//------------------------------// // Change of Plans (TotallynotaBrony) // Story: Nearing the Edge // by Eagle //------------------------------// April 18th, 2006 1530 Hours Sasebo, Japan Source Captain Hart, USN, read over the plan of the day with a frown.  His cruiser, USS Tippecanoe, sat pierside in Sasebo harbor waiting for an Expeditionary Strike Group to get underway.  Apparently, that wasn't going to happen today. Hart sensed that someone, somewhere, had fouled up.  The ESG was supposed to have gotten to sea already. The big, slow amphibious landing ships loaded with Marines required armed ships like Hart’s to sail with them for protection and support.  Along with his cruiser, a destroyer, frigate, and submarine waited to get underway. It was a shame to see Tippecanoe sitting still.  She was a Flight II Ticonderoga, and built to be on the open ocean.  Hart had been fortunate to inherit a golden crew, and under his leadership they had only gotten better.  The maintenance was award-winning, morale was high, and the entire ship was currently enjoying an unexpected and rare reprieve from military sequestration.  The ship was Hart's second command, and he intended to make it a highlight of his career. Despite that already lofty goal, several Admirals had expressed their opinion that he deserved stars of his own. With that in mind, Hart was well aware that proper motivation was the key to advancement.  However, he also knew that one couldn’t go pressing the front office for answers. The military was a bureaucracy, and moved at its own pace. That didn’t mean he couldn’t make some polite inquiries about the delay, though. He decided to speak to the Colonel in charge of the 31st Marine Expeditionary Unit that would embark on the amphib when it was finally ready to deploy.  Perhaps he could shed some light on the situation. Hart stepped out of his stateroom but took a detour along the way, having a walk through the ship.  He surveyed the spaces and spoke to a few people. His tour ended in the hangar where the two Seahawk helicopters resided.  Tippecanoe had been lucky to get experienced aircrew embarked. After trading salutes with the Officer of the Deck, Hart went down the gangplank, pausing to salute the ensign that flew from the cruiser's stern.  Continuing onto the pier, Hart headed down the way to the amphibious squadron shore headquarters, where the teleconference facility was located. Physically going to see the Colonel would have taken a lot of effort, as he was located in Okinawa.  The wonders of modern communication reduced that to merely sitting in front of a camera. Borrowing a workstation, Hart set up the call. The Colonel, when he answered, did not look surprised to see Hart.  “Captain. I take it you want to know about the amphib.” Hart nodded and the Marine went on.  “So do I. I haven’t heard anything, and that worries me.  I knew they were shaking it down trying to fix a few nagging problems, but I’ve never known a ship to be so troublesome.” “I have,” said Hart, “But only rarely.” “Let’s hope it doesn’t put us in a bad mood for deployment,” the Marine observed.  Hart agreed. The only thing worse than spending months away from home was sulking about it. He was just about to sign off when a small alert flashed at the bottom corner of the computer screen.  Clicking on it, a blinking notification popped up, indicating a base lockdown. “What’s this?” the Colonel muttered, apparently staring at the same thing on his computer. “You got it too?” Hart asked.  “It doesn’t look like a drill. What could cause two bases hundreds of miles apart to simultaneously go to lockdown?” The Marine frowned.  “Whatever it is, it must be serious.  They’re probably just about to restrict communi-”  The video and sound abruptly cut off. Hart got up and left the building without lingering.  River City, or restricted communications, was put in place to prevent leakage of information during times of crisis.  That, combined with the message, clearly indicated that something was happening. In the distance, he heard the Giant Voice PA system indicating a base lockdown and requesting personnel to shelter in place.  Maybe that meant Hart should have stayed put, but he felt safer aboard Tippecanoe. He hurried back to his ship and went directly to Combat.  The relatively roomy compartment in the center of the cruiser was the nerve center through which everything was routed.  It was lit by dim blue lights and had four sixty-inch TV displays on the forward bulkhead. Smaller monitors were placed at workstations crammed in everywhere. The ship may have been tied to the pier, but that didn’t mean its ears weren’t open.  It was in CIC that Hart learned the news. Through secure communications came the message that the amphib they were waiting on had been attacked. It was no accident.  It wasn’t even an isolated incident.  Someone placed a message scroller on one of the screens at the front of CIC.  Targets all across the Pacific had been struck. Of the six carrier groups in the northern and southern sectors, all had suffered some kind of damage or loss. In the south, both the Abraham Lincoln and the George Washington had been hurt and rendered combat ineffective, while the Carl Vinson was crippled, disabled, and still under threat. The Ford in the north had come off better but the few hits had badly hurt the new carrier's systems and her green crew, sending her stumbling back towards Seattle. The Reagan had suffered badly as well, but was able to reach Japan. Only the Enterprise had escaped damage and was sheltering in an Equestrian port with her group and various other vessels that escaped. The news on the ground was little better. The Bloc air forces had struck overnight, catching the Allied forces sleeping. Virtually all air bases in the western half of Equestria were struck and many from the central region, leaving most disabled and destroying many aircraft in the process. The most disturbing, and most unclear, was the ground invasion; the overall situation was hazy but it was known that the Bloc was attacking all along the border line and Equestrian ground forces were melting away. As the list of damaged ships and facilities continued to come in, Hart began to realize the scope of what had happened.  