The TAO listened to Hunter 701’s report with a sinking feeling. The situation stunk, outright stunk. There was no clear-cut answer as to whether the battle group could attack the submarine immediately, or whether it had to wait for some indication of hostile intent. Moments later, the bitch box that connected her with TFCC buzzed angrily.
International rules of engagement contained so many vague requirements that deciding when it was legal to shoot was a matter for a court rather than naval officers. While there was no requirement that U.S. forces take the first hit before they could open fire, they did have to determine that the submarine had committed a hostile act, or demonstrated hostile intent.
The communications downlink was certainly evidence of something. The most probable explanation was that the aircraft was passing targeting information to another platform, either a surface ship or a submarine. Rule out surface ship, she thought, studying the display. Any combatant of significant size would have been detected and reported immediately. And the fact that a submarine — perhaps even this one — had fired on an S-3 only days before added strength to her inclination to have the S-3 blow the bastard out of the water.
Still, there was no evidence that this was the same submarine. So many nations now owned production models of the Russian-built Kilo diesel sub that there was no way to be certain.
Additionally, they all knew that tensions in the area were at the highest level they’d been at since World War II. Killing the submarine now could be that final element that pushed China and the other nations over the brink into open warfare. And, more likely than not, all the nations clamoring for ownership of the Spratly Islands would put aside their differences long enough to unite against the American forces. While she was confident that the battle group could take care of itself, the purpose of a presence mission was to deter wars — not to start them.
She toggled the lever on the bitch box, hoping that the Flag watch officer would give her permission to follow the most ancient adage of warriors.
Kill them all, and let God sort them out.
CHAPTER 9
“Permission to attack with torpedo denied, Hunter 701. If you see some indication that she’s preparing to launch or taking some other hostile action, you’re weapons free on her. Until then, maintain contact and keep us posted.” The TAO on the carrier sounded reluctant to give the order.
Rabies shot a look of disgust at his copilot.
“Fucking rules of engagement,” the copilot obligingly said.
“Ask them just what the hell they want — a declaration of war? This SOB took a shot at one of our aircraft yesterday, and they want us to just let him go?”
“You know what they’re going to say,” the TACCO joined in. “Can’t prove it’s the same sub, and retaliation’s not authorized by ROE. You know the drill.”
“Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Rabies muttered. “Ask them. Make them tell me I have to wait to take the first shot.”
“They won’t do it,” the copilot said. “They’ll say you can shoot in self-defense the second you see the sail start to break away from the missile launcher, or if the sub starts any preparation for firing.”
“And just how the hell are we supposed to see that with that pigboat still half-submerged?”
“Get lucky, I guess. Come on, Rabies, don’t make me look like an idiot on the circuit.”
“Okay, okay. But the second I see anything — anything — that bitch is toast. And you pussies damned well better back me up on it!”
Silence on the ICS. Rabies felt a pang of guilt, but smothered it in the overwhelming frustration he felt. Every member of the crew wanted to take the sub out — he knew that. They all had been debriefed on the previous attack, and had seethed with the righteous indignation that he’d just voiced. Not a man — or woman, he added reflexively — in the S-3B squadron wouldn’t have shot instantly, given the slightest justification.
“It sucks,” he said finally. “It just really sucks.”
Thor dropped back behind the Flanker, opening the distance enough to shoot if it became necessary. Although he’d never tried it, he was quite certain that being five hundred feet behind another aircraft when it exploded was not good for him. Even if his Hornet blasted through the fireball, the odds of sucking a piece of metal into his engines was just too great.
“Hornet, say state,” he heard the OS query from the carrier.
State of fucking frustration, he thought. Maybe state of idiocy, too. He glanced at his fuel gauge, resisted the temptation to be a smart-ass, and settled for telling the OS how much fuel he had left.
The Flanker was now sixty miles from the battle group and showed no signs of changing course or even acknowledging his escort. Thor could hear Aegis trying to contact the Flanker, requesting intentions and explanations on the unencrypted IAD — International Air Distress frequency.
Suddenly, the Flanker nosed down and headed for the deck. It traded speed for altitude, accelerating past five hundred knots. Thor followed it down, wondering what the hell the other pilot was thinking. The adrenaline that had subsided into a muted throb roared back through his body like a freight train.
The Flanker leveled off five hundred feet above the waves, its shadow racing like a pace car below it.
“Hornet! What the hell’s he doing?” the E-2C RIO demanded. “Aegis is demanding some answers — the contact’s dropped off their screens.”
“Tell them to figure it out for themselves! Their radar horizon can’t be more than forty miles, the altitude he’s at! Still getting video downlink. That ought to narrow the search area.”
“Unnecessary,” the E-2 RIO answered tartly. “Hunter 701 is sitting on top of his playmate, about fifty miles to your west. If you were paying attention, you’d have heard his reports.”
“I’m a little bit busy myself, buddy. This bastard moves a lot faster than some sewer pipe taking up water space.” Come to think of it, he had heard the S-3’s reports, he reflected. He’d been too focused on the Flanker to make the correlation.
Thor glanced at his altimeter, then took the Hornet up another hundred feet and selected an IR heatseeking Sidewinder. If the time came for it, he wanted to be in the best position for a killing shot from behind. The fastest way to eliminate the missile threat from the submarine would be to take out the platform providing targeting data to it. And for that little job, there wasn’t anything better than a Marine and a Hornet.
“Let me see the missile profiles for whatever that Flanker’s likely to be carrying,” Captain Killington demanded. “Are they sea-skimmers?”
“Here, sir,” his TAO said, handing him the tactical handbook. “Left-hand side.”
Killington studied it carefully. “Just because the Hornet didn’t see missiles doesn’t mean the Flanker’s not carrying any. Look at how they misidentified those U.S. helicopters as Hinds. Killed our own people with two war shots.”
“It seems a little different scenario,” his operations officer, now standing watch as the TAO, offered tentatively. The TAO tried to decide whether he’d heard a note of regret in his CO’s voice. “Circling around a helicopter doesn’t give you as good a view as pacing another jet. I don’t think they ever got closer than five miles to those helos. But Hornet was right up on this bogey.”