Warshot (The Hunter Killer Series Book 6) Don Keith (red seas under red skies TXT) 📖

figure out and agree on what to do. Now, you get in to radio and draft up the message while I get us off track and up to periscope depth.”

Ψ

Joe Glass was still finding his way around his new temporary digs in Pago Pago Harbor. One thing he found quickly was that the Chesty Puller was immense, much larger than any submarine tender he had ever been on. At over seven hundred and sixty feet long and displacing over eighty thousand tons, it was nearly twice the size of submarine tenders that Glass had pulled up alongside. And the helo deck on the roof took some getting used to.

Normally assigned as a forward base for Marine units, the massive Expeditionary Mobile Base, or ESB, was now pulling double duty. She was substituting for a submarine tender while standing by, just in case the Marines needed her somewhere to help them kick in a few doors. But now her mission deck was full of CONEX boxes converted to shops and offices. The place hummed with early morning activity as Glass strode across the deck, careful not to trip over the thick power cables and hydraulic lines that snaked everywhere.

“Skipper! Hey, Skipper!”

The voice sounded familiar.

Glass turned to see LCDR Walt Smith emerging from one of the CONEX boxes that had been converted into a machine shop. Smith had been Glass’s engineer from his days commanding the USS Toledo. And one of the best he ever had the pleasure of knowing.

“Eng! Great to see you,” Glass cried out. “What are you doing in this tropical paradise?”

“Well, Skipper...I mean, Commodore,” Smith answered, shaking his hand. “But it’s XO now. I just relieved as XO on the Cheyenne.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the whistle blowing for morning colors. Both submariners stood at attention and saluted as the National Ensign was raised and “The Star-Spangled Banner” played over the ship’s loudspeaker. At the “carry on” signal, the pair snapped their arms down and resumed their chat, taking little notice that they had just participated in a tradition as old as the Naval Service.

“XO, huh? Well, congratulations!” Glass told him. “Cheyenne has one lucky CO to have you as his exec. That is, if he can convince you to do XO things and stay out of the engine room.”

Walt Smith laughed at that. “Is this a case of the pot calling the kettle black? I seem to recall you always wanting to play engineer back on Toledo every time something needed to get fixed.”

It was Glass’s turn to chuckle. “Yep. It’s a temptation to want to relive your best tour. I’m just trying to give you some sage advice. I didn’t say that I necessarily followed it myself.”

Smith pursed his lips and deftly changed the subject.

“I would ask if you had time for a cup of something black and bitter, but I suspect you’re not down here for the weather.”

“Good deduction, Eng. Uh, XO. Raincheck, though?”

“Deal.”

Ψ

Lieutenant Commander Billy Jonas stepped into George Mason’s Control, his hands full of file folders and loose papers. It was time for him to relieve LCDR Jim Shupert, the Nav, as officer of the deck. Although it was just after midnight, local time, and moonless dark up on the surface, there was no way to tell the time of day down here except for a glance at a clock. One of the benefits of submarining. Same LED sunshine twenty-four hours a day.

Billy Jonas liked to stand the midwatch, the least preferred of the watches. It was usually the curse of the most junior qualified officer on board. But Jonas had figured out that the midwatches were an especially quiet time because everybody’s first team was resting. Even their Chinese wolf pack had been remarkably quiet and consistent, just steaming a straight course punching holes in the waters of the Sulu Sea. Here was his chance to catch up on the grinding load of paperwork that was the engineer’s challenge. Tonight’s task was reviewing and checking the Reactor Quarterly Data Report, his report card back to Naval Reactors Headquarters, assuring them that George Mason’s nuclear-powered tea kettle was performing up to snuff.

“’Bout time you showed up, rack hound,” Jim Shupert kidded as the two looked over the tactical situation plot on the ECDIS. “I’ve been smelling whatever Cookie’s been baking for the last hour. My stomach’s growling like a cement mixer.”

“Hate to disappoint, Nav,” Jonas replied, “but it’s beanie-weenies again. Whatever Cookie is baking, it must be for breakfast. Nothing good for mid-rats. So, what’re our Chinese friends up to by now?”

Shupert waved his hand at the track history printed out on the tactical display.

“Pretty much the same-ol', same-ol. They’ve been on a course of one-six-zero, speed a little under five knots all watch. Steaming in line, a few thousand yards apart. I’ve been staying out here at twenty to twenty-five thousand yards off their starboard beam, holding good contact on the thin line array.”

Stepping over to the command console, Shupert punched up the sonar displays and grunted.

“What you got?”

“A lot of contacts out ahead of us,” he replied, pointing out a series of traces on the broadband waterfall. “Sonar thinks they are mostly a fishing fleet, but it’s a pretty crowded fishbowl in this part of the world. Trying to sort out the contacts is going to get really interesting if our Chinese friends get mixed up in that gaggle.”

Jonas chuckled dryly. “Wouldn’t be fun if it wasn’t a challenge. Anything else going to pique my interest? Or keep me from getting work done?” He still held the armful of paperwork.

“Well, Eng, glad you asked.” Jim Shupert grabbed the CO’s Night Orders and handed them to Jonas. “Skipper and the XO both want to be awakened at zero-two-thirty. We’re scheduled to copy comms at zero-three-hundred. I suspect they both want to see what CTF-74 is going to say about us paddling into Philippine territorial waters without a permission slip.”

“Well, at least the first couple of hours should be quiet. Maybe