to shove a torpedo up its ass so hard and true that there’d be nothing left of the other submarine except some scattered fragments of metal on an ocean floor already littered with the remains of too many hulks.

Captain Tran was a second-generation American. His grandparents and parents had fled Vietnam during the war. Their first years in America had proved hard for all of them, with a society seething with prejudice and anti-war sentiments hardly the ideal culture to yield up such a warrior as he had become. Indeed, if he thought about it — which he didn’t — Tran would have wondered whether it was a wise decision at all on the part of his country.

But from his earliest years, Tran had known that he wanted to join the Navy. Join the Navy, and earn his way into the most elite fighting force the service had to offer. He’d been entranced with submarines from the very beginning, even as a child, marveling that so relatively small a ship could be such a potent force. During the Cold War, his admiration for the submarines increased as he understood the terrible pressures under which the captains and their crews operated.

His grandparents had been rabidly patriotic Americans, grateful for the chances their adopted country would give them and their progeny even as distant relatives and cousins who had not made it out were slaughtered in their homeland. His parents had been slightly less enthusiastic, deeply encultured in the anti-war sentiment that had sprung up during the Cold War. Their son’s preoccupation with entering the Silent Service had at first bemused and then irritated them.

Despite their efforts, he’d applied for and been accepted to the Naval Academy. He’d earned his class standing of three out of his graduating class by dint of sheer efforts. There were other Asians in his class — three, to be exact. They’d all majored in mathematics, but his closest racial counterparts had shown no interest in submarines. For the most part, they’d gone into staff positions rather than front-line warriors.

But Franklin Tran was a warrior. It was in his blood, rooted so deeply in his genes that he had been able to conceive of no other career in the United States Navy. He’d applied for, been accepted in, and survived his interview with Admiral Rickover with flying colors.

His early career had gone much as any junior officer’s would, marred by a few ugly racial incidents in the wardroom. Still, he had ignored the slights, seeing them as merely another obstacle he had to overcome to fulfill his dream — command of a United States Navy submarine.

Now, twenty years later, serving in a Navy in which the role of submarines had varied greatly over the decades, he had his own ship. He had been in command three months, just long enough to get her through workups and a nuclear reactor inspection, and they were just preparing for their first patrol when the orders had come. When the tragedy had occurred.

Even now, he was not entirely sure what had transpired ashore. He only knew that there was trouble, big trouble — and he was on scene.

“I want that submarine,” he said quietly, his voice carrying to the farthest reaches of the control room. “She’s got no business in our waters — no business at all.” He looked around to ensure they were paying attention. “We find her, we kill her. Any questions?”

“No, sir!” the chief of the boat, or COB, said enthusiastically. He thumped one of the sonarmen on the back. “And this here’s the guy who’s gonna do it for you, sir.” He turned back to the sonar screen, as if there were some way he could will the enemy into sight.

“There she is again,” Jack shouted. He reeled off a range and bearing, and Adele relayed the information to Lab Rat over the cell phone. “Turning to meet us, honey. Tell them I think — oh, shit.” In one quick motion, Jack bounded down the ladder and to the stern of the boat. He whipped out a knife and cut the mooring lines holding the lifeboat to the stern of the ship. It smacked down in the water with a sharp smack.

“Jack, honey? What’s happening?”

“Stay at the stern,” Jack ordered. “Don’t leave here, okay? I’ll explain in just a minute.” His words drifted back to her as he darted back forward.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” Adele said to Lab Rat on the phone. “Jack’s got the dinghy in the water and he’s in a hurry. This might be — ” She broke off as she saw Jack anchor the wheel in place with two bungie cords and then slam the throttle all the way forward. Heaven Can Wait leaped forward.

A moment later, Jack was by her side. “Come on — we need to get to the lifeboat,” he said.

“Jack, exactly what is — ”

Adele never had time to finish the question. Just as she started speaking, her new husband shoved her overboard.

“Torpedo in the water,” Jacobs sang out, his hands flying over his console. “Russian-made, acoustic and wake homer. Bearing one seven nine, range — sir. It’s headed away from us!”

“Away?” Tran asked. “You’re certain? The carrier the target?”

“Yes, sir. And from the looks of it, it’s going to be close.”

Close, hell. That bitch has all the maneuverability of a broached whale. By the time she gets up to speed, the torpedo will be on her.

Just as suddenly, a new acoustic signature arced across his green display. It showed a small propeller churning frantically as it headed at right angles to the torpedo’s path. It looked like —

Tran confirmed Jacobs’s suspicion a moment later. “She’s a decoy,” he said unbelievingly. “Her skipper’s got her cranked up loud enough that the torpedo is going to make a run on her instead of the carrier. If it works, it’s got to be one of the bravest things I’ve ever witnessed.”

They watched in silence, almost afraid to breathe, as though the sound might distract the valiant race to death being played out before them. The torpedo continued on its course, making one small turn as it evidently found the carrier’s wake. They all heard the seeker head come on then, the small targeting sonar filling the water with its chillingly high chirps.

But then the small vessel made one final leap out in front of the torpedo, its acoustic signature completely drowning out that of the carrier. The torpedo seemed to hang in the water for a moment as though confused, and then made a sharp turn to the left.

“It took the bait!” Tran said, his voice almost loud for a submariner. “It’s going for it.”

It was a short, futile chase. Despite the small craft’s speed, the torpedo easily overtook it. The sonarmen took their headsets off in anticipation of the detonation. They heard a dull thud outside the submarine as the torpedo found its mark.

“No firing solution,” Pencehaven announced. “Captain, I’ve lost contact on the other sub.”

“Find her,” Tran ordered.

Jack swam up next to her. “You okay?”

“You bastard, you could have warned me,” she sputtered.

Jack nodded. “I could have — I didn’t.” He pointed toward the lifeboat. “We can fight about it once we’re onboard.”

Jack struck out for the life raft, Adele close behind him. Within a couple of minutes, they’d closed on it, and were hanging on either side of it as they gathered their strength to pull themselves into it. “Let’s not wait around,” Jack said. “Warm water.”

His last comment needed no explanation. While the warm waters off of Hawaii meant that they certainly wouldn’t die of hypothermia, it also provided its own hazards — sharks. Many varieties swarmed through these waters, and the noise from the torpedo would have undoubtedly attracted them if the Simpsons’ flailing through the water hadn’t.

She turned back to look at Heaven Can Wait, now bearing down on a steady course and speed as she had been when they’d left her.

The noise itself was just a dull thud, as much felt through the water as heard borne by the air. The boat seemed to shudder, then she spun around violently to port. For a moment, Adele thought the boat would bear back down on them and run them over, as though some unseen hand were at the steering wheel.

Then Heaven Can Wait slammed over to her right, whirling quickly through forty-five degrees, then ninety. A huge hole gaped in her exposed hull, and seawater washed in hungrily. There was another series of short, sharp explosions as cold seawater hit hot diesel engines. For a moment, Adele thought that the boat would simply sink quietly, but then it exploded.

“Down.” Jack yanked Adele down under the water momentarily, but his strength was insufficient to keep them down with their personal flotation devices. She looked up through the water and saw debris shooting over them. God, if it hit the life raft, what if they were trapped here in the water with sharks? They popped up to the surface and saw that the life raft was still intact.

Heaven Can Wait was now a smoking, flaming pit of debris scattered across the surface of the ocean.