A Sword Into Darkness

2: “DEATH FROM BELOW”

March 29, 2031; USS Rivero (DDG 1004); Sea of Japan, 150 nm from North Korean coast, STLAM Launch Basket S2

In the dusking skies of evening above USS Rivero, the sharp boundary of the eastern horizon had already merged with the night, while to the west a wash of orange and red still set the water afire. The deep blue waters around the destroyer were empty, livened only by the occasional flash of a whitecap blown into spray by the chill, rising wind.

Lieutenant Nathaniel Robert Kelley, Rivero’s Weapons Officer, or Weps, nodded and turned the forward and aft cameras away from the scene and back toward their respective missile decks. Nathan, who sat in the hot seat as Tactical Action Officer in Rivero’s Combat Information Center (CIC), keyed his microphone. “Bridge, TAO. Captain, line 26 and 27 complete, no surface or air tracks within safety range and clear visually. Line 28 also complete, forward and aft VLS visually clear. Pass the word, ‘All hands remain within the skin of the ship while launching missiles.’”

“Tac, Captain. Bridge concurs. Passing the word,” came his CO’s tinny voice. A moment later, the announcement was made all over the lethal, elongated pyramid shape of the Zumwalt-class destroyer. Between the announcement, the internal net he listened to in one ear, the radio circuit to the Strike Group TAO he guarded in the other ear, another three radio circuits he listened for on speakers, the checklist he was completing, and the different tactical chat rooms he was involved with, Nathan was dividing his attentions between ten different, equally vital conversations, not including the internal debate on the impending strike package he also worried over. His ability to multitask was stretched just about as far as was humanly possible.

But that did not stop Senior Chief David Edwards from adding his own sidebar to the jumbled mess. “‘DDM’, Weps. What the hell does that mean?”

“I have no idea, Senior.” Nathan keyed his mike. “Strike, TAO. Lines 29 through 32 complete.” He flipped the page of his StealthHawk launch checklist.

Across the space, and in his ear, Nathan heard the young Strike Officer respond, “Strike, aye. Five minutes until primary package launch.” The CIC was one of the largest non-engineering spaces within Rivero. Fitted out with the standard light blue and gray bulkheads, a multitude of pipes and cableways leapfrogging one another through the overhead, and dark gray false decking, the space’s most striking features were the tightly packed ranks of bulky, militarized computer consoles through which the combat watchstanders interacted with the destroyer’s weapon systems and the world outside the ship. The dim lighting left only the monitors and large screen displays to provide their ghostly illumination upon the grim faces of the sailors, who were all dressed in either coveralls or Navy digital-patterned camouflage utilities. Each person was identically bundled in a thick blue jacket as proof against the cold, conditioned air, the temperature at which the combat computer system worked most efficiently.

Senior Chief Edwards, Nathan’s Combat Systems Coordinator, punched a few keys on his console, updated his own checklist and then turned back toward his TAO. “It’s gotta mean something if they’re going to go to all the trouble of re-designating every one of the Zumwalts. DDM … Dreadnought Destroyer Miniature?”

Nathan shook his head. Edwards was too damn cheerful to get mad at, and he knew the Senior Chief’s off-topic question was a ploy to keep Nathan from considering any of the ethical ambiguities associated with launching strikes into North Korea. “We’re 600 feet long, Senior. That’s not so miniature. I think it stands for multi-mission destroyer, since we do so much more than just shoot guided missiles. Apparently DDG no longer suffices.”

“I think some admiral just wanted himself another star, so he makes a Navy-wide change that doesn’t actually change anything. It’s just another example of our grand traditions, sir. Dreaded Destructive Marsupial?”

Nathan grinned at that. “How about Devilish Dancehall Morons?”

Edwards’ own smile broadened and he nodded. “Daffy Duckish Militants?”

Nathan’s sudden, barking laugh caused everyone in CIC to look around. He and the Senior Chief instantly became engrossed in their checklists and displays, each turning a different shade of red. All eyes soon turned back to their own consoles in the darkened space, and the two top surface warriors in CIC devolved into a fit of restrained giggles.

Their reverie was broken by the Captain’s sobering voice on the net. “TAO, Captain. Batteries release.”

