Ink: A Wings of Diablo MC Novel by Rae Lake (most inspirational books .txt) 📕

I can still get some paperwork done.” The engineer plopped down his stack of files on the top of the command console. “I relieve you as officer of the deck.”

Jonas settled back in the OOD’s chair and was quickly deep into the complexities of the Quarterly Data Report. The normal watch-standing routine hummed around him as everyone in Control settled in. The pilot and co-pilot maintained course and speed while the sonar operators detected and tracked the fishing boats and freighters plodding above them across the crowded surface of the Sulu Sea. The roving watches kept the control room watchstanders well stocked with coffee.

Almost two hours passed before the routine was abruptly disturbed.

“Possible contact zig, Master One, the lead Chinese sub,” ST1 Hannon, one of the sonar operators, suddenly called out. “There’s a drop in bearing rate, drop in received frequency. He’s slowed.”

A few seconds later, Hannon added new information. “Possible contact zig, Master Two,” and then, “Possible contact zig, Master Three. They have all slowed.” He chuckled. “It’s like watching synchronized swimming. And just about as exciting.”

Jonas dropped his file folder onto the desk and punched up the sonar displays on his console. Sure enough, there were the three traces, still shadowing each other but now tracking off from the expected solutions.

“What are you seeing?” Jonas called over to Hannon.

“Not sure yet, sir,” the sonarman replied. “It’s getting real confused. They are merging into that fishing fleet. Pretty much under them now. Keeping them sorted out is going to be a challenge.”

“Okay. I’ll hold course and speed until we get this figured out.”

“Get what figured out?” Brian Edwards strode into the control room with a cup of coffee in his hand and a quizzical look on his face. “We have a problem, Eng?”

“The Chinese have just zigged, Skipper,” Jonas reported. “All on cue. Not sure yet what they’re doing, except heading through a fishing fleet just to mess with Hannon over there.”

“Picking up loud transients on the bearing to Master One,” Josh Hannon piped up. “Sounds like he just started snorkeling. Loss of the eleven hertz tonal on Master One. New broadband contact on the bearing to Master One on the conformal array. Also, on the wide-aperture array. Range two-five-thousand yards. Equates to Master One.”

Hannon had barely finished shooting out his report on Master One when the broadband sonar again blossomed. He immediately updated the captain and his OOD.

“Master Two has commenced snorkeling, loss of eleven hertz tonal, gained broadband on the conformal array and WAA. Range two-three-thousand yards. Master Three commenced snorkeling, range two-nine-thousand yards.”

The Chinese submarines had slowed and came close enough to the surface to extend a pipe up into dry air. Edwards shook his head and looked at the situation on the tactical display.

“Looks like they’re using the fishing fleet to mask their diesel noise while they charge batteries and run toward the Mindanao Sea. Smart move.”

Captain,” ST1 Hannon called out. “New sonar contact on the conformal array. Classified snorkeling submarine, bearing one-nine-three. Now hold on the WAA, range three-one-thousand yards.”

Edwards jerked his head up from staring at the tactical display, looking puzzled once more.

“You sure?”

“Yes, sir. Same signature as the others. This is a fourth Yuan,” Hannon answered. A fourth Chinese submarine, just like the other three they had been tailing.

Jackson Biddle, the XO, joined Edwards at the display. “Looks like our new friend is about two thousand yards astern of Master Three.” In his best C.W. McCall twang, Biddle added, “Looks like we got ourselves a convoy.”

Edwards glanced over at the master clock. It read eighteen-fifty-three zulu time or zero-two-fifty-three local time. “XO, you keep an eye on our convoy. Eng, let’s get up to periscope depth so we can call home. We need to tell them about our party crasher. And I want to see how hard they’re going to slap my hand for venturing into Philippine waters.”

The George Mason slid smoothly up from the depths to stick its low-profile photonics mast into the clear dark skies. Despite all of the sonar contacts currently popping up all over their displays, for all they could see from the periscope, they were alone on a quiet tropical sea. There were only a couple of masthead lights barely visible, low down on the eastern horizon. Almost certainly fishing boats.

Within seconds, the 21MC speaker blared, “Captain, Radio, receiving a ‘Personal For’ from CTF Seven-Four addressed to you. Patching it to the command console.”

Edwards punched up his personal message account on the command console and entered his password. The screen quickly shifted to a message from Rear Admiral Dan Jorgensson, Commander Submarine Group Seven and Commander Task Force Seventy-Four. Most importantly, he was Brian Edwards’s boss. The message was curt.

BT:

Personal For: Commanding Officer George Mason

Acknowledge your contact report message 0718Zulu. Higher authority directs that you maintain passive trail on contacts until relieved.

You are to exercise every precaution to ensure that you are not to be detected by any forces while you are in Philippine waters.

If detected, you are to make every effort to ensure that you are not identified as a US warship.

Use of force is authorized for self-defense in accordance with the current rules of engagement.

You are to minimize your time in Philippine territorial waters.

You will maintain a six-hour comms cycle until further notice.

We will discuss your actions taken to date upon your return to port.

CTF 74 Actual sends.

BT:

Edwards whistled under his breath. Then he told Jackson Biddle, “Don’t think the boss is in a good mood right now. Sounds like maybe the heavy brass in Pearl, or maybe in DC, disturbed his golf game. Anyway, we have sent them everything we have on our Chinese friends. Let’s get back down and work our way out in front of them a bit so maybe then he can’t hide with all the fishing boats.”

12

The night was wardroom-coffee black. Treetop-level clouds hid even the stars and the slightest sliver of a moon. Through his night vision goggles, Jim Ward could easily see the