Seal Team Seven 08 - Pacific Siege, page 15
General Nishikawa looked up as someone knocked on his door.
"Come."
The communications sergeant hurried in. He smiled.
"General, sir. We have figured out the Russian radios here. We now have a network of the hand-held units in four outposts. The lookouts posted make a net call every hour on the hour, and anytime that they see anything suspicious.
"The first reports came in just now. They can see no planes or ships, and everything with the local population is calm. There are enough food stores in the kitchen area to feed our people for just over a week. Then we'll need a new food source."
"Thanks, Sergeant. There won't be any need for any more food. A week should do us fine. You've read the radio messages. We'll be lucky to still be eating anything after a week."
The sergeant saluted, did a smart about-face, and left the room.
General Nishikawa stared at the three messages spread out on his desk. He didn't trust the Japanese government.
The United States spoke softly, but carried a huge stick. The Russians spoke bluntly, but had given him a week.
He could not figure out why, but he was the most afraid of the United States' message. The big battle force, with missiles, rockets, and eighty-five aircraft, would be offshore within a few hours. He had to decide how to deal with them. The Russians would wait. It would be the Americans who presented him with the immediate threat.
He took out the two swords of the samurai and held them, the long one and the deadly shorter blade. Yes, at least one of his ancestors had been a samurai. He had been a military retainer of a Japanese diamyo practicing the chivalric code of Bushido. Honor above all. He stared at the smaller blade, then gently put it in the wooden sheath, then the silk wrappings, and placed it in the bottom desk drawer. Soon he would carry it with him at all times. Soon, but not yet.
Tuesday, 20 February
USS Monroe, CVN 81
Off Hokkaido, Japan
The sixteen SEALs sat near the bow of the big aircraft carrier near the starboard side, usually reserved for parked aircraft. The area had been cleared, and the SEALs were about to have a live firing drill.
Each man sat on the deck with six magazines for his particular weapon in front of him. Each magazine had only three rounds in it.
"You know the drill," Murdock told them from where he sat in the middle of the line of SEALS. "As soon as you hear me fire, you fire your weapon, empty the magazine. Then eject the magazine, and load the next one. Fire and eject, load and fire, and eject until you are finished with the six magazines.
"Machine gunners, fire out the ten rounds on the end of one belt, load and charge the second belt, and fire ten rounds in two five-round bursts. Speed in reloading is the key here. Last man done gets thrown overboard."
"You wish," somebody cracked, and they all broke up.
Murdock went on. "You guys with the HK G-11s. Fire two three-round bursts and reload. Do that three times. Everyone up to speed?"
He looked around, lifted his HK MP-5SD, and fired over the raft into the Pacific Ocean. At once the fifteen other weapons roared, and the stuttering of the three-round bursts caught a lot of sailors on the deck of the big ship by surprise. After a moment's hesitation, the work on the huge floating airfield went on as scheduled, with two Tomcat F-14's launched off the deck by the catapults.
Murdock slammed the second magazine into his subgun and fired, punched out the empty, and loaded again.
Jaybird Sterling gave a rebel yell as he finished his sixth clip.
He was the first one done. The machine gunners and the caseless-round G-11s finished next, and then the rest of the submachine guns, the sniper rifles, and the Colt carbines in that order.
Murdock checked his wristwatch. "Yeah, okay, nothing spectacular.
Now clean up the brass and let's do some double time up and back over here out of the way."
They worked out for another hour; then Murdock sent them below for the evening meal. He found a note on his stateroom door that he was wanted in the admiral's cabin. The door was open to a small outer office where a lieutenant commander sat behind a desk.
"Commander Murdock. Right this way. The admiral is interested in what you've come up with. He also wants to ground you on some other details."
Inside the admiral's cabin, it looked more like a luxury liner suite. A couch along one wall, a large desk and a swivel chair, even a bookcase along the other bulkhead.