“TAO, aye. Combat, TAO. We have batteries release. Shifting forward and aft VLS to launch. Break, Strike.” Nathan reached up and turned the rarely-seen launcher keys from Standby to Launch. A fresh wave of butterflies hit his stomach. Some were no doubt due to the concern he had over what their missiles would do when they reached their targets in the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea.

Would their missiles be effective? How many innocent lives, “collateral”, would be lost? How would China respond? Would the strikes give the newly aggressive North Korea pause and make them pull back out from the DMZ, or would they drive them to use any nukes that escaped destruction?

Aside from the larger, national concerns, most of his worry was about more mundane things. He worried about his men and women. Would all their training and preparation pay off? Would they become the tip of the sword they yearned to be? Would they be able to hold their heads high when they remembered the destruction they had wrought?

Ensign Blake sounded even younger than his short 23 years. “Strike, aye. Launchers show ready. StealthHawks one through thirty are green for primary package launch. StealthHawks thirty-one through forty-five are green for backup launch. Primary package launch in thirty seconds.”

“TAO, aye.” All was quiet throughout the ship, sailors from the Commanding Officer to the junior engineering security rover holding their breath without realizing it. Fifteen seconds later, the VLS sirens sounded, their high-pitched wail at a volume that would drive any foolhardy sailor either back inside the ship or over the side. Ten seconds after that, the first pair of Vertical Launch System hatches opened up, the forward-most cells on the port and starboard sides of the ship.

Five seconds later, at precisely 1900 local, twin blooms of fire boiled upward out of the VLS exhaust, casting the young night back into day. The sharp roar of the rocket motors could be heard throughout the ship, and Nathan could feel the white noise through the soles of his boots. Instants after, a pair of dark shapes slid up as one from the open hatches, leaping into the sky on columns of liquid flame. The missiles screamed higher and higher, twin stars whose radiance was quickly lost on the waters below. Their fiery trajectories tipped over, arcing toward the distant, unseen land. Seconds after going horizontal, the rockets burned out and broke apart, their thick cylindrical tails falling away while smaller, sleeker shapes jetted forward on much more modest tongues of fire.

Then the departing StealthHawks were lost from view as another pair of VLS hatches sprang open, disgorging another pair of missiles in nearly identical fashion. The gray on black contrail of this twosome angled slightly off from the first pair, seeking fresh air through which to climb, and new gaps in the armor that was the North Korean air defense net. In the distance, flares of light could be seen from other ships: destroyers, cruisers, and submerged submarines, the world’s last blue water navy projecting the power that had always proved so decisive in the past.

Aboard USS Rivero, the process was repeated thirteen more times in the next six and a half minutes, until there was nothing left but the final hush of closing VLS hatches, the lap of the waves, and the muted whine of her gas turbines. The dull haze gray sides of the ship were now blackened in spots from the toxic, acidic fires of the StealthHawks’ solid rocket boosters, but even that was lost in the smoky gloom of night on the open sea. The sudden fury had gone and peace settled over the water once again.

“TAO, Strike. All missiles have transitioned to cruise, datalink sat, crypto sat. StealthHawks one through thirty handed off to Strike East. No backup missions for ownship. Request permission to spin down StealthHawks thirty-one through forty-five and secure from Condition Two Strike.”

“Strike, TAO. Roger. Forward and aft VLS placed in Standby. Spin down all remaining birds and conduct post-fire checks. Secure from Condition Two Strike with exception of key watchstanders.” Nathan blew a slow whistle in relief and pulled his headphones down to the back of his neck. He turned in his seat and spoke loud enough for all in CIC to hear. “Good work, people. The world asks and you deliver. Now let’s clean up and turn this bitch over. The near-beer is on me, cigars you can scrounge up your own damn self.”

There were a couple of chuckles, and several grins, but no applause and never a cheer. You might cheer the defeat of an enemy in combat, but this was strike, not battle. The targets here were nameless, faceless, and too often innocent of any other crime than being strategically necessary. They felt pride in a job done well, professionally, but any man who found joy in this work was a man few would care to associate with.

