The Art of War

TWENTY-FIVE

“That’s the last of them, sir.” The captain breathed a sigh of relief as the sonarman made his report that the last mine had been deployed. With each one now tethered to the bottom with a weight and mooring cable, he was free to leave the area and return to port.

The mines he had deployed across the Straits were not the most advanced models available in the world. They were activated by both contact and magnetic influence. They possessed no capability, as many more advanced models did, of distinguishing between large ships and small ships. Nor did they have a “counter” that would tell them to detonate on the fourth or fifth target they encountered, nor did they have the acoustic classification capabilities and processors that would have told them the difference between the U.S. Carrier and any other large ship.

But their disadvantages were outweighed by the fact that that they were cheap, plentiful, and that the submarine had the technology to accurately deploy them. And, of courses, they were exceptionally effective.

The captain consulted his chart, then said, “Come left to course 350. Five knots. What is the weather predicted for tonight?”

The navigator spoke up. “Partly cloudy, with a three quarter moon.”

The captain grimaced. Far from ideal conditions. When the submarine came shallow to snorkel, she would prefer a completely black night. Rain was also good, as it helped mask the submarine’s profile while shallow.

Still, it was not as though they would have to do this many times. One day at most, and they’d be back in home port. Certainly, a submarine was more vulnerable tied to a pier than submerged and underway, but despite his chosen profession, the captain had always viewed sailing beneath the surface of water as slightly unnatural. For a submariner, he was not as comfortable under water as he should’ve been. As his counterparts were.

Perhaps that was the result of having spent most of his career in shallow water. Maybe the ability to transit in the deeps, to know that he was acoustically and magnetically undetectable, would have given him a greater sense of security. But here in the Gulf, in the shallow, hot water, he had all the disadvantages of a submarine and none of the advantages.

On impulse, he pushed the bitch box button and contacted the chief engineer. “If we had to, could we make port without recharging?”

“Yes. But I wouldn’t want to chance it, Captain. We’d be dangerously low on battery charge, down to reserves. And if anything went wrong, we would have no reserves to maneuver.”

It was as he thought. Well, the decision would not have to be made now. He could reserve for later tonight, perhaps picking a moment when clouds were thick overhead to obscure visibility. But it was good to know that if he had to, he could get home without recharging.

And was five knots the right speed? Perhaps slow to two or three. Battery endurance was logarithmically proportional to speed, and he’d use far less than half of the same battery power at three knots than he would at five. He weighed that against the lure of being back on solid land and decided to stay at five knots. Allah willing, they would be home by the next morning.

The Seawolf moved through the water, completely silent. No one moved more than was absolutely necessary. Commands that might be barked out at other times were whispered, passed from man to man quickly down the length of the ship.

“Conn, sonar. I have a firing solution.” Renny’s voice was low. Even with part of his conformal array degraded, he was certain he had a solid lock on the other submarine.

“Sonar, acknowledged. Hold fire for now.” The captain looked at the chart for a moment, wondering what it was that made him hesitate. Deploying mines was most certainly an act of war.

Not that the Iranians agreed, of course. They claimed the entire Gulf as well as the Straits as their territorial waters, to do with as they pleased.

But international law and the agreement of most nations felt that there was an inherent right of free passage. To acknowledge that the Iranians owned those waters would be to allow them to impose taxes, duties, and all sorts of other onerous restrictions that would unfairly affect trade. So, the captain concluded, he was well with in his rights to execute an immediate attack upon the submarine.

But still, there was the bigger question of what the battle group was actually up to. His last communication with them had been broken off just as they had entered the Straits, when they dived below by the attack. It could be that the tactical situation right now was even more precarious than it had been before.

There were no certainties, not even if he came up to confer with Admiral Wayne. And this was what he was paid to do, what he’d trained to do for decades — make the tough calls when he was alone — and make the right decision. The captain made his decision.

“Take us in close and hold us there. Maintain firing solution at all times — manual plot as well as the computer-generated solution. We’re going to take this bastard now.”

Even as he prepared to destroy the Iranian submarine, the larger question still loomed in the captain’s mind. What was the battle group going to do about the mines themselves?

Should he could come shallow to communications depth and let the carrier know that the Straits had been mined. That would make Seawolf an easy target complicating the problem of cleaning the area. It would put the ship at serious risk. And maybe it wasn’t necessary. He considered the alternative distasteful. There was every chance that one of the heavily laden merchant ships transiting the Straits would make the danger abundantly clear to the carrier very shortly. Once the carrier heard the distress calls and saw the ship listing in the water, it would be obvious what had happened. But as dramatic as a sinking merchant might be as a warning, that would not tell the carrier where the mines were or that the entire Straits were mined.

Bellisanus decided that notifying the carrier would have to wait until Seawolf had destroyed the other submarine. If a merchant struck a mine and alerted the carrier first, so be it. The Seawolf would hear the explostion and at least know that the carrier had been alerted. For now Seawolf’s only priorities were to destroy the sub and any other mines she carried and to survive executing the attack.

Had the Iranian sonarmen been trained in the United States in the last twenty years, they would have known that the acoustic signature of the U.S. submarine had changed radically during those times. They would also have known that acoustic quieting and shock mounting had reduced the amount of noise radiating to almost undetectable levels, vulnerable only to the most advanced passive systems. Even their vulnerability to active sonar systems had been reduced, with anechoic tiles on their hulls, a new, smooth hull shape, and, in some cases, soundwave cancellation electronics.

