The Shark Mutiny

with comms the 0600 satellite contact, and ordered, “Maintain speed twenty-nine, depth four hundred. Course three-five-two.” Then he picked up his telephone and checked in with the propulsion engineer.

The leak on the shaft was no worse. The pumps still were coping easily and the big Westinghouse PWR was running sweetly. The sonar room was quiet. Lieutenant Commander Josh Gandy reported no new contacts of any kind, not that this was likely at such speed.

All through the night, they ran north toward the Arabian Sea, until dawn began to break over the eastern waters, way off their starboard beam. Lieutenant Commander Headley ordered them to periscope depth and accessed the satellite. There was no change in their orders…Proceed to the eastern waters of the Strait of Hormuz in company with the aircraft carrier Harry S Truman. Then replace on station the John C. Stennis Group when it clears the area and runs back south to Diego Garcia.

Both Lt. Commander Josh Gandy and Master Chief Fisher were with the XO when he checked the orders.

“Sorry, Chief,” Dan muttered. “Nothing from OTB. Guess the Rajah’s gonna run without your money to handicap him.”

That was the last joke of the watch, and the rest of it passed slowly, as did the next two days. By 0400 on Friday morning, May 4, the Shark was almost at the gateway to the Gulf of Oman, which leads to the narrow waters of Hormuz. They had crossed the 24-degree northern line of latitude and were currently running 100 feet below the surface with another 250 feet of water under the keel. It would be light in a couple of hours, and, presumably, with the gulf closed, except for Iranian ships and very occasionally Chinese, the seas would be empty, with an inbound queue of empty tankers way over to the west.

1730 (local time). Thursday, May 3.

Fort Meade, Maryland.

The first night pictures from the overheads that passed over the Arabian Sea, and southern Iran, arrived on Lt. Ramshawe’s desk from late on the previous afternoon. Unsurprisingly they were packed with information, starting with a myriad of shots showing the Indian Navy’s Pondicherrys still working across the line of the minefield. They were making slow progress, just five knots with long GKT-2 contact sweeps, still with their 5,600-ton landing ship Magar, which was acting as “mother ship” to all six of them.

An Indian Navy tanker was also in attendance, plus two 6,700-ton Delhi-Class guided-missile destroyers, built in Bombay, and sent on by Admiral Kumar to guard his precious Pondicherrys. Warships from the Constellation Carrier Battle Group were in the area, patrolling somewhat menacingly along the line of the minefield inside the strait.

Out on the outside edge of the line, U.S. frigates rotated patrols, under orders from the carrier John C. Stennis, which was calling the shots from 10 miles astern of the picket line. No six ships were ever more thoroughly guarded than those six Pondicherrys, and they swept the line assiduously, trying to free up an area three to five miles wide to open up the seaway on the Omani side to the world’s oil tankers.

And every few hours, the waters of the strait erupted to a shuddering explosion, as they located, cut and blew one of the PLT-3 Russian-built mines. More than 11,000 miles away, Lieutenant Ramshawe studied the strange unfolding scene, making detailed notes, writing up his reports, blowing up photographs, extracting details, laying it all out for the thoroughly discredited Admiral Borden, who now had a great deal in common with Commander Tex Packard, careerwise.

He put copies on the network to the Pentagon, attention CNO. Other copies were made for electronic transfer to Pacific Fleet Command in San Diego, from where they were scanned via satellite to Pearl Harbor and then Diego Garcia. By private, secure telephone, Jimmy Ramshawe kept Arnold Morgan up to speed on every possible development. So far, to the satisfaction of both men, the Iranians had not dared send so much as a secondhand felucca into the waters beyond Bandar Abbas.

It was 1830 when two grainy, poor-quality satellite pictures of the inshore waters of southeastern Iran suddenly caught the eagle eye of Jimmy Ramshawe, because there, like a ghost ship in the fog, was the unmistakable outline of some kind of warship.

He reached for his glass and peered at the image. He could see a little more, but not enough. The ship was running north toward the coast of Iran in 300 feet of water. According to the grid, the ship had just crossed 25.10N and was thus 60-odd miles short of the minefield Line. The lines of latitude suggested it was moving slowly, just seven miles in the half hour between the two images. Jimmy hit a button, summoning a staff member from the developing room, and requesting an immediate blowup of the top left-hand corner of the first green-tinted night photograph.

When it came back, 12 mimutes later, the quality was not better, just bigger, and again Lt. Ramshawe peered through his magnifying glass. He could tell from the for’ard and aft guns the scale of the ship, which he calculated was in excess of 7,000 tons. If it was that big, it was a destroyer, and if it was a destroyer, the range of countries that might own it was relatively small. It wasn’t American because he knew precisely where all the U.S. destroyers were in the area. It wasn’t British, and it certainly wasn’t Russian. The Iranians did not own a destroyer, nor did the Egyptians, nor the Omanis. The Indians had two working in the area, and five more Russian-built Rajput Class were all accounted for.

Could it possibly be the Chinese Sovremenny, the mine-laying Hangzhou, now returning for whatever reason to Bandar Abbas? Jimmy Ramshawe looked again, pulled up the Sovremenny pattern on his computer. The helicopter was in the right position for a start. He could see that. It was parked way forward, and higher than the aft deck, right above the ASW mortars. He could also make out the distinctive gap between the fire control front dome (F-Band) and the air-search radar top plate.

“If I’m not very much mistaken,” muttered Jimmy, “the bloody Chinks are back, and the bloody Hangzhou is creeping up the coast toward the gap in the minefield…I wonder what the hell their game is?”

He checked the pattern over and over. The quad launchers for the Sunburn missiles, the two aft-mounted Gadfly surface-to-air launchers. All in the right places. This was her, no doubt about that, the most capable warship in China’s new Blue-Water Fleet, Hangzhou, built brand-new in the cold Baltic, North Yard, Saint Petersburg. And here she was again, in much warmer waters, returning to the scene of her plain and obvious mine-laying crimes.

Lieutenant Jimmy Ramshawe did not like it. This was a heavily armed warship that would make a fair match for anyone. He could not see the point of talking to Admiral Borden, who would probably remind him of her right to be in Iran’s waters, if that was okay with Iran.

But it was not okay with Jimmy Ramshawe. Bloody oath, it wasn’t. And he picked up the secure line to Admiral Morgan in the White House.

“How sure are you, Lieutenant?”

“Certain, sir. This is the Hangzhou, and no bloody error. Looks like she’s headed back to Bandar Abbas.”

Arnold Morgan was, for a change, hesitant. He had already ensured that the U.S. Navy had issued a formal warning to all countries not to interfere with the minesweeping, but he had not been prepared for the sudden arrival of the most important warship in the Chinese Navy, the one that had helped lay the mines in the first place.

“When do we get new pictures, Jimmy?” he asked.

“Probably in three hours, sir.”

“God knows where she’ll be by then. She’s fast, and she’s dangerous. Leave it with me. And don’t forget to get a decent report in to your boss.”

The President’s National Security Adviser was concerned. And he paced his office, pondering the intent of the Commanding Officer of the Hangzhou. If she was there merely as an observer, the United States might have to put up with that. But she was so big and powerful, she would simply have to be warned off while the Pondicherrys were working.

Arnold Morgan knew the two Admirals commanding the Constellation and John C. Stennis Groups would be flying off their decks F-14 Tomcats, and the FA-18E Super Hornets. That’s what they did on patrol. That’s what they were there for, to intimidate any enemy. And these supersonic strike fighters found no difficulty in doing that.