Tipping Point: The War With China - the First Salvo (Dan Lenson Novels) (42 page)

“What about the North Koreans? They’re making trouble again.”

Dan studied the chief’s face, realizing he wanted something solid to put out to his guys. To be able to say
I talked to the CO, and here’s the straight skinny
. “Chief, I’d just say that we’re heading east, and the situation’s confused. China’s acting nuts. India’s acting nuts. The exec and I are busting our asses trying to get some answers for all of us.

“But we know how to fight, and we’re ready. We proved that at Hormuz. So tell your troops, don’t sweat it. We won’t leave anyone holding the bag. Whatever comes over the horizon.” Dan slapped the man’s back. “Gotta get back to Combat. Keep at it.”

“You know we will, sir,” Quincoches said. “Us
middle management
.”

*   *   *

HE
reeled forward along the main deck, bent into the wind, putting out a hand from time to time to a bulkhead or a lifeline as
Savo
gyrated. The sea rushed past in a continuous roar, and now and again a spatter of spray trailed over the ship, glittering in the wind. He came out of the starboard break onto the forecastle, slogged up to the bullnose, and stood facing the empty sea ahead, the wind ruffling his hair and rippling his coveralls. Channeling Kate Winslet in
Titanic
. Then faced aft, and strolled down the port side. The break was empty. They’d offloaded the three Iranians to the carrier, a big relief. Dr. Schell was still aboard, to make sure the crud was vanquished, but the plan was to offload him in Singapore. He undogged the weather deck door aft of the port refueling station. Climbed a ladder, another, and let himself into CIC.

His seat fitted him like a major leaguer’s glove. The smells of warm leather and coffee and old sweat mingled with the glacier-breath of air-conditioning. He shrugged on the foul-weather jacket hung over the chair, and ran his gaze over the displays. Dave Branscombe was on, but on his far side, in the CIC officer’s chair, brooded the goddesslike profile of Amarpeet Singhe. Dan nodded to them both. “Dave. Amy. What’s current?”

“Trying to get Amy up to speed, be able to slot her in on TAO if we have to.”

“With your approval, of course, Captain,” Singhe added. “And we’d have to put in for a waiver to BUPERS.”

“Uh-huh. Well, I want the senior watch officer’s and the exec’s input on that. And you’d have to sit for a TAO board.” Dan wasn’t entirely comfortable putting her in the hot seat, but he couldn’t deny they needed depth on the bench. He had only three qualified TAOs, which meant he had no backup if one took sick, or couldn’t pull duty for some other reason.

It was his decision, in the end. As long as she didn’t screw up, it’d probably slide on through a paper drill. But if she did, and his enemies up the chain found out … No, screw that. He couldn’t start thinking in those terms.

The TAO situation was just the tip of the iceberg; the same problem was surfacing in his other departments. He couldn’t steam in hostile seas for days on end without a fully manned watch. Yet he didn’t have enough bodies to man his strike, self-defense, Aegis, sonar, and TAO seats. The only solution was to step up their efforts to qualify lower-rated personnel. And that meant deferring maintenance, so
those
personnel could spend their time training. “Okay, fine. I’ll tell Matt to set up a board. So, what’s happening?”

“Well, not that much since you were last here, Captain.” Branscombe glanced at the screens. “Still air defense coordinator. Still getting spotty, slow updates on Geeks. But the HF jamming’s stopped. Or maybe we’re just out of range now.”

Dan examined the leftmost screen, which showed the battle group’s steaming formation. The carrier was far to the south, with the logistics ships tucked under her wing and her helicopters probing for any submerged adversaries. The next sphere out were the cruisers and destroyers. The frigates were a hundred miles ahead, tails streamed, searching the long-range, low-frequency bands for the telltale beats of submarine screws. Disagreeable to think of any ship as of less value than another, but when you came down to it, frigates were low-manning and low-cost. That made them the whiskers a strike commander liked to poke out ahead of more valuable platforms.

Also out ahead, and ranging all around the moving force, antisub fixed-wings were laying sonobuoys and working surface surveillance. In this situation, and even more so as they closed in on the strait, the group commander would be sweating bullets about threats in the area of approach.

As to their own submarines, they weren’t on the radar. Obviously. The task force commander’s staff, and SubPac of course, knew where they were, but no one else. Which was how they liked it.

