Well clear, Savo Island took station five thousand yards to the south. The vertical replenishment — by helicopter, from the carrier — took considerable time, as there were quite a few netted loads for them, equipment boxes, fresh stores, spare parts and equipment for the SH-60 bird that was coming aboard later that day.
Meanwhile he studied the twenty-page letter of instruction, scenario, and tasking message for that evening’s exercise. “Mayfly” was a generic proword, or shorthand, for at-sea missile-firing exercises. Tonight’s was called VANDALEX. He’d already reviewed the standing OPGEN for the battle group’s general warfighting guidance. For the most part, it followed the Med readiness standards and procedures he was familiar with from Horn’s deployment.
Scenario T-03 was based on Country Orange attempting to seize an island chain from Country Green. Scenarios no longer used real nations’ names, though usually they were fairly transparent. But he couldn’t quite see who this one was designed to emulate. At any rate, the task force commander had fragged Savo Island in place of Oscar Austin as the assistant fleet antiair warfare coordinator. This meant he’d be the fallback in case of any equipment failure or damage. His station was twenty miles east of the main body, making Savo part of the outer screen — those units most likely to be engaged first.
Which meant he and Cheryl Staurulakis had to have these twenty pages essentially memorized by midnight. Arleigh Burke was designated firing ship, an artificiality, but you had to have some sort of setup when playing with live targets. Which they would be. The Orange navy was being simulated by a mixed force, two Turkish subs currently some sixty miles to the southeast, and a surface action group of two Dutch Provincien-class frigates to the north.
He flipped through the red-bound references, then through the heavy blue volume of Jane’s, mentally marking the frigates for a Harpoon strike, if they ventured close enough. His main worries were the two German-built Type 209 submarines, and the Kormoran antiship missiles that Turkish F-5 fighter-attacks out of Izmir, playing the Orange air force, would be carrying.
In the dimly lit confines of Sonar, an oddly spacious compartment just off CIC, the lead sonar technician, Albert Zotcher, was coughing into a tissue when he looked up from the display. He grabbed the armrests and started to rise before Dan pressed his shoulder down. “Got a copy of tonight’s scenario, Chief?”
“We’re running tapes on 209/1400s now, Captain.” Zotcher, a studious-looking little guy who Dan thought looked like old pictures of Grossadmiral Karl Doenitz, nodded at the sonarmen on the stacks. They glanced incuriously at Dan, then back to the patterns that played spellbindingly before their eyes, like ripples on tangerine silk. “We’ll have to watch them. There’s a fifty-mile danger circle on the Sub-Harpoon.”
Dan pinched his lower lip between thumb and forefinger. Cruisers weren’t traditionally that hot at the antisubmarine skill set. Usually stationed close to the carriers — the “1 shell,” if the carrier was the nucleus and the screening ships were electrons — their primary responsibility was stopping air threats. But once on her lonely station to the east, Savo Island would be on her own. For sheer self-defense, he wanted the ship as sharp as possible in every area. Unfortunately, looking over the last combat systems assessment report, he hadn’t been impressed. Savo Island’s ASW gang had graded in the bottom 30 percent.
“What’s this the XO’s telling me about water vapor in the transducers, Chief?”
“Could be, sir. It’s not easy to tell.”
“Could that be grounding damage?”
Zotcher said, “It might be, sir. Then again, it might not.”
O-kay, Dan thought. “Is Rit Carpenter any use to you? Where is he anyway?”
“Should be up in an hour, sir. Yes, he’s pretty … old-school, right?”
“That’s one way of putting it. Yeah.”
“Like the crusty old guys I learned from. But he knows his way around a sonar stack.”
Dan nodded. “Yeah, he does that. And how about … Lieutenant Singhe?”
He got a dull-eyed glance. “How about her, sir? What do you mean?”
“She seems to have some new ideas. I wondered if you had an opinion on them.”
“I’m not sure I get what you’re asking me, sir. She hasn’t discussed nothing with me.”
“Okay, just thought I’d ask. What can I expect for detection ranges?”
They discussed mixing layers and propagation for some time, doing several runs on the sonar mode assessment system, before Dan felt he had a solid fix. The two U.S. subs attached to the TF, both Los Angeles — class nuke boats, would be running submerged, at slow speed, ahead of the task force. It was plain they’d have to depend on them, and ASW air from the carrier, for long-range detection. Dan rubbed his forehead. “What’re we getting from the array?”
“The TACTAS? I’d like to stream it as soon as we can, Captain.”
The towed array was a mile-long cable studded with very-low-frequency hydrophones that spooled out of the stern. Deployed, it not only could pick up a sub’s pumps, motors, prop, and flow noise from many miles away, but could even provide an approximate range. Once it was trailing, though, the ship’s maneuverability was severely restricted. More than one skipper had forgotten it was out there, turned too sharply, and cut the tether, irretrievably shitcanning four million dollars’ worth of microphones into the tender custody of Davy Jones. But not using it wasn’t cost-effective either. “I thought it was out there already. That should be standard operating procedure in ASW play. Check with the bridge and let’s get it deployed. You’ll need to stabilize and background before COMEX.”
Zotcher nodded, fingers kneading a tissue as he sniffled, already back into the patterns the sea wove before his eyes. Dan watched him for a minute, then another. And at last, realized the man had nothing further to say.
He watched from the hangar as the helo lined up, grew, hovered above the slowly tilting flight deck, then finally settled to squat its tires nearly flat as the turbines whined down. The lead pilot and detachment commander, Lieutenant Commander Ray Wilker, nicknamed “Strafer,” introduced himself and his crew. Dan showed them their spaces and gave the “welcome aboard” talk. The SH-60B, call sign Red Hawk 202, had as its main mission the extension of its host ship’s sensor range. They had night vision and electronic eavesdropping equipment, sonobuoys, and a data link, along with a limited selection of weapons. Dan felt reassured having a helo aboard. It would be a definite boost to his own-ship protection capability, once they were close inshore.
He grabbed a green tray, trying to remain impassive amid the curious glances of those around him in the serving line.
“You go on ahead, Captain,” one young man said, waving him on into the mess decks. His dark hair was cut very short on a bumpy, long, rather unattractive skull. His coveralls, of the exact same fabric as Dan’s, were worn sky blue at the knees; his rolled-up sleeves showed the pale blotches of lasered-out tattoos. A ripple went down the line to the steam tables as one sailor after another turned to see what was going on. Every word Dan said in this line would be over the ship by morning.
“That’s all right. I’m in no hurry.” He pushed out a hand. “Dan Lenson.”
“Oh. Yessir! DC3 B-Benyamin,” he stammered.
Dan kept smiling, recognizing now the man whose cap had blown off as his new captain was being piped aboard. “That’s right, I remember you. So, how’s it going in Repair Three?”