The Art of War

punched out by now and left it to the pilot to explain to the CAG why he’d returned without his canopy or his RIO.

“Bingo,” Rabies said, as against all odds the green light on his panel lit up, indicating a good seal with the Tomcat. “Hold on, buddy. You gonna be feeling a lot better here in a second.” Rabies’s copilot flipped the pump switch, and aviation fuel started pumping into the nearly-empty Tomcat tanks.

“Now if he can just hold on a few minutes, get that stuff shifted into his online tank,” the copilot muttered. They both knew what the problem was — the fuel was going into the fuel tank not in use, and had to be pumped from that one to the one in use before they could be sure that the Tomcat wouldn’t flame out.

As they watched the fuel transfer figures click over, Rabies started to breath easier. Finally, when their gauge indicated that they’d transferred two thousand pounds to the Tomcat, Rabies felt at ease.

“Okay, Fastball. That’s enough to get you home with some left over for sightseeing,” Rabies announced. “Pull on out of there, buddy. We got other customers lined up.”

“Roger,” Fastball said, all business and no hint of the disaster that had almost happened in his voice. And no thanks, either, for the job they’d done coaching him in and not ragging on him about his fuel state. The youngster’s attitude pissed Rabies off.

“You know the way home?” he asked. “Because if you don’t listen to Rat for a change, you’re not going to have enough fuel to get back onboard.”

“Roger, holding TACAN,” Rat’s voice said, and Rabies winced at the coolness in her voice. He’d just screwed up — not as bad as Fastball almost had, but enough so Rat would make sure he heard about it later. It was one thing for a RIO to rip her pilot a new asshole — another thing entirely for the tanker toad to rag on him, no matter how egregious the sins.

“Thanks, Rabies,” Rat said finally, as the Tomcat unplugged and dropped quickly below and away from the tanker. “I owe you one.”

Hey, okay. Rabies allowed himself a slight smile. There was something about Rat that had always attracted him, and maybe he hadn’t blown his chances entirely with her. Not if she was willing to talk to him like that.

“Save some auto-dog for me,” Rabies answered, referring to the soft-serve ice cream dispensed in the dirty shirt mess, the product of which looked uncannily like dog turds. And not very healthy dogs at that.

A single click from Rat’s mike acknowledged his transmission. Rabies had a feeling that that was the most he’d ever get from Rat.

EIGHT

USS Seawolf

Wednesday, 4 May

0300 local (GMT –3)

Just outside the Straits of Hormuz

Captain James Bellisanus had not slept much in the last three days, and he’d long since lost track of whether it was day or night outside. His crew maintained their normal three-shift rotation, but aside from his XO, there was no one that Bellisanus could really delegate his duties to. Not that he didn’t have a number of competent officers in his crew — he did, and he was justifiably proud of the fact that each one was far more qualified in submarine operations that any he’d ever worked with before.

But that didn’t change the fact that Seawolf was steaming in exceptionally dangerous waters. The water outside the Straits was damnably shallow, for the most part, although there was one deep rift that ran outward from the confined waters to dump into the Indian Ocean. Still, for the most part, it averaged far too shallow for Bellisanus’s liking.

Adding to the problem was the fact that, after the Mediterranean, this was one of the most heavily traveled passages in the world. The constant stream of deep draft commercial vessels, smaller fishing boats, and general shipping kept the crew in a constant state of edginess. They had to stay deep, in order to avoid problems.

Additionally, sonar propagation was exceptionally poor. The water was too shallow, too warm, and cluttered with noise. The final fly in the soup was the presence of the massive oil-drilling rigs. They, too, added a tremendous barrage of noise to the sea. They also were poorly charted, particularly the undersea pipelines that ran across the ocean floor.

No, it was not a good environment for a submarine. And Bellisanus had his suspicions that the Seawolf’s operating circumstances were going to get a lot worse before they improved.

His XO, Lieutenant Commander Francis “Frankie” Powder, was equally pessimistic, although he tried not to show it. But the message that had come in late last night had given them both reason to worry.

“They’re not serious, are they?” Powder asked for the second time. He held out the offending message.

“I’m afraid so. And it’s not like it’s unexpected news, is it? Submarines have been operating in the Gulf since Desert Storm, and there’s no reason for us not to go on it,” Bellisanus said.

And if truth be known, submarines had been in the Gulf for a lot longer than that, although Bellisanus wasn’t sure that Powder knew just how long. It was a closely held secret — in the earliest days, it had been common wisdom that no submarine would ever deploy in the Gulf. The water was too shallow for concealment, the sea floor too littered with uncharted dangers.

And just because it was common wisdom, the Navy had decided to prove that it could be done. Submarines, some operated by the Navy, others under the control of agencies identified only by initials, were quietly slipped into the warm bathtub. It went on for years before Desert Storm, and now accepted wisdom was just counter to what it had been then. A submarine could operate in the Gulf. Maybe not as comfortably as in open water, maybe not as safely, but it could be done.

And every submariner Bellisanus had ever met hated the whole idea with a passion. It ran counter to the guiding precepts of submarine operations and risked the submarine’s primary advantage — the ability to remain hidden, undetected, until it was time to strike.

“Yes, sir. Jeez I just hate it there, though,” Powder said.

“That makes two of us. The crew’s ready for it, though.”

“Yes, sir. I’m certain they are.” Powder was responsible to the CO for crew training, and Bellisanus had been impressed with his innovative training techniques and his absolute patience as he walked through the problems. The junior officers knew that Powder’s scenarios would challenge them, but they also knew that he’d be right there beside them, guiding them to the proper solutions and keeping things safe. As a result, they’d gained confidence and expertise far greater than most crews.

“I think so, too. And we’ve got some experienced people on board,” Bellisanus said.

“Not enough. That’s okay — we’re growing our own. Trained our way.”

Your way, you mean. Bellisanus did not begrudge giving his XO the credit he deserved. “Tomorrow, I think. After sunset, of course. Any comments on that?”

“No, sir,” Powder answered. “When’s the carrier going in?”

“Day after. We’ll go in ahead of them and sanitize the area for the carrier.” Bellisanus paused for a moment. Just what the hell had Iran been thinking when they’d launched a deliberate attack on the Jefferson’s CAP? Didn’t they know that would immediately provoke the U.S. into a strong and pointed response? And much as they slavered about having American forces in the Gulf, you’d think they’d do what they could to keep us out, and taking a shot at our CAP sure isn’t the way to do that. They’ve seen that principle demonstrated often enough since Desert Storm.

“Anything more on that suspected diesel?” Bellisanus asked.

“Not in the last traffic, but we’ll get an update before we leave. According to intell, all hulls are accounted for. Two tied up at the pier, one in rework, and one… well, we know about her.”

“Yes, sir.” The last hull, the El Said, was a hulk on the bottom of the Gulf. She’d rammed a pipeline — and what did that say about the Iranian military, that even their own subs didn’t know about pipelines? — and had been lost with all hands. Rumor had it that part of the crew had survived in an after