By Dawn's Early Light (5 page)

0730 LOCAL
NECKER RIDGE

“Admiral on the bridge,” the marine sentry announced smartly as CINCPAC Vice Adm. Morris Plan came through the hatch, all five-feet-four inches of him wound up like a coiled spring.

“As you were, gentlemen,” he said. He'd been en route from his sea cabin when the general quarters had sounded.

The CVN 72
Abraham Lincoln
's executive officer, Cmdr. Frank Valentine, handed the admiral a pair of binoculars. The morning eight hundred miles west of Pearl Harbor was magnificent. Puffy trade-wind clouds scudded down from the northeast in a pale blue sky. The massive nuclear-powered aircraft carrier shouldered the twelve-foot swells with apparent indifference as she made thirty-seven knots on a course of 045, directly into the wind for air operations. An F/A-18A Hornet was suddenly propelled along the deck by the steam catapult and was flung into the air, the boom of her afterburners rattling even the bridge windows.

“Off the starboard bow, sir. About three miles out, low,” Commander Valentine said. He had a droopy mustache and hair that was a little too long for the commander in chief of the Pacific Fleet's liking, but he was a cum laude master's graduate of MIT's school of nuclear engineering. The kid was on the fast track for his first command within a year and his first star in less than eight years.

Admiral Plan raised the big Steiners with their motion-damping circuitry and searched for the SH-3H Sea King ASW helicopter that had spotted the Russian submarine. “Where's Chuck?” he demanded.

“Sir, the captain went to the CIC as soon as we found out that the mission was compromised,” Valentine said.

Admiral Plan's jaw tightened. “There,” he said. The four-man chopper with its distinctive front wheel pants hovered one hundred feet over a spot in the sea where she was keeping a running contact with the Russian nuclear attack submarine she had discovered. “Have we set up a TMA?”

“Yes, sir. CIC had the solution almost immediately.”

A TMA, target motion analysis, was a solution to a weapons firing problem. When a target was detected by whatever means—sonar, radar, visual, radio, magnetic anomaly detection (MAD), or by the new blue-green laser system they were testing in secret out here—its position, course, speed, and whatever else could be found out including salinity of the water, currents, and wave heights, were programmed into the computers for a weapons solution. If a weapon connected to the system were to be fired it would find its mark. Missiles, torpedoes, whatever the weapons, they would hit their targets so long as the TMA was continuously kept up to date with the latest information.

“Good, I want a Gertrude in the water, right on top of the sons-abitches, and tell them to get the fuck out of my operational area.”

“Admiral, the captain is on it, sir,” Commander Valentine said.

The helmsman, talkers, nav officer, and port and starboard lookouts were all suddenly seriously busy with their tasks.

Admiral Plan lowered his binoculars and looked up at Valentine, who towered a full head above him. The bridge aboard American nuclear-powered aircraft carriers always came as a big surprise to first-time visitors. It was small, not much larger than the kitchen in an apartment. Nor was there a spoked wheel controlling the ninety-thousand-ton ship. It was mostly done by computers. The steering wheel was actually smaller than a tea saucer. But to one perched in the central island fifty feet above the flight deck, the view was awesome, as was the obvious power of the ship.

“You're right, Commander,” Plan said after a moment. “I'm here simply as an observer. This is the captain's show.” He smiled frostily. Admirals do not like to be reminded when they are wrong. But if there was a choice between brains or diplomacy, Plan took brains every time. As CINCPAC he should have been back at Pearl commanding the entire Third and Seventh Fleets, not at sea at the command of a battle group testing the navy's latest top secret ASW toy. But, God, he loved it out here. Observer or not, no one was taking it away from him. Not just yet.

Admiral Plan handed the glasses back to Valentine. “Inform the captain that I'm on my way down to CIC.”

“Yes, sir,” Valentine said.

“Admiral is off the bridge,” the marine sentry said as Plan disappeared through the hatch.

Valentine grabbed the growler phone as he and the others breathed a sigh of relief. Plan's temper was short-fused. “CIC, bridge. Tell the skipper that the admiral is on the way down.”

