Batman stomped back into the bridge. 'Get the Alert Five helos airborne. I want the bastard pinned down to the ocean floor until we decide what to do with him.' He lifted the walkie-talkie. 'Prepare for emergency breakaway. I say again, prepare for emergency breakaway. Do not execute until my signal. All stations acknowledge.'
A chorus of aye, ayes came back across the circuit, and Batman turned to me. 'So what are our chances now?'
I spoke up immediately. 'Good, Admiral. There's no indication that the Russian sub has detected our submarine yet. He knows he's there; he's been tracking him for days. But he doesn't know he's alongside us now, nor does he have any idea of how critical the engineering problems might be. I say we continue as is.' I pointed out toward the side of the carrier.
'They're almost done, Admiral. If they can get that air compressor onboard and installed, it's going to solve a lot of problems.'
Batman grunted. I watched him mull over the facts, accustomed by now to the way that he thinks this out, it would do no good to start arguing my position at this point. He had all the facts he thought he needed, and the admiral had no problem making decisions. Despite all his time in Washington and politically advantageous billets, Batman at heart was a fighter.
The SH-60 helicopters were launching off the stern of the carrier. In reality, they shouldn't have been conducting flight ops. Not with the submarine alongside. It violated one of the prime tenets of naval aviation. The winds weren't particularly good for them, but fortunately the helicopters aren't as picky about wind across the deck as fixed-wing aircraft are. Nevertheless, trying to conduct flight operations in the middle of a transfer of cargo between two ships was a prescription for disaster.
The first helo peeled away from the carrier just three minutes after Batman had given the order. Another followed as soon as it was safe. They formed up ? and is there anything more odd-looking than helicopters flying formation? ? and headed out to the horizon, toward the S-3s.
Still, Batman had not yet decided to kill it. Who knew how the rest of the story would play out once we reached the States ? the attack on Tombstone and Skeeter by the Russian MiGs? It might all be disguised as something very foreign from what had actually happened, if it suited certain political purposes. But sinking a submarine ? there would be few ways to avoid full-scale media coverage of that.
'Hot on buoy seven as well,' the S-3 TACCO reported over the circuit.
'Home Plate, it looks like he's making a beeline for you.'
'Helo assets inbound your location right now,' the carrier replied.
With a top speed of around a hundred and twenty knots, it would take the helicopters about ten minutes to get in position.
'Home Plate, interrogative our weapons status?' the S-3 TACCO asked.
'Yellow and tight at this time, Hunter 701,' was the answer. The aircraft was allowed to fire its weapons if attacked ? that right always lies with the commander of any aircraft or surface ship ? but for now he was not given permission to attack hostile contacts.
'Home Plate, he's coming shallow. He's at launch depth. Request advise.' The concern in the TACCO's voice was evident now. The submarine had probably heard the S-3 above it, or it heard the noise of the sonobuoys dropping into the water. By now the water around it was virtually peppered with the small acoustic sensors and transmitters. It would know they were there ? and know it needed to escape. Or attack.
'What's the latest on their weapons capability, Lab Rat?' the admiral said quietly. 'Any indication they're carrying the Tomahawkski?'
The Tomahawkski was the Russian version of the Tomahawk cruise missile. But so far as I knew, this particular class of ship was still equipped primarily with torpedoes.
'There are rumors that they've got Tomahawkski on board,' I said. 'I doubt it, though, Admiral. But I could be wrong.'
Batman grimaced. 'That's the problem with intel. There was always too many possibilities, and never any hard facts.'
For a moment I felt called upon to defend my chosen profession within the Navy, but I refrained. The problem was, he was right. Intelligence deals with estimates, possibilities, indications and warnings. There are rarely hard facts, absolute indications that a particular platform is fitted with a certain weapon, or that the enemy intends to execute a particular plan. We do the best we can, but the war fighters on the front line are constantly frustrated by what they feel are intelligence evasions.
The short answer is ? we simply don't know.
'If he's got Tomahawkski, he could be a real danger to the carrier,' Batman continued. Unspoken was the second part of that sentence ? that if the Victor were carrying antisurface missiles, Batman would need to act preemptively, to take the submarine out before it could launch. Neither of us wanted to depend on antimissile defense systems against one.
The fact that the submarine had changed depths, to one at which he could launch land-attack missiles, was ominous. Why would he forsake the relative safety of deep water unless he intended to launch?
'Admiral, last cargo transfer completed, sir.' The voice of the officer in charge of the replenishment detachment sounded relieved.
'Should we proceed with emergency breakaway, or normal separation procedures?'
'Emergency breakaway,' Batman said promptly. 'Tell him over the sound-powered line to get buttoned up and get back down below. And I want him vectoring out in front of us. With so much air-power on top of that Russian submarine, I don't want to take any chances.'
'Missile launch, missile launch,' a voice broke in over the tactical circuit. Probably the pilot of the S-3, rather than the TACCO. 'Home Plate, I say again ? vampires inbound.'
That decided it for Batman. He snatched up a radio microphone for the tactical circuit and said, 'Hunter 701, you are weapons free on all Russian subsurface contacts. I repeat, weapons free.'
The bloody speed leader of the missile materialized on the tactical screen, streaking up from the submarine contact symbol. You could see the intended target easily, tracing out the direction of the speed leader. It was headed directly for Jefferson.
The Aegis skipper saw it, too. 'Got it, Jefferson.' As he spoke, the screen showed the designation of the missile as a contact by the cruiser and a weapons assignment. Seconds later, a Standard missile shot out from the cruiser symbol.
'Jefferson, roger your last,' the S-3 broke in. 'We have a firing solution. Fire one.' A pause. 'Fire two.' Evidently the pilot had been prepared for just this moment.
The submarine-launched missile continued its track inbound. Five inches of screen separated its symbol from that of the Jefferson, and the distance shrank measurably while we were watching.
Four inches A second, then a third missile arrowed out from the cruiser, the speed leaders intersecting that of the inbound missile.
Three inches The OOD onboard Jefferson activated the collision alarm.
'All hands brace for shock' came over the 1 MC. I saw the TAO reach down for his seat belt and buckle himself into his chair. I sat down on the deck, my back to a bulkhead.
Two inches The first missile the cruiser had fired was clearly a miss, although a close one. The two symbols passed so close to each other that they merged for a moment of time. I thought for a second she'd gotten it, but then the blotch of symbology broke apart into the incoming missile and the Standard missile. The second and third missiles still had a chance.
One inch The second missile veered away from its projected course and headed out toward open ocean. Something in the guidance system, maybe a propulsion problem ? we'd probably never know. 'CIWS tracking,' the TAO announced, repeating the report he'd heard over his headset. The Close-In Weapons System ? our last-ditch defense against incoming missiles. Not much of a defense, either. At the ranges at which it was effective, the shrapnel from the missile would do devastating damage to the flight deck, the superstructure, and the aircraft spotted on the deck.
The missile looked so close that I thought I'd be able to touch it.
Surely the lookouts could see it by now. Or maybe not ? even traveling that fast, it was still at least twenty miles out, a telephone pole arcing through the sky toward US.
Suddenly, a cheer rang out. 'They got it ? they got it!' On the screen, the last Standard missile had merged
