Ohio Class

20

"Good morning, Commander," Stewart said as Lieutenant Commander Hawking entered the Combat Center.

"Thank you, sir. Is that what it is?" He looked at his watch. "Morning?"

"It is indeed. Did we get you up?"

"I was racked out, yes, sir. You know, this six on, twelve off, shit sucks. Sir." He looked at Stewart, then at the two SEAL officers with him. "On the other hand, you guys look like you don't sleep. Ever."

"It seems that way sometimes, Commander. How are you doing?"

"I'm still a nonqual puke, sir, if that's what you're asking." He shook his head with a wry and lopsided grin. "I had no idea there was this much to driving a sewer pipe underwater."

"Not what I meant. How would you feel about driving your Manta?"

Stewart saw the flash of excitement in the young man's eyes.

"Sir! Ready, willing, and able, sir!"

"Have a look at this." He gestured, inviting Hawking to examine the chart now on the plot table. A blue line running south to north marked Ohio's movement during the past several hours, and her current position — eighteen miles southwest of the island of Jazirehye Forur, and forty due south of Bander-e Charak.

Two islands guarded the approaches to Charak Bay. The larger one, to the northwest, was Jazireh-ye Qeys, nine miles wide, east to west, and crowded with military bases, missile batteries, and an airstrip. The smaller, Jazireh-ye Forur, measured less than five miles wide, north to south, and appeared uninhabited — a barren, volcanic lump of rock. The opening between the two measured about thirty miles.

Marked across the northern half of the chart were dozens of symbols and notations in red — small diamonds marking sonobuoys, and lines, circles, and rectangles indicating the probable positions and courses of ships or submarines using active sonar. The red symbols formed a curved wall all the way from Ras-e Nay Band, a cape 112 miles west of Bandar-e Charak, to Hormoz Island, 160 miles east of the port. Another heavy area of active sonar activity was the north-south corridor between Qeshm Island, outside of Bandar Abbas, and the Musand'am peninsula.

"This," Stewart said, sweeping his hand along the curved forest of red symbols, "is our problem. We have to get here." His forefinger came down on a patch of sea a few miles east of Jazireh-ye Qeys. "Waypoint Bravo, where we're supposed to pick up the ASDS later this morning. The Iranians have this whole stretch of coast — and especially Charak Bay, here — covered with active sonar. There's no way we can sneak in there without being spotted."

"What is it you want me to do? I can't pick them up."

"No, but you can clear the way for us a bit. We can put that speed of yours to good use. This contact— Sierra Three-six-one — and this one — Sierra Three-seven-three — are, we believe, Iranian submarines put there specifically to run us down once we're spotted. These here are probably sonobuoys. This one in close to the beach, we think, is an Iranian ASW patrol boat. I'm wondering if it's possible for you to zigzag in ahead of the Ohio. Make a lot of noise… over here, say… and then get the hell out before they get too close. They're expecting an ex-boomer with a top speed of twenty-five knots, not an underwater speedboat going at a hundred. I'm thinking, when they hear you on their passive receivers, they're going to try to close with you. If you pull them out of position, we can exploit the holes they leave in their defensive perimeter, slip in, and grab our

SEALs. What do you think?"

"My God," Hawking said. "That's beautiful! Yeah, I can do that. One problem, though… "

"Yes?"

"There's going to be a lot of active sonar banging away in here, even after their ships and subs move. They'll still see you, no matter what I do."

"Probably. We're counting on the fact that when they hear you and that wonder sub of yours, they're going to be so confused they won't be coordinating real well."

"I see."

"There is a risk," Stewart went on. "If I was their fleet admiral, I'd hold some assets back, maybe in the lee of one of these islands here, active sonar off, or ASW aircraft, but patched in on this sonobuoy line, as a second line of defense. Let the noisy ones go chasing shadows. They're still in place, locked and loaded, if the shadows turn out to be a decoy."

