“We got the last one — let’s get the next,” Rabies said grimly.
“And he almost got us,” Harness muttered from the backseat.
“We’ll stay a little further away this time,” the pilot acknowledged. “One nice thing about torpedoes — don’t have to get all that close to drop them.”
The S-3B Viking carried two Mk torpedoes on its inboard weapons stations. The high-speed torpedo was the most widely deployed lightweight torpedo in the Fleet, although its five-hundred-pound weight made the classification “lightweight” seem like a misnomer. Capable of speeds up to forty-five knots, the torpedo had a maximum range of approximately six nautical miles. Its ninety-five-pound warhead was composed of PBXN-103 high explosives.
Two Harpoons graced the outer weapons stations. At Mach 0.85, the missile could deliver a five-hundred- pound conventional high-explosive warhead against a surface ship or a surfaced submarine target seventy-five miles away. The 1,172pound Harpoon was a massive drag on the aircraft, but each one carried enough destructive power to make the weight trade-off well worth the cost in additional gas and loss of speed.
“How far is far enough?” Harness asked.
“Max range on that surface-to-air missile is probably around six miles,” the TACCO replied. “We can stand off and safely drop the torpedoes.”
“We’re going to get attack criteria without a MAD run?” the AW persisted. Getting accurate positioning data from the MAD book extended out the back of the S-3 required being virtually overhead the submarine.
Neither the pilot nor the TACCO replied.
Great. Just great, Harness thought, fuming. We can shoot from outside the missile’s range, but we can’t get attack criteria unless we get in close and personal.
Still, the possibility of actually firing a shot in anger was an attractive one. He let that thought console him, and pushed away the thoughts of the very real danger they were standing in.
“Got something,” the TACCO announced. “Possible periscope, bearing 120, range seven thousand yards. He punched a “fly-to” point into his computer, and the location was transmitted to the pilot’s screen. The aircraft heeled to the right as Rabies stomped on the rudder controls.
“Let’s take a look, shall we?” the pilot said calmly.
“Bingo,” the TACCO said softly a few minutes later. “You see anything?”
The copilot squinted out the window. “Yeah, I think so. Still at communications depth — it looks like nothing but a snorkel mast and a couple of antennas. The sail’s still submerged. Call it positive visual identification, though.”
“She doesn’t have to surface to be dangerous,” the TACCO warned. “Intell says they can still fire those Grails from shallow depth.”
“I’m watching her,” the copilot answered. “Hold on, let me get some guidance from Homeplate.” He switched circuits and updated the carrier on the tactical situation.
The TAO listened to Hunter 701’s report with a sinking feeling. The situation stunk, outright stunk. There was no clear-cut answer as to whether the battle group could attack the submarine immediately, or whether it had to wait for some indication of hostile intent. Moments later, the bitch box that connected her with TFCC buzzed angrily.
International rules of engagement contained so many vague requirements that deciding when it was legal to shoot was a matter for a court rather than naval officers. While there was no requirement that U.S. forces take the first hit before they could open fire, they did have to determine that the submarine had committed a hostile act, or demonstrated hostile intent.
The communications downlink was certainly evidence of something. The most probable explanation was that the aircraft was passing targeting information to another platform, either a surface ship or a submarine. Rule out surface ship, she thought, studying the display. Any combatant of significant size would have been detected and reported immediately. And the fact that a submarine — perhaps even this one — had fired on an S-3 only days before added strength to her inclination to have the S-3 blow the bastard out of the water.
Still, there was no evidence that this was the same submarine. So many nations now owned production models of the Russian-built Kilo diesel sub that there was no way to be certain.
Additionally, they all knew that tensions in the area were at the highest level they’d been at since World War II. Killing the submarine now could be that final element that pushed China and the other nations over the brink into open warfare. And, more likely than not, all the nations clamoring for ownership of the Spratly Islands would put aside their differences long enough to unite against the American forces. While she was confident that the battle group could take care of itself, the purpose of a presence mission was to deter wars — not to start them.
She toggled the lever on the bitch box, hoping that the Flag watch officer would give her permission to follow the most ancient adage of warriors.
Kill them all, and let God sort them out.
CHAPTER 9
“Permission to attack with torpedo denied, Hunter 701. If you see some indication that she’s preparing to launch or taking some other hostile action, you’re weapons free on her. Until then, maintain contact and keep us posted.” The TAO on the carrier sounded reluctant to give the order.
Rabies shot a look of disgust at his copilot.
“Fucking rules of engagement,” the copilot obligingly said.
“Ask them just what the hell they want — a declaration of war? This SOB took a shot at one of our aircraft yesterday, and they want us to just let him go?”
“You know what they’re going to say,” the TACCO joined in. “Can’t prove it’s the same sub, and retaliation’s not authorized by ROE. You know the drill.”
“Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Rabies muttered. “Ask them. Make them tell me I have to wait to take the first shot.”
“They won’t do it,” the copilot said. “They’ll say you can shoot in self-defense the second you see the sail start to break away from the missile launcher, or if the sub starts any preparation for firing.”
“And just how the hell are we supposed to see that with that pigboat still half-submerged?”
“Get lucky, I guess. Come on, Rabies, don’t make me look like an idiot on the circuit.”
“Okay, okay. But the second I see anything — anything — that bitch is toast. And you pussies damned well better back me up on it!”
Silence on the ICS. Rabies felt a pang of guilt, but smothered it in the overwhelming frustration he felt. Every member of the crew wanted to take the sub out — he knew that. They all had been debriefed on the previous attack, and had seethed with the righteous indignation that he’d just voiced. Not a man — or woman, he added reflexively — in the S-3B squadron wouldn’t have shot instantly, given the slightest justification.
“It sucks,” he said finally. “It just really sucks.”
Thor dropped back behind the Flanker, opening the distance enough to shoot if it became necessary. Although he’d never tried it, he was quite certain that being five hundred feet behind another aircraft when it exploded was not good for him. Even if his Hornet blasted through the fireball, the odds of sucking a piece of metal into his engines was just too great.
“Hornet, say state,” he heard the OS query from the carrier.
State of fucking frustration, he thought. Maybe state of idiocy, too. He glanced at his fuel gauge, resisted the
