“Who’s talkin’ about sinkin’ ‘em? Maybe I missed something but a couple of red X’s on a chart… it’s still an exercise.”
“Looks kind of threatening for an exercise. Admiral. This isn’t like the surface navy. We can’t see these guys. Sending them out like this in an instant and sending them south can’t exactly be interpreted as a peaceful gesture. Sir, the track projections take them right to our east coast. Their ETA is two days from now—”
“So they come. What are they gonna do, shoot red flares at us? Their guns ain’t loaded anymore, they destroyed the cruise missiles this very week. We got confirmation—”
Donchez frowned. “I didn’t expect this sort of reaction from you, sir.” It wasn’t like McGee, who had once been an avid hawk. Sign of the times…
“I was also surprised,” McGee said, “when the White House called to say they had information that this was happening. Which means the White House knew about it before we did. The Russians, it seems, gave the President a call and told him not to sweat this, that it’s just an exercise.”
“But, sir, why did it take so long for word of this so-called exercise-notification to get down to my level?” Translation: Why, Admiral, didn’t you tell me this before?
“Sorry about that, Dick. After the missiles were destroyed it just didn’t seem like such a big deal. Pentagon figures they got bored with the Arctic Ocean and headed for some tropical weather. Who can blame’em?”
“Sir, we should brief the White House on what’s happening. This could still be some kind of… trick.” Donchez knew it sounded paranoid but what else could he say?
“We can’t brief the top brass until you can prove some hostile intent, here, Dick,” McGee said quietly. “Besides, the White House staff ain’t the only people I got phone calls from. Got one from General Tyler at the Pentagon, too. He even mentioned you by name, Dick. Said he didn’t want to hear any damned doomsday talk from you about this here exercise. You know how the of’ boy feels about this kind of thing. He made it sound like the Russians practically asked White House permission to do this submarine deployment. So I’m telling you, Dick, you rattle your sabre about this Russian thing. General Tyler’ll break it off in your ass.”
“Sir, all due respect, but General Tyler couldn’t find his ass with both hands.”
“Careful, Dick, this is the Air Force Chief of Staff you’re talking about. Also, the next Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. Our future boss.”
“Until he’s my boss he’s a horse’s ass.”
McGee sighed. “It’s not all his fault, Dick. He’s Air Force. Hell, it’s all I can do to understand this submarine crap. I’m a pilot, not a sewer-pipe sailor.” McGee had been COMAIRLANT, chief of the aviators, and before that captain of an aircraft carrier, and before that commander of an F-14 fighter squadron. “Look, I’ve gotta run, Dick. Keep me posted. But remember, I need something more than just god damned ship movements if we’re going to ask for modified Rules of Engagement. You can trail’em, but don’t mess with’em.”
Donchez stood in his office and stared out the plate-glass window at the Stingray monument construction site across the street. A cement mixer was pouring a foundation. He pressed his intercom and summoned Captain Rummel to his office.
“Yes sir,” Rummel said as he entered.
“Those SSN-X-27 missiles, the cruise missiles…”
“Yes sir?”
“There was a U.N. team that witnessed their destruction?”
“Yes sir.”
“What are the chances that they saw exercise units destroyed?”
“Zero, sir. First, they broke open the weapons to inspect the warheads. No mistaking plutonium with a Geiger counter. Alpha radiation, the works. Every weapon, sir. Those units were the real thing. And they’re history now.”
“What’s the possibility that the Russians had some cruise missiles that we didn’t know about before?”
“Slim. Maybe one or two escaped us. Maybe a dozen on the outside. But if you’re thinking that attack sub fleet is armed with’em, no chance. We’d know if there were a hundred and twenty of them out there.”
“What if only ten were on the boats and the rest were exercise units, units that flew like the real thing but had dud warheads. That could cause enough confusion to screw us up, couldn’t it?”
“Well — they would all fly in at treetop level so if exercise units were launched with an attack, they’d be stealthy as the real thing.”
Donchez thought a moment. “Any chance that only a few Russian boats have nuke cruise missiles and the others are protecting the boats with the nukes?”
Rummel shook his head. “All the boats are separated.They all have different approach vectors. Different destinations. They aren’t in some kind of escort formation.”
“They’re asking me to just sit here and wait for the worst to happen. I can’t do it.”
“Sir?”
“Never mind. Captain. Let’s go. It’s time to tell our boys what’s going on.”
Back in Flag Plot, the Duty Officer stood at attention.
“Duty Officer, two messages to go out FLASH priority. You ready?” Donchez said. The Duty Officer’s pen was poised over his notebook.
“Go, sir.”
“First message. Addressee, USS Devilfish, currently enroute the polar icepack for rendezvous with Russian OMEGA-class submarine Unit One. Mark the message Personal for Commanding Officer. Message classification: TOP SECRET — THUNDERBOLT. Message subject: Mission redefinition.” Donchez read the body of the message.
“You got all that? Read it back.” Donchez listened as the Duty Officer read back the message.
“Good. Get it on the wire, then come back for the second.”
As Donchez waited for the Duty Officer to hand the message to the Senior Chief Radioman, he and Rummel looked at the Arctic Ocean plot, seeing the flashing X that symbolized the unknown position of the OMEGA Unit One. When the Duty Officer returned, Donchez started in on the second FLASH message.
“The boat that got damaged the other day. Lieutenant, the 688-class boat, who was that?”
“That would be the Allentown, sir.”
Donchez glanced at the Atlantic Ocean plot to find the Allentown. She was several hundred miles off Norfolk, in line with the other Atlantic Fleet submarines forming the zone defense of the coastline. Donchez frowned. He had never liked zone defenses, much preferring man-to-man or sub-to-sub. But the Russians had him outnumbered two to one.
“Did she get her sail fixed?” Donchez asked.
“No, sir,” the Duty Officer said, as if it was his fault the Los Angeles-class submarine had remained damaged. “The shipyard was too-blocked with work, sir, and they didn’t get to the Allentown.”
“What’s Allentown got as far as Javelin cruise missiles?”
The Duty Officer scanned a computer printout on his clipboard.
“Sir, she’s one of the VLS equipped Los Angeles boats. Fully loaded out.”
“Okay,” Donchez said.
The Vertical Launch System used on the most recent attack submarines meant that in the forward main ballast tanks twelve vertical torpedo tubes had been installed in a space that would otherwise be wasted. The tubes were loaded with Javelin cruise missiles, freeing up the torpedo room for more torpedoes. Allentown would be loud and rattling with her sail damage, too noisy to trail one of the Russian boats heading for the coastline. That made her a perfect candidate for Donchez’s next idea.
“Okay, Duty Officer. FLASH priority, addressee USS Allentown, currently orbiting in the VACAPES OPAREA. Mark this one Personal for Commanding Officer. Message classification: TOP SECRET — THUNDERBOLT. Message subject: New mission directive. Message body to read: Paragraph one will be the same as for Devilfish, telling Duckett the current situation. Paragraph two: Allentown to transit north to Barents Sea off Russian northern coastline. Use wartime submarine safety lanes to transit north as set forth in the CINCLANTFLEET SIOP WARPLAN. Use maximum speed of advance consistent with ship safety and take a position off of Severomorsk as dictated by the Warplan’s Station Number One—”