Attack of the Seawolf

“Conn, aye,” Pacino replied, feeling Keebes’s eyes on him. Pacino concentrated on the firecontrol display and on the chart, watching as the solutions developed to the two inbound warships, noting that the

Chinese carrier. Target Thirteen, was maneuvering toward the east, toward the “finish line” denoting the boundary between international and Chinese territorial waters.

“Conn, Sonar, we’re getting helicopter engines.”

“Where are they?”

“The bearings are scattered, but it looks like most of them are concentrating in the west at bearing two eight five.”

“What do you figure they’re doing, Captain?”

Keebes asked.

“Probably overflying the Javelin launch zone at the west mouth of the channel. Maybe they think we were there when we launched and they’re searching a zone around the liftoff.”

“From liftoff point to the east down the channel,” Keebes added, “which means they’re on the way.”

“Sonar, Captain, are the choppers converging on one bearing?”

“Yes, all choppers are now bearing two eight zero to two nine zero.”

“Coming or going?”

“Doppler’s not applicable here, sir.”

“What do your ears tell you?”

“Coming, sir. Definitely inbound.”

Pacino looked at Keebes.

“They’re sweeping eastward, squeezing us between the choppers on the west and the carrier on the east. And the only noises they’ll hear in this channel are us and the TampaV “And Tampa is a lot louder than we are.”

“I know. Mr. Turner, can you arm and launch the Mark 80 SLAAMs without the periscope being up?”

“Yes sir.”

“Arm all of them.”

“What are you going to do?” Keebes cut in.

“Score a few choppers.”

“We’ve only got nine missiles.”

“That’s nine choppers,” Pacino said.

“Conn, Sonar, we are now getting jet engines out of the east. Looks like the carrier is launching the Yaks at us. Jets are inbound at high speed.”

“Sir,” Turner reported, “ETA of the destroyers at our position is eighteen minutes. But they should be in SS-N-14 range within nine.”

“Helicopters are getting closer. Captain,” Sonar Chief Jeb reported.

“Bearings to the aircraft are spreading.”

Pacino waited, ears straining, waiting for the first ping of a dipping sonar indicating the helicopters had found the Seawolf.

“Conn, Sonar, we’re getting distant dipping sonar pings, some east, some west. The closer ones are west.”

“So, Captain,” Jack Morris said, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Did you think it would be this bad?”

“You call this bad, Morris? So far no one’s launched a single weapon at us. Wait till the ordnance starts going off before you get in a sweat.”

But what Pacino was thinking as he stared at the firecontrol display was: Where the hell was Donchez’s air support? korea bay surface action group 57 aircraft carrier USS ronald reagan

The Nimitz-class carrier USS Ronald Reagan steamed through the rain and the mist and the dark, plowing through the Korea Bay’s whitecaps, her search radar rotating once every ten seconds, the American flag flapping from the highest yardarm of the tall central mast, the masthead lights illuminating the spray of the rain and the number 76 painted on the island, her air wing’s aircraft secured in the hangar decks in the bowels of the 105,000-ton ship. A ring of dim red lights in the island marked the bridge, where the officer of the deck drove the ship, the ships of Surface Action Group 57 in formation around the carrier, each in her assigned position and monitored by the bridge crew.

One level below, the flight-operations center was quiet, the room stuffed full of consoles for the radars and communications gear that would provide tactical control of the air wing once it was airborne. A level below flight ops was the tactical flag command center, also known as the flag plot room, where Admiral Richard Donchez stared out over the darkened flight deck of the Reagan and held the red handset of the NESTOR satellite secure-voice radio-telephone to his ear, a deep frown on his face.

“Mr. Secretary, I have a lot of American lives at stake here. I can’t get the submarines out without air cover. I need an hour of flight operations and I can neutralize the Chinese fleet — yessir, I know that … I understand that, but do you realize they will bomb these ships to the bottom of the bay? We’ve monitored every weapon launch by the Seawolf, and by our calculations she is out of weapons. That’s right, sir … I know, but if you count sunken ships, that’s at least one torpedo per sinking. The Chinese have several squadrons of ASW helos and jets up, scouring the bay. The subs only have a few miles to go, and they’re out of there …”

Donchez paused for a long moment, listening, rubbing his forehead. Finally he nodded and spoke, saying only “Roger, Donchez out.” He replaced the red handset, then looked up at Rummel.

“Sir, what did the SecDef say?”

“He’s worried that our international partners will think we’re beating up on the poor Chinese. That we still don’t want it known that we were in the bay spying.

That this is an embarrassment to the Administration.