But the crew onboard the Iranian submarine wasn’t aware of those advances, nor were they really conscious of how outdated their own equipment was. Certainly they knew the technical specifications, but none of them had really had it brought home to them just how antique the sonar systems they were operating were, particularly on the passive side of the house. Nor were they particularly familiar with the sort of blow tones the Seawolf’s damaged sonar dome was generating.

Since they intended to remain undetected by the remainder of the American forces, the captain was not inclined to use the active sonar. Instead, he relied on the assurances of his sonarmen, who were growing increasingly confident, as they assured him that they were alone undersea.

That was the captain’s first mistake.

The peculiar buzz line of a torpedo cut through the submarine like a knife. Each sailor, without exception, felt his gut twist and his blood run cold as the unmistakable sound reverberated throughout their boat.

In shallow water, there was little the captain could do about it. Certainly he could increase speed, maneuver, and eject decoys in an attempt to confuse it. His other primary option was to conduct an emergency blow and surface his submarine, open the hatches, and try to save as many people as he could.

But the captain, aware of the reception that would await him in Iran if he simply gave up, chose the first alternative.

That was his second mistake. And his last.

The smaller submarine accelerated to flank speed in a matter of minutes, and the captain immediately ordered a hard turn to starboard. He then ejected every noise-maker in his arsenal, hoping to confuse the torpedo into attacking a false target. He even amplified the output of his acoustic transmitter, on the possibility that the torpedo would home in on that fifty yards astern rather than on the submarine itself.

All to no avail. The U.S. torpedo was massively and inestimably smarter than the captain thought it was. It analyzed, classified, and immediately rejected each noise-maker. The mass of air bubbles churned up by the submarine’s sudden turn was also easily recognized for what it was. The acoustic augmenter trailing the submarine confused it for just a few seconds, but then it detected the warm, roiling wake spewing out behind the real submarine as its propellers turned. The torpedo turned and unerringly followed the wake.

The captain, realizing his sin of pride in the last moments, ordered an emergency blow in a desperate attempt to save his men. But it was too late. In addition to being much smarter than he’d thought, the torpedo was also faster. It found the delectable propellers with their swirling troughs of air bubbles, and detonated.

The initial impact severed the propeller shaft and tore it loose from its thrust bearings. As the shock traveled through the ship, old seams sprang leaks, and then completely parted.

Under pressure, the streams of water rushing into the submarine were like sledgehammers. They smashed sailors against steel bulkheads, killing many of them before they could drown. As the bulk of water increased, it quickly flooded the battery compartment. The combination of seawater and battery acid yielded chlorine gas, and those that were not smashed, or drown, died of chlorine gas poisoning.

The captain had the presence of mind to order the watertight doors between the forward and aft portions of the submarine shut. Sailors frantic to escape the carnage astern surged forward, and the sailors in the forward compartments had to use their combined strength to slam the hatches even though arms or legs were still in the way. The steel hatches severed the bones, but the remaining flesh and blood fouled the seals and compromised the watertight integrity.

The captain also ordered the ventilation secured, thus slowing the spread of the chlorine gas. The sailors that survived rushed for the emergency breathing devices that were used to egress a submarine at depth. They fumbled with the straps and fasteners, the lessons not repeated often enough to become reflex.

As one by one they struggled to put them on, the submarine suddenly went hard down at the bow, throwing them all against the aft bulkhead. Two more died from the impact.

The awkward angle of the submarine, fifty degrees, nose down, made it virtually impossible to climb into the emergency escape hatch, but still some managed. They crammed too many people into it, and were unable to secure the hatch behind that would allow them to flood and escape after equalizing pressure. Not one of them was willing to leave and go with the second group. Finally, the largest sailor among them simply clubbed a smaller sailor over the head, and tossed him down into the control room below. They pulled the hatch shut and equalized the pressure.

Most sailors in the egress tube had donned their escape devices improperly. As a result, as the seawater flooded in, they drowned. The remaining sailors waited, panicking, as the water rose over their heads until pressure was equalized. They then left the lockout hatch, breathing out as they rose to keep their lungs from rupturing and let the buoyancy of their escape hoods take them to the surface.

Unfortunately, the submarine had been especially sloppy about discharging its garbage and food waste. As a result, a small school of sharks had taken to following immediately in her wake, and they found still-living flesh far more tasty than the remains of the crews’ meals.

The sharks munched their way through the first egress groups, until satiated, and then left the second group alone. The captain was part of that group as the last man to leave the ship.

The captain turned on the speaker to allow the sounds of the other submarine breaking up to fill the ship. It was not some gruesome ritual, but a simple reminder of the reality of what they did for a living. Each man thought he was alone when he felt a sweep of sympathy and despair for the other submariners, yet not one of them would have traded places with them. They might regret killing other men but under the same circumstances they would do it again. After all, if the submarine’s mines found their targets, far more men would die.

Finally, when the last creak and groan of mental stress died down, the captain said, “Communications depth. Are the mine positions ready to go into the Link?”

“Yes, Captain, they are.”

“Very well. What to do about them is the carrier’s problem, not ours.” He turned to his XO. “How is Harding doing?”

“Doc says he’s as stable as he’s going to get. If you can arrange the transport, Doc thinks he can withstand it.”

The captain took a deep breath and shook off the tension and fear of the last several minutes. It was time to refocus.

“Admiral, I need a medical evacuation from my ship to the carrier.” He recounted the details of Harding’s injuries, concluding with, “When can I expect the helo?”