Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 7-12 (61 page)

It couldn’t be happening. If it were, others would have noted it, wouldn’t they? He looked around. The crew was at battle stations. All watertight doors were closed and dogged down as they would be in combat.
Kurushio
had launched an exercise torpedo, identical to a warshot in everything but the warhead, for which an instrument package was substituted. They were also designed not to hit their targets, but to turn away from them, because a metal-to-metal strike could break things, and fixing those things could be expensive.

“It’s still got us, sir.”

But the fish had run
straight through
the knuckle ...

“Take her down fast!” Kennedy ordered, knowing it was too late for that.

USS
Asheville
dropped her nose, taking a twenty-degree down-angle, back over thirty knots with the renewed acceleration. The decoy room launched yet another bubble canister. The increased speed degraded sonar performance, but it was clear from the display that the Type 89 had again run straight through the false image of a target and just kept coming.

“Range under five hundred,” the tracking part said. One of its members noticed that the Captain was pale and wondered why. Well, nobody likes losing, even in an exercise.

Kennedy thought about maneuvering more as Asheville ducked under the layer yet again. It was too close to outrun. It could outturn him, and every attempt to confuse it had failed. He was just out of ideas. He’d had no time to think it all through.

“Jesus!” Laval took his headphones off. The Type 89 was now alongside the submarine’s towed-array sonar, and the noise was well off the scale. “Should turn away any second now ...”

The Captain just stood there, looking around. Was he crazy? Was he the only one who thought—

At the last second, Sonarman 1/c Laval looked aft to his commanding officer.
“Sir, it didn’t turn!”

21

Navy Blue

Air Force One lifted off a few minutes sooner than expected, speeded on her way by the early hour. Reporters were already up and moving before the VC-25B reached her cruising altitude, coming forward to ask the President for a statement explaining the premature departure. Cutting short a state trip was something of a panic reaction, wasn’t it? Tish Brown handled the journalists, explaining that the unfortunate developments on Wall Street commanded a quick return so that the President could reassure the American people ... and so forth. For the moment, she went on, it might be a good idea for everyone to catch up on sleep. It was, after all, a fourteen-hour flight back to Washington, with the headwinds that blew across the Atlantic at this time of year, and Roger Durling needed his sleep, too. The ploy worked for several reasons, not the least of which was that the reporters were suffering from too much alcohol and not enough sleep, like everyone else aboard—except the flight crew, all hoped. Besides, there were Secret Service agents and armed Air Force personnel between them and the President’s accommodations. Common sense broke out, and everyone returned back to the seating area. Soon things were quieted down, and nearly every passenger aboard was either asleep or feigning it. Those who weren’t asleep wished they were.

Johnnie Reb’s
commanding officer was, by federal law, an aviator. The statute went back to the 1930s, and had been drafted to prevent battleship sailors from taking over the new and bumptious branch of the Old Navy. As such, he had more experience flying airplanes than in driving ships, and since he’d never had a command afloat, his knowledge of shipboard systems consisted mainly of things he’d picked up along the way rather than from a matter of systematic study and experience. Fortunately, his chief engineer was a black-shoe destroyer sailor with a command under his belt. The skipper did know, however, that water was supposed to be outside the hull, not inside.

“How bad, ChEng?”

“Bad, sir.” The Commander gestured to the deck plates, still covered with an inch of water that the pumps was gradually sending over the side. At least the holes were sealed now. That had taken three hours. “Shafts two and three are well and truly trashed. Bearings shot, tail shafts twisted and split, reduction gears ground up to junk—no way anybody can fix them. The turbines are okay. The reduction gears took all the shock. Number One shaft’s okay. Some shock damage to the aft bearings. That I can fix myself. Number Four screw is damaged, not sure how bad, but we can’t turn it without risking the shaft bearings. Starboard rudder is jammed over, but 1 can deal with that, another hour, maybe, and it’ll be ’midships. May have to replace it, depending on how bad it looks. We’re down to one shaft. We can make ten, eleven knots, and we can steer, badly.”

