Chapter 7

USS Springfield, Persian Gulf
Saturday, November 15, 1997
8:30 P.M. (GMT + 3.00)

The USS Springfield slid through the dark waters beneath the Persian Gulf—a black hull on a black night in black water. She was a phantom cruising the sea on patrol. A constant vigil against enemies emanating from Iranian ports or interlopers emerging from lands further away. The United States had made it abundantly clear; they would tolerate no interference to keep oil flowing from the Arab spigots. This was a policy of national survival overriding the leadership vagaries residing at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

Designated 761, she was one of the improved Los Angeles Class fast attack boats. This meant there were more options available in terms of armament coupled with a stealthier sound signature. The Springfield was a hole in the ocean constantly searching, listening, tracking—and if called upon—killing. She was a long way from Groton, Connecticut, the homeport of Submarine Group Two, Submarine Squadron Two. Her sister ships escorted carrier surface action groups like unseen terriers, watching and waiting. The Pittsburgh and the Toledo were improved 688 fast attack boats as herself—the rest were first generation boats.

She wore her colors proudly. Her crew of one hundred forty ventured out on six-month patrols, and sometimes longer. This time they were attached to the USS George Washington task force.

The George Washington was one of the newest Nimitz Class aircraft carriers. The aircraft carrier was a symbol of American power. Two carriers working in tandem provided air power totaling one hundred sixty aircraft. They were the forward presence of American authority and might.

The Springfield’s task was to ensure troublesome underwater predators did not come close enough to endanger the 80,800 ton behemoth. She was one of the silent killers that roamed the seas beneath 6000 man boats. If the National Command Authority gave the order, the small one hundred forty man crews in deadly boats would ensure the George Washington could deliver the 4,600,000 pounds of ammunition she carried. While some may question America’s leadership resolve, no one should ever doubt the ability of the American Navy to deliver.

Considering the Springfield’s mission, the FLASH message traffic she received tonight disturbed Executive Officer Rob Bremmer. He carried the message folder to the Captain’s quarters. Somehow, a Chinese Han Class boat had penetrated the protective barriers surrounding the carriers. Certainly, the Chinese Boat must have come close to the Nimitz or the George Washington. He knocked on the Captain’s cabin door.

“Come,” summoned Captain Jeff Andrews.

Rob entered and closed the door behind him.

Andrews looked up. “Robbie, what’ve you got?”

Rob set the folder on the Captain’s table and took a chair across from him. “FLASH message traffic from COMSUBGRP2. It seems we have a visitor.”

Andrews examined the photograph taken by the U-2. He looked at the map plot and let out a long, low whistle. “What’s a Han doing here?”

“It doesn’t look they were enforcing the UN embargo,” suggested Rob.

He pulled the photo from the papers and stared at it. “Any idea what they were giving the Iraqis?”

Robbie shook his head.

“Okay. It’s too small to be a missile, and no one in their right mind would try a nuclear transfer in the middle of the night on a choppy sea.” He reached behind him and pulled an Intel folder from its rack. “According to this, we’ve found most of the nuclear sites. What does that leave?” He stared at his XO.

Robbie followed his boss’s thinking. “Chemical or biological.”

Andrews nodded.

“It says here they think this boat might be hurt.”

“Yeah, I saw that too, but I don’t know what they’re talking about. All this photo shows is the sub and the surface ship.” He paused, “You have any idea what this is?” He pointed at the black square barely visible at the top of the Han’s hull.

“Looks like a hole to me.”

“Square?”

“Isn’t this where their missile hatches should be?”

Robbie traced the square shape backward along the spine of the boat. There were no missile hatches. “Yeah, you’re right. I don’t see anything like what should be there.”

Andrews picked up the photo again. He tilted his reading glasses forward to get a better look. “If I wasn’t looking at a sub, I’d say this was a cargo hold.”

“Maybe they know something we don’t.”

One thing submarine drivers despised were cute little intelligence boys sitting in their nice Virginia office buildings deciding what could and could not be shared with ships at sea. Andrews had a nasty feeling about this one. “Maybe they do.”

He flipped to the orders page. “Did you take care of this already?”

Rob nodded. “Yes. I’ve plotted a course to the southern gulf about fifty to seventy-five klicks inside the strait.” There was only one strait as far as the Persian Gulf was concerned. The Strait of Hormuz is a narrow choke point where an inordinate amount of the world’s supply of oil flowed in huge supertankers. It was another duty of the US Navy to ensure no one took it into their fancy to block the Strait. The only way for the Chinese boat to exit the Gulf was through the Strait, and it simply was not possible to do that without being noticed.

“It says here we’re supposed to be goal keepers,” Andrews scowled. “I wonder what they think that means. Deny sea passage to a Chinese sub? Does that give me authority to sink him?” He shook his head. An Admiral had not written this order. This order was issued by some flunky in Washington—or worse yet—Langley. Why would Langley write orders to submarines on carrier protection patrol concerning specific tactics in regard to a Chinese sub? He flicked his finger at the photo.

“I wonder how they got into the Gulf.”

“The Russians used to have a trick with the SOSUS line where they would try and get their boomers through by riding the wake of one of their surface freighters. A really dangerous game in case someone stopped too soon.” Andrews laughed. “It never worked really. The boys with the big ears at the NSA always heard them. We always knew when they were going to sortie a boomer and simply waited until they left their freighter before picking them up. I’d guess the Chinese followed a tanker through the Strait and we plain missed it.”

He shook his head and snapped a finger at the map. “Fifty klicks south of Al Faw.” He shook his head gravely. “That means they snuck up as close as possible to the coast without showing themselves.” His mind started to churn with the possibilities—the same possibilities that had surfaced half a world away earlier that same day. The inescapable conclusion surfaced for Andrews. China was working with Iraq. Nothing good could come from such an alliance. He remembered the rumors from back home about campaign contributions, the Chinese manipulation of the elections, and Iraq’s continued intransigence over UN weapons inspectors. Now, he had to find a Chinese sub. It all began to smell.

Sometimes it’s better to ask forgiveness, rather than permission. Andrews could ask for clarification from COMSUBGRP2, or he could use his latitude regarding the orders. He sighed.

“Robbie, make sure we have fish in tubes one, two, three, and four. Tubes flooded, doors closed.” He looked back to the photograph. “If we find this guy, he doesn’t get to open water. If he twitches, we send him to the bottom.”

Robbie looked across the table. Those were war fighting orders. “You think that’s wise?”

“According to this message there is a suspicion that the Han might be damaged.”

Robbie nodded slowly. “Damage can cut two ways. He may be slow or noisy or both.”

“Yeah. Put yourself in his shoes. Say you’ve got a damaged boat and some casualties. First thing you’ve got to assess is whether you can fix the problems at sea.” Andrews shrugged. “Maybe—maybe not. It would take some time to figure those things out and come up with a plan. I would rig for ultra quiet and go slow hoping to avoid detection.”

“So you think a sub driver with a damaged boat is more dangerous?”

Andrews shook his head. “More desperate. And desperate men tend to gamble closer to the edge of their performance envelope. Until we know otherwise, we treat this one like a hostile.”