Joint Operations

whether it’s a wake homer or an acoustic homer, it will try to acquire an acceptable target.”

“Like us?” Adele asked.

Jack shook his head. “Most torpedoes have a depth setting on them. They won’t attack a surface ship.”

“Most. Not all.” It was clear from Adele’s voice it was not a question.

Jack nodded once, his hand already rock solid on the throttle controls, his other whipping the wheel around. “Most.”

He kicked Heaven Can Wait up to top speed, and felt the boat surge powerfully under his feet. Adele, forewarned by watching him, was firmly anchored with her hands clamped down on the railing.

“Not to worry,” Jack said, with more confidence than he actually felt. “We’ll soon be out of range.”

“How fast do they go?” Adele asked.

“Later, Adele,” he said, casting an anxious look back over his shoulder.

“How fast?” she insisted.

“Fifty knots, some of them,” he shouted, the noise from the water and the engine already drowning out his voice. “Some of them.”

He saw Adele brace herself against the vibration of the boat as it slammed up and down violently against the swells. The gentle water that had rocked them into their afternoon nap was now hard as cement as the boat accelerated rapidly to its top speeds of forty-five knots. Heaven Can Wait was a capable ship, but she was not built to endure high-speed chases through these seas for too long. She’d be all right for a while, though — long enough for them to clear the area.

Jack heard a tinny voice speaking somewhere in the area, and he glanced down at the cell phone in his shirt pocket. They were calling him, asking him something, but right now he couldn’t take his hands off the controls long enough to answer. Adele solved his problem for him, plucking the cell phone out of his pocket, keeping one hand firmly in place on the railing. “You’ll have to speak up,” she shouted into the phone. She held it close to her ear, nodded once, then looked over at Jim and smiled. “What’s the depth setting on the torpedo, sir?” she asked into the phone.

The answer came, and was evidently satisfactory. Despite the pounding of the boat, she relaxed ever so slightly. “I understand — yes, we’ll keep the line open.”

She looked up at Jack and smiled. “He said it’s set for forty feet, shallow for a diesel submarine, but still deep enough to avoid most of the pleasure craft in the bay.”

Good thinking, Simpson thought. And just how the hell had they managed to put the pieces together so quickly and change the depth settings on a no-notice submarine problem?

Maybe it wasn’t as no-notice as you think, one part of his mind suggested. After all, they are the United States Navy, and you’re just a reservist.

“He said keep an eye out for any explosions or debris,” Adele shouted, clearly relieved that they were outrunning the torpedo. What she didn’t know, Jack thought, was that a margin of error was built into every intelligence estimate of their range.

He concentrated on ship handling while Adele kept a sharp eye aft for any information that could be related to the carrier. Five minutes later, he was relatively certain they were out of danger. He throttled back into a comfortable cruising speed and changed course slightly. “Still talking to them?” he asked in a more normal tone of voice.

Adele nodded. “But he said he might be too busy to talk to me for a few minutes. Jack, they’re talking about MiGs.” Her deep blue eyes pleaded for reassurance.

“MiGs are fighters,” he said, drawing her close with the hand that had been on the throttles earlier. “They’re interested in other aircraft, not little pleasure boats like us.”

“But what if they know? What if they know that we’re the ones who reported the submarine?”

“They won’t.” For the second time in as many minutes, Jack had spoken with more confidence than he felt.

“But look,” Adele said, pointing back toward the vessel they’d seen heading for the carrier. “Somebody is shooting at the water, aren’t they?”

A slight buzz, barely at the edge of their perception. Aircraft unlimbering their nose guns.

“Yeah, they are,” he admitted reluctantly. “But those aren’t MiGs, honey. Those are Tomcats — F-14s. The good guys. And just to be safe, I think we’d better get out of the area,” he said, releasing her to goose the boat back up to a higher speed, settling it in at around thirty-five knots, well below maximum but still faster than was comfortable.

“If those are Tomcats, then who are those?” Adele said, pointing back toward the mainland.

Sunlight glinted off four sets of wings as new aircraft barreled directly toward them.

“Let’s not wait to find out. Hand me the cell phone.” Jack reached out and took it from Adele. “You still there?”

“Yes, Captain, we are.” There was a new note of civility in the other officer’s voice. “Any reports on our torpedo run?”

Jack refrained from pointing out that he’d been a little busy getting out of range to watch carefully, but said, “No sign. No explosions, no water spouts, no debris. I’d count this one a miss, sir.”

“I was afraid of that. Well, you’ve got the number, now.”

“Wait. That small boat that’s got Tomcats overhead — if you haven’t seen it already, I think they’re about to have playmates. Four other aircraft, look to be MiGs, maybe a twenty-nine, maybe a thirty-three, I can’t tell, yet, but they’re headed directly for your Tomcats.”

“Got ’em,” the voice from the carrier said. “We’re going to be a little bit busy here for a while. Suggest you clear the area. You don’t want to be directly underneath — well, just clear the area. Check back in with me when you’re at a secure location.”

The line went dead. Jack pushed the OFF button to conserve energy. Sure, now they tell him to clear the area. Even if it was too little too late, it was still good advice.

“You watch the aircraft, I’ll watch the water,” he said, handing over the steering to Adele. “Just stay to this heading until we’re out of sight of all of this.”

TFCC

USS Jefferson

1030 local (GMT –10)

The helo attack on the submarine first reported by Centurion had taken up most of Bam-Bam’s attention for the last several minutes. While he waited for damage reports or any indication that the sub had been hit, he turned his attention back to the two small boats converging on the carrier. The lead helo reported that the submarine contact had not been hit, and that it had turned tail and was running back into the Centurion’s area of responsibility. Bam-Bam ordered them to break off prosecution and leave the bastard to Centurion’s tender care. Now, with one of the small boats identified, he turned his attention back to the one still in doubt.

“What the hell’s going on out there?” Batman roared. “That can’t be Stony, not if the Chinese are so eager to keep us from taking a shot at that boat.”

Lab Rat shook his head. “But why would they be sending a small boat out toward the carrier?”

“Hell, I don’t know,” Batman raged. “Spotter for the submarine, maybe a kamikaze-type suicide mission. We’ve been over the scenarios often enough, over the damage a small boat can do to this bird farm. You’re the intelligence officer — you tell me why!”

Lab Rat felt a slight shiver run through his fingers, and clasped his hands in front of him to keep it from showing. Too many hours, too many long hours crouched in front of consoles, hot air blasting down his neck while the metal in front of him radiated heat, trying to sort through the often contradictory indications and warnings, electronic intercepts, and other intelligence that came pouring into SCIF. The first strike on Pearl Harbor had only been days before, but already he felt twenty years older, the sheer horror of it, the unbelievable anger raging through the ship that anyone would dare reach out and touch American soil.

“Well?” Batman demanded. “Who is it, Lab Rat? Stony or some Chinese deception plan to get in close to the carrier?”

“It’s ours,” Lab Rat said.