Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 06 (73 page)

 
          
The
sight was unbelievable. A Taiwanese F-16 fighter, armed with four Sidewinder
missiles and a centerline fuel tank, taxied to the very back of the runway. The
barrier net had been removed, and the blast fence was diverting the F-16 s
engine exhaust almost straight up into a cluster of ventilators. “The engine
exhaust is vented outside through several steel plenums and sideways out across
the mountains, where it is less likely to be detected by infrared imaging
satellites,” Hsiao explained.

 
          
The
F-16 ran its engine up to full power, then full afterburner power, and released
brakes. It looked very much like an aircraft carrier takeoff— the fighter
stayed on the deck until reaching the mouth of the cave, then shot off into
space. A few minutes later, the barrier net was lowered and an F-16 came in for
landing from a patrol. Again it resembled an aircraft carrier landing—the F-16
suddenly appeared at the cave mouth at slow speed, with its nose high in the
air; it hit the runway, caught one of the arresting wires, the nose came down
hard on the runway, and the fighter screeched to a halt at the end of the
arresting wire. Ground crewmen came running out to disconnect the wire from the
hook and marshal the fighter to the elevator to take it down to the belowdecks
aircraft hangar for servicing.

 
          
“My
God,” Nancy Cheshire exclaimed. “What if a plane has to bolter? What if they
miss a wire? What if a wire or arresting hook breaks?”

 
          
“Then,
if the barrier does not catch them, we will probably all die,” Hsiao Jason said
matter-of-factly. He smiled broadly and said, “Actually, my friends,
your
two planes have been the first
fixed-wing aircraft to land at Kai-Shan without using an arresting wire. We
were all in fire shelters for the landing of the DC-10. But the landing of the
bomber—well, I think we were all up on deck to watch. It was most spectacular,
worth dying in a fireball to see.” The American newcomers were all too stunned
to respond. “You must be very tired. We have prepared meals and rooms for you
and all your troops.”

 
          
“With
all due respect, sir, we’d like to get to work and launch our first sortie at
dusk,” Patrick McLanahan said.

 
          
“Dusk?
You mean,
tonight
?” General Hsiao
exclaimed. “You will be ready to fly
tonight
?
”

 
          
“With
any luck, yes,” Patrick said. “We need assistance from your aircraft
maintenance troops to help turn the bomber and to upload the weapons. Can we
count on assistance from your flight crews to help in mission planning?”

 
          
“You
may count on us for anything you desire,” Hsiao said happily. “You truly are
the new Flying Tigers, my friends. In fact, my F-16 flight crews request the
honor of accompanying you on your first raid.”

 
          
“That
would be excellent, sir,” Patrick said. “We’ll be lightly loaded taking off
from here, so we can use some extra firepower. Have your pilots ever done any
aerial refueling?”

 
          
“Only
in simulators, Colonel McLanahan,” Hsiao said.

 
          
“Well,
I’ve heard that doing it for real is easier than the simulator, so your crews
will be refueling tonight,” Patrick said. “Our transport jet is configured as a
tanker. We have the latest intelligence data—it’s a few hours old, but I think
it’ll be useful for tonight. We’ll see about getting our own Sky Masters recon
and targeting satellite up in the next day or so. Let’s get to work, everybody.
We’ll be launching in about twelve hours.”

 
          
“The general who advances without coveting
fame and retreats without fearing disgrace, whose only thought is to protect
his country and do good service for his sovereign, is the jewel of the
kingdom.” —SUN-TZU,

 
          
The
Art of War

BANDAR-ABBASS NAVAL BASE,
ISLAMIC
REPUBLIC
OF
IRAN

TUESDAY, 24 JUNE 1997
,
2121 HOURS LOCAL ( 1251 HOURS ET)

 
          
“Here
it comes,” the sonar operator aboard the Los Angeles-class nuclear-powered
attack submarine USS
Miami
reported.
He flipped open the intercom channel: “Bridge, sonar, target alpha is in the
channel, bearing three-one-four, range six thousand yards, speed six knots.”

 
          
The
first officer acknowledged the call, then rang the captain in his quarters.
“Skipper, the
Taregh’s
moving.” The
captain joined his first officer on the twelve-year-old, 7,000-ton submarine’s
bridge a few moments later.

 
          
“Sonar,
what d’ya have?” the captain ordered.