Nathan put his headphones back on and began updating the interminable situation reports in chat. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Edwards’ hand sticking out. Nathan allowed himself a small smile and took the offered hand in a slow, strong shake. Edwards squinted slightly at him. “How you doin’, Weps?”

“I’m good, Senior Chief. It’s the first time I’ve done it for real is all.”

Edwards nodded. “I’ve shot missiles into Iraq, I’ve shot ‘em into Syria, and I’ve shot ‘em in Iran. Now I’ve done it in North Korea. I’m hoping to get a matched set of ‘Axis of Evil’ commemorative plates for the ‘I Love Me’ wall at home, but that would probably be in poor taste.”

Nathan just shook his head. The older enlisted man knew exactly which buttons to push on his department head in order to interrupt his spiraling chain of thoughts. Nathan punched a few buttons of his own and took a look at the air picture on his console. Where before there had been only a few commercial airliners moving down their precise air corridors, there were now literally hundreds of individual beaconed tracks blossoming, radiating out from the Surface Strike Group and the Carrier Strike Group.

At first one by one, and then by the dozens, the low-flying contacts disappeared, as they shut off their ID beacons and passed below the SPY-3 radar’s horizon. Within twenty minutes they would all be gone, and all the ships would have to show for their end of the offensive against North Korea would be a bunch of empty STLAM canisters. The strikes would continue for days, but with Coalition Air Force bombers and naval aviation in the lead, winding up with what was hoped would be a very limited ground push to secure South Korea’s border and take out the North’s ability to threaten them further. Either way, from this point on the wet Navy was largely relegated to a supporting role, there being no real opposing navy to engage.

“TAO, Bridge. The Skipper’s on his way down to Combat. Good shooting, Weps.”

Nathan half stood in front of his console and stretched. “Roger that, Bridge. You might want to have your Quartermaster update PIM. We’ll be leaving the launch baskets pretty soon and rejoining formation to screen the ESG. Work with the CIC Watch Supe and give me your best bet so I can info the Old Man.”

“Bridge, aye. Already on it, sir.”

Nathan settled back down to his seat and began reading his own post-fire checklist when a shrill voice on his tactical net almost popped his eardrum. “All stations, Sonar! I have two passive broadband contacts with matching narrowband tonals off the bow and starboard bow, bearing 263 and 340. No corresponding surface tracks on those lines of bearing. Evaluate both as possible sub, confidence high! Request permission to go active.”

Two acoustic lines of bearing speared out from the circle on the display that represented the Rivero, one to the west and one toward the north. Nathan’s mind spun and everyone returned to their consoles, punching keys and bringing up displays. He shook his head in dismay. They had sanitized this area for three days prior to beginning the strike package, for the sole purpose of ensuring that something like this would not happen. And it had. “Sonar, TAO. Go active and stand by on countermeasure activation. Break, Surface, TAO. Inform Victor Zulu and request ASW pouncer from Chafee. Break, Bridge, TAO. Set flight quarters for Firescout launch and come up to full power. Set Condition Two AS Gold.”

The acknowledgements came, and announcements issued from the speaker over his head and all around the ship. CIC, which had just begun to wind down, became a flurry of activity as the strike technicians going off watch jockeyed for seating with those anti-submarine warfare watchstanders taking over. Back aft, the hangar doors folded upward and sailors in blue/white/gray digi-cammies and brightly colored flight deck jerseys rolled out and prepared a small helicopter UAV for launch. The Firescout-II itself was nearly dwarfed by the pair of sonobouy launchers and the single mini torpedo it mounted. Amidships, the muted whine of the destroyer’s gas turbines changed in pitch as another pair of Rolls Royce engines came online, ready to propel the Rivero’s electric drive to her full 35+ knots.

Back in CIC, Nathan was forced to wait in the dark as status reports rolled in, praying the whole time that it was a false alarm. Submariners liked to kid surface warriors that there were two kinds of ships in the world: submarines and targets. On any normal day, Nathan would dispute that. The Navy had let their ASW know-how atrophy for decades, but the last 12 years had seen a resurgence of anti-submarine pride. He would have bet that the Rivero and her destroyer squadron could hunt subs almost as well as another submarine or a P-8 Maritime Patrol Aircraft squadron, given enough warning. But having a pair of hostile subs show up in your back yard without the usual aviation screen, tracking data, or defense in depth was a recipe for disaster. Destroyer sailors knew that anytime you seriously contemplated using the short-range, ship mounted torpedo tubes, you had already failed the ASW problem.

