Onslaught Page 5

  “I’ll be right up. Ask Matt to join us there if he’s awake. But don’t roust him if he’s off-line.”

  * * *

  THE bridge was dark. A huge moon hung low, glittering coldly off three-foot seas kicked up by a steady wind from the west. From China … Lieutenant Garfinkle-Henriques, the supply officer, currently officer of the deck, oriented him, and reminded him the sonar tail was deployed, in case he wanted to maneuver.

  Mills arrived lugging a three-ring binder stuffed with messages, ROEs, and references. They went over everything on the chart table. Then Dan picked up the handset. Cleared his throat, positioning the binder beneath the dim ruby pilot light and eyeing the call-sign board above the scuttlebutt. He pressed the Transmit button, and gave the encryption a chance to sync. “Steel Hammer, Cannoneer, this is Ringmaster, over. Request speak to your actuals. Over.”

  “Steel Hammer” was the call sign for Curtis Wilbur, “Cannoneer” for Mitscher. Dan would have to remember that he himself would be “Matador” as CO of Savo Island, but “Ringmaster” when he spoke as Commander, Ryukyus Task Group—in Navyspeak, CTG 779.1. The task group would be further subdivided into the Japanese units, Task Unit 779.1.1, and the U.S. ships as 779.1.2. Collectively, their call sign would be “Steeplechase.”

  “This is Steel Hammer. Stand by for actual. Over.”

  “Cannoneer, actual on-line. Over.”

  When both U.S. “actuals,” the skippers themselves, were on the line he said slowly and clearly, “This is Ringmaster actual. Stand by. Break. Request Japanese Steeplechase units come up at this time. Over.”

  A few beats, then the crackle and beep of a new signal. “This is Mount Yari, over.” The words were faintly accented, but understandable. Dan had decided he wouldn’t insist on speaking to the COs, in case their best English speakers were already on the line.

  “Mount Shiomi, over.”

  It took a couple of exchanges before he got them straight. “Mount Yari” was JDS Kurama, the helo carrier; “Mount Shiomi” was Chokai, the Aegis destroyer. When he had everything clarified, he began passing sector coordinates, taskings, and frequencies. Speaking slowly, line by line, and making them repeat back. Making sure there could be no mistake, no chance for collision or gaps in the coverage. Doing it the old way, before everything had gone to satellite-mediated chat. Mills followed along, nodding as Dan completed each ship’s assignment.

  When they were done, he took a deep breath. “This is Ringmaster. We’re here to hold the line against any attack. The more fiercely we resist, the more effectively we deter further aggression.” He clicked off, thinking, Jeez, that sounded pompous enough. Then back on. “This will be the coordination frequency. Stay alert. Keep me informed. Also, be aware of blue submarine activity in Orange Zone, sectors Alfa to Charlie.” Pittsburgh’s CO had chosen to patrol out front of the barrier, where quiet water and depths down to six thousand feet in the Okinawa Trough would give him better hunting. He hesitated, then concluded, “Ringmaster, out.”

  When he resocketed the handset, he found Cheryl Staurulakis at his elbow. “Hey, Exec. How’d that sound going out?”

  “Uh, pretty stuffy.”

  “Yeah, got to come up with something catchier. Like ‘Molon labe’ or ‘England expects every man to do his duty.’”

  “As long as it isn’t Custer’s last line,” Mills said.

  Dan squinted. “What was that, Ops?”

  “‘Gatling guns? We don’t need no stinking Gatling guns.’”

  Staurulakis murmured, “He didn’t really say that. Did he?”

  Mills shrugged. “Not in so many words. But he had the chance to take them along, and he turned it down.”

  Dan grimaced. He found the HF handset in the dark, and reported to “Dreadnought”—Commander, Seventh Fleet, his tactical boss—that the strait was closed. A bored-sounding watchstander gave him a roger.

  He stood near the open wing door for quite a while after they went below, watching a baleful moon above a restless sea.

  5

  GNS Stuttgart, China Sea

  THE stocky woman in the flower-embroidered tunic and black head scarf dropped her bags on the deck of the hangar. She bent next to a stack of pallets and boxed parts, panting, hands on her knees, and blinked out at the gray ship a mile away. A helicopter hovered above its forecastle, lowering a gray container. The blue sea coursed between them like a massive conveyor belt, as if the ships floated fixed to each other by the black hose that dangled between. As if the ocean, not they, was moving.

