Did they think that the carrier and her air wing would protect them? Hell, we weren't even supposed to know she was here!
But then again, it could be one of those massive operational screw-ups. The submarines were told one thing, we were told another. In our case, that would be nothing. If the powers that be had let a U.S. submarine enter these potentially hostile waters without telling her of the true tactical situation, it was criminal. Someone would face the long green table over this, I was sure. Just as long as it wasn't me. If she shoots now… The pilot's voice, which had earlier been rising to almost a frenzy, sounded almost resigned now. He had torpedoes on his wings, but no shot.
Not this close to a friendly. Even absent a formal declaration of a no-attack zone, he could not in good conscience put a weapon in the water this close to an American submarine.
"But what the hell are they doing?" Admiral Wayne said. He turned to me, a puzzled look in his eyes. "Sure, they're closing on her. But there's no indication of hostile activity yet ― at least, not anything I'm willing to classify as that. They are in their home waters, and we're operating without any notice to them. Just what the hell am I supposed to do?"
Within the minimums now.
I could see from the screen that the Hunter pilot had assessed it correctly. The Russian submarines were now well within torpedo range of their prey.
But would they fire? What possible justification would they have for attacking a U.S. submarine, even in these waters? For all that she was in their home waters, our submarine was outside the twelve-mile limit, well within international waters. Bad manners, extremely bad manners, but not an act of war.
Want some company up here?
The flight deck above my head had been silent for several minutes now, so I should not have been surprised when the new voice entered the tactical net. It was another S-3B, one of the alert aircraft that had been on the deck just moments before.
Yeah, come on. Let some other people play here, too.
And the third voice, this one as uncertain and erratic as a young man going through puberty. In the background, I could hear the hard thump of a helicopter's rotors. I knew Batman was as relieved as I was.
There are not many things that threaten the submarine as much as a couple of ASW helicopters working in conjunction with a long-range Viking aircraft. The helicopters are equipped with dipping sonars, and an acoustic transducer that is lowered from their underbelly by a long cable.
The operator can select the depth, positioning the receiver in exactly the same layer of water as the submarine.
A tactical display was catching up now, showing the location of the two ASW helicopters as well as the additional S-3B. A potent force, enough to deal with three Russian submarines. Would be, except for the small problem about putting weapons in the water.
No, don't do that. You can't ― damn him, he's closing!
There was a new rate note of alarm in the first pilot's voice.
Home Plate, Hunter 701. Sierra 002 is showing down Doppler. He's heading away from us, and away from the U.S. submarines ― and toward you.
"General quarters!" the admiral snapped. The TAO was a microsecond ahead of him. Before he even finished the order, the hard, incessant bonging of general quarters filled the ship.
Finally, the U.S. submarine reacted. She almost looked uncertain, changing course slightly several times, before staying up on her original course. She continued south for several minutes, then made one final turn.
Back toward us.
"What in the hell does she think she is doing?" the admiral muttered.
"The safest place to be right now is far away from the carrier."
"Maybe we're not the only ones with secret orders, Admiral," I said, suddenly aware of the possibilities. "You knew about the submarine ― I didn't. Maybe the sub skipper has orders you don't know about. Like to protect the carrier."
"I don't need a submarine with this much air-power," the admiral snapped.
"The best submarine hunter is another submarine," I pointed out quietly. "You've seen that before."
The admiral stared at something I couldn't see in the corner, growling softly at me. I kept quiet. Finally, he said, "We stick to the original plan. Whatever that submarine is doing, that's their business. And the same thing goes for the other submarines now ― as far as I can tell, they have made no overt or hostile actions. And I am not about to start an international incident by getting too nervous too soon. After all, we're here on a friendship mission."
Some friendship mission. I could still hear feet pounding down the passageways as the ship set general quarters. It takes time, sometimes too much time, to mobilize six thousand sailors to their battle stations. Ten minutes ― anything less is considered good.
As the minutes dragged on, the admiral appeared to reach a decision.
He turned to the TAO and said, "Every ship in this battle group remains at general quarters, until I see that submarine moved out of torpedo range.
After that, you tell those skippers to stay in at least condition two. I don't want any surprises, people."
"I wouldn't say we're the ones being surprised, not at all," I heard myself say. There was a small, shocked silence inside the flag plot.
Then the admiral laughed. It was not a particularly pleasant sound.
"I guess not. We're rather the ones that started this whole thing, aren't we?" He pointed at the tactical screen, indicating the U.S. submarine.
"Or at least ― she did. But if I'm going to be able to keep up my part in this operation, we have to act like nothing is happening. Like it's a goodwill mission, that there's nothing unusual about submarines making a run on us. After all, it's only for another week."
Another week. I remembered the meteorology report I'd seen the day before. The weather guesser warned all hands to stand by, that colder weather could strike virtually anytime. The storms that blew out of the north were unpredictable, difficult to anticipate.
I glanced at the camera showing the flight deck and, beyond that expanse of metal, the cold ocean around us. Even on the low-resolution camera, I could see the thin crust of ice forming on the horizon, the beginnings of the winter ice that would block this port in solid until the next spring.
The icebreakers, of course ― as a condition of participating in this mission, the Russians had guaranteed us primary use of their potent icebreaker force.
And just how long would that last? We had both thus far violated the basic rules of our agreement to prevent incidents at sea, with almost fatal consequences. Although no one had taken a shot yet, the admiral had six aircraft airborne just itching to fire a torpedo, a friendly fouling his field of fire, and Russian submarines up the butt.
Just what was it that the admiral was not telling me? First had been this presence of the U.S. submarine, and now it was this ill-defined and barely-hinted-at question of bigger stakes. We were supposed to be operating in support of the friendly competition, in short, not reverting to our old Cold War tactics against one another in the Soviet Union's old backyard.
Just what did Admiral Wayne know? And, even more importantly, when would he tell me?
The answers would probably be everything ― and when hell froze over.
From what I could see on the flight deck camera, that's exactly what was about to happen.
7
Over time, reality and dreams mesh until what remains is a mixture of truth and imagination. It taints one's reactions, coloring how one views current events and set scenarios. All reality is anecdotal.