“Time to fix?”

“Months—four or five is my best guess right now, sir.” All of which, the Commander knew, would require him to be here, overseeing the yard crews, essentially rebuilding half the ship’s power plant—maybe three quarters. He hadn’t fully evaluated the damage to Number Four yet. That was when the Captain really lost his temper. It was about time, the ChEng thought.

“If I could launch an air strike, I’d sink those sunzabitches!” But launching anything on the speed generated by a single shaft was an iffy proposition. Besides, it had been an accident, and the skipper really didn’t mean it.

“You have my vote on that one, sir,” ChEng assured him, not really meaning it either, because he added: “Maybe they’ll be nice enough to pay for the repairs.” His reward was a nod.

“We can start moving again?”

“Number One shaft is a little out from shock damage, but I can live with it, yes, sir.”

“Okay, get ready to answer bells. I’m taking this overpriced barge back to Pearl.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Admiral Mancuso was back in his office, reviewing preliminary data on the exercise when his yeoman came in with a signal sheet.

“Sir, looks like two carriers are in trouble.”

“What did they do, collide?” Jones asked, sitting in the corner and reviewing other data.

“Worse,” the yeoman told the civilian.

ComSubPac read the dispatch. “Oh, that’s just great.” Then his phone rang; it was the secure line that came directly from PacFltOps. “This is Admiral Mancuso.”

“Sir, this is Lieutenant Copps at Fleet Communications. I have a submarine emergency beacon, located approximately 31-North, 175-East. We’re refining that position now. Code number is for
Asheville,
sir. There is no voice transmission, just the beacon. I am initiating a SUB-MISS /SUBSUNK. The nearest naval aircraft are on the two carriers—”

“Dear God.” Not since
Scorpion
had the U.S. Navy lost a sub, and he’d been in high school then. Mancuso shook his head clear. There was work to be done. “Those two carriers are probably out of business, mister.”

“Oh?” Oddly enough, Lieutenant Copps hadn’t heard that yet.

“Call the P-3s. I have work to do.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Mancuso didn’t have to look at anything. The water in that part of the Pacific Ocean was three miles deep, and no fleet submarine ever made could survive at a third of that depth. If there were an emergency, and if there were any survivors, any rescue would have to happen within hours, else the cold surface water would kill them.

“Ron, we just got a signal.
Asheville
might be down.”

“Down?”
That word was not one any submariner wanted to hear, even if it was a gentler expression than
sunk.
“Frenchy’s kid ...”

“And a hundred twenty others.”

“What can I do, Skipper?”

“Head over to SOSUS and look at the data.”

“Aye aye, sir.” Jones hustled out the door while SubPac lifted his phone and started punching buttons. He already knew that it was an exercise in futility. All PacFlt submarines now carried the AN/BST-3 emergency transmitters aboard, set to detach from their ships if they passed through crush depth or if the quartermaster of the watch neglected to wind the unit’s clockwork mechanism. The latter possibility, however, was unlikely. Before the explosive bolts went, the BST made the most godawful noise to chide the neglectful enlisted man ...
Asheville
was almost certainly dead, and yet he had to follow through in the hope of a miracle. Maybe a few crewmen had gotten off.

Despite Mancuso’s advice, the carrier group did get the call. A frigate, USS
Gary,
went at once to maximum sustainable speed and sprinted north toward the area of the beacon, responding as required by the laws of man and the sea. In ninety minutes she’d be able to launch her own helicopter for a surface search and further serve as a base for other helos to continue the rescue operation if necessary.
John Stennis
turned slowly into the wind and managed to launch a single S-3 Viking ASW aircraft, whose onboard instruments were likely to be useful for a surface search. The Viking was overhead in less than an hour. There was nothing to be seen on radar except for a Japanese coast-guard cutter, heading in for the beacon, about ten miles out. Contact was established, and the white cutter verified its notice of the emergency radio and intentions to search for survivors. The Viking circled the transmitter. There was a slick of diesel oil to mark the ship’s grave, and a few bits of floating debris, but repeated low passes and four sets of eyes failed to spot anything to be rescued.

