Joint Operations

recharge the batteries. Then we’ll have her.”

There was nothing noisier beneath the water than a diesel submarine recharging batteries.

“She’s coming left,” the sonarman said. “Down Doppler.” The chief relayed the information to the OOD. “Losing contact — damn! I think she’s cross layer now.”

“Let’s follow her,” the chief said, still holding the sound-powered phone up to his lips. A moment later, the deck tilted down at the bow slightly. “Sing out when you regain contact.”

The sonarman shut his eyes, concentrating on the flow of noise into his ears. Off in the distance somewhere, a pod of whales were singing quietly to themselves, the eerie wail of their song echoing through the ocean. Closer by, shrimp snapped and popped, chittering away at their mating rituals.

The submarine herself added a bit of noise to the spectrum, although filters in place reduced known frequencies emanating from her hull. Still, even apart from the discrete frequencies, the flow of water over the hull and the limber holes, the holes through which water was pumped out, increased the overall ambient noise.

Just at the edge of his hearing, he caught the faint hum of the bilge pump. It was a slow, methodical thump punctuated by a whine between strokes as the slow speed pump drew water up from the bilges and forced it out of the submarine. Not his, no — their submarine never needed to pump bilges, or so the engineers claimed.

It was getting stronger now, easily discernable over the noise of the biologics and the distant shipping. It beckoned to him like a drumbeat.

“He’s moving to the left,” he said quietly, hating to even make that much noise for fear of losing the sound again. “Stern aspect.” He heard the chief repeat the words.

Next to him, Pencehaven was setting up a firing solution, inputting the contact into the fire control computer, coordinating the actions with the torpedo room. Soon, very soon.

“Open outer doors. Flood tubes one and two,” he heard the chief say quietly, and swore silently as the words forced him to miss a few beats of the bilge pump.

“I have a firing solution,” Pencehaven announced. “Ready for weapons free.”

“Hold fire, weapons tight,” the bitch box over their head said quietly. “We don’t know for sure who it is yet, but I’m going to try to spook him. The second you have a refined classification, you yell.”

Yell. Right. Like there was going to be any yelling on a submarine at quiet ship. Still Jacobs held his tongue and waited.

A quiet shudder ran through Centurion as her propeller speed increased. Noise, more noise, and Jacobs quailed involuntarily at it. It went against every instinct ingrained into his body since the first days of sub school. He looked over at Pencehaven, and saw that his friend was shaking his head.

“She’s got to know we’re here,” the chief said. “Unless she’s deaf or stupid.”

“And if she’s deaf or stupid, she ain’t ours,” Pencehaven replied.

The bilge pump ceased abruptly.

“She’s gone quiet and is running. That clinches it,” Jacobs said softly. “Whoever she is, she’s not on our side.”

Tran’s voice came over his headset. “Good work. We’ll check in with the carrier and let them know that they’ve got more to worry about than Chinese fighters.”

USS Jefferson

0950 local (GMT –10)

Bam-Bam stared at the tactical screen, trying to force meaning out of the movements he saw shown there. The Jefferson was in the center of the formation, her escorts arrayed around her. Cruisers to port and starboard, a destroyer closer in to land, and two fast frigate astern, one in position to serve as plane guard, the other conducting an ASW search. They were still south of the island. To the northeast, a submarine datum reported by Centurion was getting staler as each hour passed. The Centurion was also still in the area, patrolling the area between the carrier and the island.

Over land, picked up by the powerful Aegis radar, six MiG-33s flew CAP stations. Satellite intelligence revealed that another ten were parked on the runway radiating heat signatures from their engines. Warmed up, then, on alert and ready to launch given the slightest provocation.

How could it happen like this? Aren’t there island defenses or something — there have to be, on Pearl Harbor of all places! But who would have suspected the unthinkable? Evidently not Pearl Harbor, no more than Russian security had been able to explain the small private aircraft that somehow sneaked through their defenses to set down in Red Square.

Jefferson had two sets of fighters deployed in forward CAP stations between the carrier and land. Four Tomcats and four Hornets were in alert five on the deck, their pilots and RIOs ready to launch and one positioned on each catapult for immediate launch. Another eight fighters were in alert fifteen, with the balance of the squadron in alert thirty. Except for the hangar queens, every aircraft was ready to launch immediately.

But from the looks of it, the biggest problem wasn’t airborne right this moment. The contact the lookout had spotted was still bearing down on the carrier.

At first glance, it would seem to be no contest. Tons of aircraft carrier, the mightiest fighting vessel ever built, against a small boat whose displacement could be measured in the low thousands of pounds. The airwing with its potent fighters, S-3B antisubmarine and surface capabilities, not to mention the helos and the electronics and refueling support versus a rich man’s toy built for fishing, cruising fast, and pleasure.

But modern technology made evaluating the threat based merely on size a problem. Stinger missiles, with their two-mile and extended ranges, were available to anyone with the right contacts and sufficient cash. In recent years, there’d been reports of Soviet-made antiair systems flooding the weapons markets of the world, along with small and deadly torpedoes and a host of electronic jammers. Even nukes — he shuddered at that particular thought — were reportedly available in small launch containers that could easily be stowed on the deck of a boat the size of the one homing in on them. War had become a wildly chaotic matter of trying to assess threats in a world where everything was a threat.

“Anything from the signalman?” Bam-Bam asked.

“Not yet,” the watch officer replied. “He just got on station.”

“Keep me informed.”

“Roger. How close will you let him get?”

“Three miles,” Bam-Bam said without consulting his standing orders signed by the captain. “No closer.”

Even that was taking a chance. While the maximum range of the new extended Stingers was reportedly slightly less than that, who knew what changes and updates could have been made?

One small missile from a shoulder-held missile tube could wreak destruction if it hit the right spot. Say the hangar bay, launched from sea by a fast and highly maneuverable boat into the massive opening below the flight deck that opened onto the hangar bay. One missile — yes, that would be enough. One burning aircraft under the flight deck, the heat stress on the flight deck and associated gear, the conflagration billowing up into the stored AVGAS and weapons stacked in piles near the island — one missile would be enough if it hit in the right spot in the hangar.

And who would be foolish enough to fire just one?

“Three miles, aye, TAO,” the watch officer echoed. “Weapons free?”

Bam-Bam hesitated for a moment. Giving weapons free would leave the power to decide to fire in the hands of the petty officer manning each fifty-cal gun site. Better to hold weapons tight, deny them the right to fire until he gave the order.

Unless things got busy. Say, with air combat and a splashed bird. Did he really want to risk the delay that weapons tight would involve.

“Yes. Weapons free on any contact designated hostile within three miles of the carrier,” he said finally.

Bam-Bam heard movement behind him and turned to see Admiral Wayne slipping into his chair behind the TAO station. Bam-Bam gave him a brief rundown on the situation, concluding with his decision to grant weapons- free status to the gunnery crews.

“Good call,” the admiral grunted.

Bam-Bam felt a sense of relief — he’d known it was the right thing to do, but even a mighty Navy lieutenant commander didn’t mind having a little positive reinforcement by the man who wore the stars on his collar. “Sir, I’d