Wallace walked into the bridge and examined the space. His men looked tired, but intensely focused. But he knew that behind each dedicated face was a range of emotions. Husbands wondering if their wives were okay. Fathers wondering if they would see their children again. Young sailors wondering if they would live through the next twenty-four hours. There were those who wanted to perform bravely and those who just wanted to get home.
They had been operating at a crushing pace since the war had begun. Their submarine had been sortied out of Pearl Harbor within the first few days and told to seek out and destroy Chinese targets. Spirits had been high at first. The American submarine force was the best in the world. They were going to win the war and be home in a few months. They were going to be heroes.
Then word came of the American “strategic withdrawal” from Japan, and the new ROE that came with the cease-fire agreement. The crew had been pissed and frustrated at the restrictions, but they were still hopeful that the USS Columbia would be given the chance to make an impact. For some, it was more personal. Commander Wallace knew that many of his men wanted revenge for the thousands of Americans who had been killed in the war’s opening round.
When the USS Columbia had left port, the new orders had come. Per the cease-fire agreement, there were to be no US military movements beyond the 144th east longitude line. The only American forces west of that line were supposed to be retreating to US territory. But the US submarine force was adept at covert operations in hostile waters. The Columbia’s orders to monitor Chinese surface and subsurface movements took it well past the line. The officers and crew were revved up. Commander Wallace kept looking at their position on the digital chart, mentally willing his submarine to move into position faster. Everyone was eager to make an impact in the war.
Then came the news of missing submarines.
The first reports came from the Operations Department. One of the US fast-attack boats that had similar orders and was already in position in the South China Sea. Someone in Radio noticed that this submarine had missed its communications window. Twice. Then three times. Then a second submarine in the same vicinity, just after making contact with the Chinese fleet.
Somehow, the Chinese were sinking their attack boats with impunity. News spread through the crew like wildfire as confirmation had come forth in the emotionless text of Navy message traffic. COMSUBPAC sent a priority message informing the entire fleet that the Chinese had a new type of very effective antisubmarine warfare technology. Further details were being gathered.
No shit.
Yesterday the Columbia had gotten a message from the Office of Naval Intelligence providing a bit more information. Two submarines had sent out emergency burst communications just before entering combat. The communications included reports of unusual acoustic signatures surrounding the Chinese fleet.
Navy antisubmarine warfare experts at the Undersea Warfare Development Center believed the noises might have been air-dropped munitions or sonobuoys. Since satcom was down, limited-bandwidth communications were coming from stealth drones the US Air Force was flying over the Pacific — a temporary fix to a big problem. This meant that the Columbia didn’t have the ability to download the actual sound files and include them in the ship’s computer. So Commander Wallace’s sonar experts didn’t even know what they were listening for — just that it didn’t sound like anything else in the US Navy’s recognition training files.
Yesterday, as the USS Columbia had traveled west in the Philippine Sea, COMSUBPAC had sent them another round of updates to their orders. Not only were they to locate and track the submarine-killing Chinese fleet, now Columbia was to “gather as much visual, electronic, and acoustic information” as they could on the new ASW technology and send back the data using the submarine’s own reconnaissance drone. Special navigational programming instructions had been sent for their drone.
Very few members of the crew were told of the new mission. Those who were understood the implications; those who weren’t could read the writing on the wall. The cease-fire ROE meant that they couldn’t attack the convoy. The convoy was killing every sub that got near it. And the Columbia was heading straight for them.
Commander Wallace was met by his XO as he entered the bridge. “Good morning, Captain.”
“Morning, XO.”
“We estimate about four hours until we are within scope range of the lead ship in the convoy.”
The two men stood over her chart. The OOD joined them and said, “Sir, with your approval, this is where we’ll hold station until they hit closest point of approach.”
The lieutenant pointed to a spot ahead of and slightly offset to where the convoy would be. Commander Wallace examined the chart, nodding. The attack boat would wait silently for the convoy to come into range, collecting data, feeding into the hard drive on the drone, and launch it the moment they were fired upon. If they were lucky enough not to be fired upon, they would wait for the convoy to pass and begin trailing it, launching the drone when they were a safe distance away.
As had been the case since the dawn of submarine warfare, their chief strategic advantage was stealth. Submarines were able to get into hot zones and gather information, insert special forces, take on intelligence operatives, or quietly observe future targets. If Commander Wallace had it his way, the USS Columbia could stay far enough away to track the largest Chinese fleet ever to set sail.
If and when the cease-fire ended, Columbia would be ready. They would unleash their weapons and inflict maximum damage to the enemy with minimal risk to the sub. With luck and skill, Wallace would maneuver his submarine to remain undetected and reattack, picking off both warships and transports as they made their way east across the Pacific, a shark slowly eating away at a school of fish until there was nothing left.
There was a part of him that was revolted by the thought of firing on Chinese transport ships. Warships were one thing. But the transports, filled with soldiers and sailors with families at home and futures ahead of them, that gave him pause. An internal conversation that he wouldn’t voice to his men. But he also knew that when the time came, any revulsion he felt would be set aside. The wheels of war were now turning, and anything other than ruthless efficiency allowed the enemy to have their way.
The same kill-or-be-killed instinct that applied to animals in nature had governed enemy tribes as long as man had formed them. As soon as this cease-fire ended, his duty, however cruel it might be, was to destroy the enemy before they had the opportunity to inflict death and destruction upon his brothers in arms. The Chinese were bringing cargo vessels across the Pacific. Those ships were filled with men and munitions that would be used to kill Americans. He would sink them.
Perhaps, with luck, he would never have to take such action. Perhaps the world leaders would come to their senses. For now, he would run silent and—
“Conn, Sonar. Multiple splashes in the water. Believe it to be air-dropped, sir.”
Commander Wallace frowned. Sonar should be providing direction and distance.
The conning officer said, “Bearing and range, Sonar?”
“Twenty thousand yards is the closest. But, sir… they’re saturating that area. There must be twenty splashes, and they keep coming. Building a big buoy field out there.”
The conning officer walked towards the navigational chart in the center of the space.