Twenty Minute Wars: CBG Seven
by Michael G. Crawford
Chapter Two
"Come left 10 degrees."
"Aye, Sir, left to 204 degrees" replied the helmsman of the U.S. destroyer, the U.S.S. Nicholson.
"Any changes Hydro?" queried the skipper of the Nicholson, Commander Ben Childers.
"No Sir. Still cruising on pulsors, course 0 degrees. I'm sure he knows we're still here."
"Very good. Carry on" replied Ben, his back already to the man on the underwater listening device. He was trying to resolve a small crisis in his own mind. He was now dangerously close to the land mass of the Ivory Coast. In fact he was breaking maritime law by making way at this speed so close to the shore. His crisis was one of command judgement. His target was breaking the law in more ways then he. After all, Ben had implied permission to be here, the sub did not. He made his decision and decided to continue his pursuit regardless.
"Radar, keep a close watch on surface. Lookouts to be extra cautious. I don't want to ram a damn fishing boat."
"Aye Sir. Radar continues to report a small surface vessel, off the Starboard bow."
After a few minutes as they closed on the surface ship, the Exec Officer reported,
"Lookout reports small vessel is flying diving flag, Sir."
"Very Well, Mister Aherns. Back one third. We have enough beam to her but I don't want shake them up too much."
The two men moved out onto the starboard side of the flying bridge. The Exec continued the Captain's train of thought.
"As far off as they are, I doubt we will generate any wake. Say, I wonder if they even knew the sub went under them" spoke the Exec.
"Doubt it...Any other flags, or anyone on deck?"
"No, Sir. But you know, if they were underwater..."
"Would they notice a sub? Probably not. Would be interesting to know though, wouldn't it. But if we asked and they hadn't seen anything, then they would wonder like crazy what prompted such interest from a hot running destroyer. No, I don't want to comprimise our mission if we can avoid it. Hell we'll be in enough trouble for running this hot so close to the shoreline. I would imagine that CINCLANT will be explaining to the President in an hour or so. Much easier being out here!" he quipped, both men knowing the reputed temper of the President and how the briefing might be going for the current Commander in Chief of the Atlantic forces.
The Skipper of the Nicholson had spent his obligatory 2 years in the Pentagon, as did his Executive Officer, Lt. Commander Ochin Amaray. They both knew what a circus Washington duty could become once you were on the hot seat. There was nothing for making or breaking a young officer in the U.S. Navy, as having to brief a Fleet Admiral on some action far away from home. Get the right points anchored in the Admiral's mind, and he came off knowledgeable in the Oval Office or the Cabinet Room. Get it wrong, and well...shore duty was all you could look forward to, the Navy man's worst nightmare.
On the Nicholson, though, Ben had found his real home. The Spruance class destroyer was designed in 1975 as a Anti-Submarine Warfare weapon, carrying various air-to- surface missiles and highly sophisticated underwater surveillance gear. She could fly along at better than 30 knots if necessary or could slip along on very quiet thrusters while seeking out a quiet enemy below the waves.
The destroyer carried ASROC, the RUR-5A Anti- Submarine ROCket which could carry the eight foot Mk46 torpedo. This lightweight torpedo would, after entering the water some distance from the destroyer, home in on the submarine using passive listening devices or if necessary by actively seeking the sub via sonar. Also carried by the destroyer are six 12.75 torpedo tubes and 2 SH-60B LAMPS III.
The Spruance class also carried the RIM-7H NATO Sea Sparrow Anti-air attack missile, which at a speed of Mach 4 and a range of 15 nautical miles, served as the main air defense for the destroyer.
Ben felt comfortable with this array of weaponry and the men manning the equipment were just about as diverse as the gear. Commanding this crew had really been entertaining as well as difficult. Ben had decided he liked the mix, and felt he could stand his duty for a number of tours.
Just as he had begun to become fully involved in these thoughts, the deck officer shouted out from the bridge doorway, "Picking up an SOS from the surface contact, Sir".
"Right, Mr Harris." He stepped quickly into the confines of the glassed in bridge and began earning his pay, "Helm hard to starboard. Engines all back two thirds. Make for the vessel and come to a complete stop minimum distance 100 yards, thrusters at my command. Make ready the longboat, and raise the rescue flag. Harris I want to know the nature of the emergency, and make it fast. If we can lend help via a boat, I'll send some men over to stay and help, otherwise I want to get back under way in five minutes."
"Aye, Sir. Surface contact is Sailor's Refuge owned by the Smithsonian. Underwater archaeology support ship. Reporting a fatality under unusual circumstances. Skipper of ship requesting humanitarian assistance and asks that we take two of his passengers and the deceased on board, Sir. One is a Dr. Adam Jackson, leader of the expedition, and the other is Dr. Terry Sustance. Dr. Sustance passed across his Naval Reserve service number. Looking him up in BURPERS now."
