Shattered Trident - Страница 2

“Mechanical transients from Sierra-three eight. Contact is opening torpedo tube outer doors,” announced the sonar supervisor, excitement in his voice.

Iwahashi acknowledged the report. The Shang SSN was less than seven thousand yards away from the merchant. Ten thousand yards was the estimated outer edge of a Chinese sub’s engagement envelope against a surface ship, based on past exercises. He’ll shoot soon, thought Jerry as he tried to imagine himself in his counterpart’s shoes.

Not even a minute later, the sonar supervisor called out, “Launch transients! One… no, two slugs!”

Jerry turned to look at the sonar display, but was stopped short when he saw the color draining from the sonar supervisor’s face. “TORPEDOES IN THE WATER!” he shouted. “Two weapons bearing zero three zero!”

“I have the conn!” Jerry barked. “Pilot, right full rudder, all ahead flank! Sound general quarters!”

The flurry of responses to Jerry’s orders was only partially hidden by the BONG, BONG, BONG of the general alarm. Almost immediately, additional people began piling into control as the battle stations team took their positions. The executive officer, Lieutenant Commander Bernie Thigpen, literally had to shove his way through the masses to reach his station.

“What the hell is going on, Skipper?” Surprise and concern were all over his face.

“XO, our friend out there just fired two torpedoes.”

“Seriously?” Thigpen asked incredulously. “At us?”

“Seriously. And I don’t know,” Jerry replied. “But I’m not taking any chances. I’m cutting behind the Shang. If those weapons are aimed at us, any anti-circular run feature should force them to shut down.”

“Captain, passing zero four zero to the right. No ordered course given,” exclaimed the pilot loudly.

“Very well, Pilot. Steer zero seven zero.” Jerry had to raise his voice to be heard over the growing buzz.

As the pilot responded to his captain’s orders, the sonar supervisor shouted out, “Captain! The torpedoes are classified as Yu-6s, bearing zero two seven and drawing left. But I have down Doppler, repeat down Doppler, the torpedoes are heading away from us!”

“Keep it down, people!” Jerry roared. It was too noisy in the control room and he had to hear every report properly. “Very well, Sonar.”

“Concur, sir,” Thigpen reported. “Weapons are not coming toward us.”

Looking up at the port display, Jerry saw the Chinese torpedoes pulling away from them—they weren’t the intended target. He then saw North Dakota’s speed climbing past sixteen knots; he needed to slow down before they popped out of the Chinese boat’s starboard baffles. At high speed even a Shang would be able to hear them. “Pilot, all ahead two-thirds. XO, are those torpedoes heading where I think they are?”

“If you mean the merchant ship, then yes, sir,” responded Thigpen flatly. “They’re closing at over fifty knots; time to impact, three minutes forty-five seconds. And there isn’t a blessed thing we can do about it.”

In an eerie silence, Jerry and his crew watched as the dots representing the torpedoes merged with the merchant’s symbol. It struck Jerry that the engagement looked just like a video game—only this time, people would die in the end. The explosion from the first torpedo was easily heard through the hull. But before the sonar supervisor could even make a report, a much louder, far more powerful explosion followed.

“Sweet Jesus! What was that?” exclaimed a shaken Thigpen.

“Had to be a sympathetic detonation,” said Jerry dryly. “But from what? The ship was listed as carrying coal.”

“Captain, I have loud breaking-up noises from Sierra-five two, bearing three one seven. She’s going down fast.”

“Very well, Sonar.”

“Skipper, the Shang’s bugging out.” Thigpen pointed toward the port large display. “She’s altered course to the left and has increased speed. Orders, sir?”

Still a bit stunned himself, Jerry simply stared at the display, desperately trying to understand what had just transpired. But soon he felt the weight of everyone’s gaze upon him. Everyone in control was waiting for a decision from him. He was the captain. Sighing deeply, he said, “Let her go, XO. We have more pressing business.”

Turning to Lieutenant Iwahashi, he continued, “OOD, make for Sierra-five two’s last position. Best possible speed. We need to see if anyone survived that blast. I’m not very hopeful, but we need to at least take a look. XO, you and the commo have ten minutes to get me a draft OPREP-3 message. We’ve just witnessed an act of war, and we need to phone home.”

