Virginia Class

18

Virginia continued to ride on the surface, the rough seas giving her hull an unpleasant corkscrewing motion. Her diesel had been switched on, which added to the discomfort; the engine had been rigged to draw air from the smoke-filled torpedo room and vent through the diesel exhaust port atop the sail. When the compartment was more or less clear, the boat had been rigged for surface ventilation. The stink of diesel fuel continued to linger, however, along with traces of smoke. Added to the uncomfortable pitch and roll, the combination could bring the hardiest sailor to the point of seasickness.

Garrett met Lieutenant Halstead in the passageway outside of Virginia's sick bay. "Captain," the SEAL said, nodding. "What's up?"

Halstead put a hand out to brace himself against the roll of the deck, and shook his head. "Just came down to see how the kid was doing. Jesus, Captain. That was the gutsiest damned thing I've ever seen."

"Coming from a SEAL, that's high praise. What happened, anyway?"

"He seemed to figure out where that fire was in the bulkhead before anyone else did. Went right to the spot. Then when they had the access panel open and were trying to fight the fire, a big glob of molten plastic spilled out onto one of the torpedoes. I guess the kid thought the fire was going to light off the torp's warhead or fuel or something. He just reaches down, scoops up the burning gunk with his bare hands, and drops it into a bucket of water, slick as you please."

"Shit. Something like that wouldn't have set off a Mark 48. It would have had to be a real conflagration."

"Maybe he was afraid it would become a conflagration, Captain. I don't know. All I know is… that kid's got it where it counts."

"On that I agree completely." He started to move past the SEAL.

"Oh… sir?"

"Yes?"

"I might as well ask you now. The guys've been speculating about where we go from here. Back to

Japan?"

"Negative. The mission comes first."

"But… didn't that fire trash your weapons system?"

"I've got my best people going over the damage now. With luck, they'll be able to jury-rig something that will let us shoot back next time… if there is a next time. Meantime, though, we have a mission and we're going to carry it out, whether we can shoot back or not."

"I understand, sir. Thank you."

"Not a problem. Tell your people that we will be in the vicinity of Small Dragon Island sometime tonight. We'll go in after dark, have a look-see by UUV, and decide how we want to play it after that."

"I'll pass that on, Captain. Thanks."

Garrett opened the sick-bay door and stepped inside. Virginia's sick bay was small, with only two beds, both occupied. RM1 Padgett had fallen during Virginia's spectacular ascent and broken an ankle, so he was confined to one of the racks. Wallace lay in the other one, both hands heavily swaddled in white gauze and surgical tape. Five other men had been injured in the fun and games with the torpedoes that morning, but, fortunately, only two had to stay off their feet for a while — a badly twisted knee on one, a sprained ankle on the other — and both could stay in their own racks until they could be transferred off the boat.

Virginia's doctor — Lieutenant Colbert — and HM1 Wilkins, the corpsman, were next to Wallace's rack.

"How is he?" Garrett asked.

"Doped up on drugs right now, Skipper," Colbert replied.

"Is he going to be okay?"

"Ah, sure. First- and second-degree burns on his hands? He's young. He'll heal up in no time. We do need to get him and several other men off the boat, however. I'd like to see them back at Naval Hospital Yokosuka, stat."

"I know. Some other small matters come first." Like restoring Virginia to full combat capability, he added as an unspoken thought.

He took another look at Wallace, who appeared to be sleeping. Possibly, his sacrifice hadn't been necessary; it was pretty hard to set off a torpedo accidentally. On the other hand, though, it was possible he'd just saved the Virginia. How the hell did a nineteen-year-old kid rise to a challenge like that?

The same way, he decided, that teen-aged kids had been rising to challenges since the Peloponnesian War. War all too often was started by politicians, but endured and resolved by kids like Wallace.

"Keep me posted," he told the doctor. "Let me know when I can talk to him."

"Aye aye, sir."

Garrett's beeper chirped. He was wanted in the control room. He walked to an intercom speaker on the sick-bay bulkhead and hit the switch. "Garrett."

"Captain?" Jorgensen's voice replied. "Eng reports the air quality in the torpedo room is now at acceptable levels."

"Very well. Secure the diesel."

"Aye aye, sir."

"What's the status on the repairs?"

"The damage repair party has secured tube two, Captain. The fish never triggered."

"Good." As he'd thought.

"Repairs to the firing controls are under way. Weps estimates fifteen hours."

A long time. Too long to wait. He braced himself as the deck heaved again beneath his feet. "Let's get the hell off the roof," he said. "Take us down to two-zero-zero feet. Have Nav set a course for Small Dragon Island."

"Submerge to two-zero-zero feet. Set course for Small Dragon Island. Aye aye, sir."

"I'm on my way up."

