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Captain Milton G. Bartholomew, Sr. UGN, stared out at the heaving swells of the South Pacific from the bridge of the UGS John F. Kennedy, one of the world’s most modern supercarriers. As the Sea Combat Commander, he had over seventy-five modern aircraft to call on through his CAG – his Commander, Air Group. He had helicopters, he had sonar, he had feeds from the whole CSG – the Carrier Strike Group – antisubmarine ships and aircraft which included sonobouys and synthetic aperture radar and all manner of sensors. He had a hundred billion dollars’ worth of technology at his fingertips, and he still couldn’t find one damned boomer. The Commissar was going to have his ass, not to mention the Admiral.
Part of it was this damned cyber attack that the Free Communities had launched. Intel was being very closemouthed about how they knew, but the latest intelligence summary claimed 95% certainty that it was the FC behind it. No matter who it was, it was causing a lot of problems. The fleet was reduced to secondary means of communication, UHF, VHF and ultra-long-wave, since all the satellites were crapped out. Fortunately the CSG’s internal links, though degraded by the lack of satellite bounce, were functioning using over-the-horizon and line-of-sight comms. The Navy had multiple redundant systems for command and control, and they were getting a workout the last few days.
He had hoped a bit of fresh air would help him think but it wasn’t working, not with that damned Political Officer Stimson hovering around him wherever he tried to go. Bartholomew was as good a Unionist as anyone but no military man likes his decisions constantly reviewed and second-guessed.
Nimbly descending several ladders, he hurried back down to the Combat Direction Center, the CDC, to stare at the screens, displays, radar and sonar feeds.
The Admiral was not going to be happy, and Bartholomew was the most convenient whipping boy when things went wrong. First among equals, he was supposed to coordinate the entire surface deployment of the battle group to accomplish the mission tasking. He had coordinated; they simply hadn’t accomplished the task. It didn’t matter that the Admiral was actually the one in charge and could order whatever maneuvers he wanted, Bartholomew had to get the job done.
He didn’t understand why he hadn’t. As soon as Pacific Command had lost contact with the nuclear-powered ballistic-missile submarine UGS Nebraska, the strike group had turned toward its last reported position and raced to find it. They had gotten there within twenty hours.
At first they had thought it was some kind of accident; there was supposed to have been a rescue drill with the Frank Cable’s submersible, but the boat wasn’t where it should have been. Then they thought perhaps it was enemy action, though no explosions had been recorded by the passive sonar installations scattered about the sea floor, or by other subs listening.
Then the rumors from Fiji had turned out to be true; for the first time in naval history, a submarine had been boarded – boarded! – at sea and apparently hijacked.
The captain of the Nebraska should be court-martialed for negligence. But the coward and the rest of his men were claiming asylum in the Free Republic of Fiji, and the Australian Navy was deployed to defend that island nation. He really didn’t want to tangle with the Australians. They were the only one of these namby-pamby Free Communities he could halfway respect. They were the only ones that would stand up and fight instead of hitting and running, spreading their inhuman disease and corrupting the minds and morals of everyone they touched.
He shuddered. Unionists like me are the only things standing between the world and the complete anarchy and neo-communism of these infected Sickos.
It didn’t matter. It wasn’t time to tangle with the Australians yet. They should have been nuked early on, when everybody was hollering but nobody was willing to do anything. If those pussified French and British and Japanese hadn’t threatened to start retaliating with nukes for the strikes, they could have brought the Sickos to their knees, wiped them out once and for all. The Japanese, for God’s sake! Who’d have thought they could put together nuclear weapons so quickly, and ditch their alliance with the US in favor of working with the Chinese? At least the South Koreans had stayed more or less loyal.
So now the Pacific Fleet was stretched to the limit – the same as ever – countering the Japanese and Chinese and Australian navies, protecting its trade routes, not to mention suppressing rampant drug smuggling from South America and dealing with the constant guerilla war from Free Community commandos.
But none of that mattered right now. He was just delaying the inevitable, which was to go down to the flag bridge and tell Rear Admiral Halston that he still had nothing. Not a clue. The Nebraska had just...vanished.
Pacific Command was coordinating two other CSGs and several independently operating attack subs, sweeping the most likely lanes. They had positioned a few of their hunter-killers and several detached destroyer escorts between the hijacked sub’s last known position and the Australians, and he didn’t think the Nebraska could have slipped through. From the reports, there were only a few commandos aboard. There was no way they could slink through the holes in their antisubmarine net the way a full trained crew could. His submarine liaison officer had assured him all they could do was point the boat in one direction and go, and hope to get away.
He took one more look at the map display set into the smart table. They had everything westward covered. The CSG centered around the UGS Gerald Ford had the east, barring the way to any run toward the South American Coast or the Straits of Magellan. So where did that leave them?
South?
But that made no sense. There was nothing south. The pirates didn’t have the manpower and expertise to hug the Antarctic shelf closely enough to escape around the frozen continent. That took sonarmen and helmsmen and nuclear engineers and a host of others. What else would they do? What would he do if he were them? He slid his fingers across the touchscreen, setting the field of view just as he wanted it. He plotted angles, speeds, circles of maximum distances traveled.
It all depended on how much of a hurry they were in. If they were patient; if, say, they gently grounded the boat on the bottom in the trackless southern latitudes, a handful of men could stay down for years. They might go stir-crazy, but they could do it. Then they could reemerge at any time. The boat would be a constant threat.
Maybe that was their game. A deterrent. Maybe that insight would redeem him somewhat in the eyes of the hawk-like Admiral Hanson. He shrugged silently. What could they do to him? Deny him his flag? He didn’t care about that. He just wanted to get to kill some Sickos. And maybe, just maybe, if they turned the CSG southward right now, they could catch these sons of bitches.
He gave such orders as were within his authority, extending the battle group’s perimeter southward. He then issued a fleet advisory that noted the possibility of the enemy running south. Perhaps that would prompt the independent attack subs to look harder in that direction. The UGS Tucson was closest; Captain Absen was one of the best. He might read between the lines. It was all he could do right now.
He hurried to brief the Admiral, that weasel Political Officer Stimson following silently behind.