The CIC, combat information center, was the heart of the
Abe
's fighting system. Much larger than the bridge, it was packed bulkhead to bulkhead, deck to overhead with electronic equipment, including the new IBM computer systems that controlled the Mark 29 NATO Sea Sparrow basic point defense missile system (BPDMS) and the 20mm Phalanx close in weapons system (CIWS) cannons. The ship's sensors were controlled from here too, including the SPS-48B, which was a 3D long-range air surveillance radar; the SPS-10F surface search radar; and the SPS-49 2D and SPS-43A air search radars.

Air operations of the ship's twenty-four F-14D Tomcats, twenty-four F/A-18 Hornets, ten A-6E Intruders, and four KA-6D Intruder tankers were directed from here with inputs from the E-2C Hawkeyes, S-3A Vikings, and SH-3H Sea King antisubmarine warfare (ASW) platforms. Inputs from everything in the air were added to data from the
Abe
's battle group of two Aegis cruisers, three guided missile destroyers, and six ASW frigates and destroyers plus four attack submarines.

In total, the
Abe
's fighting force was as deadly as and certainly better run than the entire military forces of most of the world's nations.

It made the CIC a busy place on a calm day, and this morning was anything but calm.

Unlike on the bridge, the admiral's presence was not announced here. There was a muted hum of communications between the air traffic controllers and the pilots in the air. Ninety percent of the
Abe
's aircraft were flying, not only keeping tabs on the one Russian submarine they'd already found, but looking for others, and keeping a safe screen around the
Abe
out to more than one hundred nautical miles. A nuclear aircraft carrier was simply too valuable an asset to lose because of inattention, or adherence to the protocol of rank.

The
Abe
's commanding officer, Capt. Charles Hurly, stood with the air operations officer, Lt. Cmdr. Harry “Houdini” Hudnut, at a chart table working the problem. Somehow a Russian submarine had gotten inside the battle group's screen, so close to the
Abe,
in fact, that if she had surfaced they could have just about swapped spit wads.

Admiral Plan joined them, and they looked up. “It's your show, Chuck, but what's the story?”

“Just the one sub so far,” Hurly said, stabbing a blunt finger on a spot just a few miles east of them. He looked like a serious Drew Carey. “But she's an Akula. The best they've got out here.”

“Jesus H. Christ, how in hell did they get so close?” Admiral Plan demanded. They could almost see steam rising off the back of his neck. Like a lot of small men, he had attitude. But Hurly had been the CO of the
Abraham Lincoln
long enough not to be intimidated, not even by three stars. His own first star was in Congress right now.

“I don't know for sure yet, but I have a pretty good hunch,” Hurly said. He was angry.

Admiral Plan held back from saying anything, but he fixed the captain with a thousand-yard stare; it was like a mongoose staring down a cobra. They respected each other.

“He was here first,” Hurly explained.

“Are you telling me that he was waiting for us?”

“That's what it looks like.” Hurly glanced at the chart. “There isn't one chance in a million that he could have gotten through our screens. Vince Howe is driving the
Springfield
. He's on point.” The SSN 752
Springfield
was a Los Angeles class nuclear attack submarine, and Vincent Howe was her CO, among the best in the navy.

“Here we go again,” Admiral Plan said. “He knew that we were coming, and he knew exactly where on the ridge that we would be conducting our tests.”

“But how?” Hudnut blurted. “Even the people who came out to run Deep Pockets didn't know where we were going until we put to sea. And those who knew where, didn't know why.”

Hurly and Plan exchanged a glance. Hudnut had just asked the million-dollar question. ONI, the Office of Naval Intelligence, had been looking for a spy somewhere in the Pentagon for the past two years. His code name was John Galt, the same as the character in Ayn Rand's novel
Atlas Shrugged,
because everyone wanted to know who the hell he was. He had to be highly placed because he had the inside track on a lot of important projects, like Deep Pockets, to test the next generation submarine detection system. And he had to be very good, because the ONI was no closer to catching him than they had been from the start.

“What do you want to do about the Akula?” Hurly asked.

