9

USS SAVO ISLAND 25°00.38 N, 159°42.37 W 500 Miles NW of Wake Island

CHERYL leaned back on the bridge chair. The sun warmed her face as she tried not to scratch the itchy patches between her fingers. The red, aggrieved spots were spreading. Doc Grissett had given her a steroid cream, but it wasn’t helping.

The cruiser’s truncated prow sliced through two-foot seas as every few seconds the singsong whine of her sonar pinged out into the deep. Scattered clouds chased their shadows over a sea so deep blue it hurt the heart. A balmy breeze coursed through the wing doors. Aloft, flags snapped. A breechblock rattled as a gunner’s mate checked one of the machine guns. Down on the forecastle, cross-legged around portable computers, fire-control techs were carrying out the daily systems-operability tests, quizzing the missiles beneath the gray hatches set nearly flush to the deck.

The Ticonderoga-class cruisers had been designed around those weapons and the radars that guided them. Within a radius of three hundred miles, an Aegis ship could detect, track, identify, and knock down anything that threatened. Ahead, a black speck hurtled outward: a just-launched Blackjack, one of the drones that searched ahead of the advancing force with synthetic-aperture radar and a hyperspectral imager.

A week had passed since the near-disastrous exit battle from Guam. After forming up and completing a damage assessment, the task force had headed north. The Japanese had interned George Washington, still crippled from a mine strike, but had let her aircraft go. MH-60s from Helicopter Sea Combat Squadron 12 had flown out hundreds of miles over the open sea, well beyond their point of no return. McClung had hot-refueled them, hopscotching them the rest of the way to Hornet. One had to ditch en route, but Kristensen had picked up its crew.

Ollie Uskavitch cleared his throat beside her. She’d moved the Weapons Department head up to acting XO until the filler from stateside arrived. They went over the day’s schedule. Helicopter and ordnance fire drills, mainly. Evolutions they could do with personnel already on station, without moving them around the ship. Things they could put a lid on instantly, if operational requirements dictated.

When he left she viciously scratched her fingers, musing. Wondering.

CTF 76 had passed intel that opposing forces comprised ten Song-class diesel-electric attack submarines, along with another nine to ten more advanced Yuan-class subs with air-independent propulsion. There might be an older boat, too, converted to carry fuel and torpedoes so the force could extend its stay, perhaps for months.… Also, there were up to five nuclear boats. This huge pack might be subdivided into attack groups, but Intel placed them all within a square bounded by 5 degrees north to 25 degrees north, and between 180 and 160 degrees west.

Unfortunately, that covered roughly a million miles of ocean.

She had no idea what Lenson’s plan was for finding their enemy.

To take them on, he had helicopters, two U.S. destroyers, and Savo, Hornet, Farncomb, and the Koreans. The eastern jaw of the vise, out of Pearl, consisted of another LPH, four destroyers, an Independence-class frigate, and one U.S. sub. They were supported by land-based air out of Hawaii, while TF 76 was supposed to get flights out of Wake.

Meanwhile, logistic transits through the mid-Pacific had been called off. Even escorted convoys would be torn apart by a pack that large. Fuel, supplies, weapons, and parts had to come either by air or the long way round, through the far South Pacific to Australia, then routed north.

Which meant the task force couldn’t expect much, and none of it on time. And the carriers were still holding east of Pearl. Safer for her husband, aboard Vinson, but not so good for her.

“Captain?”

She returned the salute. Lieutenant (junior grade) Todd MacAllister had moved up to head Supply since Hermelinda had left for Lenson’s staff. Tall, heavy-jawed, and low-browed, he seemed to have a handle on the department, though he hadn’t made the extra effort to qualify as OOD that Garfinkle-Henriques had. “Todd. How’re we set for chow?”

“Numbers don’t look good, Captain. That missile hit Earhart in the forward hold, where they stowed dry stores. Between fire and flooding they lost most of it.”

“Which means we don’t get resupplied?”

“’Fraid not.” The Supp (O) looked regretful. “We got some fresh stores in Apra, but not a full allowance. Gonna be eating out of cans. Dehydrated stuff, powdered milk.”

“Excuse me. Captain?” Past MacAllister, Lieutenant (jg) Mytsalo was angling for her attention.

“Yeah, Max, what have you got?—Excuse me, Todd.”

“Lookout reports: Hornet’s showing a list.”

She frowned. “Hand me those binoculars.”

Through the glasses the gray slab of the carrier jumped close across ten thousand yards of sea. A slight list to port? Maybe. Something to fret about? She decided not. “How many days’ chow do we have, Todd?”

“On normal rations maybe two weeks. If you give me permission to go to half rations … cut back on meat, provide more starches … a month.”

