On Franklin’s electronic warfare scope, only the fire control from Red Formation was reflected. All the other fire-control emissions were heading west. He smiled. Sneaky little devils, these British. Remind me not to play poker with them. Good argument for having booze at sea.
“Looking good,” the AIC announced.
“It should,” Franklin said aloud. “We haven’t fired a shot and if I was on the other end and had teeth in my butt, I’d chew a hole through my seat.”
Seconds passed as the AIC quizzed the formation on fuel, data link, and positional status. The AIC on the Elizabeth double-checked altitudes and speeds. Then, with each aircraft, he tweaked their altitudes and positions as he aligned the aircraft in a line-abreast formation that stretched for twenty miles across the sky. He might be sadistic, but he knew his job.
“Okay, Main Formation; we are going to reverse course shortly—” The transmission stopped abruptly. “Gentlemen, it appears the bandits are turning toward us. Without any violent maneuver and keeping a level turn, let’s come to course—” Once again, the transmission stopped.
“Well, well, well,” the AIC finally said. “It looks as if they have flipped their course and are heading toward the mainland.”
“I have missile radar!” Tyler-Cole interrupted. “I now have multiple missile seekers.”
“Me too,” Crawford announced.
“Main Formation; damn the bad luck. It appears our opponents fired missiles at us before bolting for the mainland. No talking,” the AIC continued. “You will follow my instructions explicitly. Come immediately to course zero-eight-zero. We are showing multiple missiles heading toward your formations.”
Franklin flipped the aircraft to the right, keeping his eye on Johnson as she did the same; he tried to keep the bottom of the Raptor hidden as much as possible in the tight turn.
The bandits had not turned to engage. They turned to fire their missiles. A fire-and-forget tactic to discourage anyone from engaging them as they put on full speed headed for home.
Flares were effective against infrared seekers. His integrated Electronic Warfare System was sending a cacophony of alerts to his headset. He reached down and hit automatic on the system. If the electromagnetic intensity of the seekers increased to a certain point, the system would deploy chaff. Chaff was tiny bits of metal that would spread in the air behind the aircraft creating false targets for the air-to-air missile. Simultaneously with the chaff would be magnesium-burning flares to decoy the infrared seeker of the missile. Right now, the missiles heading their way were active seekers. If the active mode failed or lost contact, Franklin knew the missiles would switch automatically to infrared.
“Red Formation, this is Mother; come right to course two-zero-zero. You are cleared to fire your missiles at this time.”
The Brits are attacking! Franklin thought. Why the new formation and not us? Then he quickly rationalized that the Chinese attack was directed at them and the F-35 formation outside of the line-abreast Main Formation was not in the path of the missiles. But was Red Formation close enough? Wouldn’t the missiles run out of fuel before they reached the bandits?
“Main Formation; descend quickly to six thousand feet and steady up course zero-eight-zero. Watch your fuel and report when low.”
“We’re low,” Johnson reported.
“Roger, continue to six thousand feet and steady up on heading zero-eight-zero.”
Franklin grinned. Their orders had always been not to engage the Chinese unless in self-defense or unless freed to do so. The British were one smart bunch of cowboys. The missiles fired against the Chinese were to shock them with a return volley from a different direction than they’d fired. Make them think they’d wasted their missiles. God, he hoped they’d wasted them.
A minute later, after he, Johnson, and Crawford had exchanged positional data and discussed FUREMS — fuel remainders — Franklin had some time to think about the past minutes. Maybe the Chinese missile launch from so far away was the same thing the British had done. Neither side wanting to engage, but both sides wanting to show they could if the occasion mandated it. Franklin knew that once one or the other shot down an aircraft, the military situation would change, and it would change for the worse for both sides. It’s easier to start a war than it is to disengage.
“Blackman!” Pickles screamed. “Behind you!”
“Senior Chief, I just lost the contact bearing 010,” Bernardo said. Then, before Agazzi could reach the bottom level of the ASW operations center, he added, “And the contact at 080 is gone now.”
Agazzi looked at Gentron and then back to Bernardo. “How about the other contacts?”
“I still have the two at 225 and 240. Wait one!”
Agazzi leaned forward, watching the rainfall display of the AN/SQR-25 sonar system. The two remaining noise traces from the 225 and 240 contracts were bending to the left. “They’re…”
“… turning,” Bernardo finished. “They are in a left-hand turn.”
“Sir,” Stapler said. “The helicopter has its dipping sonar below the layer and is reporting 1100-feet depth. Request permission to do a second ping.”
Garcia sipped the fresh coffee, feeling the rich taste of fresh industrial-perked coffee washing across his tongue and the sides of his mouth. He swallowed. “Permission granted, Commander. Only one ping, though,” he said, holding up one finger.
Along bearing 225 from Sea Base, the Chinese Skipper was tense. The earlier ping had been interpreted correctly according to undersea tactics. Everyone on board the Han-class nuclear attack submarine knew the ping had to have come from an American ASW helicopter. It had come from above, hitting sensors near the conning tower. He had no way of knowing whether the ping had hit his submarine. He thought now. The layer was thick enough to stop the return signal. If he were the American Skipper, what would he do?
What he did know was the Northern Fleet Headquarters in Quigdao had sent immediate directives for the four submarines to break off and increase the distance from Sea Base to two hundred miles. They were ordered to keep their torpedo tube doors closed. He had yet to give that order. What if he needed to ensure the survival of his boat and crew?
The problem, he knew, was there was nothing here he could destroy except Sea Base. He reached up and grabbed a handhold in the conn as the submarine continued deeper, turning away from the American intruder. If he had to fire, it would be retaliatory fire against Sea Base.
The only tactic to fight helicopters was to surface, open the watertight hatches, and get his man-pack air-to-air surface missiles topside. Wasn’t a smart tactic unless it was a last resort. A submarine on top of the water is nothing more than a bobbing, waffling target.
Fifty feet above the surface of the water, the helicopter pilot turned in his seat and gave the sonar operator a thumbs-up.
A second later, the second ping hit the side of the Han submarine. It was much louder than the first one. The acoustic signal reverberated throughout the hull. Dishes rattled in the sink of the galley and the boat vibrated once. The Skipper saw the XO leap quickly to grab his cup of tea as it bounced near the lip of a small nearby shelf. Hot tea spilled across the younger man’s hand.
The Skipper’s eyes met the XO’s. “They are about to launch,” the XO said, setting his cup down quickly and shaking the hot tea off his hand before wiping it.
The Skipper nodded. One ping. What would he do if the roles were reversed? He listened to the XO preparing to launch the preprogrammed torpedoes. It would only take the Captain’s word. He let the preparations for launch continue, knowing no firing would occur until he personally gave the order. Everything he’d studied about American antisubmarine warfare tactics indicated two pings were needed for an accurate targeting solution. One ping to establish depth and location; the second ping to determine course and speed.