Ohio Class

22

"Snapshot has missed, Captain."

"Very well." It had been an awkward angle, with Ohio already well into a sharp turn. The chance of a kill had been a slim one.

Now, though, Stewart needed to find a way to lower the Iranians' chances of scoring a kill on the Ohio. According to the sonar crew, at least five enemy vessels were converging on Waypoint Bravo, all banging away with active sonar. They were still a good distance away — forty minutes to an hour, perhaps, but he thought they must know exactly where Ohio was.

And that Iranian Ghadir was out there somewhere as well, still keeping quiet.

Too many to engage. Ohio only had four tubes, and one was now empty; it would take about ten minutes to reload.

He consulted the chart on the plot board, checking depths. The tide would be turning in just another few minutes, and he wanted to get away from these shallow waters.

He also needed to locate the ASDS. It must be close to the pickup by now. But Ohio would be a very large, very stationary target while taking them on board.

And the first problem would be just finding them. "Helm! Come left to zero-zero-seven."

"Helm, come left to zero-zero-seven, aye aye." They would have to go back into the shallows to find the SEALs and complete their mission.

"Twenty-six degrees, thirty minutes, twenty-six point three seven seconds North," Mayhew said, reading the numbers off the GPS screen. "Fifty-four degrees, ten minutes, five point two-eight seconds East. We're bang on-target, sir. Waypoint Bravo."

"So where do you think they are?" Taggart asked, peering at the television monitor currently transmitting the view from the ASDS periscope. They were wallowing in choppy water, deck awash, at the exact point— within a few yards, anyway, where they were supposed to meet their ride home.

"I don't know. But they'll be here. Our pickup window ruins through 0600 hours."

"Unless the Iranians got them," Taggart said, voice grim. "They won't make pickup if they're sunk."

"They're not sunk," Mayhew replied. "We heard one explosion… but nothing else. No breakup noise, nothing like that."

Taggart shot him a hard glance. "Just how much experience with sonar have you had, Lieutenant?"

"Not that much," Mayhew admitted. "ASDS training."

"Uh-huh. Well… I'll say this much: If they did get hit, there should be more crap floating on the surface. There's oil, yeah, but there's always oil in the Gulf. And it's just a skim, y'know? Not like a ship sank."

"Nothing on side-scanning sonar, either," Mayhew pointed out. "The water's not that deep here, a hundred feet or less. If the Ohio sank, we ought to be able to see the wreck."

"Well, they may have gotten clobbered miles from here… but I tend to agree with you." Reaching across to Mayhew's console, he flipped a switch. Instantly, the cockpit was filled with an eerie cacophony of chirps and pings, echoing and reechoing through the sea. "Hear that?"

"Yeah… "

"Search sonars. A lot of 'em. And headed this way. If they nailed the Ohio, I don't think they'd still be looking for her, do you?"

"No." Realization set in, and Mayhew grinned. "No, by God. They wouldn't!"

"So… how long do you want to wait?"

"Until 0600, at least."

"Okay, if the Iranians give us that much. It's starting to get light pretty fast out there. And that sounds like a lot of ships bearing down on us."

"If they're coming toward us, I'll bet that means Ohio is closer than they are."

"Right. But just to be on the safe side… open that storage compartment there under your console."

"What's in here?"

"Procedure checklist. In case we have to scuttle."

"Ah."

The two men began going through the checklist. The ASDS was a highly sensitive vessel, with numerous secrets about her… from the operation of her side-looking sonar, to the sonar equipment itself, to the communications frequencies used for satellite communications, to the very fact that the minisub was here within Iranian waters, carrying out a black op. All sensitive equipment and code books would have to be destroyed if the SEALs had to abandon the little vessel and swim for shore.

And that meant an explosion. A rather large one.

The charges were already set; the two men began arming them… just in case.

Less than five minutes later, however, a loud and ringing ping sounded through the cockpit. Mayhew looked at the sonar screen. "Jesus!"

"What is it?"

"Look at that! He's almost on top of us!"

"Ohio? Or the competition?"

"Ohio! Gotta be! No Iranian is that big!"

