22
"Snapshot has missed, Captain."
"Very well." It had been an awkward angle, with Ohio already well into a sharp turn. The chance of a kill had been a slim one.
Now, though, Stewart needed to find a way to lower the Iranians' chances of scoring a kill on the Ohio. According to the sonar crew, at least five enemy vessels were converging on Waypoint Bravo, all banging away with active sonar. They were still a good distance away — forty minutes to an hour, perhaps, but he thought they must know exactly where Ohio was.
And that Iranian Ghadir was out there somewhere as well, still keeping quiet.
Too many to engage. Ohio only had four tubes, and one was now empty; it would take about ten minutes to reload.
He consulted the chart on the plot board, checking depths. The tide would be turning in just another few minutes, and he wanted to get away from these shallow waters.
He also needed to locate the ASDS. It must be close to the pickup by now. But Ohio would be a very large, very stationary target while taking them on board.
And the first problem would be just finding them. "Helm! Come left to zero-zero-seven."
"Helm, come left to zero-zero-seven, aye aye." They would have to go back into the shallows to find the SEALs and complete their mission.
"Twenty-six degrees, thirty minutes, twenty-six point three seven seconds North," Mayhew said, reading the numbers off the GPS screen. "Fifty-four degrees, ten minutes, five point two-eight seconds East. We're bang on-target, sir. Waypoint Bravo."
"So where do you think they are?" Taggart asked, peering at the television monitor currently transmitting the view from the ASDS periscope. They were wallowing in choppy water, deck awash, at the exact point— within a few yards, anyway, where they were supposed to meet their ride home.
"I don't know. But they'll be here. Our pickup window ruins through 0600 hours."
"Unless the Iranians got them," Taggart said, voice grim. "They won't make pickup if they're sunk."
"They're not sunk," Mayhew replied. "We heard one explosion… but nothing else. No breakup noise, nothing like that."
Taggart shot him a hard glance. "Just how much experience with sonar have you had, Lieutenant?"
"Not that much," Mayhew admitted. "ASDS training."
"Uh-huh. Well… I'll say this much: If they did get hit, there should be more crap floating on the surface. There's oil, yeah, but there's always oil in the Gulf. And it's just a skim, y'know? Not like a ship sank."
"Nothing on side-scanning sonar, either," Mayhew pointed out. "The water's not that deep here, a hundred feet or less. If the Ohio sank, we ought to be able to see the wreck."
"Well, they may have gotten clobbered miles from here… but I tend to agree with you." Reaching across to Mayhew's console, he flipped a switch. Instantly, the cockpit was filled with an eerie cacophony of chirps and pings, echoing and reechoing through the sea. "Hear that?"
"Yeah… "
"Search sonars. A lot of 'em. And headed this way. If they nailed the Ohio, I don't think they'd still be looking for her, do you?"
"No." Realization set in, and Mayhew grinned. "No, by God. They wouldn't!"
"So… how long do you want to wait?"
"Until 0600, at least."
"Okay, if the Iranians give us that much. It's starting to get light pretty fast out there. And that sounds like a lot of ships bearing down on us."
"If they're coming toward us, I'll bet that means Ohio is closer than they are."
"Right. But just to be on the safe side… open that storage compartment there under your console."
"What's in here?"
"Procedure checklist. In case we have to scuttle."
"Ah."
The two men began going through the checklist. The ASDS was a highly sensitive vessel, with numerous secrets about her… from the operation of her side-looking sonar, to the sonar equipment itself, to the communications frequencies used for satellite communications, to the very fact that the minisub was here within Iranian waters, carrying out a black op. All sensitive equipment and code books would have to be destroyed if the SEALs had to abandon the little vessel and swim for shore.
And that meant an explosion. A rather large one.
The charges were already set; the two men began arming them… just in case.
Less than five minutes later, however, a loud and ringing ping sounded through the cockpit. Mayhew looked at the sonar screen. "Jesus!"
"What is it?"
"Look at that! He's almost on top of us!"
"Ohio? Or the competition?"
"Ohio! Gotta be! No Iranian is that big!"
On the periscope view screen they could see Ohio's periscope now, camouflage painted and extending above the surface. "Sierra Delta, Sierra Delta," crackled over the radio. "This is the Ohio. You looking for a ride?"
Mayhew let out a whoop.
"Ohio, Sierra Delta," Taggart replied. "That's a big roger. You have no idea how glad we are to see you!"
"Copy that, Sierra Delta. Stand by to be taken aboard!"
As Taggart talked to the Ohio, Mayhew scrambled from his seat, undogged the fore and aft hatches to the lockout chamber, and stepped through into the aft compartment to let the men know.
They deserved that much, at least, after two hours of sitting cooped up and motionless in the rocking darkness.
"Hoo-ya!" one of the SEALs — he thought it was Olivetti — yelled, punching the air with his fist, and the other men joined in.
The cheers, he thought, must have carried through the water as far as the Iranian fleet, and caused quite a bit of head scratching.
No matter. They were going home now.
Assuming Ohio could evade the trap that was rapidly closing on her.
"ASDS reports they're docked and locked," Lieutenant Shea said. "They're starting to come down the ladder now."
"Very good, Mr. Shea. Let's get the hell out of this pocket."
"I concur, sir."
"Helm, bring us to new course… one-zero-five."
"Helm, coming to new course one-zero-five, aye, sir."
Shea raised an eyebrow. "East?"
Stewart turned and pointed at the plot table chart. "Yeah. Most of the pinging is to the south, on this arc between Qeys and Forur. If we head a bit south of east, we'll slip just north of Forur Island — about here — then we can swing south past the east side of the island and run for the shipping lanes."
"That means staying in shallow water longer. This stretch north of Forur is damned shallow, according to the chart."
"I know. But if we go straight south now, we run smack into the arms of that armada. No, we need to pull an end run here. With a bit of luck, we can get into deep water before the ebb tide strands us on a mud flat somewhere."
"Hope you're right, Captain." Shea didn't sound convinced. "How about Commander Hawking?"
"He can keep up. I'm just hoping his Manta is the only vessel in the Gulf that can. Otherwise… we have one hell of a big tactical problem."