Nathan just shook his head. The older enlisted man knew exactly which buttons to push on his department head in order to interrupt his spiraling chain of thoughts. Nathan punched a few buttons of his own and took a look at the air picture on his console. Where before there had been only a few commercial airliners moving down their precise air corridors, there were now literally hundreds of individual beaconed tracks blossoming, radiating out from the Surface Strike Group and the Carrier Strike Group.
At first one by one, and then by the dozens, the low-flying contacts disappeared, as they shut off their ID beacons and passed below the SPY-3 radar’s horizon. Within twenty minutes they would all be gone, and all the ships would have to show for their end of the offensive against North Korea would be a bunch of empty STLAM canisters. The strikes would continue for days, but with Coalition Air Force bombers and naval aviation in the lead, winding up with what was hoped would be a very limited ground push to secure South Korea’s border and take out the North’s ability to threaten them further. Either way, from this point on the wet Navy was largely relegated to a supporting role, there being no real opposing navy to engage.
“TAO, Bridge. The Skipper’s on his way down to Combat. Good shooting, Weps.”
Nathan half stood in front of his console and stretched. “Roger that, Bridge. You might want to have your Quartermaster update PIM. We’ll be leaving the launch baskets pretty soon and rejoining formation to screen the ESG. Work with the CIC Watch Supe and give me your best bet so I can info the Old Man.”
“Bridge, aye. Already on it, sir.”
Nathan settled back down to his seat and began reading his own post-fire checklist when a shrill voice on his tactical net almost popped his eardrum. “All stations, Sonar! I have two passive broadband contacts with matching narrowband tonals off the bow and starboard bow, bearing 263 and 340. No corresponding surface tracks on those lines of bearing. Evaluate both as possible sub, confidence high! Request permission to go active.”
Two acoustic lines of bearing speared out from the circle on the display that represented the Rivero, one to the west and one toward the north. Nathan’s mind spun and everyone returned to their consoles, punching keys and bringing up displays. He shook his head in dismay. They had sanitized this area for three days prior to beginning the strike package, for the sole purpose of ensuring that something like this would not happen. And it had. “Sonar, TAO. Go active and stand by on countermeasure activation. Break, Surface, TAO. Inform Victor Zulu and request ASW pouncer from Chafee. Break, Bridge, TAO. Set flight quarters for Firescout launch and come up to full power. Set Condition Two AS Gold.”
The acknowledgements came, and announcements issued from the speaker over his head and all around the ship. CIC, which had just begun to wind down, became a flurry of activity as the strike technicians going off watch jockeyed for seating with those anti-submarine warfare watchstanders taking over. Back aft, the hangar doors folded upward and sailors in blue/white/gray digi-cammies and brightly colored flight deck jerseys rolled out and prepared a small helicopter UAV for launch. The Firescout-II itself was nearly dwarfed by the pair of sonobouy launchers and the single mini torpedo it mounted. Amidships, the muted whine of the destroyer’s gas turbines changed in pitch as another pair of Rolls Royce engines came online, ready to propel the Rivero’s electric drive to her full 35+ knots.
Back in CIC, Nathan was forced to wait in the dark as status reports rolled in, praying the whole time that it was a false alarm. Submariners liked to kid surface warriors that there were two kinds of ships in the world: submarines and targets. On any normal day, Nathan would dispute that. The Navy had let their ASW know-how atrophy for decades, but the last 12 years had seen a resurgence of anti-submarine pride. He would have bet that the Rivero and her destroyer squadron could hunt subs almost as well as another submarine or a P-8 Maritime Patrol Aircraft squadron, given enough warning. But having a pair of hostile subs show up in your back yard without the usual aviation screen, tracking data, or defense in depth was a recipe for disaster. Destroyer sailors knew that anytime you seriously contemplated using the short-range, ship mounted torpedo tubes, you had already failed the ASW problem.
“TAO, ASWE. I’m online, conferring with Sonar and going active. Port and starboard mounts are trained to forty-five degrees offset, torpedo firing checks in progress. Firescout launch in about seven minutes.” That was LTJG Calhoun, the ship’s ASW Officer. There was no telling where he had been, but he was alert and on the job now.
“TAO, aye.” A figure appeared off to one side of Nathan’s elbow without a sound, causing him to look behind him. Commander Anthony Jones, Rivero’s Commanding Officer, stood behind him, looking over the tactical picture on Nathan’s console and nodding his head. He caught Nathan’s eye and gestured for him to turn back around. Nathan did so immediately and continued changing the system data displayed on his status boards.
Captain Jones was a quiet, reserved man who usually liked to let his people do as they trained. He was not afraid to correct someone and step in when they required it, and the blistering heat of those corrections were not soon forgotten, but he believed in his crew fighting the ship, not himself. If they all relied upon his decisions before making their own, they would be doomed if he became unavailable. In Nathan’s case, he was more than happy to leave the Weapons Officer in charge. For the moment, anyway.
Numerous, disparate flows of information streamed around Nathan, but he stayed atop the flood. He turned slightly to Senior Chief Edwards at his console. “How the hell could a pair of subs sneak by us? We spent three days combing this whole area.”
Edwards shrugged. “Could have been a million ways. It depends on who’s down there. Might our intel be wrong and not all the North Korean Kilos are in port? Could they own some diesel boats we don’t know about? Did they sneak in or were they already here, bottomed out and quiet?”
“I doubt anyone could have snuck by us with all the buoys and dippers we used, and there’s no way they could just happen to bottom out right where we put our launch basket.”
Edwards looked thoughtful and then turned back to his screen. “Might be a pair of midget boats. We never have had good numbers on them. Maybe those two fishing boats we saw yesterday had more on their mind than fishing. Attach a couple of North Korean midget subs to your keel, and you’ll chug along like you have a hold full of fish whether you caught any or not. We’d be none the wiser, even if we’d been allowed to board and inspect them.”
Nathan shook his head in dismay. “A two billion dollar destroyer ambushed by a pair of fake fishing boats and a couple of communist-crafted midget subs? If you’re right, then it’s wrong on so many levels.”
“Well, sir, if we survive this, it’s open season on fishermen, I’m tellin’ you.”
“TAO, ASWE! I have active sonar contacts bearing 265 at 6200 yards and 342 at 5600 yards. Corresponds to previous lines of bearing, probable subs. Tracks 04012 and 04013 refer. Request permission to engage with over-the-side shots!”
“Bridge, TAO. Go to General Quarters. Come to 14 knots, course 120. Break, ASWE, TAO. Negative. Hold your fire.” Edwards looked at him sharply. The war was on and their rules of engagement covered this, so they were justified in shooting, but Nathan simply held up his hand. “ASWE, maintain track quality and torps at ready. Report status of the pouncer.”