Murdock came to attention in front of the desk. "Lieutenant Commander Murdock reporting as ordered, Sir."
"At ease, Commander." The admiral pointed to a chair. The rough command presence was gone for the moment. Small worry lines showed around the corners of the admiral's eyes, and he seemed to have aged five years since Murdock had seen him.
"Damned touchy situation we're heading into, Murdock. I want you to know that. Our battle fleet is going to be between that Japanese invader of part of Mother Russia and a Russian battle fleet. Things could get downright dicey."
"When do we arrive off the island, Admiral?"
"Another three hours. Be dark by then. The seas have calmed, and we have constant surveillance over the little town, but that's all we can do right now. I'm hoping you have a quick way to go in and get the general out of there before the Russian Navy pulls up just outside of our pickets."
"Afraid not, Sir. Our best scenario is to go in silently in our inflatable boats. Get ashore without being seen, then try to take down the command headquarters with stun grenades and fancy footwork. If we have to treat these invaders as friendlies, it really ties our hands.
We're usually more of a shoot-and-scoot kind of operation."
"I was afraid of that, Commander. We've got one ELINT Viking up now. The Russians are less than two hundred miles away coming at flank speed. They've made four overflights of the island, just to let us know that they can do it. They're coming in from the west, which means they have to go around Cape Shiretoko, then motor about fifty kilometers down Nemuro Strait between the cape and Kunashir Island. They would still have to go around the southern tip of the island to come up on the town of Golovnino, where the Japanese invaders are.
"My guess is they will bypass the cape, stay out another twenty kilometers or so, and come in on the east coast on the Pacific side.
Which means we have a little more time. We're talking about eight hours, maybe less if they push it.
"I've been warned by CINCPAC to be extremely careful about taking any action against the Russians. If they shoot first, we are authorized to return fire in kind if one of our aircraft or ships is in deadly peril." The admiral let out a long sigh, picked up a much-chewed cigar, and clamped it in his mouth. He didn't light it. "'Shoot and scoot," yeah, I like that. Hell of a good way of doing this business. Only we can't, not on this one." He looked at Murdock, who suddenly had a whole new perspective on this level of command. "You have any more ideas on this fucking island?"
"Forget Japanese sensitivities and drop a pair of missiles on the command headquarters, then go in and mop up and airlift out any living Japanese, and leave the place to the Russians by the time they drop anchor off the town."
The admiral laughed. "Don't I wish I could. CINCPAC would have me by the balls before I could radio in an after-action report. I'd be retired in Coronado before you could flick your Bic."
A phone on the desk beeped twice. The admiral picked it up and listened. "Yes, I'm coming down. Tell those young men to keep their cool."
The admiral stood, his game face back in place. "I've got to get down to TFCC. You might want to tag along."
Murdock hurried forward to follow the admiral.
The TFCC is the Tactical Flag Command Center. It contained tactical display screens showing what ships and planes were where in his command.
A short walk later, the admiral and Murdock stepped inside the center, and both stared at the display screen.
"How close?" Admiral Kenner asked Captain Olson, the CAG.
The Carrier Air Wing Commander checked the screen. "Two bogies, sir, probably from the Russian carrier still out about eighty miles from the tip of Hokkaido. Their course seems to be set just to miss the Japanese island. Estimated speed about seven hundred knots. We have two Tomcats on an intercept course with contact somewhere past the point of Hokkaido in approximately twelve minutes."
"Get them on tactical," the admiral said.
Ten seconds later the call went out. "Red Tomboy, this is Home Base."
The response came at once.
"Home Base, yeah. We've got those two bogies on a hot meet. What the fuck are we supposed to do?"
Admiral Kenner took the hand mike. "Red Tomboy, this is Admiral Kenner. Do not initiate any action. Do not lock on with radar. Make it a fly-by-and-wave. Absolutely do not engage."
"That's a Roger, Home Base. No engagement. Should we turn and bird-dog them?"