Hawking grinned. "I doubt you have to worry about that, Captain. These boys don't seem to be all that bright."

"Mister, if there's anything I've learned as a sub driver, it's to not underestimate the enemy. We damned near got nailed yesterday afternoon by a Sukhoi and a Kilo working in tandem. You assume the other guy is at least as smart as you are and plan accordingly. If you don't, your loved ones are going to be getting a very unhappy telegram in the near future. You read me?"

"Yes, Captain. Loud and clear."

"Good. How long before you can launch?"

"By the book, prelaunch is a couple of hours. But I can give you a special deal."

"How special?"

"One hour from when you give the word."

"You've got it. And now… the specifics… "

They began making detailed plans, seeking to anticipate each possible contingency.

But anticipating every possible problem, Stewart thought, was impossible. War, by its nature, was so chaotic, there was no way to foresee every detail.

But they had to try.

Lieutenant Commander Hawking kept his speed down to about thirty knots as he pulled away from the Ohio. He didn't want to make so much racket in Ohio's immediate vicinity that he attracted the attention of Iranian sonar operators to the American vessel. That wouldn't do at all.

But once he was a mile away, he began easing the throttle open, accelerating through black water at sixty knots… then seventy. Punching a hole through the water at that speed made noise, a lot of it, no matter how streamlined the vessel. There could be no doubt that the Iranians were hearing him… and probably scratching their heads as they wondered just what the hell he was.

The water around him was completely black, a light-less void surrendering no information. He had to rely on the Manta's on-board sonar… but there was a problem with that, too. As with larger submarines, when the fighter sub was moving at speeds much above twelve knots or so, passive sonar was largely useless. The rush of water past the hydrophones drowned out every other sound in the vicinity.

His Manta's hydrophones were picking up the loudest of the active sonar pings, however. Sierra Three-seven-three was chirping away madly at a bearing of three-zero-one degrees.

Accelerating, he eased his control stick over and headed toward the Iranian sub.

The eastern sky, beyond the low, rocky hills, was showing the first faint, faint trace of a promise of dawn as the SEALs splashed wearily down the stream flowing into the Gulf close by the village of Bandar-e Charak. There were no lights on in the town, but Tangretti could see the running lights of a small ship — a patrol boat, possibly — on the south horizon.

Their exfil so far had gone without incident. Twice during the withdrawal — once up in the Kuh-e Gab, and again on the desert plain between Bandar-e Charak and the main Pasdaran base — they'd gone to ground to wait out Iranian patrols sweeping through the night. Neither enemy group appeared to be equipped with NVGs, which gave the SEALs a tremendous advantage. They remained motionless and silent as the patrols passed… once within a scant four feet of Tangretti's position.

The SEALs clambered out of the muck and across the low sand spit that had built up along the mouth of the stream where it entered the sea. A careful check showed the beach empty, so they began moving east along the spit, making for a clump of low, scraggly date palms that marked the hiding place of their CRRCs.

They found them, apparently undiscovered and undisturbed. As Avery and Hutch began pulling them out of their hide, the other SEALs took up perimeter defense positions, watching the surrounding night. Mayhew squatted on top of the sand dune, looking out to sea.

"Sierra Delta, this is Delta One. Sierra Delta, Delta One. Do you copy, over?"

"Delta One, this is Sierra Delta," Taggart's welcome voice responded in their headsets. "I read you."

Tangretti was startled by the quickness of the response. Taggart was supposed to be waiting with his radio mast above water, listening for the Team's arrival on the beach, but the presence of Iranian forces could easily have driven him back into deeper water. Had that been the case, he would have moved back to the surface every half hour.

Evidently, Taggart had decided not to let a little thing like an Iranian patrol boat keep him underwater.

"Sierra Delta, we're on the beach and moving to pickup. Three-zero mikes. Over."

"Copy that, Delta One. Three-zero minutes. We'll be there."

