Red Storm Rising (1986) (73 page)

“Say ten or fifteen seconds.”

“I’ll have to make a small change in the programming software, but that shouldn’t be much of a problem. We’ll have to make sure that the missile will retain enough forward velocity to keep its launch attitude, though. You sure that’s enough time?”

“No. We’ll have to check that out on the simulator, too. How long we got?”

“Minimum two days, maximum six days. Depends on the Navy,” replied the General.

“Great.”

“Here’s some good news,” Toland announced. “An Air Force F-15 Eagle fighter was flying over a fast convoy north of the Azores. Two Bears came looking for the ships and the Eagle got ’em both. That makes three in the past four days. The Backfire raid appears to have aborted.”

“What’s their position?” the group captain asked.

Toland ran his hand along the chart, checking latitude and longitude against the numbers on the dispatch form. “Looks like right about here, and that datum is twenty minutes old.”

“That puts them over Iceland in just under two hours.”

“What about tankers?” the Navy fighter commander asked.

“Not on such short notice.”

“We can stretch that far with two fighters, using another two for buddy stores, but it only gives them about twenty minutes on station, under five on burner, and a ten-minute reserve when they get back here.” The fighter boss whistled. “Close. Too close. We have to wave off on this.”

A phone rang. The British base commander grabbed.

“Group Captain Mallory. Yes . . . very well, scramble.” He hung up. Klaxons went off at the ready shack half a mile away. Fighter pilots raced to their aircraft. “Ivan’s settled the argument in any case, Commander. Your radar aircraft report heavy jamming activity inbound from the north.”

The commander raced out the door and jumped into a jeep.

The drive from SACLANT headquarters took ten minutes. The Marines at the main gate were checking everyone and everything carefully, even a Chevy with a three-star flag. They drove to the waterfront amid an unending flurry of activity. Trains rolled down the tracks set in the streets, repair shops and testing facilities worked around the clock. Even the McDonald’s on the road immediately outside was working a twenty-four-hour day, feeding hamburgers and fries to the men who took a few minutes for nourishment. For sailors spending a day or so on land it was an important, if seemingly trivial, touchstone. The car turned right as it reached the docks, past the submarine piers to the ones that held destroyers.

“She’s brand new, only a month in commission, just about long enough to calibrate the electronics, and they must have shaved some time on that,” the Admiral said. “Captain Wilkens did continuous workups on the transit from San Diego, but nothing with helicopters yet. PACFLT kept hers, and I can’t give you a regular helo complement either. All we have left is one Seahawk-F variant, a prototype helo they were evaluating down at Jacksonville.”

“The one with the dipping sonar?” Ed Morris asked. “I can live with that. How aboat a driver who knows how to use it?”

“It’s covered. Lieutenant Commander O’Malley. We pulled him out of a training billet at Jax.”

“I’ve heard the name. He was doing systems qualifications on
Moosbrugger
when I was tactical action officer on
John Rodgers.
Yeah, he knows the job.”

“Have to drop you off here. I’ll be back in an hour, after I have a look at what’s left of the
Kidd.”

Reuben James.
Her raked clipper bow marked with hull number 57 hung over the dock like a guillotine blade. His weariness momentarily forgotten, Morris stepped out of the Chevy to examine his new command with all the quiet enthusiasm of a man with his newborn child.

He’d seen FFG-7-class frigates, but never been aboard one. Her severe hull lines reminded him of a Cigarette racing yacht. Six five-inch mooring lines secured her to the pier, but the sleek form already seemed to be straining at them. At only 3900 tons full load, not a large ship but manifestly a fast one to go in harm’s way.

Her superstructure was an aesthetic embarrassment, with all the grace of a brick garage, topped with antenna whips and radar masts that looked like they had been built by a child’s erector set, but Morris saw the functional simplicity of the design. The frigate’s forty missiles were tucked away in circular racks forward. Her boxy after deckhouse contained enough room for a pair of deadly ASW helicopters. Her hull was sleek because speed required it. Her superstructure was boxy because it had to be. This was a warship, and whatever beauty
Reuben James
might have had was accidental.

