Straits of Power

Another icon joined the crowd, an unmanned aerial reconnaissance and communications-relay drone, out over the Mediterranean.

A dot appeared in the middle of the drone icon. Jeffrey knew this meant it completed a network-centric data linkup between a target and one or more shooter platforms.

Jeffrey observed all this, confused. Was this data phony, inserted into the Allied net by the Germans? Had Jeffrey become delusional from sleep deprivation and guilt, and was he seeing things that weren’t there, things he wanted to see more than he wanted to face real life?

More green icons showed on the display, so many now that the computer-generated imagery refreshed itself, and grouped nearby similar icons into one, with a head count beside it. Clumps of Israeli F-16s became one symbol with a number showing the formation size, such as 4 or 12. New icons quickly separating from Israeli corvettes and fast-patrol boats in the Med updated to show they were Gabriel-III advanced naval-attack missiles, with their radio retargeting links in good working order. These too regrouped and the number beside the Gabriel icon grew as waves of cruise missiles tore southwest. First 16, then 32, then 48, then 64…. Slowly the Gabriel-III count rose to over 100.

The Egyptian and Israeli armored brigades south of the Qattara Depression split into two groups. One headed west at high speed, and the other turned back east. Their timing was perfect.

They were going to get the Afrika Korps armor caught in an inescapable pincer, with the Med on one side and the huge Qattara Depression on the other — by looping around the depression itself to come at the Germans from in front and behind simultaneously.

Jeffrey felt a mixture of glee and immeasurable relief.

Israel’s and Egypt’s commanders are geniuses. It was they who set the world’s biggest trap! They realized this morning that the Axis had tried a new information-warfare computer attack when it failed except in remote areas — because of Mohr’s patch — but they pretended it truly succeeded and acted as if all their major systems were down.

They’d lured the German planes into a killing zone of seemingly paralyzed ground-to-air defenses that were only biding their time. They’d decoyed the German armor into a different sort of killing zone.

To Jeffrey, those commanders’ ability to think on their feet at lightning speed, and the discipline of their troops at every level, was astonishing.

And the Germans knew it. They began retreating everywhere.

The counter in the window monitoring Israeli nukes going off in Germany stayed at zero. Jeffrey gave thanks to God.

The ekranoplans had turned back west, but were so heavily loaded their top speed was 150 knots slower than the Gabriel-IIIs. With real-time adjustments for the cruise-missile courses provided by Israeli drones, the Gabriels couldn’t miss. Jeffrey looked on as the red and green icons connected.

It all seemed so abstract, like a video game someone else was playing. But he knew that what the icons stood for were real aircraft with real aircrews, real tanks, real passengers — and real, live, powerful cruise-missile warheads. It didn’t take long before the ekranoplan-group icon counter dropped from 24 to 12 to 6 to 0, and disappeared from the laptop screen.

Jeffrey, his fingers loosened up now, used the intercom to call Bell.

“Tell Klaus Mohr I could kiss him.”

“Sir?”

“Everything worked. Better than we could ever have expected.”

“It’s wonderful news, Captain. We can see on the theater-status display down here.” Jeffrey heard his people cheering, in the background over Bell’s mike.

“Wait one.” Something had caught Jeffrey’s attention out of the corner of his eye. “XO, rig for dive. We’re almost in the Red Sea. I should be in the control room very soon.”

Jeffrey double-checked the Bunga Azul’s nautical chart against her inertial- navigation readout, dead-reckoning plot, and a fix obtained by a crewman making sightings on the relative bearings to different islands in the Strait of Jubal. He eyed the ship’s radar and sonar displays. The water beneath the keel was 100 feet deep, but within 6 miles—14 minutes at 24 knots — the bottom dropped to a comfortable 700 feet. The Sinai peninsula ended just ahead, to port. The African coast of Egypt continued endlessly south, to starboard.

His curiosity aroused, Jeffrey, with powerful image-stabilized marine binoculars, went out on the port bridge wing. Movement and black specks he’d noticed before resolved themselves into helicopters that were hovering or circling over a spot in the water on the horizon off the Bunga Azul’s port bow.

Above cobalt blue water where wavelets glinted yellowish gold in the afternoon sun, beneath an azure sky, he saw that two of the helos had cables dangling into the water. Two other helos dropped small things that hit the water and made little splashes.

Dipping sonars, and sonobuoys. Antisubmarine helicopters?

He looked higher in the sky and did a systematic search, spotting two twin-engine maritime-patrol aircraft.

He went back inside and used his laptop to scroll down the screen. Up to now he’d only been looking at the theater network-centric status plot farther north — the counter for nukes in Germany read 0; none had gone off in the Middle East.

Scrolling more, he found the Jubal Strait, where the Gulf of Suez let out into the northern Red Sea. He saw the group of icons. Two helos were Israeli. Two were Egyptian. The maritime-patrol planes were American, working at extreme range, from a carrier strike group far southeast in the Arabian Sea.

These icons were all in green. There was one other icon, in amber. Jeffrey felt as if he’d been electrocuted.

The amber icon was a PROBSUB, a probable submarine contact. The amber color meant that its nationality was unconfirmed. But next to the icon was text that gave a tentative identification of the suspected submarine, and the text said “SNOW TIGER.”

If the Snow Tiger is so stealthy, how did they even know she was there? As Jeffrey watched, the network data-satellite feed was updated. The PROBSUB became a CERTSUB — a definite submarine contact was localized. Strangely, its color stayed amber.

He wondered why the German wasn’t firing. The aircraft practically had him cornered. Surely he had Polyphem antiaircraft missiles. He could swat the helos and drive off those patrol planes easily.

Oh. Rules of engagement. He isn’t stupid. He won’t shoot first. Which means the helos and planes can’t drop depth charges or antisubmarine torpedoes first.

Either that, or the Snow Tiger is a nosy Russian after all, not German. Maybe Hodgkiss’s information was wrong on that one rather crucial detail.

The intercom connection from Challenger buzzed. Jeffrey answered; it was Bell. “Sir, Milgrom reports we’ve been pinged by a sophisticated sonar. Our arrays could hear it right through the Bunga Azul’s side ballast tanks and bottom doors.”

What the—

That’s how they knew he was here. He’s been going active, probing every ship headed south big enough to hold an SSN.

“XO, Captain, go to battle stations antisubmarine.”

“Battle stations, ASW, aye.”

Then the planes did drop torpedoes, on white parachutes to ease their impact with the water, just as the CERTSUB turned red and new icons appeared on the screen. Two submarine-launched torpedoes were coming right at the Bunga Azul.

Chapter 49

On the bridge of the Bunga Azul, Jeffrey took the conn and glanced at the nautical chart. “Helmsman, right hard rudder! Get us over this shoal marked as forty-six feet!”