Hobarth and Wilson held their position as rear security element while the two rubber ducks were manhandled into the water. The other SEALs helped drag them off the shelf, then held them against the lap of the waves as the last two SEALs splashed off the beach and clambered aboard. The electric outboards were fired up, and the two SEAL CRRCs began quietly moving out to sea.

Tangretti gave the beach a last worried scrutiny. Things had gone so well, he more than half expected to see a Pasdaran patrol trotting across the sand spit after them.

But the night remained empty.

"I think we got away with it, Chief," Mayhew said.

"Seems that way, sir. Let's not jinx it."

"Roger that."

They still had a long way to go.

Captain Majid Damavandi was a patient man. He knew how to wait. The Mullah Hamid Khodaei, however, was not.

"Captain! Allah uses us all as His tools, as His weapons, if need be… but we must act in order to be used! I must insist that you get this vessel under way!"

"Indeed, Mullah Khodaei?" he replied, keeping his voice pleasantly noncommittal. "And what would you have us do?"

"I don't know! You're the submarine captain! But something other than sitting here on the bottom as the hunt proceeds without us!"

Damavandi cocked his head slightly, listening to the background noise ringing against the hull. Even without headphones, the confusion in the surrounding waters was evident. Half of Iran's navy must be banging away out there now, determined to find the American intruder.

He reached for the intercom mike and switched it on. "Lieutenant Shirazi. This is the captain. Report, please."

"The new contact is still bearing toward the northwest, sir. High speed… and erratic, as though it's zigzagging. I still cannot identify it."

"Keep on it, Lieutenant. If it approaches us, sing out."

"Yes, Captain."

He replaced the mike. "Mullah, we are doing something. We are acting as a strategic reserve."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Consider this, Mullah. Right now we have a very large number of ships and sonobuoys scattered all throughout this part of the Gulf, making a very great deal of noise. Either that noise will keep the American away, or we will be able to spot him as he enters these waters, and we begin picking up active sonar returns. Do you understand?"

"Yes… "

"With all of those ships, submarines, and air-dropped buoys already taking part, this vessel could not add anything to the search."

"But… but we have detected an intruder! The highspeed contact!"

"Yes. And I find that contact extremely suspicious."

"Huh? What do you mean?"

"Mullah Khodaei, submarines by their nature are secretive beasts. They survive by remaining undetected. They are quiet. And American submarines are the quietest in the world. They are very, very good at what they do."

"So I've heard you say on numerous occasions, Captain."

"Do not take that tone with me! Do you wish to understand or not?"

"My… apologies, sir. Continue."

"If the American submarines are so silent, then what is the nature of that high speed contact? Lieutenant Shirazi has not heard anything like it, ever before. It is as fast as a torpedo — faster, in fact. Sonar returns suggest that it is fairly large, much larger than a torpedo. Certainly, it has a much greater endurance. And, because it is so fast, it is noisy. What is it?"

"Some sort of American submersible device," Khodaei said. "They do love their toys."

"Indeed. And some of their toys are quite dangerous." Damavandi sighed. "I'll tell you what I believe it to be, Mullah. The Americans have been experimenting lately with a number of unmanned vehicles. Their UAV technology is superb."

" 'UAV'?"

"It stands for Unmanned Aerial Vehicle," Damavandi said, giving the Farsi words. "Our intelligence agencies report that they are working on underwater drones as well, Unmanned Underwater Vehicles.

"I believe we are hearing one of those. An unmanned submersible drone would be of great use. Guided from a manned submarine, it could penetrate minefields, locate opposing submarines, scout out shallow approaches and harbor entrances, and — significant in this case— act as decoys."

"Decoys!"

"Exactly. Why make so much noise unless you want the other side to hear?"

Khodaei looked pale. "We should… we should alert the other ships of the fleet! Let them know that they are chasing a drone!"

"No, Mullah. We should do exactly what we are doing. We are under the lee of Forur Island. If the American is approaching Charak Bay we will be able to detect him from the backscatter of our sonar long before he can detect us. If we pick him up, we will alert the fleet at that time, and then move in for the kill."