“We have him boxed in, let's see if we can herd him out of here. In the meantime secure the test.”

A communications specialist came over with a message flimsy. “Sir, this is flash traffic from Pearl.” He handed it to Captain Hurly.

Hurly handed it to the admiral. “This is for you, sir.”

Plan read the message, his expression darkening. If Joe Puckett had come to Pearl Harbor in person whatever was happening was big.

Plan looked up. “I need to borrow one of your Tomcats and a driver.”

1200 LOCAL
PACIFIC FLEET HEADQUARTERS

Many mainlanders believe that Honolulu and Pearl Harbor are on the largest of the Hawaiian islands. It's not true. The state capital and famous navy base are on the much smaller island of Oahu, two hundred miles to the northwest of the big island of Hawaii.

Besides being home to more than 850,000 people, Oahu is also home to dozens of military installations, among them Pearl Harbor Naval Station; Hickham Air Force Base; Aliamanu Military Reservation; Camp Catlin Naval Reservation; Tripler Army Hospital; Camp H.M. Smith Naval Reservation; Puuola Navy Rifle Range; Fort Kamehameha Military Reservation; Fort Shafter; Barbers Point Naval Air Station; Red Hill Naval Reservation; Makua Military Reservation; Dillingham Air Force Base, and many others.

Populated by Polynesians around
A.D
. 500 and discovered by Europeans in 1778 when the English explorer James Cook landed at Kauai, the islands did not become militarily important to the U.S. until late in the 1920s, when Washington awarded a major dredging contract for Pearl Harbor. A deep-water port for major navy vessels was needed to help protect the vulnerable U.S. mainland.

But it wasn't until December 7, 1941, when Pearl Harbor was attacked by Japanese naval air forces, that the place became famous as well as important.

Careers were made or broken here, Dillon thought as he got out of the navy staff car in front of CINCPAC Headquarters.

He had talked it over with his XO on the way back to port. He had a lot of respect for Charlie Bateman. The man was a steely-eyed submariner of the first rank and was going to make one hell of a CO. There wasn't a man aboard the boat who didn't like the XO, and yet when Bateman had to be a stern disciplinarian or a ruthless driver he didn't hesitate for an instant.

But there was nothing to be read into the message other than what it stated. Dillon was ordered home. If they were taking away his boat they wouldn't have sent a four-star admiral all the way from the Pentagon to do it.

He returned the salutes of the two marine sentries armed and dressed in BDUs at the front doors, unable to tell if he was mostly nervous or curious. A young ensign named Rather met him at the reception desk in the busy lobby.

“Good afternoon, Commander. If you'll follow me, sir.”

Dillon fell in behind his escort, who went left down the broad main floor corridor to the elevators at the first intersection. Everyone here wore undress summer whites.

Upstairs on the third floor in admiral territory, they headed to the southeast corner of the building, tall bay windows giving an expansive view of the busy harbor, directly to the office suite of Vice Admiral Morris Plan. The chain of command photographs were mounted on the wall, starting with the president of the United States, the secretaries of defense and navy, chairman of the joint chiefs, all the way down to the commander of Pacific submarine forces (COMSUBPAC), two-star Admiral Herman Gooding.

The pace wasn't so frenetic up here as it was downstairs; the tones were hushed, most of the doors were closed, and an armed marine sentry in BDUs stood at the door to the CINCPAC's offices.

Dillon had never been to Admiral Plan's office before. The ante-room itself was five times as large as most squadron commanders' entire suites. The floor was covered with thick carpeting. Some Wyeths and a few Indian-southwest desert paintings, the artists of which he didn't recognize, hung on the richly paneled walls. The furniture was out of Buckingham Palace.

The admiral's secretary, a grandmotherly-looking woman with white hair in a bun, and narrow gold-framed glasses on a gold chain, looked up from her computer. Her desk was mammoth. “They're waiting inside for you, Commander,” she said, no hint of warmth in her voice. “That will be all, Ensign.” If the admiral had iron in his gut she had bar steel for a backbone.