“Merchant traffic?”

“Pretty much stopped, Captain. Everybody who’s in port is staying in port.”

He examined the center display, a fusion of GCCS and task force data, including
Savo
’s own picture. The few Chinese merchant vessels still under way had either turned around or diverted to neutral ports. An Indian destroyer had intercepted one, in the Arabian Sea, and was escorting it into Jamnagar. “When do we hit chop longitude?”

“Midnight, sir.”

As they steamed east, the strike group was leaving Central Command for the Pacific Command. Another clue to their destination. “And we’re ready?”

“The exec was going over it with us.”

“Us being…?”

“The TAOs, the CIC officers, and the watch team supervisors.”

“I conducted a review of the relevant pubs and ROEs,” Singhe said.

“That’s right, Amy did part of the brief. To help her get up to speed.”

“Good, that’s good.” Dan sighed and massaged his cheeks. He needed a shave. And a shower. And more sleep.

The red phone beeped. Branscombe answered. Listened. Glanced at his watch. Said he’d pass that information, and signed off.

“What is it?” Dan asked.

The TAO started writing in his log. “COs’ conference, on the carrier, sir. Uniform is wash khakis or ship’s coveralls. Helo’ll be here in an hour.”

*   *   *

FOLLOWING
his escort down the vanishing-point passageways of the supercarrier, he fought the urge to throw up. Eighty thousand tons of steel and machinery moved in a seaway, but it didn’t move much, and the change from
Savo Island
’s faster roll was disorienting. The helo, from
Vinson,
had hopscotched from ship to ship before returning to the carrier. He’d left Cheryl in charge, feeling a twinge as
Savo
shrank to a gray dot on the wide blue. But on the whole, confident she’d do as well as he could. Maybe better, without the self-doubt and occasional paranoia he seemed to harbor like a malignant growth in his gut.

The conference wasn’t in the wardroom, as he’d expected. His guide led him and the others from his helo up ladder after ladder until they were far above the flight deck. Headed for the flag level, he guessed.

Two armed sentries scrutinized his ID, checked each CO against a list, and at last ushered them into the tactical flag command center. The TFCC was a conference room and operations center, where the strike group battle watch officers stood duty and conducted planning and briefings. It had red phones, computers, large-screen displays, projectors, and unclassified and classified videoteleconferencing capability. The other skippers were at the far end, gathered around a mess nook with the usual pastries and doughnuts. He valved coffee into bone china, complete with saucer. Shook hands, and introduced himself to captains and commanders he didn’t know. They all seemed to know him. Or at least his name. Which might be good, or might not.

He tucked a hand under the arm holding the cup and slouched, tuning in to the talk and speculation. Picking up bits that could be jigsaw-puzzled together for a general picture, at least, of what was happening.

Since World War II, the Navy had been built around carrier battle groups, or strike groups, as they were latterly called. Each supercarrier was accompanied by its bristling guard of cruisers, destroyers, and submarines. In peacetime, the groups relieved one another at sea, in port, and in the yards in a rotation planned many years ahead.

In wartime, those in port could be pulled back together and put to sea, and those in the yard reconstituted. Unfortunately, there was no real reserve anymore. Since the end of the Cold War, appropriations had gone into maintaining the active forces, with the Navy Reserve almost entirely a manpower pool. The Coast Guard was behind them too, but in anything resembling a real war, their lightly armed, sensor-deficient cutters would be just inviting targets.

Now the whole vast machine was groaning into action, and millions of tons of metal and hundred of thousands of seamen were on the move.
Nimitz
and
Washington
were already in the western Pacific. Strike Group Eight,
Eisenhower,
had been ordered out of the Gulf into the Arabian Sea, to replace
Vinson
as she headed east. In like manner, Strike Group Ten was getting under way from Norfolk to move into the Med. Strike Nine was moving up its deployment date, and Strike Four and
Franklin D. Roosevelt
had—as Chief Quincoches had mentioned—gotten under way early from San Diego.

A familiar face: Jenn Roald. Her pixieish, sharp-nosed profile homed in through the throng. She looked up and patted his sleeve. “Dan.”

“Commodore. Good to see you.” They shook hands. “I see you’re the screen commander.”

“And you’re our ABM escort. You really shot down a Pakistani nuke?”

“That’s what the Indians say it was.”

