The noise of the radio circuit speakers is so much of a part of life onboard the ship that you tend to tune them out, focusing only on what you need to know right then. Absorbed in the question of what the hell a U.S. submarine was doing in the area, I had not been paying attention to the USW control circuit.
Hunter 701's TACCO was screaming bloody murder. His sensors were showing three new submarines within fifteen miles of the carrier. They were all making flank speed, headed directly for us and the datum of the U.S. submarine we had just located.
I picked up the internal telephone system to call CAG. The title CAG is actually a misnomer. When aircraft first started going onboard ships, the man in charge of all the squadrons was called commander, air group. In modern naval aviation, the correct title is commander of the air wing.
However, since those initials spelled out CAW, it's unlikely to ever catch on as the acronym.
The CAG is always a senior Navy captain, an aviator by trade. He owns all the aircraft assigned to the carrier. In conjunction with the ship's captain, also a senior naval aviator, he provides the aircraft and mission scheduling necessary to fulfill the carrier battle group commander's wishes ― in this case, Admiral Wayne. The aircraft carrier's captain owns the repair facilities, the deck space, and the support crew that runs the flight deck. The CAG owns the squadrons themselves.
"Tell the officer of the deck to come around," I added. The OOD would be responsible for maneuvering the aircraft carrier in order to generate wind across the deck. With this many submarines in the water, the admiral was going to want wall-to-wall S-3B and helo operations in progress until we sorted out the good guys from the bad guys.
I could hear the announcement now, coming out of the 1MC, the ship's general announcing system. Then the feet pounding down the decks as sailors and officers scrambled for their assigned positions. Within a couple of minutes, I knew, the control tower looming ten decks above the water level would be fully manned.
Getting additional aircraft and helicopters in the air was the ship's problem. Mine ran a good deal deeper than that. I left CVIC and headed down the passageway to see Admiral Wayne.
I found the admiral in his flag plot, studying the large-screen display that dominated the forward part of the room and conferring with his tactical action officer. The cause for their concern was clear ― symbols indicating hostile submarines and subsurface contacts cluttered the large blue display. Another symbol, labeled Hunter 701, was orbiting overhead.
I could hear the engines of more aircraft spiraling up above as the ship launched more USW aircraft.
"My people say one of those is ours," I said. I studied the display for a moment, trying to determine which one it was. I had the uneasy feeling that it was the one in the center of the pack, and not the submarine closest to us.
There's no money to be made in expressing your annoyance to your admiral. It's called a collar count ― the one with the most weight wins.
Always. No matter how right I might be, how justified in the civilian world in being annoyed, this was one battle I would always lose.
But an experienced officer knows how to express his displeasure without being disrespectful. It's all in keeping your voice carefully neutral while letting the words convey the difficulty of fulfilling one's duties when operating under less than full information. I knew Batman would get it ― he's been playing this game far longer than I have.
"Looks like one of ours," I said. Batman would know I was thinking about our earlier conversation, the one in which he'd assured me there were no U.S. submarines accompanying us.
He got it ― I could tell immediately from the look on his face ― a slight stiffening of his cheeks and the twitch of the corner of his mouth.
But still, he said nothing.
I took a step closer, and lowered my voice. "What do you want me to tell SUBLANT ― if anything?" I was referring to the top secret circuits, cleared for the most sensitive information around, that I had access to in CVIC.
"Nothing ― for now," the admiral answered quietly. "Anything we know, they know."
"Including the fact that their submarine may be in trouble?" I asked.
I pointed at the large-screen display. "I don't think she was counting on that much company."
Batman shook his head, his face still impassive. "They knew what to expect, coming up here. We'll give them what support we can, maybe try to scare the little bastards off. But nothing overt, nothing that can be interpreted as a hostile act." He turned to face me now, and I saw the concern in his eyes. "There's too much at stake, Lab Rat. Too much, right now." "What do you mean, too much at stake?" I asked. "We're on a friendship mission, a cultural exchange military style, if you will. Isn't that right?"
And again, the admiral shook his head. "That, yes. But there's more to it than that." A brief, wintry smile crossed his face. "You've already found out I'm not telling you everything. Let's just leave it at that, shall we?"
In between the admiral's comments I could hear the questions, orders, and concerns of the Hunter 701 pilot coming across tactical.
"She's going deep, she's going deep. Put another two sonobuoys on her. We can't lose her now, not while…"
"But what does that mean, Admiral?" I pressed. "Just how deep are we in this?" "Deep enough," the admiral said. His eyes were fixed on the speaker.
Admiral Wayne was a Tomcat pilot. He had been one for twenty years, flying wing-to-wing with Tombstone Magruder for more tours than I cared to think about. We knew a fair amount about USW ― most admirals do ― but it certainly wasn't his speciality. Watching him now, I could almost see his mind mapping out the possibilities, tracing the actions and tactics of the Viking pilot against the submarines.
Where the hell are those other Vikings? Jesus, we have more than we can handle in here! TAO, what the hell is-?"
"She can't go that deep," the admiral said, almost to himself. "It won't make that much difference ― not here. The Russians know that. Surely the skipper knows it, too."
I knew what the admiral was talking about. The ocean up here was a barely liquid frozen slab of water, dense, with a uniform temperature and gradient that created a perfect isothermal layer. Sound waves were affected only by the depth of the water, since the temperature was constant. But the water was not deep enough to create truly long-range transmission paths. Indeed, playing USW in these frozen waters was truly a challenge. The temperature and depth profile combined to create convergence zone transmission that bore no resemblance to its cousins in warmer climates.
Somebody better tell that boomer to get out of the way. Sierra 002 is headed right up her ass. Damn it, can't we get word to them somehow?
The submarine symbols of the large-screen display moved with chilling slowness. The blue symbol, representing the friendly submarine ― or at least we believed it was the friendly ― was tracking south, apparently oblivious to the company in the water. The Soviet ― excuse me, Russian ― submarines were vectoring in from the north, east, and south, slowly and inexorably boxing her in.
Surely she must know. One of the unvarying rules in the undersea warfare environment is the reciprocity of sound. If you can hear them, then they can hear you ― like the signs you see on a tractor's rear-view mirrors that warn If you can't see me, I can't see you. If the Russians' submarines could hear the U.S. submarine well enough to track her, then the U.S. submarine must know that the Russians were there. Must ― the superiority of our acoustic gear in terms of sensitivity and processing ability was just too great.
But then why weren't they doing anything? Attempting evasive maneuvers, making a course change, even getting the hell out of the area?