The “Navy Blue” prefix on a signal denoted information that would be of interest to the entire fleet, perhaps sensitive in nature, less often highly classified; in this case it was something too big to be kept a secret. Two of Pacific Fleet’s four aircraft carriers were out of business for a long time. The other two,
Eisenhower
and
Lincoln,
were in the IO, and were likely to remain there. Ships know few secrets, and even before Admiral Dubro got his copy of the dispatch, word was already filtering through his flagship. No chief swore more vilely than the battle-force commander, who already had enough to worry about. The same response greeted the signals personnel who informed the senior naval officers on Pentagon duty.

Like most intelligence officers in a foreign land in time of danger, Clark and Chavez didn’t have a clue. If they had, they would probably have caught the first plane anywhere. Spies have never been popular with anyone, and the Geneva Protocols merely affirmed a rule for time of war, mandating their death as soon after apprehension as was convenient, usually by firing squad.

Peacetime rules were a little more civilized, but generally with the same end result. It wasn’t something CIA emphasized in its recruiting interviews. The international rules of espionage allowed for this unhappy fact by giving as many field intelligence officers as possible diplomatic covers, along with which came immunity from harm. Those were called “legal” agents, protected by international treaty as though they really were the diplomats their passports said they were. Clark and Chavez were “illegals,” and not so protected—in fact, John Clark had never once been given a “legal” cover. The importance of this became clear when they left their cheap hotel for a meeting with Isamu Kimura.

It was a pleasant afternoon made less so by the looks they got as
gaijin;
no longer a mixture of curiosity and distaste, now there was genuine hostility. The atmosphere had changed materially since their arrival here, though remarkably things immediately became more cordial when they identified themselves as Russians, which prompted Ding to speculate on how they might make their cover identity more obvious to passersby. Unfortunately civilian clothing did not offer that option, and so they had to live with the looks, generally feeling the way a wealthy American might in a high-crime neighborhood.

Kimura was waiting at the agreed-upon place, an inexpensive drinking establishment. He already had a few drinks in him.

“Good afternoon,” Clark said pleasantly in English. A beat. “Something wrong?”

“I don’t know,” Kimura said when the drinks came. There were many ways of speaking that phrase. This way indicated that he knew something. “There is a meeting of the ministers today. Goto called it. It’s been going on for hours. A friend of mine in the Defense Agency hasn’t left his office since Thursday night.”

“Da—
so?”

“You haven’t seen it, have you? The way Goto has been speaking about America.” The MITI official finished off the last of his drink and raised his hand to order another. Service, typically, was fast.

They could have said that they’d seen the first speech, but instead “Klerk” asked for Kimura’s read on the situation.

“I don’t know,” the man replied, saying the same thing again while his eyes and tone told a somewhat different story. “I’ve never seen anything like this. The—what is the word?—rhetoric. At my ministry we have been waiting for instructions all week. We need to restart the trade talks with America, to reach an understanding, but we have no instructions. Our people in Washington are doing nothing. Goto has spent most of his time with Defense, constant meetings, and with his zaibatsu friends. It’s not the way things are here at all.”

“My friend,” Clark said with a smile, his drink now untouched after a single sip, “you speak as though there is something serious in the air.”

“You don’t understand. There is nothing in the air. Whatever is going on, MITI is not a part of it.”

“And?”

“MITI is part of
everything
here. My Minister is there now, finally, but he hasn’t told us anything.” Kimura paused. Didn’t these two know anything? “Who do you think makes our foreign policy here? Those dolts in the Foreign Ministry? They report to us. And the Defense Agency, who cares what they think about anything? We are the ones who shape our country’s policies. We work with the zaibatsu, we coordinate, we ... represent business in our relations with other countries and their markets, we make the position papers for the Prime Minister to give out. That’s why I entered the ministry in the first place.”