On the periscope view screen they could see Ohio's periscope now, camouflage painted and extending above the surface. "Sierra Delta, Sierra Delta," crackled over the radio. "This is the Ohio. You looking for a ride?"

Mayhew let out a whoop.

"Ohio, Sierra Delta," Taggart replied. "That's a big roger. You have no idea how glad we are to see you!"

"Copy that, Sierra Delta. Stand by to be taken aboard!"

As Taggart talked to the Ohio, Mayhew scrambled from his seat, undogged the fore and aft hatches to the lockout chamber, and stepped through into the aft compartment to let the men know.

They deserved that much, at least, after two hours of sitting cooped up and motionless in the rocking darkness.

"Hoo-ya!" one of the SEALs — he thought it was Olivetti — yelled, punching the air with his fist, and the other men joined in.

The cheers, he thought, must have carried through the water as far as the Iranian fleet, and caused quite a bit of head scratching.

No matter. They were going home now.

Assuming Ohio could evade the trap that was rapidly closing on her.

"ASDS reports they're docked and locked," Lieutenant Shea said. "They're starting to come down the ladder now."

"Very good, Mr. Shea. Let's get the hell out of this pocket."

"I concur, sir."

"Helm, bring us to new course… one-zero-five."

"Helm, coming to new course one-zero-five, aye, sir."

Shea raised an eyebrow. "East?"

Stewart turned and pointed at the plot table chart. "Yeah. Most of the pinging is to the south, on this arc between Qeys and Forur. If we head a bit south of east, we'll slip just north of Forur Island — about here — then we can swing south past the east side of the island and run for the shipping lanes."

"That means staying in shallow water longer. This stretch north of Forur is damned shallow, according to the chart."

"I know. But if we go straight south now, we run smack into the arms of that armada. No, we need to pull an end run here. With a bit of luck, we can get into deep water before the ebb tide strands us on a mud flat somewhere."

"Hope you're right, Captain." Shea didn't sound convinced. "How about Commander Hawking?"

"He can keep up. I'm just hoping his Manta is the only vessel in the Gulf that can. Otherwise… we have one hell of a big tactical problem."

Hawking eyed the warning lights with the same blend of annoyance and concern that a driver might muster for the low-gas light on his dashboard. Clearly, he'd overdone it a bit, pushing the Manta too fast, too hard.

The engine was overheating and the power levels were falling a lot faster than they should.

The reason, he thought, almost certainly lay with how dirty the water was in the Gulf. The constant tanker traffic — not to mention the large number of wells and oil production facilities up and down the coast — meant that the Persian Gulf was perpetually blessed by the mother of all bathtub rings, and the surface carried a constant scum of oil and filth. Each time he surfaced, or moved within a few feet of it, his water intakes gulped down more of the stuff, which was fouling his compression and pressurization chambers, reducing engine efficiency and increasing power usage.

His engine temp was hovering just shy of 550 now, definitely red-lining it. At 600 or 650, he might face shutdown.

He cut back his speed to fifty knots. At least he was now entering the general area where Ohio had been operating. He wasn't getting a transponder signal, however. Where the hell was she?

He slowed sharply, letting the Manta drift slowly downward at ten knots while he took a careful listen to the sonar. His screen was showing a hash outside from a dozen sources. The bad guys were definitely stirred up and searching. He didn't see anything on the screen, though, or hear anything over his headset that might be a submarine.

Hold it. There was something. An active sonar source that his computer suggested was ten miles ahead. A sonobuoy? Or a submarine going active?

He increased power and pulled the stick right, angling to move in for a closer look.

Damavandi spent a long time studying the chart. This American submarine captain… he was a clever one. Unpredictable. After somehow avoiding Ghadir's attack, he'd fired a single torpedo, maneuvered as though to drop onto Ghadir's stern, then suddenly broken off and turned east.

The amazing thing was how maneuverable the enemy submarine was, for such a titanic vessel. However, the American was rapidly running out of options. The tide now was in full ebb, and the regions inshore of the two guardians of Charak Bay — Forur and Qeys — were going to rapidly become both shallower and more tricky to navigate as the currents picked up. Damavandi knew these waters. His father had been a fisherman, as had his father before him, and as a boy Damavandi had worked on his father's boat, learning these waters and the ways of the Gulf.