"You… you believe the American is coming here, then?"

Damavandi grinned. "You must admit that they have been most interested in this area lately. They tried to penetrate the bay with their patrol boats last month. Now they are doing so by submarine."

"You placed Ghadir here deliberately, then. An ambush!"

"An ambush, yes. And I am not going to spring that ambush prematurely by chasing around after shadows… or decoys."

"I understand, Captain. You are right, of course. I… I was wrong to question you. I just have trouble sitting and doing nothing."

"Yes. I've noticed." Khodaei looked stricken, and Damavandi laughed. "Don't worry. Submarine combat, for those not used to it, is extraordinarily wearing. Hours upon hours of doing nothing, remaining silent, sneaking about like mice… and then a few minutes of stark and brain-numbing terror. It's not a life for everyone."

"I am beginning to understand that, Captain Damavandi."

He glanced at the clock on the bulkhead. "It is nearly time for morning prayer," he said. "I will permit the ship's company to pray, but in three shifts. Understand?"

"Yes, Captain."

"And quietly. Whispers only."

"Allah will hear us nonetheless."

"I will leave the spiritual well-being of this ship to you, then."

Damavandi watched the retreating back of the cleric. What had possessed the government to saddle their officers with such nonsense? The men knew their jobs and were well-trained. They didn't need a cleric watching over their faith.

No matter. The men would do their jobs when the time came.

And he was certain that that time would be very soon now.

"Coming up on the sixteen-fathom line, Captain," the enlisted rating at the plot table announced.

Sixteen fathoms. One hundred feet. Close enough. Waypoint Bravo was tucked into an indent in the seabed topography, a short ravine east of Qeys Island. They should be pretty close by now.

"Water is shoaling, Captain," Connors, the Dive Officer of the Watch, added. "Three fathoms beneath the keel forward."

Eighteen feet. Scraping barnacles again. "Maneuvering, ahead slow."

"Maneuvering, ahead slow, aye aye."

He stepped over to the periscope. There was no need to order the boat brought to periscope depth. They were already there. "Up scope."

He rode the scope to the roof, checking above, then swinging through a 360 pan of the horizon.

"Nav. You got our GPS fix?"

"It's coming through, sir. Waypoint Bravo… within forty meters, give or take."

"Damn, you're good," Shea said.

"Damn we're good," Stewart corrected him, continuing to study the horizon. There was the coast along Charak Bay. He couldn't see the beach — the scope was too low in the water to see that far — but he could take a laser sighting off the top of a large, rounded hill that he knew was right on the coast — Jabal Yarid, according to the charts. The sighting confirmed what the GPS was telling them. They had reached the pickup point, sixteen miles south of Bandar-e Charak. Fourteen miles to the west was the eastern tip of Qeys Island. Seventeen miles to the southeast was barren little Forur.

They'd made it, and without being detected. The sonar crew had been following Lieutenant Hawking's escapades off to the southwest, where, to judge from the volume of active pinging, the whole damned Iranian navy was chasing him like hounds after a fox, leading them farther south into the Gulf shipping channels.

They were still moving slowly forward, at about three knots.

"Two fathoms beneath the bow," the diving officer announced. "One fathom beneath the bow… "

The bottom was coming up fast. "Maneuvering! All stop!"

"All stop, aye."

But eighteen-thousand-tons-plus did not stop on the proverbial dime. Stewart felt a gentle, grating shudder through the deck, heard the scrape of mud beneath the bow.

"Maneuvering! Back slow!"

"Maneuvering, back slow, aye aye!"

Ohio's screw reversed. Every man in the control room was death-silent, listening, straining to hear, to feel, if Ohio was going to go aground. There was another slight scraping sound, and then an empty silence, a feeling of drifting free.

"All stop."

"All stop, aye aye, sir."

"Nicely done, Skipper," Shea said.