She looked away to cover her dismay. But berating him wouldn’t produce more. “Very well,” she said reluctantly. “Our guys in Korea’re probably not getting much to eat these days either. And we have no idea how long we’ll be out here. Go to reduced servings. Do I need to make an announcement? Have the exec put it in the plan of the day?”

MacAllister grimaced. “Why bother, Skipper? The minute the word goes down in the Supply Office, it’s gonna be all over the ship.”

She checked her watch and swung down out of the chair. She gave the boatswain, at the 1MC panel, the nod. Took deep breaths, scratching her fingers, as he blew “attention” on his silver pipe. Then accepted the microphone.

“This is the captain speaking. Good morning.

“From today on we will be hunting a sizable submarine pack that we know is somewhere in this sea area. We may be attacked at any time, by missile or torpedo. We will continue steaming in Condition Three. Keep flash gear and breathing apparatus close at hand at all times.

“Now set Material Condition Zebra, modified for flight operations, throughout the ship. Make all reports to the bridge.”

Steel slammed, doors and hatches dogging as Savo subdivided herself. Her captain passed a hand over her face, looking out again to where Hornet rode the horizon. Centerpiece of a task force flung across fifty miles of sea.

She hoped its commander knew what he was doing.

*   *   *

THAT afternoon in CIC she hunched in the padded command chair, absorbed in the displays. The space was darkened save for the screens. At Condition Three, wartime steaming, all consoles were manned except Strike. Voices murmured over tactical circuits. Keyboards clattered. The air was icy cold, but she was comfortable in a nylon flight jacket, though her sinuses hurt.

Propping her jaw on a fist, she studied the central screen.

Task Force 76, alone in an unislanded sea, headed east at twenty knots in a circular formation. Hornet, Green Bay, and Earhart steamed at formation center. Savo rode shotgun ten thousand yards southwest of the carrier. She was air guard, though the farther east they went, the less likely missile or air strikes became. Ahead, and to the north and south, were spread wings of destroyers and frigates, U.S. and Korean. Farncomb, the Australian sub, was out ahead, supposedly sanitizing their track, but running on diesels, snorkeling, at the moment.

The missile deck videos showed empty ocean. She studied the weapons inventory once more, dismayed. Then turned to the TAO, next to her at the desk. “What d’you think of this formation?”

Matt Mills reminded her of her husband. The same blond good looks, but without the fighter-jock attitude. He’d come from squadron staff in the Med as a temporary fill, and been with them since. “It’s … not really optimal?”

“Is that all? No shit, Matt. It’s weak.”

He looked as if he wanted to agree, but didn’t. “Okay, what?” she asked.

“Just that … Lenson’s no dummy. If he set it up, there’s something we’re not seeing.”

She studied the screen again. What was she missing? Lenson had reoriented the formation late the night before. The ROKN screen units were clustered on the northern and southern flanks, thirty miles out from the main body. Three frigates centerlined the leading edge of the formation, ten miles ahead. Savo was ten thousand yards to starboard of Hornet. McClung was ten thousand yards to port. Kristensen brought up the rear, protecting them from end-arounds.

Ship dispositions weren’t the whole story, of course. Icons glimmered on the screen as recon drones and helos roved, busy as bees in clover. Every twelve miles HSC-12 dropped staggered rows of sonobuoys across the advance. The buoys hit the water, cut their chutes, and deployed microphones on wires a hundred yards long. They didn’t ping unless ordered. Just hung passive, alert for the heartlike whish-whish of submarine propellers,the throb of pumps, the whine of air-conditioning, the clank as torpedoes were handled or watertight doors swung closed.

She scratched furiously, then made herself stop. Get more sleep, before things started popping again? But a motion on the after hangar deck camera caught her eye.

The California Guard was doing a slew check. The gyrostabilized turret, craned aboard in Apra, had two launcher pods, each with four Stingers. There was no direct link to the cruiser’s combat system. Instead they had a watchstander on sound-powered phones. If they got an incomer, all they had to do was slew to the bearing and pickle off rounds in ripple fire. The missiles did the rest, streaking out at incredible pace.

She found herself scratching again, and cursed. Stingers were short-range, but one thing this war had demonstrated was that once action started, threats had to be dealt with faster than in any previous conflict. They could expect saturation attacks. A short-range backup was more than welcome, as far as she was concerned.

“What’s wrong with this formation?” Mills mumbled, squinting into the screenlight. His fingers drummed the desk. Then he grabbed a red-backed publication, flipped pages. “Huh. See who he’s got right in the middle, in the lead? Seoul. FF-952. Seems like a weak sister to you?”

“It’s an older class,” she agreed. “Definitely less capable than Jung’s other units.”

“The other van units are Ulsans too.” Mills frowned, massaging his eyelids. “I don’t get it.”

The CIC officer clutched his headset. “Forward lookout reports smoke from Hornet.”

