Ashes of Victory, page 30
The vessel quivered, and for a moment he thought the internal bulkheads would collapse as the pressure started to equalize from the large amount of seawater pouring in.
Three hundred feet.
The hull creaked and rivets popped as computer screens went blank. The submarine suffered massive electrical failure as dark water cascaded from the breached bow to the stern, like white-water rapids splashing through the control room.
Two hundred feet.
His eardrums aching from the rapid pressure change, Sergeyev tightened his grip on the pipe as the metallic noises nearly drowned the roaring engine.
Ninety feet.
He held his breath when the air became thick with smoke from electrical short circuits as more electronics sparked, flickered, and went dark.
Forty feet.
The massive ship broke the surface at a speed of thirty-one knots, it’s bow rising out of the water nearly fifty feet before splashing down hard, kicking up towering curtains of white foam. The instant it settled, the submarine started listing toward the bow as the water level continued to rise.
“She won’t stay afloat long!” Sergeyev shouted. “Abandon ship! Abandon ship!”
Zhdanov staggered back and relayed the order before climbing up the conning tower as sailors rushed in from the stern and bow.
“Let’s go, men!” Sergeyev shouted, shoving them one by one up the ladder, sunlight piercing down from the open hatch.
It took less than a minute to get everyone up the tower while the water reached Sergeyev’s knees.
With a final look at his control room, the former Soviet captain placed a hand on the small bulk on his heavy jacket’s pocket and headed up the ladder to face a brisk and windy afternoon.
And that’s when he spotted the strangest ship he had ever seen off his stern. Light gray and shiny, it resembled more a submarine than a surface vessel.
USS ZUMWALT (DDG 1000)
“TELL ME AGAIN WHY we shouldn’t just blow the bastards out of the water?” Cmdr. Briana Sasso asked, standing on the bridge between Cmdr. Ronald Cartwright and Art Gomez, watching as the submarine surfaced and quickly began listing toward its bow.
“You can do whatever you want with the bastards, ma’am,” Gomez said with a grin. “As soon as I get what I want from them . . . starting with the captain.” He pointed at the bearded man emerging from the conning tower last.
Briana took a deep breath, wondering which was the more merciful of the options for the wet and pallid crew gathered on top of their sinking vessel.
— 26 —
RESTORE-L SATELLITE, 140 MILES OVER THE SOUTH PACIFIC
LAUNCHED A YEAR BEFORE from Vandenberg Air Force Base, California, the low-Earth orbit servicing unit created by Space Systems/Loral in Palo Alto, California, made its final approach to the malfunctioning STSS-2 satellite from the US Missile Defense Agency (MDA).
Designed and deployed for the sole purpose of repairing and refueling satellites in low earth orbit, Restore-L fired its helium verniers, slowing as it neared the military surveillance asset.
ON THE THIRD FLOOR of a nondescript building at the Johnson Space Center in Houston, Texas, twenty-nine-year-old Billy Culver, an engineer from Loral, sat behind his cluttered control console while his two uniformed clients from the Department of Defense looked over his shoulder.
Sipping his third Red Bull since the start of his midnight shift three hours before, Billy barely touched his right thumb and index finger against the joystick control next to his keyboard. Moving it with the same finesse with which he’d mastered Ninja Gaiden II and Flywrench, two of the most difficult video games ever designed, he maneuvered the service satellite right up to the underside of the SSTS-2. Tapping his keyboard, he focused two of its lenses on the graphite fiber exterior.
“Whoa,” he said when he saw the round charcoal area roughly six inches in diameter getting progressively darker toward a quarter-size hole in the center. “Nasty burn.”
“So, it’s confirmed, then,” one of the DoD men said as Billy snapped photos.
“No shit, amigo,” Billy offered.
“Good,” the other DoD man said.
“Anything else, dudes? Gotta get to a job from GE next.”
“Actually, two things,” the first uniform said. “What you saw is a matter of national security and—”
“Yeah, yeah, blah, blah, blah,” Billy interrupted. “I get it. I have clearance, remember?”
