Show of Force

T
o everyone on the bridge of the U.S.S. 
California
, David Charles offered an impression of total relaxation. He was slumped in his chair with his feet propped up on the open wing near the starboard lookout. His grayish blue eyes were open, but he squinted enough in the bright sunlight so that he could have dozed without being noticed. Actually, he had been following a cloud on the horizon, using a point on the forward launcher as a target for the cloud. Either the ship wasn’t moving, or the cloud was moving just as fast as the ship, or perhaps he was moving his head enough so that the launcher and the cloud remained in line. It really didn’t make much difference to him. His purpose was to simulate deep thought, so no one would bother him. What he often forgot was that he was an admiral and Task Force Commander and no one would speak to him anyway unless spoken to first.

He was thinking, too. He was digesting each of the reports on the last printout from Washington. A slight malfunction in the receiving unit occasionally turned the message into the gibberish that would appear for anyone intercepting them. But there were plenty of ensigns to put to work decoding when the unit had a problem. Most of the material he had read contained information on the Soviet submarines and their various locations. While there was one conventional-powered sub off the Gulf of Oman, the rest were nuclear and had no time limitations or dependency on supply. The reports contained the normal information: name of each boat, commanding officer’s bio, number of crew and their experience, weapon load, port of departure and number of days at sea (which would be wise to keep track of), and time on station. Admiral Charles knew that there would be an immediate revision if any change of station beyond ten miles occurred. Less than that made no difference. Each of his torpedoes could find anything within that range that exhibited the same noise signature programmed into the target acquisition module in its nose. Tapes of each sub’s sounds were ready to be recorded in any of the torpedoes.

Why, he wondered, was there a conventional boat out there, blatant as hell? Was it just a trick? a decoy? or would it eventually serve some purpose that the War Games people at Johns Hopkins hadn't programmed yet?

The cloud disappeared from view as the bow rose slowly on a long swell. Just as gradually, it reappeared, seeming to rise by itself as the bow slid down the opposite side of the swell. Two more swells followed until the ship gradually regained its stability. Charles looked to his left at the members of the bridge watch. None of them seemed to have noticed the change in motion. Or perhaps, he thought, so many of them have never been in a situation like this before that they're all lost in thought, too.

He tried to catch a seaman's attention, then quietly called, “Messenger.”

A young boy, not really a boy but the youngest one in the section, came immediately to his side, saluted and stammered, “Y-yes, sir.” He had little experience talking to admirals.

The Admiral removed his starched garrison cap, rubbing the two gold stars on his shirt. It was a habit he rarely noticed, as was the way he ran his left hand through his dark, slightly curly hair. Even though it was cut short, and there were tinges of gray around his ears, he looked younger than most admirals since most of his hair still remained.

“Son, I'd like a mug of coffee, black . . . from the forward control room, not the wardroom. And, while you're on the way, would you ask Commander Dailey to come to the bridge.”

The young sailor saluted again. “Aye, aye, sir,” and backed away, almost tripping over the raised coaming of the pilothouse hatchway. David smiled to himself, making a mental note to have Bob Casey, the
California's
CO, tell his senior watch officer to ease up on the enlisted men a bit. While they were in wartime conditions, taut nerves could cut down on reaction time. The crew could be sharp without being stiff. He knew no one liked having a flag on board, especially when there really wasn't room for an admiral's staff. All of them, including him, would be glad when
Nimitz
joined up and he could transfer his flag to the aircraft carrier.

After standing up and stretching, he moved into the pilothouse for a moment and checked the other ships on the radar screen.

There was no reason to undergo radar-emission control since the Russians knew exactly where they were, and what they were doing. There were five other ships in an extended circle around an imaginary guide in the middle, each far enough from the other to avoid any structural damage from a nuclear attack on one of them. He glanced around at the various watch-standers, all of whom were making themselves busy for his benefit. The officer of the deck lifted his binoculars to his eyes rather than appear to be staring at the man with the stars on his collar.

Shortly after his coffee was in his hand, Bill Dailey, his Chief of Staff, appeared through the hatch on the opposite wing. David motioned with his head to come to the other wing of the bridge. Dailey, a taller and older-looking man, was starched but informal as his boss had dictated: “When you're riding a can”—even though this was far from the old tin can that David had started his career on—“there's a certain informality and I don't want my staff scaring the hell out of these people.” The Admiral knew these ships were as big as the old spit 'n' polish cruisers. But he wanted to let the crew know that he still considered their ship with the same reverence as the old, expendable greyhounds that had all but disappeared years ago.

“Bill, I wanted to ask you what you make of that conventional boat they stuck up there near the Gulf of Oman? It doesn't make sense to me. The last printout didn't give a hint about its purpose as far as the War Games people were concerned,” he questioned. , “Admiral,” the other grinned, “I came prepared to answer just about any other question but that one. Is that bothering you, too?”

“Bill, when I was ops officer on a staff, I always offered an answer anyway, just so my boss would know I was thinking.” He raised his eyebrows. “I think you're in a position where yon should start asking for some answers, if you don't have any. You know that Gorenko has a reason for everything and that submarine has a purpose.” Then, he lowered his brows a bit and offered just a bit of a smile. “You're getting paid to think for me, aren't you?”

“Well, sir,”—he'd served with the Admiral before—"we've worked together long enough so I knew that boat was going to get to you. So I had my boys sit down and had each one prepare a list of reasons why it was there. There were some pretty wild ones. Then we narrowed it down to fit ten. items based on Games' projections over the next twenty-four hours, and I had them fire back these alternatives for the computer at Hopkins.