“TAO, ASWE. I’m online, conferring with Sonar and going active. Port and starboard mounts are trained to forty-five degrees offset, torpedo firing checks in progress. Firescout launch in about seven minutes.” That was LTJG Calhoun, the ship’s ASW Officer. There was no telling where he had been, but he was alert and on the job now.

“TAO, aye.” A figure appeared off to one side of Nathan’s elbow without a sound, causing him to look behind him. Commander Anthony Jones, Rivero’s Commanding Officer, stood behind him, looking over the tactical picture on Nathan’s console and nodding his head. He caught Nathan’s eye and gestured for him to turn back around. Nathan did so immediately and continued changing the system data displayed on his status boards.

Captain Jones was a quiet, reserved man who usually liked to let his people do as they trained. He was not afraid to correct someone and step in when they required it, and the blistering heat of those corrections were not soon forgotten, but he believed in his crew fighting the ship, not himself. If they all relied upon his decisions before making their own, they would be doomed if he became unavailable. In Nathan’s case, he was more than happy to leave the Weapons Officer in charge. For the moment, anyway.

Numerous, disparate flows of information streamed around Nathan, but he stayed atop the flood. He turned slightly to Senior Chief Edwards at his console. “How the hell could a pair of subs sneak by us? We spent three days combing this whole area.”

Edwards shrugged. “Could have been a million ways. It depends on who’s down there. Might our intel be wrong and not all the North Korean Kilos are in port? Could they own some diesel boats we don’t know about? Did they sneak in or were they already here, bottomed out and quiet?”

“I doubt anyone could have snuck by us with all the buoys and dippers we used, and there’s no way they could just happen to bottom out right where we put our launch basket.”

Edwards looked thoughtful and then turned back to his screen. “Might be a pair of midget boats. We never have had good numbers on them. Maybe those two fishing boats we saw yesterday had more on their mind than fishing. Attach a couple of North Korean midget subs to your keel, and you’ll chug along like you have a hold full of fish whether you caught any or not. We’d be none the wiser, even if we’d been allowed to board and inspect them.”

Nathan shook his head in dismay. “A two billion dollar destroyer ambushed by a pair of fake fishing boats and a couple of communist-crafted midget subs? If you’re right, then it’s wrong on so many levels.”

“Well, sir, if we survive this, it’s open season on fishermen, I’m tellin’ you.”

“TAO, ASWE! I have active sonar contacts bearing 265 at 6200 yards and 342 at 5600 yards. Corresponds to previous lines of bearing, probable subs. Tracks 04012 and 04013 refer. Request permission to engage with over-the-side shots!”

“Bridge, TAO. Go to General Quarters. Come to 14 knots, course 120. Break, ASWE, TAO. Negative. Hold your fire.” Edwards looked at him sharply. The war was on and their rules of engagement covered this, so they were justified in shooting, but Nathan simply held up his hand. “ASWE, maintain track quality and torps at ready. Report status of the pouncer.”

The staccato shriek of the GQ alarm sounded, and people all over the ship rushed purposefully about, manning repair stations and additional watches, battening down hatches and scuttles, and making USS Rivero as watertight and survivable as possible. In CIC, there was yet another shuffling of personnel as watches changed out for their Condition One positions. Rivero herself sped up to a moderate speed, but came about languidly, cruising away from the two submarines as if they were scarcely a concern. Some might have turned to attack, others might have run away at flank speed, but Nathan had a different plan in mind.

“TAO, ASWE. USS Chafee was hot-pumping her helo when we called. Anticipate ten minutes before pouncer can be on station.” The squadron’s always at the ready SH-60R Seahawk dipping sonar ASW helicopter was in the midst of refueling, another note of either bad luck or excellent timing on the part of the North Koreans. Their own Firescout UAV would be up before the other destroyer’s helicopter could assist them.