  She glanced back to find the crew eyeing her again. Germans. They’d kept their distance the whole time she’d been aboard. Not one offered to help, though she was burdened. And not exactly in the best of shape to be climbing around anymore.

  Special Agent Aisha Ar-Rahim was in one of her traveling outfits. Under the long embroidered tunic, not quite an abaya, she wore cargo pants and a long-sleeved knit shirt, with Merrell hiking boots. And, yes, she was heavier than she should be, according to the NCIS. Her blood pressure was pushing the limit too. Not uncommon for black women her age, but her diet made her so hungry for salt that she dreamed about potato chips and Virginia peanuts. At her feet squatted a bulging carpetbag purse, a suitcase, and a black multipocketed 5.11 backpack. A second backpack held a high-resolution digital camera, a sixteen-inch expandable baton, and her “case cracker”—a laptop with an external video camera, for recording interviews. Also her SIG 9mm, with a spare magazine of 115-grain +p hollow-point rounds.

  A clatter floated across the sea, and she straightened. A wasp-shape lifted, canted, and swiftly grew, trailing a sinking haze of exhaust. A rape case, following incidents of groping and sexual harassment. A ship in trouble, in the middle of a world in even bigger trouble. But being at war didn’t mean you stopped investigating crimes.

  She edged back out of the way as the helo lined up into its approach.

  * * *

  AISHA had grown up in Harlem and graduated from CCNY. She’d been a Naval Criminal Investigative Service agent for seventeen years. The NCIS looked into any crime involving naval personnel, grand theft to murder. It conducted criminal and counterintelligence investigations, ferreted out contract fraud, and did counter-narcotics work. At first, as one of the few agents who spoke Arabic, she’d worked counterterror, and helped bring to justice the leader of an insurgency in a country on the Red Sea. Then, based out of Bahrain as the Yemeni Referent, she had been part of a joint FBI/NCIS team assisting in the interrogation of a suspected Islamic Jihad member. She held two Civilian Service Awards and the Julie Cross Award for Women in Federal Law Enforcement.

  But the director’s commitment to promoting Muslims had seemed to fade. As had Aisha’s wedding plans. She was shuttled to force protection, then back to Washington, in the Communications directorate. Where she pushed paper and wrote releases.

  She’d hit the glass ceiling, which had never been high for agents who wore hijab. For a time, she’d contemplated resigning. But having a daughter starting school made you think twice about leaving a federal job.

  Usually, GS-13s with her years in didn’t go to sea. But if she volunteered for a float, they’d let her pick her next assignment. She could be the assistant resident, in Manhattan. Retire from there, and collect her pension while she and Tashaara lived in her mother’s rent-controlled apartment on Adam Clayton Powell Boulevard. And then, maybe, start an online fashion business. “Plus Size Muslima”; she’d already submitted a trademark application.

  She’d been comfortably ensconced on the carrier, doing clearance interviews, investigating the occasional locker theft, and teaching an introductory Arabic class, when the message had come in from Savo Island. Agents routinely flew off the carrier to do investigations. But instead of five or six thousand men and women, the population of a carrier, a cruiser had a crew of fewer than three hundred.

  She doubted it would take long to close this case.

  * * *

  THERE was one debarking passen
ger. His name tag read SCHELL. He nodded to her in the waiting area. “You’ve just come from Savo Island?” Aisha asked him.

  “That’s right.”

  She examined the caduceus on his lapel. “Medical?”

  “Dr. Leo Schell. USAMRIID.” They shook hands. “You must be the special agent they’re expecting.”

  “I must be. Aisha Ar-Rahim. And what did they need a germ-warfare specialist for?”

  Schell bared his teeth. “That’s not all we do.”

  “So what were you doing over there?”

  “No secret. They had an outbreak of legionellosis. We finally traced it to the hot-water systems.”

  “Ah. Should I not take showers, then?”

  “They steam-cleaned everything. Pretty thoroughly. I think you’ll be safe.”

  One of the flight-deck crewmen came over. He held out a cranial, a flight-deck helmet with ear protection, while looking doubtfully at her head scarf. “Fraulein Ar-Rahim? It is time to board. Please put this on.”

