Satan’s Tail. Dale Brown
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Their long, knifelike bows and finlike superstructures had led inevitably to a warlike nickname: Shark Boats.
XP Group 1 – better known as Xray Pop – was one of twelve proposed integrated littoral warfare combat groups that would eventually combine surface warfare ships with unmanned helicopters and aerial vehicles, small submarines, and Marine combat teams. But like Xray Pop, the littoral warfare concept was still very much a work in progress. The Navy had said ‘XP’ stood for ‘extended patrol.’ The sailors who manned the ships knew it actually meant ‘expect problems.’
Storm firmly believed littoral warfare was the Navy’s future. The teething pains he suffered on this maiden mission would help shape warfare for the next fifty years. He’d freed Xray Pop from the engineering spaces and Pentagon offices and dragged littoral warfare out into the real world, and he meant to show it would work.
Which meant sinking the bastards in the little boats.
‘One of the unidentified patrol craft is heading in our direction,’ said Eyes.
‘Do they see us?’
‘Not sure.’
Storm moved back to the window of the bridge. The UAVs designed to operate off the ship’s fantail were running nearly eighteen months behind schedule. Without them, the Abner Read had no beyond-the-horizon capability and in fact had a very limited weapons range. Storm hadn’t intended on operating completely without airborne cover – a pair of P-3 Orions from the Seventh Fleet had been moved up to Kuwait to provide reconnaissance during his operation. But the P-3s had been pulled out for higher priority missions in the Philippines, and the promised replacements had not materialized. And while he had been offered helicopters, these were still back in Pearl Harbor, as near as he could determine.
Not that he would have wanted them anyway. They were too big for the Abner Read’s low-slung hangar area, which had been designed for the UAVs. They’d have had to be lashed to the helipad.
‘More contacts,’ said Eyes. ‘Two more patrol boats. I think these are the Somalians, Captain.’
‘They’re a bit far from home,’ said Storm, feeling his heart beginning to pound. ‘Are you sure these are not Yemen craft?’
‘We’re working on it.’
Storm could hear the voices of the others in the background, ringing out as more information flooded the sensors. The Tactical Warfare Center was a Combat Information Center on steroids. A holographic display similar to the smaller one on the bridge dominated the compartment. Synthesized from all of the available sensor inputs on the ship, as well as external ones piped in over the shared Littoral Warfare Network, the display showed the commander everything in the battle area. It also could provide scenarios for confronting an enemy, which made it useful for planning. Tac also held the Abner Read’s radar, sonar, and weapons stations.
Two more contacts were made, then a third: Storm felt the adrenaline rising throughout the ship, the scent of blood filtering through the environmental system – the Abner Read was on the hunt.
‘Two more boats. Small coastal craft.’
‘No markings.’
‘Deck guns on one.’
‘Another contact. Something bigger.’
‘Storm, we have an Osa II,’ said Eyes. ‘Definitely a Yemen boat – what’s he doing out?’
The Osa II was a Russian-made missile boat that carried Soviet-era SSN-2A/B ‘Styx’ surface-to-surface missiles. A potent craft when first designed, the Osas were now long in the tooth but packed a reasonable wallop if well-skippered and in good repair. The Yemen ships were neither.
Storm studied the tactical display. The Osa II flickered at the far end of the hologram, about five miles away.
‘Looks like they’re getting ready to attack the tanker,’ said Commander Marcum.
‘Good,’ Storm told the ship’s captain.
‘Gunfire! They’re shooting across the tanker’s bow!’ Eyes paused for only a second, gathering information from one of the crewmen manning the high-tech systems below. ‘The oil tanker is radioing for assistance. They are under attack.’
‘Weapons,’ said Storm.
‘Weapons!’ repeated the captain, addressing his weapons officer.
‘Weapons,’ bellowed the officer on duty in the weapons center, Ensign Hacienda. The ensign’s voice was so loud Storm might have been able to hear it without the communications gear.
‘Prepare to fire the gun,’ said Marcum.
‘Ready, sir.’
‘At your order, Storm.’
The gun was a 155mm Advanced Gun System, housed in the sleek box on the forward deck. The weapon fired a variety of different shells, including one with a range of nearly one hundred miles that could correct its flight path while on course for its target. At the moment, the Abner Read carried only unguided or ‘ballistic’ ammunition, which had a range of roughly twenty-two miles – more than enough to pound one of the boats firing on the tanker.
‘Eyes, give them fair warning,’ said Storm.
‘Aye, Captain.’ The disdain for the rules of engagement was evident in his voice. Storm shared the sentiment, though he did not voice his opinion.
‘No acknowledgment. Attack is continuing. We –’
Eyes was nearly drowned out by a stream of curses from one of the men on duty in the Tactical Center. Storm knew exactly what had happened – the computer had gone off-line again, probably as they attempted to transmit a fresh warning in Arabic using the computer system’s prerecorded message capability. It was one of the more problematic modules in the integrated computing system. It would take at least a full minute to bring it back.
The tanker’s running lights were visible in the distance. Storm picked up his glasses and scanned the horizon. They were still too far from the small patrol boats to see them, even with the infrared.
‘Missile in the air!’
The warning came not from one of the men on the bridge or the Tactical Center, but from the computer system, which used a real-language module for important warnings. Talking wasn’t the only thing it did: In the time it took Storm to glance down at the threat screen on the Abner Read’s ‘dashboard’ at the center of the bridge, the computer had managed to identify the weapon and predict its course.
A Styx antiship missile.
‘Well, we know which side he’s on,’ said Storm sarcastically. ‘Countermeasures. Target the Osa II.’
The ship’s captain moved to implement the instructions. He didn’t need Storm to tell him what to do – and in fact he wouldn’t have been ship’s captain of the Abner Read if he weren’t among the most competent commanders in the Navy – but he also knew Storm well enough to realize the captain wouldn’t sit in the background, especially in combat.
‘Computer IDs the missile as a type P-20M with an MS-2A seeker,’ said Eyes.
The MS-2A was a solid-state radar that featured the ability to home in on the electronic countermeasures – or ECMs – being used to jam it.
‘Is he locked on us?’ asked Commander Marcum.
‘Negative. Trajectory makes it appear as if he fired without radar, maybe hoping we’d go to the ECMs and he’d get a lock.’
Or it was fired ineptly, which Storm thought more likely. Nonetheless, they had to act as if it were the former.
The holographic information system projected the missile’s path – a clean miss. As Eyes said, the missile was aimed well wide of them; it would hit