The Art of War

SIXTEEN

Rabies pulled the S-3 into a slow, gentle bank. A gaggle of Tomcats were due to vector in for refueling shortly, and he was on station waiting for them. He’d just tried out his latest composition on his new enlisted antisubmarine warfare specialist, and had been quite gratified at the reception. He wished he could say the same for his own appreciation of the sailor’s latest efforts. Indeed, he had made favorable comments, but only because it was polite to do so. In truth, Rabies marveled that the man did not know how tone deaf he really was.

As he worked on the refrain to an idea that had struck him late last night, he kept up his scan of the ocean below. The rest of his crew watched as well, but he knew they were not as committed to the visual search as he was. Well, he would prove them wrong — just wait and see. Maybe he wasn’t flying a USW mission, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t find a find submarine. Within the parameters of his refueling tasking, he had considerable flexibility.

Just then, his fondest hopes were fulfilled. At an angle, he saw the patch of darker ocean, with a small pole sticking up in the center of it. His heart started beating faster, and he knew the thrill of initial contact on a submarine.

“I got it, I got it,” he crowed, jubilant. “No more shit from you guys, OK? Because that down there sure as hell ain’t no whale.”

Twenty minutes until the Tomcats were due — plenty of time to check it out. “Hold on, boys — we’re going in.” He put the Viking into a steep dive, and headed for lower altitudes.

Beside him, his copilot stirred uneasily. “They got Codeye you think?” The advent of antiair radar and weapons being installed in the sail of a submarine in the last decade had put a whole new twist to USW. No longer did they stalk a target that could take out their carrier or another ship, leaving the Viking to bingo. No, now submarines had the audacity to be able to attack the ones who were stalking them directly. The helo community in particular, with their slower speeds and operating at a lower altitude, were particularly wary.

Rabies shook his head, intent on flying. “All of the intelligence briefs say no. But,” he concluded reluctantly, “Intelligence has been known to be wrong before. I’ll play it safe, OK?”

“Let’s get them,” the copilot agreed.

Behind him, the TACCO was designating the contact as a contact of interest, putting out word of the visual sighting on the data link that transmitted information between all platforms in battle group and to higher authority.

Looking down from two thousand feet, the outline of the submarine was clearly visible. She was coming shallow, a communications mast sticking out over the surface of the water. Rabies gloated over his good luck.

Good luck, hell. Just sheer professionalism, that’s what it is. How many other tanker toads would be watching for something like this?

“Give me a flight-to point,” he ordered. Almost immediately, the series of symbols appeared on his screen. Rabies vectored over to them, and the TACCO released sonobuoys at each designated point.

“We ought to be able to get something, her coming so shallow like that,” the TACCO opined.

“I got prop noises,” the enlisted man said excitedly. “Real faint — she’s hardly moving at all — but they’re there. And,” he continued, studying the acoustic display for a moment, “Some electrical sources. Yes, sir, we got us a submarine. And it sure as hell ain’t ours.”

“Hunter 701, be advised we are vectoring two dippers for hot turnover on this contact.” The voice of the USW commander onboard Jefferson was gleeful. “Good work, Rabies. If anybody was going to get him, it was going to be you.”

Good work? Then why the hell am I still flying tanker duty? Maybe this will convince the CAG that I ought to be off the rotation.

“Return to altitude and continue with assigned mission,” the USW commander continued.

“Viking, this is Hound Dog. Interrogative your channelization, sir?”

The TACCO relayed the sonobuoy channel assignments to the helo so that the helo could begin monitoring the correct frequencies. “OK, we got him, sir. I’m holding your data link and your sonobuoys. Don’t worry, we’ll nail him down.”

“But…” Rabies started, then fell silent, fuming. It was his submarine, dammit! His submarine! Why the hell did he have to turn it over to the helos?

Because the helos couldn’t pass gas to the thirsty Tomcats inbound. Sure, they were nifty to have for localization, with those dipping sonars that they could move around at will. But it seemed so unfair, that they were taking his sonobuoys, using his data, and they would get credit for the kill.

If there was a kill. So far, weapons were still white and tight. But sooner or later, with submarines, it always came down to those moments when the battle group was left with no other choices. The primary rule of warfare was to kill the enemy before he killed you, and submarines were one of the threats that worried the battle group the most.

With a sigh, Rabies took the Viking back up to tanking altitude and began his slow circle again, waiting for the Tomcats as he watched the localization continue on his battle link.

Wadi swore quietly in his mind, but he was careful not to vocalize his curses. As strong as his position was now, it would not do to give the ayatollahs any reason to doubt the purity of his soul.

But surely if there ever had been a reason for swearing, it was the events that were unfolding on the paper chart in front him. His second in command stood to one side, a look of fear on his face. His master’s fits of temper were well-known to all of them, as was Wadi’s tendency to execute the bearer of bad news.

“How did they know?” Wadi asked quietly, his voice deadly with menace. He turned to his senior planning officer. “I gave strict orders that the submarine was not to be located. And now I see one of their USW aircraft in the area. Your explanation?”

His subordinate breathed a sigh of relief. Evidently, there would be no messengers executed today. And in the Arab world, that was meant literally rather than figuratively.

The senior planner was just as shaken, although he drew some measure of comfort from his relationship to the ayatollahs. “Our plan was designed to maximize use of the submarine’s ability to remain undetected,” he said, searching for just the right words. “But one cannot completely eliminate luck from the battlefield, and it appears that that has been what has interfered with our plans now. This must have been so on their part, because the skill of our submarine commander is—”

“Is seriously in question at this point.” Wadi shot him a deadly glance. “Unless, of course, it was your planning that resulted in this fiasco.”

Someone would die for this mistake today, the ops planner knew. He silently prayed to Allah that it would not be him. “I will institute an investigation immediately,” he said with more confidence that he felt.

Why could Wadi not understand that there was little certainty in warfare? You would think that he would know that, with his vaunted years of experience so often held out as a model to the others. Yet when things went wrong, he invariably looked for someone to blame it on, not realizing that uncertainty and chance is the very essence of any battlefiled?

Wadi drew in a deep breath, held it for a moment, then his expression cleared. “Very well. There can be no doubt at this point that they have detected our submarine. There are two helos directly overhead, she reports, and one of their Vikings in the area as well. Should they decide to attack, we have no options.”

“Then what would you do, sir?” the planner said, amazed at his own own boldness. In the long run, it would not work, this attempt to shift responsibility back to Wadi. If things went wrong, it would still be his head that would roll. Yet he sought in this his only chance to survive.

Wadi studied the chart for moment longer, and a cruel smile spread across his face. “The best defense is always a good offense, is it not? That is the teaching from every major battle experience. So, we will take the offensive.” He pointed to the symbol that represented the carrier. “Starting with that ship.”

The planner turned pale. “Our forces — sir, we will be ready shortly, but right now we are not—”

Wadi turned on him. “More evidence of your incompetence?” he snarled, leaving the words hanging the air as though they were poisonous gas.

The planner backpeddaled quickly. “No, no, of course not. It will be as you say.”

“Then make it so without further delay.” Wadi turned back to the paper chart and studied it, scowling as he did. What he would not give to have the electronics and data link that the American had, where information was instantaneously exchange between all units. Instead, he was forced to rely on this virtually Stone-Age technique of mapping out ships and aircraft on paper, the information woefully out of date even as it was plotted. Warfare moved too quickly in these constrained waters, with this modern technology.

Still, if what he hoped to achieve succeeded, Iran would then be graced with the ultimate in battle technology. There would be no more of this. Instead, they would have the admiration of the entire world.