  “Thank you. Can I … possibly get some help carrying my gear?”

  The crewman looked pained, but reluctantly took two of the lighter items. “I’ll give you a hand,” Schell said, and picked up one of the backpacks.

  Outside, wind and sun. The familiar scorching stench of turbine exhaust. She and Schell heaved her luggage up the fold-down steps, where a flight-suited crewman took them. The doctor shouted something, head bent close to hers. She shook her head, shrugged, and patted his shoulder. Then grabbed the crewman’s hand, and let him pull her up into the aircraft.

  * * *

  THE helo was settling toward the cruiser when it canted abruptly, making her grab for the edge of her seat. The pilot corrected, a bit wildly, Aisha thought. He set the bird down so hard her chin slammed into her chest. The fuselage swayed and creaked. The crewman seemed to be absorbed in whatever was coming over his headphones. Only when their gazes met did he come to life. He sprang to the exit and dropped the ramp. “Out, we need to get you out!” he shouted, unbuckling her belt and shoving her toward where the sun flooded in. “We got to get back in the air.”

  When she looked back toward the ship she’d just left, she understood why.

  * * *

  ON Savo’s bridge, Dan felt it as an attenuated jolt, a distant thump that arrived through steel first, then air.

  “Torpedo detonation, bearing one seven five,” Rit Carpenter said on the 21MC, at the same moment the lookouts reported an explosion. Dan wheeled, raising his glasses, to witness a black column mushrooming above the replenishment ship’s afterdeck. It seemed to be on the far side from Savo, which would make the attacker—

  Dan said rapidly, “OOD: Breakaway, breakaway! Right hard rudder. All ahead flank as soon as the stern clears. Stream the Nixie. Helo control: get Red Hawk back in the air. Vector to Stuttgart, then out along one five zero. Sonobuoys, MAD run. Boatswain: Sound general quarters! Set Zebra, Aegis to active, Goblin alert. Sea Whiz in automatic mode.” He wanted his radars aimed low, alert for sub-launched missiles.

  The boatswain, Nuckols, put it out over the 1MC, adding “This is no drill” as Savo heeled hard, building up speed.

  Dan hit the 21MC lever. “Rit, why didn’t we get a ‘torpedo in the water’ report?”

  “Negat detection, Skipper. Some of these new fish have a quiet setting. They run slow, practically no screw noise. First thing you know, their nose is up your ass.”

  “Just fucking great … Can you hear additional incomers now that you’re alerted?”

  “No guarantee. We’d have to go active.”

  “Start pinging. He’s in torpedo range; we should be able to pick him up. Find this guy and let’s kill him. Before he tries again.”

  One after the other, departments reported manned and ready. The bridge team finished donning flash gear. As Dan dropped his own hood over his head, his Hydra beeped. He snatched it up as he jogged to the far side of the pilothouse. Savo was kicking up a roostertail now, turbines and blowers whining, leaning as the rudder dug in. He picked up the VHF and got Mitscher. The destroyer was peeling off in the other direction.

  Dan blinked down at the nav console. The torpedo had come from the south. Inside the barrier they were setting up. Did their attacker lie in that direction? The odds favored it, but they held no datum—no confirmed location of the sub—so he had to play the probabilities. The gear and weapons had changed since World War II, but antisubmarine tactics hadn’t, not that much, with the exception of adding helicopters to the mix. Which evened the odds.

  On the other hand … one torpedo? Most attacks were carried out in salvos. And there’d been three targets. Had the sub simply selected the biggest, pickled off one fish, and pulled the plug? If so, they might have a hard time digging him out. Like taking out a nest of ground wasps: well concealed, yet packing a painful sting. They’d have to proceed step by step. Take their time. He’d let Mitscher prosecute. Meanwhile, he’d stay between Stuttgart and the threat, in case of a reattack.

  Or was the replenishment ship the higher-value unit? Maybe Savo herself was more valuable, now that her fuel tanks were nearly full, and the replacement missiles secured on her decks.

  He grimaced, not wanting to admit that abandoning the stricken ship might be one of his options. That, if push came to shove, he might have to leave her to her fate.

  “Bridge, Combat. Starting the plot here. Come to one three zero. Slow to sonar speed.”