Sailors wearing blue shirts and jeans moved rapidly across three gangways, bringing supplies aboard for an immediate sailing. Morris walked briskly to the after gangway. A Marine guard saluted him at the foot of the brow and an officer on the frigate’s deck frantically ordered preparations to receive his new CO. The ship’s bell was struck four times, and Commander Ed Morris assumed his new identity.

“Reuben James,
arriving.”

Morris saluted the colors, then the officer of the deck.

“Sir, we didn’t expect you for another—” the lieutenant blurted.

“How’s the work going?” Morris cut him off.

“Two more hours, tops, sir.”

“Fine.” Morris smiled. “We can worry about the Mickey Mouse later. Get back to work, Mister—”

“Lyles, sir. Ship control officer.”

And what the hell is that?
Morris wondered. “Okay, Mr. Lyles. Where’s the XO?”

“Right here, skipper.” The executive officer had grease on his shirt and a smudge on his cheek. “I was in the generator room. Pardon the way I look.”

“What kind of shape are we in?”

“It’ll do. Full load of fuel and weapons. The tail’s fully calibrated—”

“How’d you do that so fast?”

“It wasn’t easy, sir, but we got it done. How’s Captain Wilkens?”

“The docs say he’ll be all right, but—well, he’s out of the business for a while. I’m Ed Morris.” Captain and executive officer shook hands.

“Frank Ernst. First time I’ve operated in the Atlantic Fleet.” The lieutenant commander smiled crookedly. “Picked a great time for it. Anyway, we’re in good shape, skipper. Everything works. Our helo pilot’s up in the Combat Information Center with the tactical guys. We got Jerry the Hammer. I played ball with him at Annapolis, he’s good people. We got three real good chiefs. One’s a qualified officer of the deck. The crew’s on the young side, but I’d say we’re about as ready as you could ask. Ready to sail in two, three hours, tops. Where’s your personal gear, sir?”

“It ought to be here in half an hour. What was the problem below?”

“No sweat. An oil line let go on number-three diesel generator. Yard goof, wasn’t welded right. It’s fixed. You’ll love the engine room, skipper. On builder’s trials in five-foot seas we topped out at thirty-one-and-a-half knots.” Ernst raised his eyebrows. “Fast enough?”

“And the stabilizers?” Morris asked.

“They work just fine, skipper.”

“What about the ASW troops?”

“Let’s meet ’em.”

Morris followed his XO into the superstructure. They proceeded forward between the two helicopter hangars, then to the left past officers’ country and up a ladder. The Combat Information Center was located one level below and just aft of the bridge, adjoining the commanding officer’s stateroom. Dark as a cave, it was newer than
Pharris’s
and larger, but no less crammed. Twenty or more people were at work running a simulation.

“No, Goddammit!” howled a loud voice. “You have to react
faster.
This here’s a Victor, and he ain’t gonna wait for you to make up your damn mind!”

“Attention on deck! Captain in Combat,” called Ernst.

“As you were,” called Morris. “Who’s that loud sunuvabitch?”

A barrel-chested man emerged from the shadows. His eyes were surrounded by crinkles from looking into too many low suns. So this was Jerry the Hammer O’Malley. He knew him only by a crackling voice on a UHF radio, and by his reputation as a sub-hunter who cared more for his trade than promotion boards.

“I guess you mean me, Captain. O’Malley. I’m supposed to drive your Seahawk-Foxtrot.”

“You’re right about the Victor. One of those bastards blew my first ship near in half.”

“Sorry to hear that, but you oughta know that Ivan’s putting his best skippers in the Victors. She handles better than anything else they got, and that rewards a smart driver. So you were up against the varsity. Did you have him outside?”

Morris shook his head. “We were late picking him up, just coming off a sprint, and acoustical conditions weren’t all that great, but we detected him, he couldn’t have been more than five miles out. We had the helo after him, just about had him localized, then he broke contact neat as you please and got inside on us.”

“Yeah, the Victor’s good at that. Pump-fake, I call it. He starts going one way, then turns hard the other, leaves a knuckle in the water, and probably a noisemaker, too, right in the middle of it. Then he dives down under the layer and makes a quick sprint in. They’ve been refining that tactic for the past few years, and we’ve had trouble programming a reliable counter for it. You need a sharp crew in the helo, and you need good teamwork with these guys here.”