Ben knew that the huge Bureau of Personnel Service computer back in D.C. would be cranking out the man's identity in record time. Sure enough the Lt. J.G. read out the report as it appeared over the Fleet Communications - FLTCOM - datalink terminal. "Former Naval Attache to the Ambassador to South Africa, a former SEAL, retired as Lt. Commander, Sir."
Ben looked over to his Exec, and they exchanged looks of being impressed, their eyebrows raised and the slight "Hmmm" escaping both of them.
"Understand, Mr. Harris. Okay, let's have thrusters to port, put the surface contact to aft, I want us pointing back at the sub. Secure us from General Quarters, but keep the crew frosty. I don't want our friend coming back at us while he have our guard down. COMM, invite our guests aboard the longboat. Tell 'em to hurry. Our target is still moving along and I want a chance to corner him before he slips out beyond the limit."
"Aye, Sir...They say they are ready to transfer."
"Longboat ETA is 1 minute, COMM" said Ochin to the radio man.
"Aye, Sir" as the man relayed the information to the boat across from them.
Ben moved around the forecastle of the destroyer, his Exec following him to where they could view aft and starboard. He chaffed at the delay. Perhaps too it was that all he could do was watch as his men finished dropping the longboat into the water.
Basically the Navy's standard liberty boat, its flat bottom and open design allowed for a large number of persons either seated or standing as well as all their duffel bags. The longboat engine was running just before she touched the water, and swerved away from the Nicholson almost instantly. Climbing the slight chop, she blasted over to the fairly large dive boat. Ben noted that it appeared to be a converted fishing trawler, with room enough for a galley and sleeping quarters.
Through binoculars, Ben noticed the tall black man and his skinny compatriot each toss four bags in to the longboat's driver then jump in themselves. The next object handed in chilled Ben to the bone. It was a white shape on a stretcher being lowered into the longboat. A body bag. Despite his years in the Navy, he never adjusted to the white shroud.
In a moment or two, the longboat was away from the dive boat and crashing back toward the motionless destroyer.
"You think they saw our target, Sir?" asked Ochin, his curiousity also peeked by the sight of the body bag.
"It would have to be pretty damn remarkable visibility, wouldn't you think, Ochin?"
"Yes Sir. But it is quite a coincidence, wouldn't YOU say? I mean we're chasing a sub, they have a dead body."
"You got me there. We'll just have to see. Pipe our Mr. Sustance aboard, Ochin. On second thought, you'd better make it honors for all of them, just in case we have a political fracas on our hands. See to it personally. I have a funny feeling about this. Burial party to be ready at a moments notice. Alert sickbay to arriving body bag."
"Aye, Sir."
Reaching over to the intercom, the Exec said into it, "Prepare to receive civilians with honors. Hop to, deck crew", then he rushed off to supervise the men preperations.
In just under 30 seconds a rush of twelve formal suited men swarmed to the perch where the longboat would be stored. The Skipper leaned over the rail to inspect his reception committee. The ten Marines looked quite adequate for an ambassador, let alone a former Navy Officer of no title. Ochin had his own dress white's on, and hustled about giving the men last minute orders, the Boson nervously fingering his whistle. It would do. It was also the least the men of the Nicholson could do for the unknown man they could only assume had been killed at sea.
"Very Good, Ochin" he whispered to himself, then spoke out loud. "Let's wind this up. Engine room, I'll want all ahead full as soon as the longboat is in the cradle. Sonar, this is the Skipper, what is your last bearing on the target?"
"200 degrees, Sir. I received another wash of pod noise about thirty seconds ago. He is still running along the coast. I'm positive he heard us when we came about, we made a lot of noise. So he's probably cranking along by now."
"I know, I know. Let's hope he's a stubborn S.O.B., and will continue on his original course."
"Aye Sir."
As the longboat drew up along the destroyer, several burly types reached down from the gangway to help the two older men up onto the portable gangway. The Exec hurried down the inner stairwell to reach the outward deck before his guests "arrived".
"Twooowweeee" went the boson's whistle, just as the Exec left the companionway leading to the outer rail of the deck.
"Permission to come aboard" sang out the former Navy man in a clear baritone, and Ochin was somewhat taken aback by the powerful voice in the thin man. His own tiny, "Permission Granted" sounded like a child's voice.
"Welcome aboard the Nicholson Gentleman. If you will follow me, our Skipper, Commander Childers, is anxious to speak with you on the bridge. Please come this way."