  “Roger, Cheryl. You’re parking us to block the threat bearing?”

  “Correct, Skipper. Stand by.”

  Savo steadied on the new course, slowing to reduce self-noise. Cheryl Staurulakis had fleeted up from Ops to become the cruiser’s second-in-command. If she had a flaw, it was that she kept reverting to operations officer. But right now, she was where she belonged. He hit Transmit. “XO, 202’s on its way out the threat bearing. Put Mitscher where you want him and pass control of 202. We stand off, he prosecutes.” He debated going down to CIC himself, then dismissed it. He’d built a team. Now he had to trust them. “Take ASW command and nail this fucker down. I’m going to keep my head on the big picture.”

  The OOD, at his side. “Captain, distress call from Stuttgart.”

  When he looked back, the replenishment ship was heeled to starboard. The smoke plume was bleeding off, its cap sheared by upper-atmosphere winds. He accepted the handset, but kept his attention on the radar screen; the enemy might poke a scope up, just to gloat. “This is Savo actual. Over.”

  “This is Captain Geisinger. We have taken a torpedo. Flooding. Fire. Request assistance.”

  “This is Savo. We are prosecuting the sub that torpedoed you. Over.”

  “That is good but … I need help here. Fire is out of control. If you cannot help, am abandoning in lifeboats. Over.”

  Dan held the handset suspended, racking his brain. The German sounded close to tears. But doctrine was crystal clear. Laying alongside to render assistance, without neutralizing the attacker, would just mean another ship got torpedoed. “This is Savo. Nailing this guy takes priority. You’re on your own, Captain. If you have to abandon, do so in a timely and orderly manner. Over.”

  “This is Stuttgart. I protest this decision. You are running away. You can save us. All I need is help. Firefighters.”

  Dan almost snapped back at him, but just released the Transmit button. He felt cold, then hot. There didn’t seem to be anything to “you’re on your own” he could think to add.

  He didn’t always like being in command.

  * * *

  AISHA stared horrified at the burning, sinking ship, which she’d left only minutes before. But the cruiser was turning away … leaving it behind … running.

  Someone seized her arm. “We need to clear the flight deck,” a crew woman muttered. Grabbing her gear, she hustled Aisha down a ladder. Men and women in hoods and coveralls pelted by, laden with axes, coils of line, breathing gear. The woman led her into a side passageway, dumping her luggage helter-
skelter in a corner. “Sick bay. Ma’am. Please stay here for the time being.”

  Aisha looked around. “I need to see the exec. Or the command master chief.”

  “Stay here,” the woman said again. “Gotta go.” She broke into a run, disappearing around a corner.

  * * *

  “SIR, CO of Stuttgart, calling you again.”

  Dan almost waved him off, then reluctantly accepted the greasy, warm handset. “This is Savo,” he said. “Over.”

  The return transmission was weaker than before, crackly. Probably a handheld. “This is Geisinger. I am abandoning. Making too much water, too fast. Plus, the fire. But there are men still aboard. The after lifeboats … destroyed. They’re trapped, on the afterdeck. We can’t reach them. A helicopter could get them off.”

  Dan studied the overhead as cold sweat prickled his back. “This is Savo Island. With regret, Captain. We are continuing to prosecute the contact.”

  “Your helicopter. There are five men up there. One of them I think is yours. Schell?”

  Doctor Schell. Leo. The one who’d found what was killing his men, and helped them wipe it out. Dan scrubbed a hand over his face, and hardened his voice. “Once again, Captain, prosecuting the submarine has to take precedence. Once we’re done, I’ll send Mitscher to pick up survivors.

  “God be with you, Captain. This is Savo Island. Out.”

  6

  THE turbines whined, the air intakes behind the bridge roared. Savo was racing northwest, departing the scene. Stuttgart had disappeared from the radar, leaving only scattered returns.

  No one spoke on the bridge. Dan stood on the wing, gripping the binoculars so tight his fingers hurt. Staring back at the dark stain that still discolored the horizon.

  The talker leaned out. “Captain? Red Hawk reports bingo fuel. No contact. Also, patrol air from Kadena’s on its way to help prosecute.”

  “Very well.” He drew a breath and let it out, forcing his gaze away from that dark blot. He wanted to stay, and nail whoever had fired that torpedo. The war was hot now.