“Thank you, ma'am,” Dillon said, suppressing a smile. He knocked once on the admiral's door, girded himself and went in. They might jump his ass about something he'd done, or not done, but they would not criticize
Seawolf
or her crew.

“Here he is,” COMSUBPAC Admiral Gooding said, slapping the file he was reading down on the long conference table.

Gooding was boss of all submarine activities in the Pacific. He'd earned the nickname Hermann Göring throughout the fleet because of his World War II Nazi-style shaved haircut. Tall, almost cadaverously thin, with a hawk nose, jutting chin, and Jack Nicholson eyes, he was possibly the ugliest man in the navy. But he was bright, fair, and understanding. Got a problem, take it to Hermann Göring. If he doesn't cut you off at the knees he'll solve it for you. Guaranteed.

He thought Dillon was about the best officer he'd ever worked with. As far as Dillon was concerned the feeling was mutual.

Admiral Plan stood across the table from Gooding, and he gave Dillon a critical once-over, but then nodded. “You made good time, son.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Seated at the head of the table was four-star Admiral Joseph Puckett Jr., a fiercely determined look on his round, pinkish preacher's face. Under thinning white hair, his pale blue eyes and narrow mouth had fooled many an opponent into believing that he was a pushover: weak and ineffective.

Nothing could have been further from the truth. Puckett's bones were said to be made of pure titanium, and his heart was, in fact, a small nuclear reactor. He regularly devoured other admirals and generals, as well as congressmen and CEOs, and even the occasional president, for breakfast.

He never had a problem with lead, follow, or get out of the way. He knew his place in the chain of command, and when the current chairman of the joint chiefs, Air Force Gen. Joel “Blackcap” Zwemmer, stepped down, Puckett would take his place.

Dillon came to attention and saluted. “Commander Dillon reporting as directed, sir.”

Puckett sketched a salute. “Stand down, Dillon, I have a job for you,” he said. He was a man of very few words.

“Admiral, I was on the way out on patrol. Robin redbreast off the China southeast coast. My officers and men are geared for the mission, so I'd just as soon stick it out with them.”

“
Seawolf
is out,” Admiral Gooding said. “Vince is already en route.” He gave Dillon a sharp look. Like shut up already.

“I thought the
Springfield
was with the
Abe
's battle group, sir.”

“The
Springfield
's been detached. The training mission was scrubbed. The
Abe
is on the way back.”

“You got a problem with Commander Howe?” Admiral Plan demanded.

“No, sir. He's a good man.”

Vince Howe would be spitting bullets about now, Dillon figured. They'd been rivals since SOBC, with Dillon coming out number one and Howe number two right on his heels. Howe had developed a mild dislike for him that never interfered with their work, but always seemed to be there like a nagging toothache. Taking over the
Seawolf
's patrol like this was going to chap his ass. Dillon had to suppress another smile. Vince Howe was okay. Number two, but okay.

Admiral Puckett studied Dillon as if he were looking at a curiosity under a microscope. Submarine drivers were a lot like navy jet jocks: egotistical and cocky. The brass tolerated them because it was the pilots and submarine commanders who won wars. “Have you any other objections, commander?”

“No, sir.”

Puckett held his stare for a moment longer, then turned and nodded to Gooding. “Brief him.”

“Okay, Frank, you're going to have to park your ego outside on this one. You were picked for this mission because you were the best. But when you get back you won't be able to tell anybody about it. Ever. No bragging rights. Vince Howe was told that
Seawolf
developed a mechanical problem, and it's going to stay that way. Clear?”

Dillon groaned inwardly, but he nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“We're keeping a tight lid on this because we think it's the only chance we have of saving your life,” Gooding explained. “There's a spy somewhere in the Pentagon. Somehow who has access to our sailing orders and mission parameters. Someone who knew what the
Abe
's mission was. They bumped into an Akula that just happened to be in the neighborhood.”