“TAO, aye.” He turned back to Edwards and the Captain, the question still in the Senior Chief’s eyes. “Those subs are too damn close to us. If we shoot, they’ll shoot, and the odds are we’ll be screwed. If they let us put a little distance between us and them, and maybe even get a couple of helos in the air, the odds shift in our favor. So we turn away, keep track on them, and try to set ourselves up for a better engagement while not making ourselves into even more of a target than we already are.”

“But what if the only reason they haven’t fired yet is that they’re firming up their weapons solution? If we fire first and force them to evade, we can wreck their targeting.”

Both Nathan and Edwards pointedly refused to look at the CO, and he, just as stubbornly, said nothing, seeing how his two warfighters would hash it out. “Those subs are so close, they could put their fish on circle search without any targeting, and they’d still get us. No, Senior. We crawl away. We’ll shoot if forced and fight with helos and P-8’s if they’ll let us.” He left unsaid whether or not it was likely the North Koreans would allow them to complete their escape. Captain Jones simply nodded and squeezed both men on the shoulder in silent, unquestioning support as they turned back to their consoles.

Their enemy then rendered the argument pointless.

“All stations, Sonar! I have launch transients from both subs!”

“Bridge, TAO! Flank speed! Conduct Hargrove turn and launch countermeasures. ASWE, TAO! Counterfire! Shoot—shoot—shoot!”

The dark triangular bulk of the ship sounded a higher pitched whine as her gas turbines ramped up, and her electrically driven, twin controllable pitch screws chewed deeper and faster through the sea, churning the water astern into white foam. The Rivero began to loop around in a tight turn to cross her own wake, while noisemakers and bubble generators launched themselves from the bridge wings and disrupted the water further, all in an attempt to confuse the enemy torpedoes and hide the relatively slow moving bulk of the destroyer. From both sides of the ship, a pair of torpedoes popped out and slid into the water, coming to life and seeking out the enemy like a pod of orcas hunting a couple of whales. Astern, the men manning the miniature anti-torpedo torpedo rails kept aim on where sonar held the enemy weapons, through the blue-white rooster tail kicking up from the stern, ready to shoot when they came in range.

As bad as the situation was, the Rivero still had a chance. Their countermeasures were as good as the lopsided physics of the situation could make them, and their own Mk-54B torpedoes would ensure that there would not be more than one additional salvo coming for them. It was an accepted part of modern naval warfare that vessels rarely engaged one another directly. Instead, they lunged and parried by proxy, their smart weapons doing the lion’s share of the seeking and destroying. It was the ship’s responsibility to position those weapons and set them up for success. In this, Nathan Kelley and his combat team excelled, but the enemy could not always be counted on to play fair.

It did not seem possible, but the sonar operator grew even more shrill. “Combat, Sonar! Flying Fish! Flying Fish! Enemy torpedoes are super-cavs!”

“Shit. Bridge, TAO! Cancel Hargrove. Steady on 090 and standby for hard turn to 180.” Nathan suddenly found it hard to hear the nets over the pounding of his own heart, but the bridge heard him and he felt the ship heel over as it reversed its maneuver and settled onto its new course due east. Everything vibrated as the destroyer clawed at the water in her bid to escape.

Supercavitation. Torpedoes already had a speed advantage over nearly any kind of ship, 50 to 60 knots versus 25 to 30. The engagements still moved at a snail’s pace compared to aerial battles or duels with cruise missiles, however. Supercavitating torpedoes, super-cavs, blurred that distinction. By using a rocket motor rather than screws or propulsors, and by encasing the body of the torpedo in a drag-free layer of continuously generated steam, the torpedo left the viscous confines of the ocean and acted like an underwater missile. Now rather than a twenty or thirty knot advantage, the enemy weapons had a two hundred knot advantage. Fired from only a few miles away, there was no time for countermeasures, no time for maneuvers, and almost no time to think.

Nathan’s and Rivero’s sole advantage was that super-cavs, or “Flying Fish”, were nearly blind and could barely maneuver even if they could see beyond their enveloping sheath of gas. Newer Flying Fish had sensors and spars that extended out of the gas bubble, allowing them to both see and turn. He bet that, surprised as he had been by the North Koreans having super-cavs at all, they probably would not have the latest model. If he could coax the torpedoes to commit to full speed on one line of bearing, it might be possible to turn the ship at the last instant to offset the blast. But he also knew that the North Koreans would be aware of their weapons’ limitations and would likely have accounted for them.