These were his waters, his ground.

East…

The American, he decided, must be attempting to cut north of Forur, before turning south toward the relative safety of the central Gulf. That made sense in terms of avoiding the Iranian fleet now moving to intercept him from the south. It put his ship in serious jeopardy, however.

Especially now that Damavandi had a very good idea of where he was trying to go.

"Helm," he ordered. "Come left to zero-nine-zero."

He would take Ghadir south of Forur Island, then swing north to meet the American as he came south.

And he would be waiting for him.

But… he needed to be sure the American didn't double back on his track, and pass between Qeys and Forur after all.

"Raise the radio mast," he said. "Communications, this is the captain. See if you can contact the Yunes."

Yunes was another of Iran's Kilo submarines, hull number 903, purchased from the Soviet Union in 1997. Her captain, Commander Massoud Dadashi, was a friend and classmate of Damavandi's, and a good man.

During his last radio contact with Bandar Abbas, Damavandi had learned that Yunes was entering the Charak Bay area and was currently on station just south of Qeys. She should have her radio mast up and be able to receive a transmission from the Ghadir. If Dadashi headed straight east, following the American intruder, and if he did so with active sonar blasting away, that should drive the American to continue around the north of Forur… and straight into Ghadir's waiting trap.

Ping!

Caswell looked at the sharp, almost vertical line of white blips on the waterfall display. Each dot was a ping. The fact that they were in a vertical line meant the transmitter was not changing course relative to the Ohio. He was in Ohio's baffles, almost directly astern, but blasting with his active sonar loudly enough that the SSGN's passive sensors could pick up his pinging even above disturbance of her own wake.

"Sonar, this is the captain. Caswell… what's our friend doing?"

"Sir, he's still on our six. Range… about twelve thousand. He doesn't seem to care whether we hear him or not."

"Very well. Stay with him. And keep an ear out for anything waiting for us, okay?"

"Will do, Captain."

Dobbs, sitting next to Caswell, shook his head. "The Old Man thinks we have eyes out there."

Caswell patted his console. "This is just as good. Better, maybe."

"What I can't figure," Dobbs said, "is… if they got us, why haven't they popped a fish at us? They're in range."

"Simple," Sommersby said. "We've outmaneuvered a couple of torpedoes already, which suggests that our antitorpedo tactics are very, very good… or their torpedoes aren't so good. If they shoot and miss, we run, they might lose us."

"They also might not be sure it's us," Caswell added. "From that far back, they know they have a target… but they don't want to score another own goal. Maybe they're waiting to be sure."

"Yeah. Or maybe they're still processing." Dobbs shook his head. "There is so fucking much crap out there… background noise, sonobuoys… And their equipment isn't as good as ours, either."

"Just so you don't start depending on that, Dobbs," Sommersby warned. "We can hear their active sonar from dead astern okay, but if he sends a fish up our ass, we might not hear it until it's too fucking late. So stay sharp, both of you!"

"Right, Chief," Caswell said.

"In any case," Sommersby continued, "if I was the Old Man, right now I'd be thinking the bad guys might be trying to drive us. Herd us into a trap."

"That," Dobbs said, "doesn't sound good."

"No, it isn't. But you know what?"

"What?"

"I'd be willing to bet that the Iranians've never had to contend with anyone like the skipper." He chuckled. "Anyone who can take a school bus and handle it like a sports car has got to be a guy to be reckoned with! So just keep your ears screwed on tight, stay sharp, and don't let the Old Man down. He'll get us through this.

Copy?"

"Copy that," Caswell said.

He closed his eyes, trying to focus on what he knew must be an Iranian diesel submarine stalking them eight miles astern. He could see the other vessel in his mind's eye, her teardrop body, her outsized fair-water. No match at all for a U.S. Navy nuclear boat… but seeking to take advantage of these shoal waters and strengthening tidal flow.

Ping!

"Captain, we have a firing solution."