As the DoD men exchanged another glance, Billy added, “And the second thing?”
“The photos. Could you send them to the email—”
“Already done, dudes.”
Within the hour, the images made it to the Pentagon, then the White house, confirming the suspicion that the SSTS-2 had been hit by a ground-based laser two days earlier, as it had cruised over the Chinese missile site at Guangdong.
USS ZUMWALT (DDG 1000), LUZON STRAIT
SITTING ON A SLEEPING berth in a cabin belowdecks, Yuri Sergeyev awaited his fate.
The submarine commander knew he was in an impossible situation, and the more he considered it, the more he questioned the order to surface. At least dying at sea in the execution of his mission would have given his family a chance to live and prosper in Chile.
But now . . .
As he contemplated his limited choices, a man in civilian clothes entered the stateroom. He looked Asian but his deep-bronze-colored skin suggested perhaps Indonesian or Filipino ancestry.
“Captain Sergeyev.”
Sergeyev nodded, then asked, “And you are?”
The man didn’t show any annoyance at the question. “You may call me Bill, though I won’t pretend that’s my real name.”
Sergeyev nodded. “Of course not. My crew is being looked after, Bill?”
The dark Asian man again didn’t show any reaction. Instead, he reached into a pocket of the cargo pants he wore and produced Sergeyev’s phone.
“Captain, in all seriousness, the fate of your crew depends on this conversation. If it goes well, they will be treated well. If it does not . . .”
Sergeyev nodded again. He understood the threat. “In that case, please treat them very well.”
The man looked questioningly at the captain. “And why would I do that?”
Rubbing his bearded chin, Sergeyev tried to think this through one more time, because once he crossed that line there would be no going back.
“Because, Bill, I can give you what your government wants.”
The man tilted his head. “And . . . what would that be?”
Sergeyev nodded toward the small, encrypted satellite phone and said, “The identity of my employer . . . and his location.”
USS MISSOURI (SSN 780), TAIWAN STRAIT
STANDING NEXT TO HIS XO, Cmdr. Frank Kelly frowned as he looked around his control room. Now that the crew of the Type 212A had been transferred to USS Zumwalt, COMSUBPAC had assigned the Mighty Mo to Rear Admiral Jack Swift, commander of the Carl Vinson Carrier Strike Group, while operating in the strait.
Kelly’s new orders: intercept and track a Chinese Type 096 ballistic-missile boat that had entered the north end of the strait twenty-four hours earlier as part of the escort for the aircraft carrier Liaoning.
Lying in wait, engines off, Missouri had fallen in its trail as the Chinese submarine had cruised by at a depth of two hundred feet, its crew apparently unaware that a US hunter-killer submarine had turned into its baffle.
While Liaoning remained in the northern part of the strait, a good distance from the Vinson carrier group, the Type 096 had headed south.
For the past seven hours, Kelly had tracked it down the strait fifty miles off the coast of China, past the islands of Dongshan Dao and Nan’ao Da before reaching the Penghu Archipelago. The Type 096 had then continued south into the South China Sea, presumably headed to Yulin Naval Base, home of the ballistic submarines of the PLA Navy.
“Need a word in private, Bobby,” Kelly told Giannotti. “Let’s go to my cabin.”
“Yes, sir.”
When they entered the commander’s small stateroom adjacent to Giannotti’s and across from the junior officers’ quarters, Kelly shut the door and then opened his safe. “Have a seat. You want to be sitting down when you read this.”
Kelly reached inside and produced a classified document that had arrived along with their new orders but labeled COMMANDING OFFICER—EYES ONLY.
“This has been authenticated, direct from the White House by way of Admiral Blevins to Commander, US Pacific Command to Commander, US Pacific Fleet. From there it was relayed to Admiral Swift, who passed it to me.”
Giannotti frowned. “Boss, very few good things actually float downstream, and I get the feeling this isn’t one of them.”
Kelly sighed, then handed it over. “Read the president’s direct order.”
