He looked at the pictures of Peekaboo. The bastards, the downright dirty bastards. The money would have hurt badly. But his daughter?
He sighed. “Oh, shit.”
USS STONEWALL JACKSON left Pearl Harbor at dusk and turned to the west in Mamala Bay. Nathan stood in the sail with his binoculars, to starboard the lights of Ewa Beach were turning on. The landmass was still plainly visible behind the strip. People would be out that night down the coast around Ko Olina he knew, he’d been one of them back when he was a Weaps, a Weapons Officer on board USS New York City. It seemed an age ago now. He never imagined then that he’d have his own boat so soon.
THE USN HADN’T OPERATED a diesel-electric submarine for decades, so when reviving a lost art it would make sense to cooperate with an ally. Arguably, the best diesel-electric boat out there was Japan’s Soryu class, capable of diving to 3000 feet. The Soryu’s drawback was its relatively limited range, but the US enjoyed the privilege of having a worldwide network of bases and allies, largely negating this. A development was the addition of Lithium-ion batteries, providing stealth and endurance. This combination proved too hard to ignore and a joint development effort was undertaken.
Thus the USN’s new class was a development of the Soryu class, with key improvements. She had a range of 7,200 miles and a complement of 65 Officers and crew.
The USS Stonewall Jackson’s armaments included three vertical VPM launch tubes with seven Tomahawk BGM-109 cruise missiles in each. Mk 48 CBASS wire-guided torpedoes and low-level anti-ship Harpoon missiles were launched by four tubes.
General Jackson himself had said it was necessary, “to move swiftly, strike vigorously”.
His namesake was more than capable of bringing unreasonable force to bear.
NATHAN STOOD IN THE sail and looked out into the darkness. It was a privilege and a burden, command was a lonely place, he’d read about that, but now here it was. You had to keep a distance, but not too much of a distance. It was a fine balance. You didn’t always get it right. He’d thought Captain Franks of the NYC was a bit too distant, but now Nathan had a feel for what it was like. Franks had taught him a lot; with hindsight he’d allowed him to grow and develop. But he’d given him an earful more than once. He’d been a mentor and Nathan often thought, what would Franks do?
The warm breeze blew over his face. A few minutes later he breathed deeply, and took a last look at the string of lights along the coast.
“That’s it, it’s time we were away.” He climbed down the first few rungs of the ladder, closed the hatch, and spun the dogs shut. He climbed down and closed the inner hatch, and he then climbed down to the deck and entered the control room.
The crew stared into monitors or marked the chart, and he nodded to the XO.
“Flood forward. Open and trim vents fore and aft. Dive, dive, dive. Planesman, down angle twenty, make your depth two hundred and sixty feet. Speed twenty three knots.”
“Twenty three at two hundred and sixty, aye Sir.” The deck tilted down to the bow, and finally levelled out.
“Zero bubble, Sir,” called out the Planesman. The boat was now level at two hundred and sixty.
“Navigator, plot us a course to the Northern Sea of Japan.”
“Aye, Sir.” Kaminski worked on her chart.
“Three zero four Sir.”
“Come to bearing three zero four.” An hour later, he was sitting at the conn, completing his log entry.
Sayers returned from a tour of the boat.
“Sir, I’ve done the rounds and all’s well, even the back aft A-gangers are quiet.”
Nathan smiled. “They haven’t brought any aboard, have they?
“Sir?”
“I mean what class of drugs are they on?”
They were the conventional machinist’s mates, working on machinery such as scrubbers and burners, or the diesel engine. They were universally famous as knuckle-draggers, and unashamedly, the most profane individuals on a submarine. They could take cursing to levels undreamed of by most of the crew.
The XO smiled. “Off the scale Sir.”
“XO, it’s time for a war committee.” Nathan thought for several long seconds. There comes a time for promising young officers to step up. He knew this was such a moment. “Kaminski.”
“Sir?”
“Come to the wardroom.” He nodded to the XO then aft to the wardroom.
The three of them entered and sat.
“Kaminski, this will be the first war committee you’ve sat on. We’ll plan the patrol and discuss the forthcoming action.”
Nikki Kaminski was amazed to be invited to join in; Lieutenants weren’t normally part of these sessions.
“I operate this as a Chinese parliament. It’s a Royal Navy term I got from when I was on NYC. We all pitch in and get our say, rank doesn’t matter. If you disagree with what’s said, then say so. You’re here for your ideas and opinions. If you think I or the XO are wrong then say so, nobody will jump down your throat. Ok with that?”
“Yes Sir.”
He smiled at her. “In the war committee, we’re Nikki, Larry and Nathan. Got that?”
“Yes, Si… Nathan.”
“I do get the final say so, I am in command, but I take these sessions seriously. First, can we catch him before he reaches home port?”
Larry shook his head. “Not much chance, too much sea room.”
“The People’s Navy will have a task force out to escort her into port.” Nikki folded her arms on the table and leaned on them.
“Where is home port?” asked Larry. Nikki didn’t look up.
“It’ll be Mayang-Do Island a couple of miles off Sinpo.”
“So,” said Nathan, “she’ll have half the Navy bringing her back in. We are weapons free on all vessels. We could have a good time with them.”
“Nathan, she’ll be tough to get when she’s in port,” said Nikki. “We can’t get her in port, so we have to get her out.”
“Yeah,” said Nathan, “we could ask her if she’s coming out to play.”
Nikki laughed and smiled. “I may have an idea how we could get her out.”
“Go on Nikki, how?”
She grinned. “You’re not going to like it.”
THE P8-POSIDEN CLOSED on its prey two hundred and thirty below the grey Pacific surface. Le-Saux would wait until they were on top of Tango one before release. It would cut down the time for the Mk 50 to run in, and reduce the time the enemy would have to deploy acoustic countermeasures.
“Two miles to run. The fish is hungry.”
The Mk 50 lay suspended below its hard point in the open bomb bay, its gyro spun up. The onboard computer had Tango one designated as its target.
Through his headset came a communication from HQ ashore.
“Fisheye two, fish eye two. This is COMASWFORTHIRDFLT actual. You are weapons tight, repeat. You are weapons tight. Over.”
“Fisheye two. Copy, weapons tight. Over.”
Shit, thought Le-Saux. What the hell was going on? He deselected the Mk 50 arm selection and spun down the gyro.
“What the Goddamn hell’s going on?”
“Sounds like a FUBAR,” said Holly.
“Yeah, you can say that again.”
“Sounds like a FUBAR…”
“Ha fucking ha.”
Le-Saux frowned. So God damn close. Holly had called it like it was. A FUBAR, Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition.