“That means we have to clear out the Oparea of— how many Destiny IIs?”
“Between eighteen and twenty-two. Depending on force readiness.”
“Say twenty-two. That’s, hell, eight of ours to twenty-two of theirs.”
“Nine, counting the Barracuda, the Seawolf class ship.”
“Tough odds but maybe we can live with them.”
“Warner says we have to live with them.”
“So, Paully, tomorrow is Christmas Eve. We’ve got till close of business Christmas Eve to get the curtain back up around Japan.”
“Right. With all of nine fast-attack subs.”
“We’ll just have to do that — but with eight of them.”
“Why only eight?”
“Paully, you and I are about to make the USS Barracuda our new flagship. If I’m the Pacforcecom, I can do this any way I please. Right?”
“You are going to piss off one Capt. David Kane.”
“Kane saved my career once,” Pacino said. “The least I can do is thank him in person.”
“He’s not one to enjoy having his submarine commandeered by staff types.”
“I know how he feels, but that’s the way it’s going to be. By the way, get out a message to Sean Murphy and CB McDonne back at USUBCOM. Tell Murphy to get the Panama Canal cleared and do what he can to get the Joint Staff to secure that area.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah, get this damned bandage off me. You said I had one good eye, right? Get me an eyepatch for the bad one.”
“Oh, this is going to be great. Admiral. You’ll look like a pirate when you get to the Barracuda. Should I get you a parrot too?”
“I already have one, Paully. Want a cracker?”
“Oh, very funny. Sir.”
CHAPTER 24
“How long to the start of the Bering Strait Trench?”
It was nice when Scotty Court had the conn. He could be both officer of the deck and the navigator. Phillips felt that the more pressure the navigator was under, the better. The control room still blurped and wailed with the eerie sounds of the SHARKTOOTH under-ice anticollision sonar. Phillips stared at the console, wondering if the Japanese had the capability to go under the icecap.
Probably not, he decided. Why would they, considering their scope of operations.
“Captain, looks like another six hours.”
“At that point we’ll have enough depth below and clearance above to make, what do you think, Nav, twenty-five knots?”
“Well, Skipper, speaking as the ship’s navigator, I’m not comfortable with anything over twenty knots. Too much risk of collision with an ice raft or a ridge like the one you blasted through. But speaking as the officer of the deck and the ship’s operations officer, I don’t see any reason why we should go any slower than thirty knots. We’ll have an eight-hour transit at thirty knots to the marginal ice zone. Once we have some open water overhead, I don’t see any reason for speed restriction at all. We’ve got an Oparea to get to, and we need to get there now.”
“You know. Court, if you ever want to be a skipper of one of these things, you’re going to have to learn to make the big decisions. If you want to run with the big dogs, you gotta bark like one. And bite, too. So can the equivocal bullshit and give me a straight answer.”
“Thirty knots, Captain. When we’re in the marginal ice zone, gun it.”
“Absolutely, Mr. Court.” Phillips clapped the navigator on the shoulder. “I don’t care what they say about you, Scotty, you’re okay.”
“Thanks, sir. I think.”
“I’m going to hit the rack, Mr. Court. Think you can get us through this maze all by yourself?”
“I’ll try, sir.”
“I’m just a phone call away, Nav.”
Phillips opened the door in the aft bulkhead of control and stepped into his stateroom. He sank into the high-backed leather swivel chair and stared at his Writepad. He turned it on and reread the message about the sinking of the battle groups. He went to his locker and pulled out an old-fashioned paper chart of Japan, and taped it to his conference table. He stood over it for a long time, firing up a fresh cigar. After a while he got a pencil and marked in the boundary of the exclusion zone, the Japan Oparea. He stood over it, continuing to stare down at it.
What would he do if he were the fleet commander? There must be some two dozen 688 ships he could coordinate and deploy into the Oparea. Coordination was the key. He would hit the Japanese with everything he had, all at once. It would be the only way to survive, especially since the Destiny IIs had the tactical and acoustical advantage. The tactical advantage was theirs because they knew where the intruder subs would be coming from and when. The acoustic advantage belonged to them because they were three to seven decibels quieter than the Improved Los Angeles-class ships. The quietest sub heard the intruder first and could set up to put a torpedo in the water before the intruder knew what was happening. So how could the American force beat that? Maybe by entering in superior numbers, two US boats for every Japanese boat, so that if a Destiny fired at one submarine, the noise of the torpedo launch would alert the other American ship. Hell of a way to win a war, Phillips thought. Maybe the Destiny ships would need to reload torpedoes and would go back into port, and the US force could catch them coming out. Still, the chances looked slim. The only hope was the stealth of the Seawolf-class subs and the power of the Vortex missiles. But there were two dozen Destiny submarines and only nine Vortex missiles.
CHAPTER 25
Adm. Michael Pacino lingered in the door of sick bay, saying goodbye to the doctor, then spending a few moments more with Lt. Eileen Constance, the nurse who had attended to him during the ten days he had spent recovering from the Reagan sinking. Finally he checked his watch, blinking as he realized it was hard to see anything with his left eye obscured by the patch. The Mount Whitney doctor had given him the black eyepatch until the eye healed.
“I’ve got to go,” Pacino said. Eileen asked if he would come by before he got on the helicopter for the personnel transfer to the Barracuda. “We’ll see,” he said.
Pacino struggled down the passageways, the eyepatch making navigation difficult, finally arriving at his temporary stateroom that he and Paully White were assigned. He opened the door, saw Paully, whose jaw dropped just before he erupted into laughter.
“It’s not funny. The bad eye hurts,” Pacino said.
“Sorry, boss, but I just couldn’t help it. You need a spyglass and a hook for a hand, a tri-cornered cap, and you’re ready.”
“What I’m ready for is to get out of here.”
Pacino went to the locker and took out the wet suit, took off his uniform and struggled into the wet suit. Paully White cursed getting into his. By the time Pacino was suited up he was sweating and seasick. The suit was tight and constricting and hot. As long as it had taken to get into it, it would probably take longer to get out of it once he was aboard the Barracuda.
Pacino glanced at his watch again. It wasn’t quite time yet — the Barracuda and the Mount Whitney needed to close the range between them or else the chopper wouldn’t have enough fuel. Pacino sat at the temporary stateroom’s conference table and unrolled his large chart-sized electronic display, which was a Writepad blown up to ten times the regular size. The chart display was selected to a large area view of the Japan Oparea. Pacino had made half a dozen marks on it, showing the present positions of his eight Los Angeles-class submarines.