“What if he doesn’t, sir? What if Chancellor Shoernberg comes out with guns blazing?”
“Then we teach him a lesson that his country has already learned twice.”
The line was silent for nearly a full minute before the president spoke again. “Bob, we can’t afford to lose this one.”
The CNO’s voice was very quiet. “I know, Mr. President. I know.”
CHAPTER 41
The shore version of the admiral’s Flag Plot bore very little resemblance to the sort found on aircraft carriers. Gone were the radar consoles and radio handsets, replaced by computer terminals and desks with secure telephones. The walls — uncluttered by piping and cable runs — were decorated with bronze and wooden plaques bearing the names and coats of arms of nearly every ship, submarine, and aircraft squadron that had ever served within the U.S. Naval Central Command’s area of responsibility. The large tactical display screens that dominated the east wall were of civilian design: the type used by corporations for training or briefing large groups of people. But despite the obvious physical differences, the shore and ship versions of Flag Plot were more alike than they were different. The tools were different, but the conversations that took place over the secure telephones tended to cover the same subjects that were discussed over shipboard secure radio circuits. The tactical symbols that peppered the big civilian-built display screens were from the same catalog of symbology used on ships.
The Duty Intelligence Officer, Lieutenant Commander Calvin Fisk, didn’t give the differences or similarities of ship and shore facilities even a passing thought. In addition to his other duties, he had an inch-thick stack of reports and message traffic to plow through. Luckily, most of the information was routine, meaning that he could skim some of the pages — checking only for significant changes in matters of tactical interest.
One message grabbed his attention. It was a contact locator report from SUCAP (Surface Combat Air Patrol), the squadron of fighter jets dedicated to monitoring — and if necessary, engaging — hostile and unknown surface craft operating in the Gulf region.
According to the report, three unmarked fishing trawlers had spent several hours cruising around off the coast of Siraj. Ordinarily, this wouldn’t have even been worth mentioning, but the SUCAP aircraft had spotted the trawlers several times, and none of the boats had ever made any visible efforts to deploy fishing nets.
Lieutenant Commander Fisk looked up from the stack of paperwork.
He wasn’t particularly concerned, but it was a little strange. He picked up the phone and punched the extension number for the Plot Supervisor.
“Plot Supe.”
“This is the Duty Intelligence Officer,” Fisk said. “I’m holding a SUCAP locator report on some Siraji fishing boats that are acting a bit on the squirrelly side. I’m sending a copy your way. I want each reported position for the boats recorded on the master tactical plot. I also want you to update the positions of the boats if any new reports come in.”
“Will do, sir,” the Plot Supervisor said.
As soon as he hung up the phone, Fisk realized that he hadn’t mentioned the lack of nets. It probably wasn’t important anyway.
He summoned an orderly. “Here,” he said, handing the young Sailor the SUCAP message. “Make a copy of this. Put the original back on the Read Board and take the copy over to master tactical plot and give it to the Plot Supervisor.
“Aye-aye, sir.” The orderly turned and walked away with the message.
The Duty Intelligence Officer went back to his stack of reports and didn’t give the fishing boats another thought.
Four hours later, the on-coming Plot Supervisor examined the master tactical plot as part of his preparations for assuming the watch. He pointed to the track history for Lieutenant Commander Fisk’s fishing trawlers.
“What the hell were these guys doing?”
The off-going Plot Supervisor shrugged. “Fishing, probably. The intel officer got a bug up his ass and made me put them on the plot.” He laughed. “Why? Do you think they’re fishing in a manner that poses a threat to the security of the United States of America?” The last part was in an exaggeratedly masculine voice that was obviously meant to mimic the overly histrionic narrators used in Navy training videos.
The on-coming Plot Supervisor didn’t smile. “I don’t think they’re fishing at all,” he said. He pointed to the track history. “Look at all these course changes, like they were weaving a blanket, or something. If they were fishing, they ran over their own nets at least a dozen times. Where are they now?”
The off-going Plot Supervisor yawned and stretched. “They pulled back into Zubayr about forty minutes ago. Why? What do you think they were doing?”
“You’ve got me by the short and curlies,” the on-coming supervisor said. “But you can bet your ass it wasn’t fishing.”
CHAPTER 42
Captain Bowie addressed the small group of men and women gathered around the wardroom table. “I apologize for calling this meeting at such a late hour, but we may very well be in combat again by tomorrow morning, and that means we have to make our preparations tonight.” His eyes lit on the commanding officer of USS Benfold, and he nodded in her direction.
“I’d like to thank Commander Vargas, and her USW Officer, Lieutenant (junior grade) Sherman, for accepting my invitation to join us tonight. I know that they have personnel casualties and damage-control issues to deal with back on their own ship, and I can appreciate how difficult it must have been to tear themselves away.”
Commander Vargas nodded. “I’m glad to be here, Captain. This really isn’t an easy time to leave my ship, and I have to confess that I was tempted to send Lieutenant (jg) Sherman by himself. But I have a top-notch exec, and I’m certain that my ship is in the best of hands. Still, I had to do some soul searching before deciding to come. Here’s what made up my mind … Our SAU is down to two ships now, both of which are damaged. We have a tremendous amount of firepower at our command, but very little of it can be brought to bear against a submerged submarine, which tells me that we probably can’t outrun this guy, and we certainly don’t outgun him. If we’re going to sink that submarine, we’re going to have to out-think him.” She looked around the table. “And since this is where most of that thinking is going to take place, this is where I need to be tonight.”
Captain Bowie nodded. “Well said, Commander. Well said.” He looked at the XO. “I’ve asked my executive officer, Lieutenant Commander Tyler, to kick us off with an outline of our current status. Pete?”
The XO nodded. “Thank you, sir.” He paused for a second and briefly consulted some notes that he’d made on a yellow legal pad. “The torpedo hit that we took on the port side did a number on us. We have a hole in the hull, to the port side of the keel. We’ve estimated its size at about twenty feet by fifteen feet, but we don’t know the actual dimensions of the hole, because the compartments that it opens onto are all flooded to the overheads. If we had time, we could ask for a team of divers to conduct an underwater survey of the damage, but time is the one thing we haven’t got.