"Bullshit. I kissed the beach."

"Kissing the beach and making a lifetime commitment to the beach are two different things, Captain. With these damned tides, it's a wonder we can get in this close."

True enough. The tidal picture inside the Persian

Gulf was enormously complex, so much so that extensive computer modeling was used to make tide predictions here for naval operations, and even those weren't always of much use, but sheer guesswork rather than hard information. Each of Ohio's incursions close to shore had been planned to take place during high-tide periods, to give the submarine some extra maneuvering room. In water this shallow, even a few feet could make a difference. Some parts of the Gulf coastline saw no more than a couple of feet difference between high and low tide… but the spring tides near Bushahir could reach eight to ten feet. In general, narrow passages like the Straits of Hormuz tended to amplify rising tides, and the difference between high and low water could be enormous, unpredictable, and, therefore, dangerous.

Tidal currents could be complex, too, especially inshore, and strong enough to sweep even a vessel as large as the Ohio into shoal waters or the side of one of these damned little islands scattered along this part of the coast as thickly as mines in a minefield.

"Okay, maneuvering, I want back dead slow. Very, very gently now."

"Maneuvering back slow, aye."

"Helm, come hard right. We're going to parallel-park this beast."

With the helm right and the screw reversed, Ohio began slowly turning to the left, her bow swinging away from the dangerously shoal water ahead. He wanted to be pointed south, ready to cut and run the moment May-hew and his people were back on board.

Damn these shallow waters. And damn armchair admirals who would send 140 men into waters too shallow to provide decent cover. It was still dark on the roof, but should rapidly be growing light. When the sun came up, Ohio would be starkly visible from the air, even fully submerged.

Stewart checked the bulkhead clock—0448 hours.

"Our retrieval window for the ASDS is set from 0500 through 0600," he said. "High tide is at 0510 hours this morning; sunrise at 0507. If our SEAL friends are late, we're going to be facing ebb tide and full daylight in water that's already shallower than in my bathtub at home." He raised his hand and rubbed his eyes.

"Skipper?" Shea asked. "How long has it been since you had any rack time?"

"Damfino. Eighteen hours?"

"I don't think so, sir."

"Thirty-six, then. Don't remind me."

"You need rest, sir. We made it to Waypoint Bravo. It'll be another hour before the SEALs are here, at least. You could catch that much sleep."

"Negative, Mr. Shea." He nodded at the overhead, indicating the search under way in the distance. "Not with all that going on. With luck, we'll get the SEALs on board, slip back out to the channel, retrieve Mr. Hawking and his infernal machine, and then get the hell out of Dodge. Two more hours. Max."

"Yes, sir." Shea didn't sound convinced.

Stewart grinned. "Don't worry. I've only run us aground once this morning. And I don't intend to do that again."

"I wasn't worried about that, sir. But you're dead on your feet."

"Better than dead in my—"

"Control Room, Sonar!"

"Control Room. Go ahead."

"Sir! We have a new contact! Sierra Three-three-nine, bearing one-one-five… and, sir! She's close!"

"What is she, Chief?" He recognized Chief Sommersby's voice.

"Submarine, Captain. We're getting tonals off her even without the towed array. Sounds like it might be our friend from the Gulf of Oman."

"Has she spotted us?"

"Don't know, sir. I'd have to guess yes, though. There's a lot of backscatter in the water."

All of the active pinging in the distance was sending sonar pulses throughout this part of the Gulf. Like stray light illuminating a visual target, scattered sound waves reflecting off surface and bottom could "illuminate" a submarine target, make her visible to the passive sonar of another boat.

All question, however, vanished as a sharp, ringing ping sounded through the Ohio. The Iranian sub had just gone active with his sonar.

"Captain!" Sommersby shouted over the intercom. "He's opening his outer doors!"

"Maneuvering!" Stewart called. "Ahead two-thirds!" He looked at Shea. "Hang on, Wayne. This is going to get rough!"