“Gentlemen, the only reason I’m going to answer that question is that when we’re done here we’re going to sea.”
Phillips called the chief of the boat over, the COB, Chief Hanson, a torpedoman, a country boy. “COB,” Phillips said, “collect all the cellular phones, every god damned one of them.” Cellular phones were controlled more carefully than anything else aboard, the submarine force becoming security crazed after several SEAL operations had proved that the subs’ cellular phones were giving away too much. Only official ship’s phones were allowed aboard. Anyone caught with their own cellular unit lost it to the COB until the ship made port again.
“Okay, here’s the deal. Just before the executive officer and I reported aboard we ran a special simulation against a Destiny II-class submarine, trying to sneak up on the SOB. Guess what? No matter what we did, we lost.”
Phillips let that sink in for a moment. “Now, that was with an improved-688 class, but Seawolf ships are only marginally better against the Destiny. Let’s face a fact, gents — if we could buy Destiny II submarines we’d fill our piers with them and sell off these 688s and Seawolfs to the highest bidder. They’re that good. But we’ve got something that can neutralize even a Destiny.”
Phillips paused for effect. “The Vortex missiles we’re carrying like a bandoleer are the ultimate antisubmarine weapon.” As long as they didn’t blast their rocket exhaust through the hull, he thought. “Which means we’re the cavalry. If the sub force goes up against the Destiny ships in combat, and I hope to hell they don’t, we’ll be there to put them down.”
“Skipper,” said Roger Whatney, the Royal Navy executive officer in RN sweater with its soft epaulets and lieutenant commander’s stripes, the star missing, a loop of braiding replacing it, “if there are more than ten Destiny subs we could be in for trouble.”
“Spoken like a gentleman, sir,” Phillips said, unconsciously imitating something Whatney was fond of saying. “Now, if we can get on with it, let’s get this pig to sea. We’ve got to make the best time ever made to the Bering Strait. I’ve got a feeling that our people in the Japan Oparea are going to need us.”
“Admiral, I’m sorry I lost it last night,” Pacino said, standing on the bridge next to Donner’s admiral’s chair.
The waves were still pounding the ship, the other ships of the surface action group invisible in the storm. The glass windows of the bridge were drenched with rain.
Three Plexiglas wheels set into the front plate glass spun at high rpm, throwing off the rain, the only clear view of the sea ahead. The officer of the deck stood at the radar console, his visual sight nearly useless.
“Patch, after nearly augering into the deck and totaling yourself, it’s very understandable. How are you feeling?”
“Seasick, sir. I need to get out to one of the submarines, the Pasadena or the Cheyenne. As soon as possible, sir.”
“Patch, I don’t want to burst your bubble, but have you seen it out there? We’re grounded. Ain’t no choppers going to be flying in this weather.”
“When’s it going to calm down?”
“We’ve got another day of this to go. But there’s more bad news. By the time this weather clears we’ll be in the Japan Oparea and there won’t be any helotransfers. You’d better read this.” Donner handed Pacino a message, classified top secret/special compartment/codeword Enlightened Curtain.
Pacino read through the message, quickly at first, then read through it a second time. It was a confidential message from Warner and Wadsworth. Ambassador Pulcanson had met twice with Prime Minister Kurita. The first time Pulcanson had laid out the deal — that UN troops would take station on Japanese soil, that their initial actions would be to supervise the dismantlement of the radioactive weapons, the second the deactivation of the nuclear cores of the submarines of the Maritime Self Defense Force, the third the selling off of the Firestar fighters. Kurita had been noncommittal, Pulcanson had been firm and told him he had a day to provide an answer.
Two days later Pulcanson had returned. Kurita’s answer was no better than before. He didn’t say no, he didn’t say yes.
Warner had had a meeting with the National Security Council. She had ordered Donner’s force to set up the blockade. They were going in to stop the flow of all commercial traffic into Japan.
“This will be the first act of war of the new century. And maybe the worst.”
“Oh, hell, Patch, we did this a ways back with the Cubans and it prevented a war.”
“That was the Cubans, and the Russians. These are the Japanese. Go back to your history books, Mac. The last time we cut off the oil to these people they used it as an excuse to sink our fleet. They’ll do it again, they’ll fight. We shouldn’t just put a ring of warships around Japan, we should hit them preemptively. If we sail off their coast they’ll nail us with everything they’ve got.”
“I don’t think so. Patch. This will last a week, maybe a month. The other carrier groups will get here and then the Japanese will have to see reason. We’ll be home in a couple of months—”
“Mac, I’m telling you. We should hit the Galaxy satellites now. We should sortie every god damned airplane we have to bomb the Firestar squadrons and the Destiny submarines. Then and only then, we should blockade the islands. It’s the only way.”
“I think you’re forgetting the antisubmarine warfare capabilities of this surface force, Patch. Now let me give you a piece of advice.” Pacino stared out into the rain. “Why don’t you go below and meet with Commander White? He’s the submarine liaison officer. He could use a boost. You both must come from the same school, you sound like a broken record.”
Pacino went below. It was going to be a long war, he thought. Or a very short one.
CHAPTER 16
Comdr. Bruce Phillips dumped eight heaping teaspoon-fills of instant coffee into the Big Gulp cup and poured an entire pot of boiling water into it. He filled a second Big Gulp cup with ice, stirred the instant coffee, then dumped the hot coffee into the iced cup. He pinched his nose, put the cup to his lips and drank the liquid down in one go, gagging as it went down.
He looked over to find the XO, Lt. Comdr. Roger Whatney, staring at him, shaking his head.
“Well, Skipper, I hope you’re planning on taking both those cups’to the bridge with you. You’ll need them to dump the used coffee in when your body’s done with it.”
Whatney had a point, he thought. He yawned and glanced at his Rolex, wondering why the hell he had neglected to sleep in the last twenty-four hours. Part of it was Abby’s visit.
“What’s the status, XO?” he asked Whatney.
“Well, sir, we’ve got enough exceptions to our rig-for-sea to fill a three-inch-thick three-ring notebook. I don’t know that I’d ever recommend doing this, if not for your orders from Admiral Pacino.”
“How bad is it?”
“Here’s the rundown, Skipper,” Whatney said. “Starting aft, we have no main engines. Propulsion is on the emergency electric propulsion motor. The electric plant is only fair because we’re long overdue for a battery charge. The electrical turbines are as dead cold iron as the main engines, the steam plant is cold, the steam generators are in wet layup and the reactor is shutdown in the fiduciary range, completely nonvisible.”
Phillips shook his head. Nonvisible reactor power meant that it would take days for reactor power to come up to the power range, unless they added enough reactivity to it that it might come up uncontrollably, little more than a fission bomb. All the publicity about reactors not being able to explode like atom bombs only applied to tame natural uranium cores in civilian industry.