He watched the ten subsurface tracks held on sonar. Four were his, en route to the two tracks furthest out, the enemy subs. The last four formed a staggered line, showing up as question marks rather than the usual symbology since they were not behaving according to the normal kinematics of submerged contacts. The whole world paused as they began to merge with Rivero’s symbol at the center of the display.

“Bridge, TAO! Turn!”

USS Rivero tilted over toward the outside of her desperate course change to starboard. The stern of the ship nearly skipped through the water as she came about at 34 knots with a hard rudder angle. From the ASW Countermeasures compartment at her fantail, Torpedomen began to fire countertorp after countertorp down into the path of the Flying Fish.

The first torpedo streaked past Rivero, detonating 100 yards off her port side, turning the water into a globe of pure white that imploded and then erupted in a column of spray hundreds of feet high. The destroyer was rung like a bell, pushed laterally by over ten feet. Loose gear rocketed through the air, along with anyone not secured in a seat. Captain Jones, who was braced for shock but not strapped down, was thrown over a row of consoles and down to the deck. Sparks exploded from some of the panels and the lights actually brightened as the normal, dim sources in CIC went out and the emergency supplies to all the lights came on.

The second torpedo went far afield, detonating 500 yards away. The third fell victim to the swarm of anti-torpedo torpedoes, with four of the miniscule devices detonating in its path. The supercavitating torpedo’s gas bubble was ripped away and a combination of shaped charge jets and a water hammer moving at 240 knots ripped the torpedo apart. It never detonated.

The fourth torpedo slid beneath Rivero’s violently maneuvering stern as if destiny had willed it there. The underwater rocket detonated, blowing a spherical hollow in the water below the destroyer’s aft keel. The screws sped up into a blur, freed from their watery prison, followed immediately by the buckling of both shafts. Thousands of tons of mass, now unsupported by the buoyant ocean, sagged down amidships and snapped the ship’s spine.

Then, even above the sound of screeching steel and screaming men, there came the roar of water rushing back into the void. Hydrodynamics coalesced the collapsing sphere of liquid into a beautiful, terrible lance of pure, incompressible force. The lance speared the already broken back of the ship and erupted upwards through deck upon deck, emerging in a fountain of destructive energy from the middle of Rivero’s hangar.

Rivero collapsed back into the water, her after third shorn away in a blast of twisted, torn, burning metal. The stern of the ship sank in less than a minute, greedily claiming everyone stationed inside. The bodies of the flight deck crew and wrecked hulk of the autonomous Firescout-II helo were launched several hundred yards. None of them survived intact.

The forward two thirds of the Rivero wallowed in relative peace. The hangar crew and the engineers who had faced the blast directly were no longer even recognizable as bodies. Water flooded into open spaces, past sprung doors and hatches and into the forward half of the ship, even as oil and sewage spilled back out into the sea. Throughout the ship, the few survivors who remained conscious set about organizing themselves to make it out to the life rafts and to evacuate everyone they could. They stopped any real attempt at damage control once they realized there was no way to stop the ship from going down, nor could they tell if it was going down in five minutes or fifty.

Unseen by any aboard, either because they were unconscious, dead, or too busy to worry about being attacked again, there was a sequence of four more explosions a couple of miles away to the north and to the west. These eruptions were followed by a pair of spreading oil slicks, some debris, and nothing more. The dark, wind tossed sea returned to a state of calm without further attacks upon the doomed destroyer.

Five minutes later, Chafee’s helicopter hovered into view to face a scene sailors had only regarded in nightmares since the end of the Second World War. Pitifully few of the Rivero’s bright orange inflatable life rafts floated around her rolling, sinking wreckage. It was another twenty minutes before USS Chafee herself arrived, with Halsey and Port Royal showing up to render aid soon thereafter.

LT Nathaniel Robert Kelley, Weapons Officer of the former USS Rivero, kept his haunted eyes upon her grave long after she slipped beneath the waves.