before added strength to her inclination to have the S-3 blow the bastard out
of the water.
Still, there was no evidence that this was the same submarine. So many
nations now owned production models of the Russian-built Kilo diesel sub that
there was no way to be certain.
Additionally, they all knew that tensions in the area were at the highest
level they’d been at since World War II. Killing the submarine now could be
that final element that pushed China and the other nations over the brink into
open warfare. And, more likely than not, all the nations clamoring for
ownership of the Spratly Islands would put aside their differences long enough
to unite against the American forces. While she was confident that the battle
group could take care of itself, the purpose of a presence mission was to
deter wars–not to start them.
She toggled the lever on the bitch box, hoping that the Flag watch
officer would give her permission to follow the most ancient adage of
warriors.
Kill them all, and let God sort them out.
CHAPTER 9
Saturday, 29 June
1230 local (Zulu -7)
Hunter 701
“Permission to attack with torpedo denied, Hunter 701. If you see some
indication that she’s preparing to launch or taking some other hostile action,
you’re weapons free on her. Until then, maintain contact and keep us posted.”
The TAO on the carrier sounded reluctant to give the order.
Rabies shot a look of disgust at his copilot.
“Fucking rules of engagement,” the copilot obligingly said.
“Ask them just what the hell they want–a declaration of war? This SOB
took a shot at one of our aircraft yesterday, and they want us to just let him
go?”
“You know what they’re going to say,” the TACCO joined in. “Can’t prove
it’s the same sub, and retaliation’s not authorized by ROE. You know the
drill.”
“Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Rabies muttered. “Ask them. Make them
tell me I have to wait to take the first shot.”
“They won’t do it,” the copilot said. “They’ll say you can shoot in
self-defense the second you see the sail start to break away from the missile
launcher, or if the sub starts any preparation for firing.”
“And just how the hell are we supposed to see that with that pigboat
still half-submerged?”
“Get lucky, I guess. Come on, Rabies, don’t make me look like an idiot
on the circuit.”
“Okay, okay. But the second I see anything–anything–that bitch is
toast. And you pussies damned well better back me up on it!”
Silence on the ICS. Rabies felt a pang of guilt, but smothered it in the
overwhelming frustration he felt. Every member of the crew wanted to take the
sub out–he knew that. They all had been debriefed on the previous attack,
and had seethed with the righteous indignation that he’d just voiced. Not a
man–or woman, he added reflexively–in the S-3B squadron wouldn’t have shot
instantly, given the slightest justification.
“It sucks,” he said finally. “It just really sucks.”
1230 local (Zulu -7)
Hornet 401
Thor dropped back behind the Flanker, opening the distance enough to
shoot if it became necessary. Although he’d never tried it, he was quite
certain that being five hundred feet behind another aircraft when it exploded
was not good for him. Even if his Hornet blasted through the fireball, the
odds of sucking a piece of metal into his engines was just too great.
“Hornet, say state,” he heard the OS query from the carrier.
State of fucking frustration, he thought. Maybe state of idiocy, too.
He glanced at his fuel gauge, resisted the temptation to be a smart-ass, and
settled for telling the OS how much fuel he had left.
The Flanker was now sixty miles from the battle group and showed no signs
of changing course or even acknowledging his escort. Thor could hear Aegis
trying to contact the Flanker, requesting intentions and explanations on the
unencrypted IAD–International Air Distress frequency.
Suddenly, the Flanker nosed down and headed for the deck. It traded
speed for altitude, accelerating past five hundred knots. Thor followed it
down, wondering what the hell the other pilot was thinking. The adrenaline