This time the submarine rose slowly, careful not to breach the surface of the ocean. They would come shallow enough to poke their satellite antenna above the water, spit out the message, and suck down data from the Link. God willing, the whole maneuver would take no longer than five minutes. Every second spent shallow, even with only an antenna exposed, increased the risk exponentially.
“Good data,” the data systems specialist announced. The tactical screen began filling with updated positions.
The captain and the XO stared at the screen in horror as the situation unfolded in front of them. The cruiser was devastated, in close to the carrier.
“At least it will make the medical evacuation quicker,” the XO said. “Doc says the sooner the better.”
The captain grunted. “They always say that.”
The captain picked up the microphone that fed into the tactical circuit. “
“
Briefly, the captain sketched in what had occurred, and then said, “We’re going to need medical evacuation for one of the men. When can you stage that?”
There was a long silence, then “
The captain hung up the microphone, seething with frustration. He had expected no less, but it was still frustrating.
The flag TAO would have to find the admiral, who would then no doubt need to consult with his staff before he decided whether or not to risk the dangerous evolution. Thirty minutes, at a minimum, he decided. Thirty minutes was lightning speed in terms of planning, but an eternity to a submarine at communications depth.
“Conn, sonar! Holding contact on a subsurface contact, bearing 180, range 8000 yards. I classified this as the Iranian diesel we were holding earlier, sir.”
The captain swore quietly. Had they been detected? Had air assets seen their antenna? Or this was the simply bad luck?
No matter. It required immediate action. “Conning officer, take us down.” He turned to the XO. “Tell Doc I’ll get him answer as fast as I can, but we have a problem to take care of first.”
The captain walked back into sonar and took a look at the displays himself. Not that there was much point to it — if Renny Jacobs had made a mistake, the chief would have caught it, and the captain’s untutored eyes would have been no help. “Any indication he’s doing anything I should know about?” the captain asked.
“No, Captain,” the chief said. “He’s lying quiet on the bottom, just waiting. Not even moving.”
“Are we going to have any difficulty holding him with part of the conformal array damaged?”
“Too soon to tell. Right now we’ve got him, but I suspect we will have some blind spots on some bearings. I won’t know until we try.” The chief sounded worried.
The carrier had to have transited the Straits barely two hours ago. If the submarine had intended to make a run on her, that would have been the time to do so. So what was she doing lying in wait by the Straits instead of tracking the carrier?
Just then, the lines on the sonar began to shift. New frequencies appeared, digitized, processed, and labeled with the sonar’s best guess as to source. “She’s on the move,” Renny said. “Heading for the straits.”
“How long until she gets there?”
“About fifteen minutes. It’s like she’s been waiting for something, sir,” Renny added.
The captain looked at him slightly askance. Sure, the sonar technician had a keen grasp acoustically of what a submarine looked like, but speculating on tactical decisions at this level was a little bit out of his league. Still, he glanced up and saw the chief nodding as well.
“Talk to me — let’s think this out.” the captain said.
“No doubt,” Renny said without hesitation. “If it’s not the carrier, it’s the Straits themselves. Captain, I think—”
Just then, a broad swath of noise shot across the display. Even the captain knew what it was. “Compressed air. But no torpedo.” The captain felt a sick feeling starting in his gut.
There were only a few reasons for a submarine to be shooting compressed air out of her tubes. First, to launch a torpedo, but had she launched a torpedo, it would have been immediately evident on the screen. Second, she could be dumping garbage. Not likely during daylight hours. She could also be launching a special device to determine the sound velocity profile of the water, or a message buoy. But the final possibility, the captain knew instinctively was the right one.
Mines. The submarine was launching mines. He saw agreement in the sonarman’s eyes.
“But why? The carrier’s already in the Gulf. Who’s he trying to keep from getting in?”
“Maybe he’s not trying to keep anyone from getting in, sir,” Renny said slowly. He pointed to the green lines on the screen that were the carrier’s acoustic signature. “Maybe he’s trying to keep us from getting out.”
“They’re
“Yes, sir. It’s a single line across the Straits. He’s requesting orders, Admiral,” the TAO said. He held out the scribbled message they’d just received from the satellite.
“Take it out,” Batman said unhesitatingly. “Take it out now.” He turned to survey the tactical plot. “And I’ll deal with the rest of it. I want everything we’ve got in the air. First priority — deal with those Iranian F-14s and give us night air superiority. It’s gonna go downhill from there for them. Real downhill — and fast. Now do it
Almost before he’d finished speaking, the low howl of Tomcats spooling up rattled overhead. Twenty minutes later, virtually the entire airwing was airborne and headed for the coast of Iran.
Rat was the first one out of bed, but Fastball wasn’t far behind her. They were pulling on their uniforms before the corpsman could even get to them, and by the time he’d found Bernie, they were already headed for the door.
“Where do you think you’re going?” the doctor demanded. “Back in bed — both of you!”
“Not a chance,” Rat said tartly. She pointed at the overhead. “You hear that? They’re launching everything we’ve got onboard. We’re fine and you know it. And I’m not about to let an aircraft sit on the deck for lack of an aircrew, even if I have to fly with this idiot.”
“Yeah,” Fastball said, not entirely comfortable with agreeing that he was an idiot, but figuring that he’d settle that later with Rat. “We’re out of here, Doc.”
Bernie regarded them for a moment, and saw the determination on both faces. Really, there was no medical reason they couldn’t fly right now, although he would have been far happier keeping an eye on both of them for another couple of days just to be certain. But if there’s one place that you can’t wait around for certainty, it’s on an aircraft carrier.
“Go,” he said finally. “No punching out.”
Rat and Fastball grinned and sprinted out of the sick bay. Five minutes later, after wangling permission from a harried CAG who barely seemed to remember who they were, they were walking to the paraloft to get their gear.
TWENTY-FOUR
Fastball leaned back in his seat for a moment, trying to ease the nervousness that filled his body. He was flying a northeasterly course over the Persian Gulf. His section was at about 10,000 feet. His RIO had been quiet for