“Unless you read my report, my friend, you must be a mind reader.”

“Right, Captain. But all the minds I read think in Russian. The pump-fake’s what the Victor is best at, and you have to pay attention, what with his ability to accelerate and turn so quick. What I’ve been trying to teach people is when he shows turn to port, you start thinkin’ he’s really going to starboard, and you slide over maybe two thousand yards and wait a minute or two, then you hammer the bastard hard and pickle off the fish before he can react.”

“And if you’re wrong?”

“Then you’re wrong, skipper. Mostly, though, Ivan’s predictable—if you think like a submariner and you look at his tactical situation instead of your own. You can’t keep him from running away, but his mission is to close on the target, and you can make life real hard for him if he does.”

Morris looked O’Malley hard in the eyes. He didn’t like having the loss of his first command analyzed so glibly. But there was no time for these thoughts. O’Malley was a pro, and if there was a man to handle another Victor, this might be the one. “You all ready?”

“The bird is at the air station. We’ll join up after you clear the capes. I wanted to talk things over with the ASW team while we had the time. We’re gonna play outside ASW picket?”

“Probably. With a towed-array, it doesn’t figure that we’re going to be in close. And we might be teamed with a Brit for the convoy mission.”

“Fair enough. If you want my opinion, we have a pretty solid ASW team here. We might just give the bad guys a hard time. Weren’t you on
Rodgers
a few years back?”

“When you were working with the
Moose.
We worked together twice, but never met. I was ‘X-Ray Mike’ when we exercised against
Skate.”

“I thought I remembered you.” O’Malley came closer and dropped his voice. “How bad is it out there?”

“Bad enough. We lost the G-I-UK line. We’re getting some pretty good SURTASS info, but you can bet Ivan’s going to be gunning for those tuna boats pretty soon. Between the air threat and the sub threat—I don’t know.” His face showed more than his voice did. Close friends dead or missing. His own first command blown in half. Morris was tired in a way that sleep alone would not cure.

O’Malley nodded. “Skipper, we got us a shiny new frigate, a great new helo, and a tail. We can hold our end up.”

“Well, we’ll have a shot soon enough. We sail for New York in two hours and take a convoy out on Wednesday.”

“Alone?” O’Malley asked.

“No, we’ll have Brit company for the New York run, HMS Battleaxe. The orders haven’t been confirmed yet, but it looks like we’ll be working together all the way across.”

“That’ll be useful,” Ernst agreed. “Come on aft, skipper, I’ll show you what we’re up to.” The sonar room was aft of CIC, closed off by a curtain. Here real lighting was on, as opposed to the darkened, red-light world of Combat.

“Jeez, nobody ever tells me anything!” growled a young lieutenant commander. “Good morning, Captain. I’m Lenner, combat systems officer.”

“How come you’re not at your scope?”

“We froze the game, skipper, and I wanted to check out the display on playback.”

“I brought the game tape myself,” O’Malley explained. “This is the track of a Victor-III that faked out one of our carriers in the eastern Med last year. See here? That’s the pump-fake. You’ll notice that the contact fades out, then brightens up. That’s the noisemaker inside the knuckle. At this point he ducked under the layer and sprinted inside the screen. Would’ve hit the carrier, too, because they didn’t get him for another ten minutes. That”—he jammed his finger at the display—“is what you look for. This tells you you’re up against a driver who knows his stuff, and he’s out for your ass.” Morris examined the screen closely enough to recognize the pattern. He’d seen it once before.

“What if they use the maneuver to break clear?” Lenner asked.

“Because if they can break contact, why not break contact
toward
the target?” Morris asked quietly, noting that he had a very young combat systems officer.

“That’s right, skipper.” O’Malley nodded ruefully. “Like I said, this is a standard tactic for them, and it rewards a sharp driver. The aggressive ones will always bore in. The ones who break off—that’s effectively a kill. We have to reacquire, but so do they. With a twenty-knot speed of advance, once we get past them, they have to play catch-up. That means making noise. The guy who runs away probably won’t run the risk, or if he does, he’ll do it badly and we’ll get him. No, this tactic is for the guy who really wants to get in close. Question is, how many of their skippers are that aggressive?”