Red, sixty miles deep, was the kill zone. Any submerged contact caught there would be prosecuted until destroyed.
Fortunately, he knew these waters. Had operated here during exercises. And, of course, the Navy maintained hydrographic and meteorological records on every navigable body of water on the globe. The main thermocline in the Orange and Red zones hovered at a hundred meters, if there was no mixing due to storms. Running the numbers, Rit Carpenter had come up with an average active detection range of twenty miles for a Song-class boat running quiet, as compared to a passive detection range of less than five.
That made Dan’s choice easy, especially since Savo would have her radars blasting out full power for the ABM mission. All the units in the barrier would be pinging active, except for Pittsburgh, of course.
If anyone wanted to take him on, they’d have his address.
Carpenter had also predicted that the abyss to the north would provide enough depth excess that the deep isothermal layer would bend sound upward into a convergence zone. Playing off that, Dan had begun by placing his most capable antisub unit, Kurama, at the focus of the CZ, thirty miles back from the intersection of Orange and Red. To the left of that, facing the strait, Chokai. To her left in turn, Mitscher. Curtis Wilbur he placed deep in the Red Zone, a goalie, primed to pivot and sprint at short notice toward anyone penetrating the first line of defense. And finally, anchoring the chain off Miyako Jima, Savo Island.
Looking at the geometry for missile defense of Taipei, Dr. Noblos had advised them to displace Savo back thirty miles, to get a better intercept angle. Dan had agreed. He’d adjust the other stations, too, once they got the sonar conditions sussed out, but Seventh Fleet had signed off on their initial disposition.
He just hoped no more Red units had slipped through. And that soon, very soon, they could start getting JTIDS data from the AWACS.
A rattle on the ladder, and the blond shield of the exec’s head bobbed into view. Dark stains underlined her eyes, and her coveralls were stained at the elbows with what looked like fuel oil… or, more disturbingly, dried blood. She was speaking into her Hydra, but clicked it off as she reached the wing. Calm blue eyes locked onto his. “Captain.”
“XO. What’ve we got?”
“CIC called me about recovering the survivors.”
“202 will hot refuel and go back. Most of them made it to the boats. We’ll lily-pad them to Okinawa, to get them home.”
“That’s good. The crew’s kind of… shaken. They don’t understand why we appeared to turn tail and run. I know that probably isn’t what actually happened, but—”
“We’re needed elsewhere. At least it’ll convince them the war’s gone hot.” More rough-edged than he’d meant, but he didn’t soften it. Her eyes widened, then dropped to the gratings. He went on, “How much fuel did we get, before the breakaway? And how many Block 4s? Did we get all the missiles?”
“As you directed, they came over first,” she said. “Making total aboard, eleven. We also got four Block 3s and two ASROCs.” The Block 3s were the older, antiaircraft version of the missile. ASROCs were antisubmarine rounds, encapsulated torpedoes mounted on a rocket motor. “Fuel… I didn’t get a final number yet, but CHENG said close to ninety percent.”
“Okay, good. Get me a hard percentage soon as you can. Or have Bart give me a call. We’ll need to watch consumption, now we don’t have logistic support. Make sure the loadout board in CIC gets updated. Remind Chief Quincoches how badly we need those rounds spun up, tested, and ready to fire. Also, schedule a live-fire exercise this afternoon. Five-inch and Phalanx.”
Staurulakis was hitting keys on her BlackBerry, getting it down. Good.
He had the feeling that, in the next few days, they were all going to be tested.
The exec passed “lunch on station,” which meant everyone stayed at his or her general-quarters station, and sent runners for sandwiches and coffee. Dan dithered over the need to establish the barrier and the fact that, now that their tanker was gone, he didn’t know where his group’s next drink was coming from. He compromised by not zigzagging. That upped the risk, should another sub lie doggo along their course, but he was used to the calculus. When you lessened one risk, you increased another. You could analyze it statistically, but an experienced skipper’s guesstimate usually came out close to an optimal solution anyway. Mitscher reported no contact with the sub that had torpedoed the tanker. Dan checked his watch, and reluctantly ordered her to discontinue the search and head for her sector.
He was leaning back in his chair, rubbing burning eyes, when the covered phone beeped. The OOD held it out. “Captain Youngblood, sir.”
CO of Pittsburgh. Dan grabbed it; like most submariners, Youngblood hated to poke his radio mast up, to expose his boat even to send traffic. This close to their coast, the Chinese could probably triangulate any transmission within seconds. “Lonnie. This is Dan. Go ahead. Over.”
“This is Polar Bear. On station.” They discussed detection ranges briefly, then Youngblood said, “Unless attacked myself, I plan to stay covert. Drop my sensor line, then hand tipoffs off to you. You skimmers can clobber the incomers once they hit your Red Zone. Over.”
“Concur, Lonnie. Reporting procedures?”
“One burst transmission on the ASW coordination frequency. I don’t want to have to repeat myself, so maintain a close watch. Over.”
“Got it. Stay deep and good hunting.”
“Same to you, Dan. Polar Bear, out.”
Dan handed the phone back to the OOD. “Log it. Tell Dave Branscombe what he said about contact reports.”
Next up beside his chair was Ollie Uskavitch. The weapons officer was about the biggest man aboard. The chief engineer, a Harry Potter fan, had been known to address him as “Hagrid.” But as he began to speak, Dan’s Hydra beeped. He nodded to Uskavitch and unholstered the radio. “Captain.”
“XO, sir. The NCIS agent is asking for a moment with you.”
“Um, can’t spare the time, Cheryl.”
“This is important, Captain.”
“I agree, but I really have to concentrate on operational issues right now. Take care of her. I’ll break out a couple minutes soon as I can.” He clicked off and glanced at the heavyset lieutenant. “What’cha got, Ollie? Can we get those missiles in the cells, like, yesterday?” He leaned to squint down on the forecastle. Gray-white weapons containers were ranged along the gunwales. The cell doors were open, and the loading crane, a complicated arrangement of beams and motors, was erected, with guys standing around it. But other than that, nothing much seemed to be happening.
Uskavitch blew out, looking harried. “Not gonna be that easy, Skipper. The one guy we sent to the training course rotated out before we left the States. I got the chief and first class reading the manual, and a guy with a grease gun getting everything unstuck.”
Dan felt like jumping down his throat, but restrained himself. “You should have anticipated this, Ollie. We knew we were gonna have to rearm at sea. That crane should have been overhauled and ready before we went in for the unrep.”
“Yessir.” The long face grew even longer. “But it isn’t that simple—”
It never is, Dan thought sourly. Uskavitch explained that both the forward and aft magazines had built-in cranes. They were designed to let the ship load its own replacement rounds, without having to depend on pierside equipment. But since no ship had ever expended its loadout before, the cranes had been officially deactivated.