"Very well." Massoud Dadashi considered the tactical situation for a moment. Damavandi, his old friend, had suggested he drive the American submarine north of Forur Island and into Damavandi's trap… but that didn't preclude the possibility of taking a shot himself if the situation warranted it. Yunes' active sonar showed the enemy to be within twelve kilometers' range — a long-range shot, but possible. With the American's speed, he was pulling away from the Yunes, which was already moving at seventeen knots, her best speed.

If Dadashi fired now, he would urge the American to keep moving forward. North it was too shallow, and the south was blocked by Forur Island. A torpedo would encourage the American captain to keep to his current course.

And… anything was possible. Even such a long-range shot as this might hit the enemy vessel.

And Dadashi found that he wanted that kill.

He would take the chance. "Ready torpedo tube one!"

"Sir! Tube one is loaded and ready to fire!"

"Fire one!"

The other submarine, Hawking had decided, was Iranian. As he closed the range, his on-board computer, processing the sounds coming from the other vessel, had identified the active sonar as a low-frequency MGK-400 Rubikon, a Russian export design designated as "Shark Teeth" by the West.

He was tracking one of the Iranian Kilos.

His engine warning light was flashing again, and he cut back slightly on the speed. The enemy vessel was less than a mile ahead now. He ought to be able to see it soon.

In his ears he heard only the rush of water outside and the pulsing throb of the Manta's engine. It was a tradeoff. If he used the Manta's single serious tactical advantage — its speed — he lost the ability to hear the enemy.

Above the water, the sun had been up for a good hour now, and the water was fast growing light. Visibility was hampered somewhat by particles of debris suspended in the water, but Hawking found he had fairly good visibility out to about eighty feet. That wasn't the same as being able to hear the enemy eight or ten miles away, but it was something. It made things less claustrophobic… and more like sitting in the cockpit of a fighter plane at twelve thousand feet.

Ping!

The Kilo up ahead was still pinging away, and that provided Hawking with a perfect homing beacon. He wondered if the guy was tracking the Ohio or just randomly probing the depths ahead.

He leaned forward, trying to see through the murk. There was something…. Yes! The Kilo emerged out of the gloom, a huge, elongated shadow, still almost invisible in the murk, but he could make out the T-shaped control surfaces on the tail and the outsized sail amidships. He switched on the Manta's external lights, the better to see.

At sixty knots he streaked down the Kilo's starboard side.

"Torpedo one fired electrically!"

Yunes lurched and rolled slightly with the launch. But there was something else, too… a shrill fluttering sound that appeared to be coming from aft, but that was moving rapidly along the submarine's right side, from back to front. For a moment Dadashi thought something had gone awry with the torpedo launch, but he could not imagine what might have happened. Had something torn loose on Yunes' hull?

"Captain! Sonar! Unidentified contact close aboard to starboard!"

"Sonar, this is the captain. What is the contact?"

There was a hesitation on the part of the sonar officer, and Dadashi shoved aside a flash of irritation with himself. If the man knew what it was, he wouldn't have called it "unidentified."

"Sir, I don't know. But it's fast! Sixty knots! It's cutting across our bow!"

Dadashi felt a surge through the deck beneath his feet. The object, whatever it was, must be throwing out a tremendous wake.

"It must be the American drone," he said. "Track it!"

He wondered how he could kill an enemy vessel that was capable of traveling at sixty knots, with a torpedo that, at best, could manage forty.

Hawking saw the torpedo leave the Kilo, sliding out of an open door on the port side just abaft the huge, rounded nose in a sudden cloud of bubbles. He was already past the Kilo and banking left to come back around, but he could see the long, pencil-slender black shape of the torpedo vanishing into darkness.

He wasn't entirely sure whether the Kilo was shooting at him or at the Ohio somewhere up ahead. Either way, however, his own orders were clear. The bad guys had just taken a shot at the good guys… and now the good guys could shoot back.

Circling around to the rear of the Kilo, he brought the Manta into line with its tail, about two hundred feet astern and a bit high, looking down on her after-deck. He touched three spots on his touch screen, arming one of the fighter sub's torpedoes.

On the joystick, his thumb came down on the firing trigger.

"Fire one!"

It seemed appropriate.