Still frowning, Giannotti read the directive and looked at Kelly as his scowl broadened to the point that it creased his forehead. “Skipper, am I missing something, an exercise?”
“No, Bobby,” Kelly said. “It’s not a test or an exercise. It’s the real thing.”
“As opposed to what we’ve been doing for the past week?”
“This one’s straight from the top,” Kelly trailed off. “Though it’s unusual, to say the least.”
“Yes, it is,” his executive officer replied, a troubled look on his face. “Definitely getting hot in the strait.”
“Any doubts?” Kelly asked.
“Not if it’s been authenticated by COMPACFLT,” Giannotti replied, referring to the commanders of the US Pacific Fleet.
“The admiral wants it carried out as soon as practical, but left it at my discretion,” Kelly said with determination in his voice. “I’ve sat on it for the past several hours. In my view, this is as good a time as any. Concur?”
“Yes, sir,” Giannotti said.
“And I want you to be the officer of the deck when we execute it.”
Giannotti just stared back.
“You can handle it, Bobby.”
“Thank you, sir. But for the record, I can’t believe we’re doing this.” Waving the piece of paper, he added, “You realize this is the only thing that differentiates us from a terrorist flying a plane with explosives into a carrier.”
“I do,” Kelly said matter-of-factly. “But theirs not to reason why.” Then glancing at his wristwatch, he added, “I’ll brief the crew, and you’ll execute the order in ten minutes. Do you have any questions?”
Slowly he shook his head. “I just hope we’re not kicking off World War Three here.”
“Yeah,” Kelly said in a subdued voice. “If there’s any consolation, unlike the older Type 094 that carries twelve JL-2 SLBMs, the new Type 096 houses twenty-four, each with almost a five-thousand-mile range and up to four independent nuclear warheads in the ten-megaton range. If the bastard gets within a thousand miles from our west coast, it could shower us with little-to-no warning.”
After a heavy sigh, Giannotti added, “I’ll go to the control room now, sir.”
GIANNOTTI ROSE FROM HIS seat with a flurry of questions on his mind that were well beyond his pay grade, but he understood that orders were orders and that the time had come for him to show he had what it took to command one of these boats. He took a deep breath as he approached the watch station for the officer of the deck. He relieved the lieutenant and then made a quick mental assessment of the operational situation.
Shortly thereafter, Cmdr. Kelly made his surprise announcement to the crew. They would be conducting a first for the attack submarine. Missouri had a direct order to kill the pride of the Chinese submarine fleet.
“Range to target?” Giannotti asked.
“Three thousand feet,” Chappelle replied. “Bearing three-six-zero. Speed one-five knots.”
“Ahead slow,” Giannotti ordered, in order to create a little more separation.
“Ahead slow, aye.”
Counting the seconds in his head, he asked again, “Range to target?”
“Three thousand five hundred feet, sir,” Chappelle replied.
After receiving confirmation from the weapon systems officer that Missouri had a firing solution, Giannotti took a deep breath and said, “Fire one.”
“Fire one, aye.”
Counting to five in his head, he said, “Fire two.”
“Fire two, aye.”
The pair of MK 48 ADCAP (advanced capabilities) heavyweight acoustic-homing torpedoes rushed out of their bow tubes, and their sonar and all-digital guidance systems locked on to the stern of the Type 096.
“Twelve seconds to impact. Type 096 starting evasive maneuvers. Both torpedoes have acquired. Type 096 has released countermeasures. Five seconds to impact. Countermeasures ineffective,” Chappelle reported before removing his headphones.
Although there were only two torpedoes, the large SSBN exploded three times—the third being the largest of the blasts, even rattling Missouri more than a half mile away.
Chappelle put his headphones back on, listened for a moment, then said, “Confirming breakup of target, sir.”
“Set depth six-zero feet,” Giannotti ordered.
A couple of minutes later, high-definition video of the field of debris floating south of the Luzon Strait filled two of the flat screens.
“Ahead one-third. Right full rudder,” Giannotti ordered, to maneuver the attack submarine around the perimeter of bits and pieces floating on the surface.