"Red Tomboy, maintain loose contact, don't attempt to escort or influence their flight direction."
"Roger, Home Base. Out."
Admiral Kenner handed the set back to Captain Olson. The admiral again studied the screen that showed his ship placement.
"All our units in their proper locations?"
"Right, sir," the watch officer said. "Everyone in the specified protection screen."
"Good. That task force could have a Russian Boomer along with it, We've got to be especially alert. What's our ETA on the island?"
"Less than three hours now, sir. We've sent out signals for the spread of our ships. We'll be four miles off shore."
I'll wait for the intercept, Captain Olson," the admiral said.
It was a sit-down room with all the video screens at chest height, and a shelf for work areas below them. Murdock had never seen this part of a carrier in action. He watched the lines on the screen start to converge.
Suddenly he was glad he was just a lieutenant commander, without the responsibility for the carrier task force and the lives and welfare of ten thousand men and a billion dollars worth of hardware that the admiral had.
The lines on the screen almost met; then both veered slightly until they were parallel but looked almost on top of each other.
"Can't be separated by more than maybe a hundred feet, sir," the radar specialist said.
Admiral Kenner grunted.
The lines continued in a straight line.
"Heading is still directly for the northernmost point of Hokkaido," a second tech said.
The admiral turned to another console. "Let's try to bounce a signal off our ELINT and try to raise the commander of the Russian task force. It's time we had a talk. Don't we have an xpert Russian translator on board?"
The watch officer frowned. "Yes, sir. I'll round him up. A Chief Johnson, as I recall." He turned and talked to another operator, who left his station and hurried out of the TFCC.
Three minutes later, the translator was there, looking at the message the admiral had written out. He went over it four times, then nodded at the console operator.
The chief spoke in Russian "Hailing the Russian task force now steaming up the Sea of Japan toward Hokkaido. This is Admiral Kenner of the USS Monroe, CVN 81. We urgently request that you respond to our call so we can have a conversation about our mutual problem." The chief released the mike switch. Everyone in the TFCC waited. The dead air time stretched out.
"A minute," the chief said. He looked at the watch commander, who held up his finger in a wait sign.
"It's been two minutes," Admiral Kenner said. "Repeat the message, word for word."
"Admiral, we're on an international hailing frequency," the chief said. "I'm almost certain they monitor that frequency. We should be able to raise them on it. They may need some time to decide how to respond."
"Do it again," Kenner said.
The translator again spoke in Russian into the microphone. When he ended the message they waited.
A minute later the speaker came to life. The words were in English. "Admiral Kenner. May I offer my compliments on your seamanship. This is Admiral Vladimir Rostow, leader of Task Force Twelve now moving toward Kuril Islands. I see no need for us to talk.
This is a Russian problem, not one for the United States. It is our island that has been invaded. We have given the renegades seven days to leave the island or face total annihilation. There is no room for negotiations, only the total withdrawal of the invaders by our deadline.
I trust this makes our position clear."
The men in the TFCC looked at one another as if the Russian admiral's words were about what they expected.
Admiral Kenner pointed at the chief to continue. He picked up the hand microphone and went on reading in Russian from the prepared statement
"Admiral Rostow. I appreciate your position, but now is the time for words and not bullets. We are now off the coast of Kunashir Island, and will shortly be in communication with General Nishikawa. I understand your concern. This is a minute force led by a highly emotional traditionalist Japanese. I feel there is a strong probability that we can talk him out of his position so your military men on the site can re-establish Russian control. We look forward to working with you on this delicate problem. Thank you."
There was a moment of silence; then another Voice came back in English. "Admiral Rostow requests that this channel be kept open and monitored twenty-four hours a day for any emergency. Signing off."
The admiral lowered his brows and firmed his jaw. He turned, and looked at the screen showing the four aircraft.
"Sir, the aircraft are approaching the islands. They were north of Hokkaido, then swung south toward the first Kuril island."