He'd only just begun his trip back to the control room when he felt the deck tilt beneath his feet. Almost immediately, the rolling, pitching sensation ceased, as Virginia entered once again her true domain.

The hostile sub had vanished… a very good thing, since Virginia had been making enough noise during the past couple of hours to wake the dead, much less an enemy sonar operator. He was ready to bet his career that the hostile had been a Russian-built Kilo, a boat slow and limited in range compared to Virginia, but nearly as quiet when running on her batteries. Finding her would be a hell of a challenge, but he knew how to narrow that hunt somewhat.

Sooner or later, the hostile would show up at the Chinese base at Small Dragon Island.

And then he would take her down.

The rain was coming down in sheets, and visibility was only intermittent and brief between each sweep of the windshield wipers. Zaki leaned forward, trying to pierce the rain. He thought he could just make out the gray loom of the Chinese sea base ahead.

"The prisoners," Muhammad Jabarrah was telling him, "will be extremely useful as shields. I suggest we keep two of them on board… as insurance."

Zaki straightened up, then glanced at the Maktum fighter. "Ah. And which two did you have in mind?"

"The women, of course," Jabarrah replied without hesitation. "They are the most easily controlled."

"I see. And that choice would have nothing to do with your desire for, shall we say, the spoils of war, would it?"

"I don't know what you mean, Zaki."

Zaki sighed. "Those women have already caused trouble enough for the crew of Shuhadaa. I don't think it wise to tempt this crew as well."

"Nonsense. The trouble on the submarine was caused by trying to transport so many prisoners in so small a space. Two women will be easy to guard. Besides…" He shrugged. "By separating them from the men, perhaps we guarantee the men's good behavior."

Zaki considered this. "Very well," he said at last. "But transfer them to the stateroom aft of my own."

Jabarrah's face creased in an unpleasant smile.

"Oh?"

"The better that I might hear if anyone violates their privacy."

Jabarrah's smile vanished. "As you wish."

The other man turned suddenly and stalked from the bridge, leaving Zaki alone with Al Qahir's pilot and captain.

The bastard wants to rape the women, he thought, angry. He will not get the chance.

Zaki was beginning to wonder if this Maktum operation was truly worth the risk. Several Vietnamese assets had been destroyed for their Chinese associates, yes… and the tally now included a fifty-two-thousand-ton Japanese transport, a civilian airliner, and the hostages now under guard in Al Qahir's aft lounge. What had seemed a brilliant operation on paper, however, seemed less so now. Their Chinese partners, he knew, still hoped to settle old scores with the American Navy when they entered these waters, and by all reports, that would be within the next couple of days. Intelligence reports had been relayed to the Al Qahir, indicating that the Franklin D. Roosevelt carrier battlegroup was now rounding the northern tip of Luzon.

The destruction of an American aircraft carrier, of course, would be worth almost any risk — a means of striking at the hated Americans as spectacular as the attacks against New York City and Washington, five years before. By taking the credit for the sinking — and Beijing certainly wanted to maintain a low profile in this operation — Maktum might well rally the global forces of radical Islamic jihad against the Americans, simply by proving the Americans were not omnipotent.

But right now, he was beginning to doubt that the Chinese would be able to sink the Roosevelt. Unarmed civilian merchant ships and freighters, yes. One of the almost legendary supercarriers… well, that seemed most unlikely.

At least, he thought, the weather is cooperating now. Thank you, Allah, for your mercy. With this storm blanketing the region, American spy satellites would be rendered all but useless. Certainly, they would be unable to track a vessel as small as the Al Qahir.

Then Al Qahir glided close enough to the Chinese base that, even through the rain, he could see the yawning cavern of Small Dragon's sheltered port, the light inside spilling into the rain in a diffuse smear of golden light. A few moments more, and the rain stopped with the abruptness of a falling blade. Al Qahir motored gently into the enclosure.

Ahead, at the pier, a single submarine — ul Haq's— lay tied to the dock, as sailors worked to load supplies.

Which would be more efficient, he wondered… to send the Pakistani submarine out again to raid civilian shipping? Or have her deploy to the north, into the path of the oncoming American fleet? The Chinese might appreciate the extra set of torpedo tubes.

He would need to confer with ul Haq, and see what the ex-Pakistani naval officer thought.

Behind them, with a low-voiced rumble, the sliding steel doors closed, cutting them off from the storm.

The real storm, Zaki thought, is yet to come. Allah, defend us!

Here we go again, John Stevens thought, a little wildly. He clung with aching gloved hands to the cable secured to his safety harness and stepped out of the helicopter's side door, fighting the sudden stab of panic as his feet dangled in midair. Next time… delegate!