“I want to hear about it. Everything you couldn’t put in the message. But not right now. Your crew’s okay? No recurrence on your Legionnaire’s disease?”

“The doc’s still aboard, running tests. But we might just have it licked.”

“And how’s the groper case coming? You’ve got NCIS over there, right?”

“Trying to make the arrangements. Nobody yet, though.”

“Meanwhile, you’re keeping your women safe? Warning them to stay in pairs, and so forth?”

He was about to say “of course, as much as I can,” but a lieutenant wearing a gold aiguillette stepped in. The “Flag Loop,” as the aide was called, lifted his voice. “Attention on deck.”

“Please carry on, gentlemen, ladies,” Tim Simko said. Short, dark-haired, round-headed, the commander, Strike Group One, looked amazingly unchanged from when Dan had played lacrosse with him at Annapolis. Yeah, the Naval Academy, when they’d dreamed of battle and glory. Now he hoped they could avoid it. Only fools dreamed of war, and only the ignorant thought it glorious. But he wasn’t sure if that meant he’d grown wiser, or if he’d just seen too much. “Everyone got coffee? If you’ll take seats, we’ll get started.”

Dan found a chair next to Roald. The admiral remained standing in front of a large-screen display. The aide handed him a clicker and dimmed the lights as the Strike One logo popped.

Simko said, “This will be a short brief, as I know you all want to get back to your units. Which is also where I want you. Thanks for coming, and greetings especially to our sub commanders, who are attending via teleconference.” He nodded to a camera on a tripod. “I’ll kick off, then turn it over to the chief of staff and my N-heads for the details.

“Just got off the line with Fleet, to make sure I was clear on the commander’s guidance and how things are developing in the AOR. So what you’ll hear today is up-to-the-minute.”

Click.
A map of Southwest Asia. “The nuclear exchange between Pakistan and India has stopped the invasion, but the Pakistani army has been forced back past the Indus. China has issued an ultimatum to India, to halt in place or face consequences. They’ve taken Bhutan, and are massing more forces at the northern border now. So India’s facing a two-front war, maybe even three; Myanmar has asked Indian diplomats to leave. New Delhi’s asking for our support. So far, we’re trying to get both sides to the conference table, but our clout with the Pakistanis is less than it used to be.”

Another image: the Indian Ocean. “Chinese, Pakistani, Iranian, Nigerian, and Burmese—what I’ve heard called the ‘Axis’ powers, though I don’t know if that’s going to stick—merchant traffic through the IO has basically stopped; any vessel under way has been taken into custody. Beijing’s assets currently in theater are limited, two subs and the
Wuhan
surface action group, but it’s possible we could meet their forces surging west through Malacca while we head east. Which could turn into a meeting engagement.

“Incidentally, we already detected those two submarines, Song-class, passing to the south of us. USS
Montpelier
trailed them while we kicked the decision upstairs, whether to attack or not. Orders came back down to let them go, but continue tracking. The Indian navy’s been notified of their positions, courses, and speeds, using a back channel into their submarine command.”

A new slide. “As you’ve guessed, Strike One’s headed for the South China Sea. China’s moved air and naval forces to the Paracel Islands, breaking a formal agreement with Vietnam. We may head north toward the coast; depends on how things play out. If cooler heads prevail—and I hope they will—we’ll turn around and head back to our previous stations. If not—well, then we’ll see.”

In rapid succession, now, other images flicked up. “The Japanese are protesting a Chinese landing in the Senkaku Islands, and are asking for backup. North Korea has seized the Kaesong Joint Industrial Zone, which it’s offering to China. That would give them a major air and naval base just north of the DMZ, and seriously threaten allied ability to operate in the Yellow Sea. ROK forces are going to full alert. There are also diplomatic indications the Chinese are trying to set up other forward airfields in Timor and Brunei. Plug in long-range maritime patrol, some fighter/attack, and they could control a lot of airspace. Even if they just “persuade” some of those smaller countries to deny overflight, that increases our problem set significantly.”

Simko clicked again, and the Strike One logo returned to the screen. “So we see chess pieces starting to move. And a lot’s probably going on in the sub world even I don’t know about … spooling up, moving C3 assets forward, ponying up assets from Italy and Germany and South Africa to take over as we rebalance from the Gulf and the Med.”