Tuesday, 20 February
USS Monroe, CVN 81
Off Hokkaido, Japan
Murdock settled into an out-of-the-way spot in the Tactical Flag Command Center and watched developments. He checked the screen on the tactical display. Each ship and plane in the fleet was shown, and evidently all was going according to plan. The big carrier was nearing the top end of the northernmost Japanese island of Hokkaido.
Now all they had to do was slip between some Russian-held islands just beyond the point, and motor about twenty-five miles west to get to the target island. He wasn't sure how close the whole task force would come to the island.
The radio speaker came to life on the tactical frequency.
"Home Base, this is Red Tomboy." The voice was Lieutenant Harley "Red" Remington in his F14 Tomcat high overhead. "Home Base here. Go, Tomboy." It was the CAG speaking
"Guess you're following our pictures.
Our visitors are still coming in at Mach One from the southwest. Same orders?"
"You're on a meet-up course with them in about four minutes. Same situation. Two of their planes buzzed that little target town a couple of hours ago."
"This still a meet-and-greet program?"
"Roger that, Red Tomboy. Unless you can talk Russian."
"No way, Home Base. We'll monitor. Out."
High in the daylight sky, Red Remington switched back to the intercom, and talked with his RIO in the backseat of the Tomcat.
"Pokey, we still got that pair of bandits coming in?"
"Sure as little girls have small tits. Steady and on target. They will just miss the tip of Hokkaido's Shiretoko Point, so they won't overfly Japanese territory, and then be a nickel's worth from Kunashir Island."
"Where do we meet them assholes?" Remington asked.
"In that little strait between the island and Hokkaido, maybe halfway."
"You ever seen a couple of hot-loaded Migs up close and personal before, Pokey?"
"Shit, no. Neither have you. These guys could blast us out of the sky."
"Yeah, and we can return the favor, and they both know it. Watch for any lock-on. He locks his radar on us, we quick do the same and fire first. A fucking radar lock-on is a hostile act, and gives us weapons free. That's right out of the CAG's mouth."
The RIO snorted. "Hell, he ain't about to lock on. He's way out here away from his buddies. Two on two, but we might have eight or ten more Cats up here somewhere just waiting."
Remington checked his instruments, then the heads-up display, and looked out where the Migs should be. Nothing.
"I've got them on my screen," the radar intercept officer said from the backseat. "Had them for a few seconds. Still straight and on course."
They were quiet for a minute. Red Remington grinned as he pushed the Tomcat through the air at slightly over Mach One. He loved this plane, wouldn't be doing anything else in the world even if he could.
There was a relationship between the pilot and the aircraft that he couldn't explain. It was damned near spiritual.
"They both are making their turn, so they're just past that point, and coming around to a southeast heading," Remington heard in his headset. "You should have them visually before long."
Remington scanned the sky ahead the way he had done countless times before. Still nothing. "Altitude? We on the right level here?"
"They could be a hundred feet above or below us," the RIO said.
"Got them visual at one o'clock," Red said. "I better check with TFCC." He switched to tactical, and at once received a call from the ship. "Red Tomboy, you have visual?"
"Just obtained, Home Base. Does he turn or do we?"
"You ever played chicken, Red Tomboy?"
"Not at this speed." There was a pause. "Oh, yeah, he's drifting to his left, he'll overfly the island that way."
"Get on his starboard wing and stay five hundred feet off and keep with him. Be a good host, and show your visitor around. Take no hostile action unless they lock on. Confirmed?"
"That's a Roger, Home Base. He's turning more, and we're with him.
Six hundred feet, and closing to five hundred. Straight and level."
Back in the TFCC, Murdock followed the exchange closely. If anything went wrong there would be no need for the third platoon of SEAL Team Seven. He could see the radar tracks as the four planes angled southeast toward the target island.
"I'll be damned, Captain," Red Tomboy said. "The near Mig is moving in closer to me. The fucker is fifty feet away. I can see the bastard through the canopy."