He still wasn't sure how he'd survived the botched transfer twelve hours ago. He remembered his horror when the sailors on board the Virginia had tossed his safety line overboard, remembered the fear turning to panic as the submarine had submerged.

Fortunately, the helicopter that had ferried him out to Rendezvous Point Hotel had continued to hover overhead. He'd been afraid they wouldn't see him in the rain and surging ocean swell, but a powerful strobe beacon attached to his life jacket had triggered when he hit the water, and the helicopter, apparently warned by the submerging submarine, had swung around and come back for him, drifting slowly forward dangerously close to the waves.

A man had jumped in after him, bringing with him a rescue line. Bathed in the frosty glare of the helicopter's lights, the two men had clung together as his rescuer attached the line to his harness, then signaled for the helo's crew chief to haul them both back out of the sea. Five minutes later, he'd been back on board Sea Hawk Bravo Five-one, as someone draped him and his rescuer with blankets and the helicopter had circled toward the east and begun climbing.

They'd flown to the nearest air base, which happened to be a Filipino military facility outside of Manila. There, after breakfast and a quick checkup from a doctor, he'd been headed for a well-deserved nap when a Filipino army colonel had presented him with new orders from Yokosuka.

Once again, he'd found himself on board Bravo Five-one, edging through savage weather toward the tail end of the same submarine that had abandoned him in the wee hours of that morning.

I am definitely going to delegate next time, he thought. This shit is not worth another star on the Wall.

Back at Langley, just inside the security checkpoint for the main lobby of the CIA's headquarters, a number of gold stars inscribed with engraved names adorned a wall between the flags of the United States and of the Central Intelligence Agency… one star, one name, for each man or woman killed in the line of duty during the Cold War and after.

The wind and the rotor blast together blew at him wildly, twisting at his body and threatening to tear him free. Only about fifteen feet below, sailors on the extreme aft deck of the Virginia were raising a pole to discharge the static electricity that had built up in the Sea Hawk during its flight through the storm. With a crack audible even above the rushing air, the static discharged, and hands began reaching for Stevens's booted feet.

Instead of dropping him into the ocean alongside the Virginia, the helicopter pilot had opted for the slightly more hazardous approach of attempting an at-sea personnel transfer. As before, a safety line had been hooked to his harness and tossed to the waiting submariners below. The helo crew then had lowered him on a second cable, easing him down toward the submarine's aft deck.

Last night's drop had been more dangerous for him, but safer for the helicopter. This way was risky for them both but not quite as rough for him as another dunking in the storm-stirred ocean. The chopper pilot was willing to try this approach in daylight, but not in the dark. Submarines, Stevens was told, often took on supplies at sea this way.

Swaying at the end of his cable, Stevens wafted toward the deck until he was surrounded by men in heavy rain gear. They unhooked the quick release on the cable from the winch, then freed him from the safety line.

"Welcome aboard the Virginia," one of the men shouted in his ear. "This way, sir!" Bravo Five-one was already clawing for altitude, circling once more back toward the north for its return to the Roosevelt.

Stevens just hoped the damned submarine didn't start submerging before he was safely inside.

Clutching a safety line rigged along Virginia's aft hull, he made his way forward, toward the imposing bulk of the ASDS resting on the submarine's deck aft of the sail. A circular hatch was open in the deck just aft of the tail of the ASDS, and a crewman waved him on. They helped him step into the hatch and down the ladder.

By the time he was in a fluorescent-lit passageway walking forward, the deck was tilting beneath his feet, and Virginia was slipping once more into the ocean's dark embrace.

"Ahead flank," Garrett said.

"Ahead, flank speed," came the echoed response. "Aye aye, sir."

"Captain?"

Garrett turned in his chair. Jorgensen was stripping off his foul-weather slicker. Beside him was a muscular man looking just a bit like an alien in wetsuit, harness, and life jacket.

"Stevens," the man said.

"Welcome aboard, Mr. Stevens."

"It's good to finally be aboard, Captain. I was beginning to feel damned unwanted."

"You were the guy we had to leave in the drink this morning?"

"I was."

"I'm glad you're okay. I do regret the necessity that forced us to cast you off that way."

"Yeah, what the hell happened, anyway?"

"We were under attack. If we'd waited another thirty seconds, we would not have been able to fight clear."

"Jesus! Who attacked you?"

"Actually, I was hoping you had that information for us. That's why someone decided to drop you on us, isn't it? To fill us in on the latest hot shit in person?" Stevens started to reply, and Garrett waved him to silence. "Later. Mr. Jorgensen will take you to the torpedo room and get you bunked in with our SEALs. You can brief me after you get dry, warm, and settled in."

"Thank you, Captain." He glanced up at the big monitor on the control room's forward bulkhead. At the moment, it showed a normal-spectrum camera view of the surface, seen through the Photonics mast — gray clouds and rain, empty gray ocean, and the impression of great speed as the mast sliced through the ocean swell. "May I ask… where are we headed now?"