 
          
“Positive
contact, sir,” the sensor operator said. The WLR-9/12 acoustic emission
receiver/processor suite was an extensive computerized system that in effect
“pointed” the sensor operator to a particular sound picked up from the myriad
of noises from the sea, allowed the sensor operator to scan the suspect,
fine-tuned the sound, and attempted to identify it. “Target alphas coming out
of Bandar-Abbass, heading south. Shes making noise, probably getting ready to
blow her tanks.”

 
          
The
captain took a deep breath in anticipation. For the past several weeks, their
only assigned target had been staying close to home—but now it was on the move,
and that probably spelled trouble. “Target alpha” was the
Taregh
, which meant “Morning Star”—the Islamic Republic of Iran’s
first attack submarine. Purchased from
Russia
in September 1992, the
Taregh
had sent the world into a tailspin by introducing yet
another advanced weapon system into the hands of an aggressive, fundamentalist
Islamic nation in the
Persian
Gulf
.

 
          
Although
the Iranians had purchased a second Kilo-class sub from Russia and were
threatening to buy more, the threat of Iran filling the Persian Gulf with
attack subs, and thereby threatening nearly half of the world’s oil supply, had
never come to pass. The
Taregh
had
never ventured far from Bandar-Abbass and had spent most of its time cruising
the
Strait of Hormuz
and the
Gulf
of
Oman
between Bandar-Abbass and its
as-yet-uncompleted home
port
of
Chah Bahar
.

 
          
Since
the recent conflict between the
United States
and
Iran
, the
United States
had assigned one nuclear-powered attack sub
to monitor the
Taregh'
s whereabouts.
Fortunately, the
Taregh
had proven to
be an easy shadowing assignment—while Iran’s aircraft carrier
Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini
had been
busy attacking other Gulf states during the brief naval and air skirmishes in
the area, Iran’s attack subs had played no part. The
Miami
had simply stationed itself in the
Strait of Hormuz
just outside Bandar-Abbass, concealed by
the noise of the hundreds of ships crowding the channel, and waited. While
stationed in the Strait, the crew of the
Miami
had been able to extend its antennas and
collect vast amounts of information on the Iranian fleet’s deployment, and
occasionally intercept important communications from fleet headquarters. But
their primary assignment, the
Taregh
,
had always been a nonplayer, stuck in port except for brief cruises and
exercises. During the U.S.-Iran crisis, the United States and its Persian Gulf
allies had not been flying anti-submarine patrols over the Strait of Hormuz,
Persian Gulf, or Gulf of Oman, which meant that, if it was not shadowed as soon
as it left port, the
Taregh
could
sneak out of the Strait and make its way into the Persian Gulf itself, where it
would be much harder to detect and track, and it could lay waste to all
commercial shipping traffic heading in or out of the Persian Gulf.

           
“Looks like we’re going sailing,”
the captain announced. He ordered that the ship be made ready to answer bells
immediately. Thirty minutes later, the
Miami
pulled out into the Strait for the first
time in almost four weeks.

 
          
Tailing
the
Taregh
was easy as long as it was
on the surface. Other vessels got out of its way, so it traveled a straight
course, and its large, blunt nose and wide hull meant that it had to churn out
a lot of rpms from its big six-bladed propeller just to maintain steerageway.
The
Taregh
was escorted by two
tugboats as it left the crowded naval base and headed south toward the center
of the Strait of Hormuz; one tugboat eventually dropped away as the channel
traffic cleared. The tugboat would also help mask the
Miami
’s
noise. The captain of the
Miami
ordered the distance increased to 12,000
yards, almost seven miles—the maximum useful range of his passive sonar system.

 
          
The
Taregh
finally made its dive at the
absolute worst place its skipper could pick—at the narrowest and shallowest
part of the Strait, between Bandar-Abbass and the eastern tip of
Qeshm
Island
. The shallower water restricted the
Miami
to less than periscope depth. The
Taregh
was making minimum steerageway
even while submerged, and now it was getting more difficult for the
Miami
to maintain course at the slower speed.
Channel traffic was increasing as well.
Qeshm
Island
was a busy petroleum drilling and refining
area, and commercial-vessel traffic was heavy all day and all night in this
area. The
Miami
maintained 12,000 yards’ distance from the
Taregh
, even when the Iranian attack sub
seemed as if it was barely moving.

 
          
It
suddenly seemed as if the
Taregh
was
getting a lot of visitors—large, slow-moving vessels flitting nearby, centered
generally over the sub. It was unlikely that the Iranian navy would allow
onlookers to get within a mile of one of its subs. “What in hell are those
things?” the captain muttered. “Service vessels? Supply vessels?”