This didn't come as a terribly big surprise to Dillon. Submarine commanders talked to each other. Over the past couple of years there were a number of incidents that seemed to have no rational explanations. Chinese ASW warships just happening to be conducting submarine drills in the Taiwan Strait within hours after an LA sub radioed home with mechanical troubles using SSIX, a satellite link that was impossible to break. Or a pair of long-range Russian Be-12 fixed wing surveillance aircraft showing up off Bear Island in the Barents Sea when an Ohio boomer sub came to a radio depth in response to an ELF message. Incidents like that. There were enough coincidences to make them wonder. This was the explanation. But if it was the one spy, he or she had to be working freelance.

“Your people will remain restricted to the boat. That means no last-minute errands, no phone calls.” Gooding glanced at his watch. “We're going to want you out of here ASAP.”

“He hasn't been told the mission yet,” Admiral Plan said.

Gooding gave Dillon the look.
“Seawolf
is up to the task, Admiral.”

He spread out a map of the Eastern Hemisphere from the Arabian Sea and northern regions of the Indian Ocean as far east as the Pacific approaches to Japan, Taiwan, and the Philippines. He stabbed a narrow, bony finger on a spot off India's east coast in the Bay of Bengal.

“About thirty-six hours ago, the
Carl Vinson
's battle group, on its way up to the Gulf of Oman, picked up a very weak distress signal. The
Vinson
was southeast of the Maldives, at least sixteen hundred miles away, but she managed to pick up enough of the message to make out that a U.S. registered oceanographic research ship, the
Eagle Flyer,
was being attacked by an unknown submarine. They got a position but then the transmission was cut off.”

“What happend to the crew? Did they get off?”

“At least three fishing boats responded to the Mayday. They found debris, but no bodies. She must have gone right to the bottom, most of her crew still in their bunks. It was around local dawn.”

“Not even one body?” Dillon asked. He was finding it hard to believe the story.

“No,” Admiral Puckett said.

“How many were aboard her, sir?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“There should have been bodies,” Dillon said. “Unless the sub picked them up.”

“That's what we're thinking,” Puckett said. He motioned for Gooding to continue the briefing.

“There were no markings on the sub, but the person who sent the Mayday thought it was foreign, and probably a diesel boat.”

“A Kilo?”

Gooding nodded. “It's possible. Evidently the
Eagle Flyer
stumbled onto something they weren't supposed to see. The sub fired what looked like a green laser beam skyward. That's been confirmed by the NRO. The electronic and optics packages aboard one of their major spy satellites monitoring India's and Pakistan's military activities were knocked out at precisely that moment and from that position.”

“We have an independent confirmation that the submarine was not Pakistan's,” Puckett said.

“Iranian?” Dillon asked.

“At this point we don't know,” Admiral Puckett said. “But a couple of hours later Pakistan conducted an above-ground test of what AFTAC is classifying as a three-megaton thermonuclear device.”

Dillon whistled softly. “That's one way of starting a war out there,” he said. His wife Jill was a raging liberal, which made for some interesting discussions at the O club. He and Jill were called Beauty and the Beast, with no one willing to admit which one was which. Because of her husband's position she could not join the organizations that she wanted to join, such as the Sierra Club, Greenpeace, or Amnesty International. Instead she kept herself abreast of just about everything that was going on around the world. Elections, revolutions, floods, famines, border wars. Dillon drove attack submarines, and his wife studied the world in order to save it. They were quite the pair, but because of her as well as his own readings and briefings, he knew all about the history behind the struggle between Pakistan and India, and he was not terribly surprised by this news either. He was proud of his wife. She was an independent.

“We want to know whose submarine fired the laser,” Admiral Puckett said. “Two other spy satellites have been damaged in the last three weeks. It will stop.”

“That boat could be anywhere,” Dillon said.

“But we have a timetable,” Admiral Gooding said. “We'll know exactly where she'll be and when she'll be there.” He pointed to the same spot on the map where the
Eagle Flyer
had been torpedoed. “The space shuttle
Discovery
will be launched on the nineteenth. Two weeks from now. One of her new missions will be to rendezvous with the
Jupiter
and replace her damaged sensors.” Gooding looked up. “Over the same spot in the Bay of Bengal.”

“And I'll be waiting for her,” Dillon said.

“That's the idea, Commander.”