Ward breathed out. He’d been granted a reprieve. The EurCon planes had only been conducting a “live” exercise. It was harassment, but also training in its purest form, for both sides. The men in Paris and Berlin didn’t want a shooting war — at least not yet.
The map and radar displays in Leyte Gulf’s CIC showed the Polish coast just ninety miles ahead. Task Group 22.1 and its four laden charges were four hours away from Gdansk.
Ward sipped a scalding-hot cup of coffee, his fifth in as many hours, and pondered the situation. Since that first mock air attack, EurCon’s commanders had thrown everything they had at his convoy — more aircraft, diesel submarines, small missile attack boats, armed helicopters, even surface groups of German destroyers and frigates. It reminded him of the sixties and early seventies. He had been a junior officer then, serving in the Mediterranean. For years the U.S. Sixth Fleet and the Soviet Fifth Eskadra had played hardball, seeing just how far each could push the other. Now old allies were playing the same dangerous game with each other. EurCon played the game well, even better than the Russians.
At least the confrontations were useful training for his bleary-eyed crews. With the fragments of the Russian Navy now staying very close to home, America’s warships had the world’s oceans pretty much to themselves during the past several years. Each nerve-racking brush with a potentially hostile force lent new urgency and new impetus to the group’s combat and damage control drills.
The four-day-long simulated “battle” had taught him to regard submarines as the biggest EurCon threat. With enough warning and enough sea room for maneuvering, his three Aegis-armed ships could fend off most air or missile attacks. Finding and sinking enemy subs in these confined waters was a very different story.
By definition, modern submarines were designed to be unseen and unheard killing machines. Anyone trying to hunt them had to sort out the soft sounds made by their propellers and machinery from a confusing mix of background, or ambient, noise. Since both the North Sea and the Baltic were so shallow, even a little chop on the surface could raise the ambient noise level significantly. Add to that the engine sounds made by all the other military and civilian ships operating in the area and the weird sounds of marine life and you had a real mess. Without deep water for their towed arrays, his sonar crews were like deaf men straining to hear serpents slithering through a boiler factory.
And an undetected submarine attacking from close range could smash the convoy with a spread of wire-guided torpedoes or submerged-launched missiles.
As a result, every time his antisubmarine warfare coordinator reported a half-reliable sonar contact, Ward had been forced to turn the entire Task Group away from it — zigzagging back and forth at high speed. They’d lost several hours that way, but he considered the time well spent. The key to defeating torpedo attacks was to stop subs from ever getting close enough to launch them.
He’d also had the antisubmarine air controller, the ASAC, drive his overworked helicopter pilots all over the area, dropping strings of active sonar buoys. Pinging the hell out of a detected submarine was a good way to keep its skipper more worried about survival than about conducting any attacks.
As far as Ward could tell, the combination of maneuver and aggressive ASW patrolling had worked. No French or German sub had been able to get within firing range of his ships.
“New air contacts, Admiral. Bearing two five five. Range eight zero and closing.” After four days under almost constant pressure, his chief of staff’s voice was strained and hoarse.
Ward downed the rest of his coffee in one swift gulp and focused on the display. Symbols showed the new EurCon aircraft. Others showed aircraft identified as Polish MiG-29s moving to intercept. “Go on.”
“Sierra Foxtrot evaluates the bogies as Mirage 2000s mixed with more Luftwaffe Tornados. He’s vectoring the Poles in to chase them away.”
The admiral nodded. Sierra Foxtrot was the call sign for an American E-3 Sentry orbiting over Gdansk. The AWACS plane had been dispatched from its base in Great Britain to coordinate air cover for the convoy once it crossed into the Baltic. He glanced at the young, brown-haired officer standing somewhat uncertainly in the one relatively clear corner of the crowded CIC. Clad in the unfamiliar steel-blue uniform of the Polish Air Force, the major had been helicoptered aboard Leyte Gulf to act as a liaison during Task Group 22.1’s approach to the Polish port city.
Ward and his subordinates monitored the intercept by watching it on radar and listening to it over radio circuits assigned to the Poles and their controllers aboard the circling American E-3. Voices crackled over loudspeakers, distorted by high g-forces as the opposing jets turned and turned tighter still — caught in a swirling, tangled fur ball just above the Baltic.
The admiral frowned. The Polish pilots were doing an effective job, forcing the EurCon strike aircraft and their escorts further and further away from his convoy. But they were taking big risks to do it. His displays showed planes crisscrossing back and forth across each other’s flight paths — often with very little room to spare. Normal safety restrictions were being ignored by both sides. He waved the antiair warfare coordinator over.
“Oh, shit.” The soft, shocked exclamation came from several officers at the same moment.
Ward spun back to the display. Two of the aircraft symbols, one for a Polish MiG, the other for a French Mirage, had just merged — colliding at four hundred knots. Now both were tumbling toward the sea below.
The voices on the radio circuit took on a new urgency. Some were in Polish. Others, emanating from the E-3, were in English.
“Green Two, this is Sierra Foxtrot! Eject! Eject! Get the hell out!”
Both of the stricken aircraft disappeared off Leyte Gulf’s radar.
“Green flight, this is Sierra Foxtrot.” The airborne controller’s voice sounded shaken. “Can anyone see Green Two?”
An angry, accented voice answered. “Negative, Foxtrot. He hit the water. No parachute.”
“What about the Mirage?”
“It’s down, too. No chute, either.”
Ward felt cold. EurCon’s “mock” attacks had just turned deadly.
A new voice came on the radio circuit, furiously demanding something.
Ward saw the Polish liaison officer turn pale. “What the hell’s going on, Major?”
The younger man swallowed hard before replying. “Green Leader is asking for permission to fire!”
“Jesus Christ.” Ward grabbed the antiair coordinator. “Get Sierra Foxtrot on the horn! Tell them to pull the MiGs back! Now!”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
No midair collision was worth a full-scale conflict.
The Mirages and Tornados were changing course, turning back toward Germany. His EurCon counterpart must have come to the same conclusion.
Four hours later, Task Group 22.1 crossed into Polish territorial waters.
Standing on Leyte Gulf’s bridge wing and leaning wearily on the railing, Jack Ward thought that the rust-streaked cranes and shipyards of Gdansk were one of the most beautiful sights in the world. He had accomplished his mission without having to shoot anyone. This time.
CHAPTER 15
Death Warrant