1. WE HAVE AN AGREEMENT

8 August 2016

Hanoi, Vietnam

Dr. Komamura Sajin took in the view of Hanoi as they drove. Much of the architecture still reflected French rule, although modern buildings were mixed in everywhere, replacing ones destroyed in “The War.”

The city was filled with history. After his lecture yesterday morning, he’d visited the B-52 Victory Museum, escorted by a large party of Vietnamese officers and officials. They’d even arranged a meeting with a veteran of the war who’d flown MiGs against the Americans. Komamura was still getting used to his celebrity status, but he loved the perks that came with it.

His official escort, Commander Nimh, had chatted with the professor in English, since Komamura spoke little Vietnamese. Nimh had read the new Vietnamese translation of Komamura’s book, and was obviously enthused to meet its author. Nimh made it clear that he considered the assignment a privilege, and that there had been fierce competition for the spot.

They were close to the ministry now. It occupied an entire block of Hanoi, but looked more like a college campus than office buildings or a military headquarters. Light-colored brick buildings with red roofs surrounded a grassy quadrangle with a fountain in the center. Trees dotted the grassy areas and almost surrounded the ministry buildings.

They turned out of the morning traffic and stopped at the security gate. In spite of the official car, the driver and Commander Nimh both had to present their identification. The commander showed a letter vouching for Komamura, and the guards checked him against their own access list.

There were more security checkpoints after they entered the main building and went to the top floor. As in other military headquarters he’d visited, Komamura passed relics in glass cases, paintings of battles, and several images of Ho Chi Minh and General Vo Nguyen Giap. At the last checkpoint, he surrendered his smartphone.

Komamura was nervous; he’d been treated like royalty, and had enjoyed every minute of it. But there comes a time when royalty has to earn its keep. Normally he didn’t pay much attention to his appearance, but he’d dressed for the occasion in his best suit with a wave-patterned dark blue silk tie embroidered with the kanji character for “umi,” the sea.

Nimh led him to a top-floor conference room. Instead of a large table, there were several groups of comfortable-looking chairs. Occupying three were several older naval officers. Preparing for the trip, Komamura had studied Vietnamese rank insignia. These were senior admirals.

A junior officer stepped up to translate, and the professor was quickly introduced to Admiral Hieu, the navy’s chief of staff, and Admirals Phai and Duan, the heads of the Vietnamese Navy’s political and intelligence directorates. He realized they’d all been at his lecture yesterday, but they hadn’t been introduced to him at that time.

While Nimh served small cups of tea, Komamura took a seat next to the chief of staff. The admiral was old enough to have a puckered scar on his left arm that ran up under his shirtsleeve. Komamura had heard he’d been wounded in the south. He hadn’t heard how.

Komamura was only slightly younger than the admirals, but his expensive suit contrasted sharply with their dark green uniforms. He was also nearly six feet tall, a full head higher than Admiral Hieu and the others. Komamura’s large frame filled his chair, and his Buddha-like bulge would never have been tolerated in military service. Their only similarity was a lack of hair. Komamura had a fringe of white, Phai’s was thin to the point of transparency, while the other two had simply shaved their scalps.

“Admiral Kubo sends his best wishes,” Komamura said. “I spoke with him just before leaving Japan. He remembers your meeting in Honolulu warmly.”

“At the Pacific defense chiefs’ conference,” Hieu remembered. “Our first discussions there were most helpful.”

Once Nimh had made sure everyone was settled, he disappeared, leaving Komamura with the three admirals and the translator. The professor knew he faced his examiners.

Admiral Phai, the head of the political directorate, began the conversation. “The new Vietnamese translation of Navies for Asia has been very well received here. It was even reviewed in Quan Noi Nhan Dan, a mainstream newspaper, although the reviewer criticized it for being ‘pro-Chinese.’”

Komamura laughed, almost a chuckle. “That’s what he gets for not reading carefully. Recognizing the growth of Chinese military power doesn’t mean I support that growth.”

“We agree with you that the Chinese threat is only going to get worse,” Phai responded. “Every country bordering the South China Sea has suffered attacks on their exploration ships, unauthorized fishing in their waters, and confrontations with Chinese paramilitary vessels. The number of these incidents is growing, and China makes no apologies.”