"Small Dragon Island, Mr. Stevens. Based on what you people have passed on to us so far, my guess is that the rogue sub may be operating out of that base with Chinese help. It is my intention to scout that base, and see if we can find any sign of either that submarine, or the yacht you people alerted us to… what was the name?"

"Al Qahir."

"Yes."

"We'll talk, Captain. We'll talk…."

Garrett watched as the XO led Stevens aft again, toward the ladder that would take him down to the torpedo room deck.

Micromanagement again. The armchair admirals weren't content with saddling Virginia with constant mission updates over the high-tech communications links, but had decided to send a human proxy. Garrett felt a great deal of resentment at this intrusion into his world, his mission. Yet he was also curious. He wondered what Stevens would have to say.

"My God, did you see the way the Old Man handled the boat? Poetry, man! Pure poetry!"

Chief Kurzweil had been waxing enthusiastic about the day's events ever since sitting down at the table with his tray. Mark Halstead and the other SEALs had taken over one of the long tables in the mess hall as their own preserve, but there was room for more, and three of the submarine's petty officers, Kurzweil, Chief Evans, and EM1 Kirkpatrick, had joined them.

The SEALs so far had managed to keep more or less to themselves, and preferred it that way. They felt a certain kinship with the submariners, true, but long habit and the isolation imposed by the nature of their work and training tended to put up barriers that others rarely challenged.

In the wake of the battle that morning, with its wild maneuvers and the smoke-choking events in the torpedo room, the barriers had begun to wear thin.

"I dunno," Kirkpatrick said. "What I want to know is how a hostile got the jump on us, huh?" He nudged

Evans in the side. "Why didn't you guys pick the turd up?"

Halstead ate in silence, but listened with careful interest. Supper that night was sliders — hamburger patties supposedly given that name because they slid around in their own grease. In fact, sliders and their close kin—"rollers," or hot dogs — took their names from a comparison with a more scatological source. Submariners, Halstead had noticed, seemed to delight in the disgusting… a tendency they shared with

SEALs.

"If he'd been making any noise, we would've," Evans replied. "Diesel boats are damned quiet when they're running on batteries."

"So? We're quieter."

"When we want to be," Kurzweil said. "But we're not silent running at thirty knots, or when we're banging around on the roof trying to fish a CIA spook out of the water."

"So what's your point, Kirkpatrick?" Evans asked. "Just because we're quiet doesn't mean we can hear them. My guess is that he happened to be laying low in the area and picked us up coming in to the rendezvous. He saw a chance to nail us with four fast fish and took it."

"Yeah," Kurzweil added. "And the bastard's probably still running, snatching a look over his shoulder now and again for fear we're right on his tail."

"What I want to know," Evans said, "is who the guy was."

"Chinese," Kurzweil said. "Definitely Chinese."

"Get fucked," Kirkpatrick said. "The Chinese wouldn't be playing terrorist and shooting down airliners."

"Yeah?" Evans said. "Then who was it?"

"Indonesia," Kirkpatrick said. "They have Kilo-class boats."

"Fuck," Kurzweil said. "Everyone has Kilo-class boats nowadays. They're Russia's numero-uno export!"

"Yeah," Evans said. "And why would Indonesia want to take us on?"

"They've got AQ cells in Indonesia, don't they?" Kirkpatrick asked. "Maybe some of them got hold of a submarine somehow and are using it for AQ terror missions."

Kurtzweil laughed. "Shit. There are al Qaeda cells in Malaysia, in the Philippines, in Borneo, in Thailand… what makes you so sure it was Indonesia?"

"It's an interesting idea, though," Evans said, thoughtful. He took a swig of coffee. "Al Qaeda couldn't build and operate a submarine themselves. They had to co-opt it from someone else."

"Yeah," Kurzweil said. "China."

"Why China?"

"They want to get back at us for what the Skipper did to 'em off Taiwan a couple years back."

Kirkpatrick laughed. "Shit, Kurz! You're saying this is personal?"

"It's sure as hell personal for the Old Man," Evans said. "You guys seen his face since we got the word about that airliner? I've never seen anyone so pissed."

"Just so he keeps drivin' this boat the way he did this morning!" Kurzweil said with a shake of his head. "Like I was sayin', pure poetry!"

Evans turned suddenly and addressed Halstead. "What do you guys say, Lieutenant? Who are we fighting?"

"The enemy," Halstead replied.

"Yeah, but who's the fucking enemy?" Kirkpatrick insisted.

Halstead shrugged and concentrated on a forkful of slider. "Does it matter?" he replied. "Dead is dead."

Which ended that particular conversation very nicely.