"So what are they doing?"
"Two possibilities, sir. They're deliberately sending us a message—'We have submarines out here and we're tracking your supertankers'—or… "
"Or?"
"Or they're using the tankers for cover while they snorkel."
Creighton nodded. "That was my thought as well."
For several days Pittsburgh had been moving in and out of the Straits of Hormuz, tracking different Iranian submarines. Weeks ago the Iranians had seemed intent on parading the new Ghadir-class boats for all to see, but within the past few days they'd begun making themselves hard to find.
But that had not meant Pittsburgh could not find them. She had to get close, and Ridgeway, the sonar chief, declared it was like listening to a hole in the water. But they had picked them up, either waiting quietly on the bottom or creeping along at a barely noticeable three knots.
They'd been tracking one lurking submarine twenty minutes ago, when sonar reported their contact moving, then merging with another contact, a noisy commercial target. By moving in close and using narrowband sonar, they'd been able to pick up key tonals from the target sub, all but masked by the tanker's prop wash.
The Iranian sub was moving at periscope depth just astern of a supertanker.
Three times previously over the past two days, Pittsburgh had picked up what sounded like snorkeling diesel-electric boats, but always masked by the racket made by a large commercial surface vessel entering or leaving the straits. This, however, was the first time they'd actually caught the target in the act.
"It's a strange way to deliver a message," Chisolm admitted, "since they're still playing it quiet and cagey. If I had to guess, I'd say they're setting a trap."
"Using the tankers to cover their battery recharge runs. Yeah. Lets 'em stay quiet and undetected until… "
"Until what, sir?"
"That's the question, isn't it? They may just be practicing, to see if they can hide their whole submarine force for a week at a time. Or they may be planning on springing the trap."
"Yes, sir. But what's the target?"
Creighton shrugged. "Could be us, if a war starts. Tensions have been going up like hemlines on a Paris fashion-show ramp. You heard Mad-in-a-jar's latest."
"Mad-in-a-jar" was the slang name Pittsburgh's crew had adopted for Iran's president, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad. Fifth Fleet HQ had rebroadcast the translation of his speech of two days before over Armed Forces Radio. In it, Ahmadinejad had predictably followed the hard-nosed line of the Council of Twelve and the Supreme Leader — Iran would become a nuclear power, no matter what the American president said; Iran would resist the efforts of "foreign colonial powers," meaning the United States, to establish a permanent presence in the Gulf; and Iran would take steps to defend its borders, both against foreign powers and against any and all illegal incursions by hostile neighbors.
That last was an ominous statement. The first two declarations had been the standard party line out of Tehran for decades, but defending against incursions by neighbors was something new. The foreign powers part was easy to understand — a not-so-veiled reference to the sinking of the American patrol boat off the Iranian coast a few weeks ago. "Neighbors," however, could mean a number of things, none of them good. Iran still had border disputes with Iraq left over from the 1980-88 war, and no love for the current democratic and U.S.-supported government in Baghdad. In the east, Iran continued to engage in cross-border skirmishing with Afghan bandits, drug runners, and military forces, and resented Afghanistan's damming of the Helmand River… again territorial disputes with an American-supported regime.
And Iran still had a long list of ongoing territorial disputes with other nations in the Gulf — especially with the United Arab Emirates and with Oman, just across the narrow Straits of Hormuz. In 1992, Iran had seized three islands claimed by the UAE, including the strategically placed Abu Musa. Iran now claimed that both the UAE and Oman were nothing but American puppets, and that they gave the Americans control of what should be a joint Arab and Iranian resource— access to the Persian Gulf.
It was possible that Tehran was looking for an excuse to cross the Gulf and seize the eastern tip of Oman, the Musand'am peninsula, on the opposite side of the Straits of Hormuz.
Ahmadinejad had promised that Iran would lead the Islamic world to victory over the hated imperialists, the minions of Satan, and that the time of victory was near.
The speech had done nothing to quiet tensions that already had been running high. War already seemed all but inevitable.
"You think maybe the Iranians are looking for an excuse to attack us?" the XO asked.
"Hell, I know they're looking for an excuse. The question is when we're going to give them one. I know this much: If those subs are out there running ovals up and down the Gulf of Oman, it can't be for very long. That means either it's an exercise, just for practice, or… "
Chisolm nodded. "Or they expect things to turn hot within the next couple of days, at the latest."
Creighton glanced at the control room clock on the forward bulkhead. Pittsburgh wasn't scheduled to come up to periscope depth and broadcast a status report for another three and a half hours yet.
"I think this warrants a priority flash, Harry."
"I concur, Skipper."
"Maneuvering! Come to periscope depth!"
"Maneuvering, come to periscope depth, aye aye!" Gently, the deck tilted as Pittsburgh began rising from the depths.
13
"Caswell?" the Chief of the Boat said from the doorway to the sonar room. "How you doing?"
"I'm okay, COB," Caswell replied. It was a lie.
Dobbs chuckled. "He's pining away for his lost love, COB."
"You'd damned well better snap out of it, kid," O'Day said. "No dame is worth it! Anyway, I have a job for you two. Show this zoomie your station, give him a rundown."
Caswell turned in his chair to study the newcomer. It was the aviator, Lieutenant Commander Hawking.
"Dobbs and Cassie'll take good care of you, Commander," the COB said cheerily. "I'll check back with you at the end of your watch."
"I think COB's trying to cheer you up," Dobbs said with a wry grin. "You've been sulking and moping for days now… and see what it got you?"
Caswell ignored the dig. "Pull up a seat, Commander. Grab a set of headphones and have a listen."
"I'm told you're the guy I owe an apology to," Hawking said, taking a seat.
"Beg pardon, sir?"
"You were on watch when I did the musical fly-by?"
"Oh, yeah."
"So I apologize. Didn't know I'd be blasting your ears."
"Maybe that's why they want you listening for a while, sir," Dobbs suggested.
"So… what am I listening for?"
Caswell began to run Hawking through the broadband sonar procedures. Actually teaching him anything was pretty much hopeless; that was why the Navy sent you to sonar school. However, he could give him a very general introduction.
"That's passive broadband you're listening to, sir. It's kind of like you have a radio that's set to receive all channels at once."
Hawking listened for a moment. "All I hear is static."
"White noise, yes, sir. That's waves breaking on beaches and water moving past the sub and wind blowing and everything else you can imagine. The idea is to try to pick out what sounds… different."
"Okay… "