Adam watched the protocol quietly, reflecting on the preciseness of the two men's formalities. Looking to his right, he was struck by the stark white boxes angled up into the sky at the stern of the ship. On the trip over, he had asked Terry about them. His friends answer was what now caused the feeling of incongruity. Terry had explained that the boxes were launchers for the surface launched HARPOON missiles. Adam now felt a sense of disharmony as he heard the friendly exchange of protocol and the conflicting memory of Terry's explanation of the HARPOON missile echoed in his mind.
"The HARPOON, or AGM-84 in military parlance is a very deadly anti-ship missile. It's known as an over-the-horizon weapon. This means that you can launch it at a far away ship that you can't see line- of-sight. Of course if your target is line-of-sight, the missile works just as well. In any case, you acquire your target, feed the position to the missile, and launch. The missile skims over the waves until successfully penetrating the defenses of the ship. Then it quickly arcs up into the air, before descending downward to the ship's water line. It flys at about 450 mph, and has a range of, say..." and here he had shrugged, "...I don't know, maybe 50 or 60 miles. It's computer actually guides it in to the target from its last known position. In most cases the missile turns on its own radar and locks onto the target. I've heard of possible Infrared and other nifty optical imaging, high tech versions too. Some of the smarter weapons are even programmed to look for the bridge or the workings spaces where the armory might be."
"Anyway, it'll blow the hell out of any ship on the surface as long it gets within striking range. An air launched missile much like the HARPOON, the Exocet missile, was used to attack the Stark in the Gulf of Oman. Like any sea skimmer, they're harder than hell to stop once they're close."
Now Adam shivered at the potential for destruction contained within the austere boxes. The appearance of the pair of missile canisters did not convey their deadly capabilities, but Adam felt the same feeling he had felt when looking at pictures of a hydrogen bomb. One felt an awe and chill when faced with the incongruity of the bombs awesome destructive capability and their fat, innocuous appearance. As in the fear of the bomb, the HARPOON launchers appearance only heightened his uneasiness.
The Skipper meanwhile, was pacing the bridge, waiting for the call confirming that the longboat was stowed.
"Tell the chief to watch it, I'm gonna get hot as soon as it hits the cradle. Make sure he knows it...he'll wanta to have some men on a rope or two just in case the boat shifts a little before he gets it lashed."
"Aye, Sir", replied the D.O.
After another thirty seconds, the message came in, "Longboat aboard, Sir."
"Right, all ahead full, come to course 290. I want General Quarters. Set depth charges at 50 feet. Pattern oh four one, starboard side only, 40 yards, at my command only. Mr. Harris, send to CINCLANT, today's code:
PREPARING TO CHALLENGE INTRUDER, IVORY COAST', give position, 'INSIDE OF NORTH AFRICAN TERRITORIAL WATERS. HUMANITARIAN ASSISTANCE TO DIVE BOAT 'SAILOR'S REFUGE', REPORT TO FOLLOW. TWO CIVILIAN PASSENGERS ACCOMPANYING 1 FATALITY.'
Sign and date it for me, and confirm receipt immediate. I want the reply before I have to shoot."
"Aye Sir..." replied the communications officer as he reread out loud the message to insure it was heard correctly and then began to code it up, his hand trembling at the Captains words. A real sea battle was fairly rare for the Nicholson.
Below, the guests swerved a little as the destroyer got under way, ramping up to her full 30 plus knots top speed in just a few seconds.
"Heavy action?" asked the former navy man, Terry Sustance.
"The Skipper IS in a hurry, Sirs, no offense."
"I don't wonder" spoke the black man quietly, a very sober look in his eyes, "...I don't wonder".
Ochin looked at him, beginning to suspect that he and the Skipper had made the wrong assumption about the underwater visibility today.
Back on the bridge, "Hydro, whatta we have?"
"Nothing Sir. At this range...well he may still be running, but we won't be able to hear him now. He didn't run very fast while we were stopped or I would have gotten wind of it. Most likely he wound it up to 20 knots, real quick like, then shut it down and coasted to a nice hidey hole."
"Alright Mr. Bonds. Let's go active on them, let them know we're looking. Even if we can't pick the boat out from the bottom clutter, we may just get lucky and flush 'em out. Oh, and code the burst in case any of our guys are down there too."
The beep of the Sonar could be heard over the bridge speaker as the sonar apparatus began to reach out it's tendrils on the nearly impossible mission to find the hiding sub. The echo return from the bottom was painting a picture of the area, but they couldn't be sure if it wasn't masking the sub in its hiding place below.
Ochin arrived with the two guests, and the Skipper turned to for the introductions.
"Skipper, this is Drs. Jackson and Sustance. Gentlemen this is our Skipper Commander Childers."
"Just Ben, gentlemen. What can I do for you?"