 
          
“Shit,
it’s going to turn around,” the first officer said, as they waited. “Something
on the tub broke, they can’t fix it, and they’re going to turn around and head
back to the barn.”

 
          
“We’re
not that lucky,” the skipper said. “That’ll cut our patrol time down, that’s
for sure. Who the hell knows? We’ll maintain our distance until he starts
motoring.”

 
          
They
did not have to wait long—soon, the
Taregh
started to pick up speed, now reaching twelve knots, and the skipper ordered
the
Miami
back on the pursuit. With the steam turbines
running at a more comfortable speed, the
Miami
felt steadier and more seaworthy in the
shallow waters, and the skipper even began to relax a bit, although he wouldn’t
relax completely until they were safely out of Iranian waters, out of the
Strait of Hormuz
, and out of this weird, unfriendly water.
The warm, dirt-laden, polluted salt water of the
Strait of Hormuz
always played havoc with sensors, and it
was harder to maintain depth and control roll and yaw. But the
Taregh
was starting to move faster, now
above fifteen knots, and the faster they went, the steadier the ol’
Miami
—

 
          
“Bridge,
helm.”

 
          
The
skipper clicked open the intercom: “Bridge, go.”

 
          
“We’ve
got a problem. Recommend emergency stop.”

 
          
“All
stop,” the skipper said immediately—when the quartermaster at the helm suggests
an emergency maneuver, you make it and sort out the problem later. “I hope it’s
your imagination. On my way.” He arrived at the sub’s helm station as fast as
he could. Both diving plane helmsmen had their arms extended full out, and they
appeared to be struggling with the airplane-like control wheels; the
quartermaster standing between them was watching the navigation and performance
instruments, while technicians were checking the hydraulic, pneumatic, and
electrical panels. “What in hell’s going on?”

 
          
“I
think we snagged something,” the quartermaster said, in a quiet, exasperated
voice. “Lots of pressure on the controls, and we’re losing response.”

 
          
“Shit,”
the skipper said. “Back two-thirds.” The skipper waited until their speed
through the water had decreased to zero, then ordered, “All stop. Rudder
amidships.”

 
          
“All
stop. Rudder amidships, aye . . . sir, my rudder is amidships,” the helmsmen
responded.

 
          
The
Miami
had a closed-circuit zoom TV camera in a
pressure vessel on the top of the sail, and the captain and quartermaster studied
the picture. Sure enough, a large black net had completely enveloped the nose
of the submarine. The net was huge—it engulfed the entire front of the sub all
the way from the nose up to the sail. Swiveling the camera athwartship, they
saw the net covering the sailplanes; aiming the camera aft, the net was angled
upward away from the rudder and propeller, but was even now starting to drift
down toward the stern. The top of the net could not be seen, but it appeared to
extend far beyond camera range, even possibly to the surface.

 
          
“I
think we’re caught in a damned drift net,” the quartermaster muttered. “It’s
got to be a thousand feet long and two hundred feet high, at least. Japanese
drift nets are dozens of miles long sometimes.”

 
          
“That’s
impossible—you can’t stop a seven-thousand-ton submarine with a nylon net,” the
captain remarked. “Besides, what’s a damned drift net doing in a big ship
channel? Who would... ?” The skipper answered his own question: the Iranians
were hunting for American submarines. “Let’s get a diving team suited up and
ready to assist if needed. It looks like the stern’s still clear—let’s see if
we can back out of this thing. Helm, all back slow.”

 
          
But
it was too late. As they began to try to extract themselves from the drift net,
the top of the net began to sink even faster, and minutes later, the rudder and
propeller appeared to be covered by the net. “Damn, the net’s in the prop,” the
captain muttered.

 
          
“That’ll
be the end of the net, then, sir,” the quartermaster said. “Our prop would
break even a steel cable net.” But he was wrong. Instead of slicing the net up
into pieces, the net simply began winding itself around the propeller blades.

 
          
“What
in hell... all stop,
allstop\
” the
captain ordered. “Christ, what in hell is that net made of? Helm, all ahead
slow, let’s see if we can kick that net clear.” But it was no use—the net was
completely fouling the propeller. “Dammit,
dammit
...
all right, looks like we’ve got to put the divers over the side,” the captain
said. “Once we cut the prop free, we’ll go as close to the bottom as we can and
try to turn north and sail out the side of the net.” He flipped on the
ship-wide intercom: “Attention all hands, this is the captain. Looks like we’re
caught in a big drift net. Chief of the boat, report to the helm, stand by to
deploy diver salvage team.”