We did that about an hour ago, and we ought to have a printout back shortly. And, since I'm still not a mind reader, I'd like it if you'd come down later and go over the response with my boys. They don't see much of you, and they'd sure appreciate having you come down and show how you operate. As a matter of fact, the more they know about you, the more they'll be able to add new alternatives to each prediction. And they're good enough that they just might end up with some answers the next day or so before you have the questions."

“You know I really wasn't checking on you, Bill.” He paused and looked across the bow. “I just got tired of that damn cloud,” he said, more to himself than to Dailey.

“Pardon me, sir?”

“Nothing, nothing at all, Bill. Just a cloud I was staring at... trying to look thoughtful to everyone.” He laughed this time. “Even admirals have to look busy, and these boys don't have admirals around much.” A pause. “Bill, I don't think the Russians are going to sit and wait for an answer to that speech from the President. It's not like Gorenko. He always does something for emphasis, just to show he means business. I'll give you a little side bet that he's going to do something soon, something that's supposed to jolt the President, something that's going to scare the hell out of everybody. Just a little something to put on the pressure. He probably figures if the President sees telegrams from all over the world telling him to get the hell off that island because the Russians have already made a move, he might just get scared into dumping the whole thing.”

“Any ideas on what Gorenko might do, sir?”

“Not really. That's why I called you up here. What's the range of Alex's group now?”

“Alex?”

“The Soviet carrier group, Bill. The one to the east that they're sending down to play with us.” He grinned at the other man. “Admiral Kupinsky is Alex. His flag is on the
Lenin.”
He turned in his chair to look directly at Dailey. “Remember, he's an old friend of mine and he's bringing a task group down here to play with me and I want to know how close he is, just so I might be able to figure out what his first move might be.”

“Sorry, Admiral, I'm not reading your mind again.” He knew how far he could carry informality, and when he could let this man know that he was getting too withdrawn on his own wavelength, when he might have to communicate his thoughts in a second. “The sixteen-hundred-position report will indicate they're a bit more than a thousand miles off. If we continue to stream north/south in this sector, and they maintain the speed they've shown since they turned the corner, they'll be right here,” he pointed at the deck, “in just about forty-eight hours, which is perfect timing according to Washington. That's when the Chairman predicted we'd be surrounded.”

“Noooo . . . nope! That's not like him to wait until then.” He sat up taller in the chair.

“There are six submarines around us now, sir. The closest one is out there,” Dailey gestured with his right arm, “about forty miles on our quarter, near
Truxton,
keeping the same course and speed as we are.”

“
No. Alex is in contact with his subs, but all they can do is sink someone, and he won't do that before we have a chance to back down. And he's too far away to do anything with ships for awhile. He's become a fan of air tactics, and I think Alex will do something from the air. He's got a couple of long-range jets, those slower ones, that can stay just so far away and choose from a lovely selection of missiles. It won't be nuclear, but it will carry a message for our dear President.
”

“You see, he thinks this is just another bluff. I don't. If the big guns in the Kremlin feel this is an aggressive act on our part, they're going to do everything short of sinking some ships. And if the President thinks he can develop sympathy from the rest of the world if the Russians cause a little damage, he's in for a surprise.”

“How much do you think they're capable of, sir?”

“Enough to turn him pasty white! Hell, Bill, the days of those phony fishing boats tracking our carriers, or Soviet ships jockeying for the same piece of water, are over when they think they've got us like this. If the President cries foul about a couple of missiles in our fantails, the Soviets will just say they were fired on first and were defending themselves. Who's going to say otherwise when we're out here in the middle of nowhere? I don't think he'll find any witnesses,” he added with finality.

“War Games says damage with some fatalities is possible in such a situation, though they also wonder whether the Russians would take a chance of hitting a magazine,” nodded Dailey.

“Sure they would. Those nice shore-based sailors running those expensive computers don't have enough psychology built into their programs. Do me a favor, Bill. Have your people figure a missile range of about seventy-five miles and an aircraft, probably a Riga, that has about a thousand-mile range from
Lenin,
and tell me when we can expect a visit. I'll put a little money on it if you will, I'll bet you, right now, Alex does something in the next watch.” He sat back, already having dismissed his Chief of Staff in his mind, and picked out another cloud.

The phone next to the table buzzed. “Captain here,” answered Casey. David Charles and the commanding officer of the
California
were having dinner in the captain's cabin.

After listening attentively, he said, “Thank you. Ill-come to the bridge shortly. Let me know any course or speed changes.” He placed the sound-powered phone back in its box. “You're absolutely right, Admiral. That's my officer of the deck. Combat picked up two aircraft coming from the direction of the Russian force. Looks like your man Dailey picked everything but their ' wing numbers.”

“He's a good man. Bob. Twenty years ago, he would have predicted the same thing without a computer.” He looked at his watch. “He just wouldn't have been so damn accurate.” He gestured at the dial. “About three and a half minutes off, but Alex always liked being unpredictable.”

“My OOD has already notified the other ships for you. He'll sound general quarters in about ten minutes. Is there anything else we can do for you at this point?”

“Nope. There's two of them and six of us, so they'll probably split, one north and one south, and keep their distance. Dailey has already reduced their choices to six options, but I've eliminated four because I know Alex won't use nuclear weapons. He isn't foolish. He doesn't want to sink anyone at this point. I'm pretty sure they'll try the small radar-programmed missiles so that nothing major happens—just damage. Too many casualties would piss off a lot of people in Washington, and the Russians just want to show they mean business. You know and I know and Alex and all his people know the purpose of this little show of force, and they don't want to hurt anyone if they can help it. But, neither do I. Dailey already has the plan to divert the missiles after they're fired, but I want to make sure enough men on each ship see what a real explosion looks like, a Russian one. We'll try to contain it in the middle of the formation. But I want you to tell your gunboss again that I want those two planes to get back to Alex and tell him what we can do.”