But this was an engagement he couldn’t totally win. He’d hoped to take advantage of the enemy’s dividing his force, hit hard and keep going. By and large, that was a done deal. The gun cameras showed smoke plumes on the horizon, along with the puffs of high explosive as Mitscher’s and Savo’s guns planted a hedgerow of shellbursts in front of any renewed attack. The remaining boats in the southern gaggle were roaring in circles, more and more withdrawing to consolidate with the larger group up along the Iranian coast.
He had no interest in taking them on. Right now, he had to extricate, before the air forces got involved. But the only graceful way out led across the possible submarine. The guy didn’t even have to torpedo him. If he’d quietly shat eight or ten mines across their line of withdrawal, Savo and possibly Mitscher too were toast.
The repetitive whump… whump of five-inch rounds going out ceased. The gunnery officer reported all targets beyond effective range, bores clear, forty rounds expended, no casualties. Dan rogered. Then flinched as Mills touched his elbow. “Um, we got a message on chat,” he muttered.
Dan lowered his gaze reluctantly; this wasn’t the time to screw his head into a computer screen. He’d assumed that once the lead started flying both Fleet and Strike One had been monitoring his tactical comms. Mills had been feeding them information too. So he grunted “Huh?” now as he read.
DARK HORSE: Point of this operation is to establish free passage through SOH transit lanes. Is it commander’s intent not to complete transit?
“Fuck,” he muttered. Dark Horse was Fifth Fleet, in Bahrain. From the wording, it was some staff puke assigned to monitor the op, not Fleet himself. But he’d have to answer, and from the phrasing, a simple “yes” wouldn’t suffice.
It had been his intent, given the possible sub contact, and the increasing number of aircraft beginning to swarm like aroused hornets over the mainland, to cut south. From there, he could either put in to the U.S. naval facility in Jebel Ali to refuel, or else proceed, at a lower speed, up the Gulf to Bahrain. He typed back.
MATADOR: Enemy air activity increasing. Intent is to withdraw south out of the transit area and await orders.
DARK HORSE: Your orders are to quote complete passage unquote through SOH transit lanes. You have not completed passage unless you exit via the western entry/exit point of the traffic separation scheme.
“Oh, fuck me,” Dan muttered. Was this guy for real? Wasn’t transiting the Knuckle, and blasting the shit out of the Pasdaran, enough? With a sinking heart, he realized it might not. If Savo and Mitscher didn’t complete the full passage, tomorrow the Iranians would be crowing they’d driven them off, held the ground, and won the battle.
He scanned the displays, making sure he wasn’t fumbling the tactical picture. Two more missiles had been splashed, one by jamming, the other by a Standard from Mitscher. As he watched, a third Vampire continued inbound. They were coming in on the starboard quarter, overtaking, and popping up in such a way that he couldn’t tell even from Aegis where they’d been fired from. They just appeared, about twenty miles out, barely enough time to get EW on them before things got really interesting. He snapped his IC switch to the antiair circuit, to hear his own coordinator speaking swiftly, voice overlain at times by the EW operators’. “Correlates C-802. Jamming ineffective. Seeing a hard turn now to bird’s port. Crossing engagement—”
“Stand by to take with birds.”
“Outside Matador engagement envelope—”
“This is Anvil. We’ll take with Phalanx.”
He tensed as, on the screen, the incomer neared Mitscher, and the babble of voices attained a new intensity. A quarter minute later Mills murmured, “Splash track 8617… but Mitscher may have damage.”
“What kind? How serious? Get a report.”
“Wait one… They engaged with CIWS. Main warhead exploded prematurely, but airframe elements impacted aft.”
“Roger. Damage assessment as soon as possible.” He contemplated asking Stonecipher for it, but didn’t; the other CO would have enough on his plate without Dan riding him.
He sucked a deep breath, and with it the unmistakable scent of sandalwood. Then hands were on his back, his neck, digging in, loosening the knots locking up his neck and upper back. Despite himself, he leaned back, sighing, closing his eyes. Letting the tension ease, just for a millisecond.
Then opened them again, to catch Mills’s astonished stare, and Wenck’s, and most everyone else’s at or near the command desk, too. He mumbled, “Uh, thanks, Amy. I mean, Lieutenant. But you… It felt great, but that’s enough of that, I think.”
“It’s Healing Touch. Looked like you needed it, Captain.” She patted his shoulder, then headed back to the Strike console.
Jesus. Okay, back to business… check the display again. He rubbed his face as the display flickered and renewed, as GCCS and the SPY-1 and Sonar and NTDS and the aircraft overhead flooded him with seamless torrents of data. His opponents didn’t have anywhere near this information, this fast, but it was overwhelming him. The southern group had broken. Boats were streaming back across the lane. The northern group, on the other hand, seemed to be holding position, absorbing the fleeing units and turning them around in a chaotic, uneven, but partially reorganized line.
If he was going to go past again, he couldn’t give them time to re-form. If an enemy starts to buckle, you don’t let him catch his breath. He murmured to Mills, “Maintain course, but drop speed to twenty. Make sure Mitscher gets that.”
Four seconds later, the 21MC clicked on. “CO,” he snapped. At his elbow, Longley was trying to pour fresh coffee. Dan waved him away impatiently. Then changed his mind as the CS set a plate with two doughnuts beside it. Plain but sugared, just the way he liked them.
“Captain, exec, on the bridge. Just got the order to drop to twenty. We still headed south?”
Everybody was a step ahead of him today. Well, that was good. “Reconsidering that decision as we speak, XO. Why d’you ask?”
“Got a merchie coming down the pike toward us. Still on the horizon, but looks like he’s headed outbound.”
Dan checked the vertical display again. Astonished, first, that he hadn’t picked it up. Second, that some idiot was so far out of the loop he hadn’t gotten the word that war was breaking out in the strait. But there it was, fifteen miles out, a fat, dumb, doubtlessly happy tanker bopping along at eight knots toward the outbound traffic lane. Which lay empty at the moment, except for the pulsing diamond of the still-stationary suspected submarine. Dan keyed Sonar again. “Rit, I really need an updated classification on that fucking datum.”
This time he got Zotcher’s voice, though. “Working on it, Captain. It’d help to have another MAD pass, though. And a sonobuoy drop.”
“We don’t have time for another pass.” He had to decide. As if goading him still further, when he looked down again, lines had popped up on his chat.