He inhaled deeply, staring at the debris, and for a moment questioned his lifelong dream of commanding an attack submarine.
Feeling the gaze of the men inside that control room waiting for his next order, Giannotti calmly turned to the radio station and said, “Inform Vinson. Mission accomplished.”
“Aye, sir,” replied the senior electronics technician, working his controls to relay the message.
A minute later, as they continued circling the flotsam, the printer next to the senior technician churned to life. Unfortunately, rather than receiving the standard acknowledgement reply from the fleet, and perhaps even an “attaboy,” Missouri simply received new orders directly from Admiral Swift.
After reading the directive twice, Giannotti sighed and said, “Set depth three hundred feet. Bearing two-seven-zero.”
As the crew executed his order to get them back to the Taiwan Strait, he gave the drifting remains of the Chinese sub a final look. He reached inside his shirt and found the cross he wore. Holding it, he said a silent prayer for the souls of those whose lives had just been taken. May the Lord have mercy on them . . . and on us.
Then he calmly left the control room in the hands of a lieutenant and headed back to Cmdr. Kelly’s cabin.
— 27 —
THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, DC
PRESIDENT CORD MACKLIN STEPPED inside the Treaty Room with Hartwell Prost in tow and found a contraband McDonald’s lunch on his desk, courtesy of his crafty DNI. But before he could turn to that, he sat and asked, “Is there any reason to believe they got a message out before they sank?”
“Given the Chinese sub’s depth at the time, it seems highly unlikely.”
“And it’s confirmed that we lost one of our satellites.”
“Confirmed. A high-energy laser punched a hole right through it.”
Frustrated and angry with the leadership in Beijing, Macklin struggled to suppress his displeasure and hostility. “Dammit. What are the bastards thinking? And how should we counter this?”
“We just sank their new sub, Mr. President, with considerable loss of life. I’d say that serves the purpose.” He paused, choosing his next words carefully. “I know you and Brad are into this ‘going downtown’ approach,” he said, making quotation marks with his fingers. “But perhaps we should focus on de-escalating for the moment.”
The president studied his friend, then nodded. “Soon, Hart. Soon. But first we are going to extract another pound of flesh.”
“Yes, sir,” Prost said, “but let’s leave the bastards a chance to save some face. You know that’s important to them.”
The president nodded, then spoke again, “Speaking of bastards, are we set on the other thing?”
Prost nodded. “Happening real-time,” he said, turning on the screen at the end of the room in time for the White House press secretary to reach the podium and brief reporters that three torpedoes had been fired at Vinson, damaging it.
“I’m going to catch hell for this,” Macklin said.
“Technically it’s all true, sir. One of them did damage the carrier.”
“And Denny reported it’s already been fixed.”
“A minor detail that will be released after, sir. But it’s all part of the illusion . . . so we can bag him this time.”
“Yeah, in return for the immunity deal I signed,” Macklin said with a sigh, before adding, “if it ever gets out that I pardoned the motherfu—”
“It’s the head we’re after, sir,” Prost reminded him, “not one of its tentacles.”
“I know that, Hart . . . still. The bastards killed hundreds of sailors, wounded Stennis, and sank North Dakota,” Macklin said. I’m having a hell of a time wrapping my head around the fact I actually signed the damn piece of paper.”
Prost was about to reply when Macklin waved him away, feeling quite disgusted with himself. “I need a moment, Hart.”
His DNI promptly left the room, and the president just stared at his lunch, at the juicy burger and salty fries. He looked at the beads of condensation running down the side of his very sweet chocolate shake. But his all-time favorite comfort food, the one that he’d even sneak around Maria to eat, suddenly made him nauseous.
Pushing it all aside, Macklin just stared at the TV as his press secretary fielded questions from the media, piling up lies on top of lies.
Closing his eyes, he prayed that Prost and his team would make it all worth it and get it right this time around.
SANTO ERASMUS, SEVENTY-FIVE MILES SOUTHWEST OF VIRGINIA BEACH