Cheryl grabbed the joystick on the command desk, slewed the missile deck camera, and zoomed in. Mills rattled his keyboard, and video popped on the left display.

A black cloud billowed from the flight deck.

“I don’t see flames,” Mills said. “But that’s a hell of a lot of smoke.”

She hit the key of the 21MC. “Sonar, CO. Anything from about zero-one-zero relative? Torpedo noises, explosions?”

Chief Zotcher’s voice. “Negative, Skipper. Why do you—ah … oh … wait one.”

She jumped up and stalked across CIC, brushing past bent backs at consoles, and rattled the blue curtain aside. “We have smoke from Hornet,” she told the sonarmen.

One muttered, staring at his screen, “She just shut down a shaft too.”

“But no explosion?” Should she close, to help? Strange, there’d been nothing over the air.

“Skipper?” One of the air controlmen. “TAO’s asking you to step over.”

Back at the command desk, Mills pointed to text glowing on the LAN screen. “Command chat just came up.”

“I thought it didn’t work without satellites.”

“Guess they figured some way to do it without. Short range. Line of sight.”

“Or it’s someone trying to phish us. Remember, we were warned about comm compromises.”

The screen read:

BARBARIAN: All units Horde, this is Barbarian. Comm check.

“Answer up?”

“CIC, bridge: flashing light from carrier. Stand by … breaks as … ‘come up command chat ASAP.’”

She slid into the chair and pulled her keyboard into her lap.

MATADOR: This is SVI.

TURTLESHIP: Turtleship here.

BIRKENSTOCK: Online.

MARATHONER: Online.

FULLBORE: Present.

HALFBACK: Halfback online.

Seconds ticked by.

BARBARIAN: Is Hammerhead online?

No answer. “Earhart’s not answering up, either,” Mills observed.

“They’re USNS, not USS. May not have chat capability. And the sub may not want to transmit. Even to acknowledge,” Cheryl murmured.

BARBARIAN: Commander’s intent follows. Horde proceed base course one-one-zero speed twelve.

“Twelve knots?” Mills muttered. “Twelve?”

BARBARIAN: New screen stations as below. Execute to follow. Hammerhead position ahead of main body at 50 meters depth.

As the station assignments followed, Mills called up a formation diagram on the screen, and began pointing and clicking to sketch in the sectors. Cheryl pinched her lips with her fingers. At first glance it resembled a typical bent-line screen. But Lenson was pulling his most capable units back behind the main body. Leaving only the thinnest of lines ahead … three Ulsan-class ROKN frigates, and older flights, at that.

She, Mills, and the CIC officer exchanged puzzled looks. Usually, a hunter-killer group commander didn’t want to be in the thick of the ASW fight; the destroyers and frigates were specialized for that mission. But this was even bolder. Hornet was the highest-value unit out here. If the enemy got a mission kill on her, the whole task force was out of commission.

The 21MC clicked on. “TAO, Radio.”

“Go, Comm.”

“HF message in the clear from Hornet. I read back: ‘Fires under control. My port shaft is locked. Headed to Pearl for repairs. Can make no more than twelve knots.’”

Cheryl leaned back, nodding as it all clicked into place. Then leaned in and typed swiftly:

MATADOR: Quack, quack?

A moment passed. Then characters appeared.

BARBARIAN: Quack.

Mills was blinking. The CIC officer looked uncomfortable. “What gives, Skipper?” the TAO murmured. “That some kind of inside joke?”

“I guess you could say that.” She pushed back from the table, zipping the jacket up under her chin. She shivered, and not just with the air-conditioning. “He’s pulling a lame duck.”

“Explain?”

“We’re out here in a million square miles of ocean, with no clue where the enemy is until he strikes. The Chinese must have some kind of surveillance, or direction-finding capability. Though we don’t know what.

“Lenson’s going to take advantage of that, by making himself look like a target. Broadcasting a damage report. Making smoke. Shutting down a shaft. Probably, ballasting to produce that list too. All to make it look like Hornet was damaged in the Guam strike, and is heading back for repairs.”

Mills drew a deep breath. “And softening his front line to suck them in.”

She wondered if she looked as worried as they did. The tactic might attract the enemy, true. Localize the wolf pack in a way they couldn’t otherwise. But weakening the defenses at the critical point, directly ahead of the formation … the optimal axis for a determined submarine attack …

She pulled the Hydra from her belt. “XO, CO here.”

XO here. What you need, Skipper?”

“Ollie, do this low profile, no fuss. But have all life rafts checked. And schedule an abandon-ship drill for tomorrow.”

“Ma’am? We already drilled—”

“Drill it again.” She signed off.

It was incredibly dangerous. Incredibly risky. Bold. And totally unorthodox.

Exactly the kind of tactic the Dan Lenson she knew might come up with.