showed interesting parallels to the Russian SS-N-12, a very large antiship missile known as “Sandbox.” But the SS- N-12 was far too big to fit into a submarine or be launched from beneath the water.
Presumably anyway.
“Sir, stand by for communication from the White House Situation Room,” said the lieutenant at the com console. “Mr. Barclay.”
“Go,” said Dog.
The lieutenant’s fingers pounded on his keyboard. Jed Barclay’s pimple-strewn face flashed onto the screen. He had deep black bags under both eyes; back East it was around three in the morning.
“Colonel, uh, Jed Barclay here.”
“Go ahead, Jed.”
“Pacific Fleet’s making some noise. The boss man wanted me to give you a heads-up. USCINCPACCOM’s throwing a territory fit.”
“Acknowledged,” said Dog, who actually would have preferred to say something else.
“Whiplash order is being reviewed. They’re going to look for an opinion from you,” added Jed.
“Opinion on what?”
“Whether the Megafortresses can stop ships from being sunk.”
“Okay, we’ll start working on it.” Colonel Bastian wasn’t sure they could; they had no ASW weapons on the Megafortresses. Besides, protecting shipping was a Navy task, and if that became the primary mission, the Pacific Fleet would surely get the job. Their most likely role would be working with PACCOM as they had with CENTCOM in the Middle East, thought the personalities here were considerably more prickly.
“I think the Navy may suggest escorts, flagships, like they did in 1987 with tankers in the Persian Gulf, the oil crisis,” added Jed. “But most of the fleet is still up near Taiwan and Japan, uh, due to the situation on the mainland. The other major assets are near India and the Gulf — I guess you know that. So, uh, they’re scrambling to figure out where to allocate what. I don’t know how long it will be before there’s a decision. Might be days or weeks.”
“Okay,” said Dog.
Barclay blinked.
“Maybe you ought to catch some Zs, Jed,” said Dog. “Have you slept since you got back?”
“Thanks, Colonel.” Barclay managed a weak smile. “You look a little tired yourself.”
“A little.”
“You have any more information about the Chinese plane?” asked Jed.
“NO. I imagine the pilot make it,” said Dog. “Zen had a Flighthawk nearby and we don’t have any video showing an ejection, let alone a chute.”
“Yeah. Tough luck for him.”
Dog nodded, thought he felt more sympathetic. While the Chinese pilot wasn’t exactly an ally, it seemed a waste that he had died. Dog hated the idea of any pilot dying in accident, even if he’d caused it himself.
“Um, State may contact you,” added Jed. “They’re a little behind the curve on this, so they may need a full, uh, briefing. Director says do it, but you have to watch their clearance.”
“What exactly does that mean?”
“Nothing on Kali,” said Jed.
“Then what’s the sense of briefing them?
“Yeah. Not my call,” said Jed, which Dog had learned was Jed’s standard response when he agreed something didn’t make sense, but his boss hadn’t listened to the reasons. “I guess you have to do what you can do.”
“All right, Jed. We should have the cargo planes on the Philippines tonight,” added Dog.
“I’ll keep you updated,” said Jed.
“Thanks.” Dog killed the connection himself with his remote control, then clicked onto the Quicksilver circuit to update them.
Cargo stretched across the water like so many icebergs. The fantail of the ship jutted upward from the water, its large screw looking like a bizarre metal daisy waiting to be plucked. Zen brought the Flighthawk down for a pass at two thousand feet, his airspeed bleeding back under two hundred knots. He could see bodies in the water; two or three appeared to be clinging to something, and there was a man on one of the floating cargo containers.
“I think we have survivors,” he told Breanna. “I’m going to take another pass and try to get better video. You might want to radio any ships that are coming.”
“We’re in the process of making contact now,” she told him. “We’re going to pipe your feed up here.”
“Hawk Leader,” acknowledged Zen.
He checked Hawk Two, still in trail above and behind Quicksilver, then turned Hawk One around for another run. The feed off the robot plane was being pumped back to Dreamland, were it could be analyzed for potential survivors, as well as any hazardous cargo or weapons.
The merchant ship that had been sailing ahead of the container vessel when it was struck had made a large, cautious turn in the water and was approaching the debris field slowly. It hadn’t yet lowered boats into the water. In answer to the SOS, another vessel, a tanker, was about ten miles away, coming north at fifteen knots. Several miles beyond the tanker, but making better time, was a cruise ship. Collins had ID’s the tanker and cruise ship already — the
“Hawk Leader — we’re getting something twenty miles west of than tanker — odd reading on the water,” said Ferris. “Could be our sub getting ready to surface. We want to change course to check it out.”
“Yeah, go for it,” said Zen, immediately turning toward the coordinates.
Hawk One cruised in range just in time to see a submarine rise gently above the waves, the black, elongated oval of its conning tower pushing aside the water. Zen slid around the sub at just over three thousand feet; Collins ID’s it as a Russian Kilo, a diesel-powered boat that according to his brief usually didn’t operate this far south.
“This bastard that sank the container ship?” questioned Zen.
“Not sure who it is,” said Collins. “We don’t have any transmissions. I’m piping your feed to Dreamland, but they can’t ID it either. Probably Chinese, not Indian.”
“You think the Chinese sank the ship?”
“Stand by, Hawk Leader,” said Collins, undoubtedly so he could talk to Dreamland people uninterrupted.
Zen took two passes low and slow, but failed to pick up and identifying marks. Like nearly all modern designs, the sub had no bow gun or surface weapons, beside its torpedoes and mines, and seemed to be taking no hostile action. It didn’t use its radio either; the only emissions coming from it were from a relatively short-range surface search radar, which Torbin announced was a “Snoop Tray.”
“Checking on his handiwork?” Zen asked.
“Can’t tell for sure what he’s doing,” answered Torbin. “But I don’t think these guys carry cruise missiles. Assuming he’s Chinese.”
“Thinking is, definitely Chinese,” said Collins, coming back into the discussion. “Container ship almost certainly got nailed by a cruise missile, so odds are this guy’s clean. Container ship was supposedly going to Pakistan, so the implication is that might have been a motive; that, or target practice.”
Zen had dealt with the Chinese and their proxies before; he didn’t trust them not to have sunk the ship.
“Ship captains are requesting instructions,” said Ferris. “One of them got the sub on his radar; now they’re all chattering about it.”
“Tell them to proceed with the rescue,” snapped Breanna. “Collins, if you can figure out what the hell radio frequency they’re using, advise the submarine to help out or get lost!”
“We don’t have a precoded message for that,” said Collins. “Not in Chinese.”
“Do it in English. Use every frequency you can think of — Russian and Indian as well as Chinese. Hell, try Dutch and French too.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Collins.
