at surface ships well outside its own sensor range. In addition to the
Shipwreck, the Oscar carried the SS-N-15 and S-16 torpedoes. Although hard
data was scarce, her 533mm torpedoes were reputed to be capable of speeds
up to forty-five knots, transporting a high-explosive or nuclear warhead of
1,250 pounds on a straight run, or in acoustic homing mode. Supposedly,
one of those torpedoes exploding under the keel of a carrier would be
sufficient to break the carrier’s back.
“How far away from the carrier is she?” Bird Dog asked. He winced,
hearing the slight tremor in his voice.
Gator’s voice was dark and somber. “Four hundred miles, right now.
But with her speeds, there’s nothing to say she couldn’t close that to
within Shipwreck range within one day.”
“You’d better tell the Admiral. I think he’s going to be real
interested in this.”
1630 Local
USS Jefferson
Rear Admiral Edward Everett Wayne, “Batman” to his fellow aviators,
swore quietly as he listened to the RIO’s report. An Oscar. Great. Just
when every asset in the United States Navy had been lulled into a peaceful
sense of security because of the demise of the Soviet Union, an Oscar turns
up. What the hell were the Intelligence people thinking? And why hadn’t
he had any warning at all about this possibility?
He stared at the large blue video screen that dominated the forward
bulkhead of Tactical Flag Command Center (TFCC). Judging from the relative
geometry, the carrier battle group would be safe from the Oscar for at
least another day, maybe more, depending on what course she followed.
“Get some Vikings in the air. Now,” he snapped. “It’s time we got
some work out of them.”
“I imagine they’ll be happy about that,” his chief of staff, Captain
Jim Craig, remarked. “Their CO was telling me he’s getting damned tired of
ferrying mail back and forth for us. To have a real submarine problem, as
nasty as it may be, that’s meat and potatoes for the S-3 Viking ASW
aircraft.”
Batman nodded sharply. “It’s the kind of opportunity I don’t want to
have on this cruise. I told Tombstone I’d keep his people safe.”
The TAO, seated at his console two feet in front of Batman, swiveled
his chair around and looked at the admiral. “Sir, we need to get that
Tomcat some more gas if she’s going to mark on top while we prep the S-3s.
He’s got enough gas to stay on station for another hour and still make it
back safely, but-”
Batman cut him off. “Good thinking. Better to have too much gas than
too little. The first situation you can fix–the second you can’t. Make
it happen.”
The TAO turned back to his console and talked with his counterpart
located in the Combat Direction Center (CDC), fifty feet forward on the
ship. After a hurried conversation, he toggled the circuit off and turned
to the OS manning the plastic status board located on the right side of the
TFCC. “Put down Seven-oh-one and Seven-oh-two for the next two events.
Seven-oh-three and Seven-eleven will be in Alert Fifteen. And we’re
launching another tanker now, now, now.” Without waiting to see if the OS
had caught it all, he turned back to his console.
“An Oscar. What does that suggest to you?” Batman asked his COS.
Captain Craig looked thoughtful. With thirty years as surface ship
officer in the Navy, four at-sea commands under his belt, and an advanced
degree in ASW systems from the Naval Postgraduate School in Monterey, he
had forgotten more about submarines than Batman had ever known. “Nothing
good. She could make us real unhappy characters by just staying within
weapons release range.”
“And that Bear-J up around Adak doesn’t make me breathe any easier.
Based on that, I think we have to assume that the Oscar has detailed
targeting information on the entire battle group.” Batman turned back to
the screen. “And is in contact with Russia’s military command. The
question is, why? Is this just another one of those political statements,
or something worse?”
Captain Craig shook his head, a weary expression crossing his face.
“And I thought we’d seen the last of these games. Figured I’d make one