Джон Шеттлер - Condition Zebra - The Next War - 2025

He had been creeping up on the leading Chinese task force, and now had a frigate in his no escape kill zone, about five miles out. It was the Type 056 corvette Guangyuan , out well ahead of the Vietnamese group as a forward picket. Sonar had contacts on many other ships, but they were over 15 miles away.

Captain Wood briefly considered simply waiting there, allowing the frigate to go by, and then attacking the main group where he might get at many more targets.

“Sonar, can you confirm that this is a Type 056?”

“Yes sir, without question.”

That was a small 1500 ton vessel, usually used in littoral waters like this. The formation was just 50 miles west of the Riau main island. The ship had hull sonar, but no towed array, and it had slowed to just five knots.

“Con, reading active sonar from that ship.”

“Very well.” Wood now assumed the frigate might have heard them, and even though its only ASW defense was a pair of triple YU-7 torpedo mounts, it would have to get within two miles to use them. He decided he had better dispatch the ship quickly, and then maneuver. He gave the order to fire.

The 80 knot Spearfish crossed the four miles to the target in little time, and the 300kg warhead blew that corvette off the sea. Seconds later, the sound of active sonars reverberated through the depths, a moaning chorus under the sea.

“Helm, come right to 130 degrees and give me ten knots.”

“Con, sonobuoy drop detected.”

“Come left to zero-seven-five.”

“Zero-seven-five Aye, sir.”

“Con, main contact group has changed heading. Now on 270 west. Speed 18 knots. More sonobuoys in the water, I read four now.”

Sonar updated their report, and Captain Wood knew this was a dangerous situation. He was being hunted by a Z-18, not the less efficient Z-9, which only had short range dipping sonar. The Z-18 was bigger, and would be able to lay a web of sonobuoys to help locate his boat, so he had turned to the north east, trying to get into the wake noise of all those surface ships.

“Sir, sonobuoy drop, very close off the port side.”

“Helm come to five knots, and steady on.”

They would hear three more buoys drop, this time off the starboard side of the boat, as Trafalgar slowly crept on at five knots, sweating. The water here was very shallow, with the bottom just 240 feet down. Wood was hugging that bottom, also hoping to take advantage of ground clutter to make it more difficult for sonar to get a reading on him.

“Buoy drops progressing to the southwest,” came sonar.

“Steady on,” said Wood. He had killed the Mountain God, Type 055 destroyer Shanshen , sunk Type 052D class destroyers Changsha and Hefei , killed the older Type 051 destroyer Shenzhen , and 054 class frigate Xuchang . Now Guangyuan was the smallest fish to become ensnared by his undersea net, but he would take the credit for his seventh confirmed kill, and still glowed with the knowledge that he had also put two torpedoes into the carrier Zhendong , and drove it to port. That outstanding record had just brough him neck and neck with Captain Drake on HMS Anson , and from the sound of all that active sonar looking for him, there were still plenty of fish in the sea.

Orlov had not been well the last few days, and after toughing it out, he eventually went to see Doctor Zolkin. The diagnosis was merely fatigue. War needed many servants, and Orlov was Chief among them on the ship, assigning all the work details, training evolutions, inspection teams. The only things below deck he didn’t have to worry about were the reactor section, which was Dobrynin’s realm, the Damage Control teams, which came under Byko and the engineers, and of course, the Marines. That said, he was still often in and out of the Helo Bay, to see to some loadout required or make sure the ordnance teams had moved things where they belonged.

Whenever the ship made port, his work continued, and sometimes redoubled, because he was supervising all the missile reloads and replenishment of the main magazines. It seemed there was never any time for rest, but now Zolkin admonished him to take some time off, and get a good meal. He gave him something to help him sleep better, which was another thing that was often difficult any time the ship was in a battle zone. Missiles could be fired off at any hour, and the ship would quaver with alarms and the sound of men moving to battle stations. It seemed to him that Karpov’s wars would never end.

Get a good meal….

That was what sent him to the Officer’s Mess early that day, but much to his chagrin, there was Admiral Karpov, at his usual table, leaning heavily over a deep bowl of soup.

Orlov remembered that it was only a few weeks ago in real time since he had conspired with Sergeant Silenko, and Ivan Volkov, deep in the can with them as they plotted to remove Karpov from command. It had been that visit to the Northern Shamrock that changed things.

Karpov must have gotten wind of the plan, he thought as he eyed the buffet. Yes, he must have known that Voronin was coming for the ship that night in Severomorsk. And Volkov made me a lot of promises, but what does it matter now? I was to have my salary doubled, and bumped up to Captain of the 1st Rank, but none of that happened. Volkov was just using me. He had no real authority to promote me, and even if I did get that extra money, what would I do with it? It seems we are forever at sea, always looking for a fight somewhere; always looking for war.

He took some cold cuts, fresh bread and cheese, and a smaller bowl of the soup, which was really a beef stew that day. Then he tromped over to a table, and was thinking to sit with his back to the Admiral, before he thought twice. He then sat down, twenty feet across the room, and dipped his bread into the thick soup. It seemed the Admiral was lost in something he was reading on a pad device, oblivious to the fact that Orlov was even there. That, of course, reflected the resentment the Chief had long harbored with Karpov, who seldom ever spoke with him, unless there was something extra he wanted done that day—more work. He was very surprised, then, when he heard the Admiral call out his name.

“Ah, Chief Orlov! The soup is very good today, yes?”

Karpov was finishing up, standing and going to the bar for a little more tea. He filled his glass, and Orlov thought he would just leave, but he was very surprised, and somewhat let down, when Karpov approached his table.

“May I join you?”

“Of course, Admiral,” said Orlov, wondering how much extra work Karpov was going to dump on him this time.

“Chief… I was meaning to sit with you a while, and talk. In fact, when I learned you had been to sick bay, I told Zolkin to send you here for an early meal. Things have been… difficult these last weeks, and particularly since I got that news of my brother from Siberia.”

“Understandable,” said Orlov, taking a big spoonful of soup.

“But that is not the only reason,” said Karpov. “Nor will I lay it all on the Gods of War, though we have been a little busy since the Chinese came south again. No… It was this business with Voronin, and Volkov, and yes, with Sergeant Silenko and yourself.”

The silence after that was thicker than the soup. Orlov shifted uncomfortably. Not knowing what was coming next. He thought he had skated out of that situation, because Karpov never imposed any disciplinary measures on him for his part in all of that. Here it comes, he thought, pursing his lips and waiting for Karpov to continue, his eyelids narrowed.

“Chief, Fedorov came to me and let me know what happened. It was that damn Ivan Volkov. He’s the man that was behind that business all along. First he tried to get rid of Troyak, and managed to move in some security men disguised as Marines in Silenko’s squad. Then he sent Voronin, that pompous ass, but he soon learned that he wasn’t going to throw his weight around here, not on this ship. Orlov, it was Volkov behind it all, and he tried to recruit you to his side of the fence with a lot of promises. Yes? He wanted to use you to get more men on this ship.”