The attack on Pearl Harbor that brought the United States into World War Two had been one base bombed. This was much worse. The only positive news was that the identity of those behind the violence had been established beyond a doubt.  It was the Arcaian Defense Bloc. The combination of Shadow Ponies, Griffons, and Changelings were known to be aggressive, but nothing like this had ever been expected. Hart knew he didn’t have the whole story, but it was a given that he would be forced to react to it.  He had already begun to recall personnel and make ready to move. Not half an hour later, the message came in: As Tippecanoe is the only ESG ship ready to steam, your orders are to detach and sail at once. The orders had come down from Seventh Fleet in Yokosuka, the headquarters responsible for the western half of the Pacific.  Simple, straightforward. Hart double checked that all sailors had been recalled and that his ship was as ready as it could be for battle. It was clear that the United States would not take an attack lying down.  The press conferences hadn’t started yet, but no one doubted that they were going to war. Crisis was never an ideal circumstance, but it was how one responded to it that mattered.  As messages of attacks kept pouring in, there was no place Captain Hart would rather be than aboard Tippecanoe. Reading the details of the orders, Hart had been ordered to take his ship out of port and proceed at best possible speed to the site of the attack on the amphib.  Hart ordered his sailors to make it happen, but not before speaking with the commanders of the Expeditionary Strike Group that his ship was detaching from. His primary reason for doing so was to borrow some equipment.  There was no telling what they could be facing out there. To that end, both his Seahawk helicopters were sporting some new gear, numerous small arms had been signed for, and a small detachment of operators had come aboard with a ScanEagle UAV. And now, they were on their way, violating the harbor speed limit in the charge for open ocean.  The cruiser's sleek bow cut through the waves as the ship accelerated towards its maximum speed in excess of thirty knots.  The four turbine engines sang with a combined output of more than one hundred thousand horsepower, all of it kicking a white foam from behind the ship as it steamed out of Sasebo. Once on station at the target, they would set up a patrol and scour the area for any survivors that rescue aircraft had not yet pulled from the water.  CIC put the operational picture up, displaying the area around the ship as seen through radar, sonar, infrared, and optical cameras. Feeds from the national data network were also piped in, putting together a global picture. One of the sailors jerked his head up.  “Sir, I've got some more information on the target area.” “I haven't heard anything through official comms,” Hart replied. The sailor nodded.  “Yes sir. You always say to think outside the box, so I connected with a friend at the NRO who works with the satellites.  He tells me that the amphib is still on the surface, but listing heavily and probably can’t be salvaged.” Hart's jaw tightened, but it was not anything he hadn’t expected.  “Very well.” “Message traffic, sir,” called another sailor.  Hart turned to take the printout from him. Tippecanoe, be advised that you are nearing the last known location of USS Kearsarge. The ship reported that it was being tracked by a large, unknown vessel before the attack. McInerney is coming to assist you, and should catch up to you soon. First priority is locating Kearsarge.  Attempt to locate the unidentified vessel and reveal its intentions. If it is hostile, destroy it. Rules of Engagement still hadn’t been officially established, and hostile intent was up to the commander to interpret.  Hart actively maintained his cool head, but he knew the gloves were off now and a fight could start at any moment. He went over to the helicopter controllers.  “Get the Sixty-Sierra warmed up just in case.” At his order, the MH-60S Seahawk in the hangar was pulled out and its blades unfolded.  It was a capable helicopter, with sensors galore. It was primarily a utility helo, but just like its hangar mate, the sub-hunting MH-60R, it could carry machine guns and missiles. McInerney, a frigate, appeared in the distance, catching up as Tippecanoe slowed to begin the search. Having a friend alongside was welcome.  The two ships greeted each other with the bridge-to-bridge radio and established a search pattern. If the enemy vessel was out there, they would find it. If it wasn't, they would at least find evidence of where it had gone. Information reports from Fleet kept coming.  The Bloc attacks had tapered off, but it would be foolish for the Americans to let down their guard now. The watch officer in CIC caught Hart's attention.  “Sir, we have a contact. AIS, radar return, and electronic emissions rule out a merchant ship.” “Interrogate over common frequencies.  In the meantime, get the helicopter spinning, pass the information to McInerney over the tactical data link, and inform Seventh Fleet.” The CIC burst into a flurry of activity. “Based on ELINT characteristics, we make the contact to be Krivak-class frigate.” Hart nodded, considering the information.  He waited while the technicians continued to pore over the electronic signals until they were sure exactly which Krivak they were looking at.  Every radar system, particularly older ones, had a kind of electronic fingerprint that could be detected. The Office of Naval Intelligence was good about keeping the databases full.  The results came back. The ship belonged to the Shadow Empire. That certainly made things simpler.  A valid target was a valid target. Hart ordered the helo to lift off and turned his ship to an interception course for the Shadow ship.  He called over to his counterpart aboard McInerney. The other skipper was more than willing to engage. The distance between the ships was down to sixty miles when the helo got a solid image back.  Hanging carefully outside the hostile frigate's SA-N-4 missile range, the Seahawk transmitted video back to Tippecanoe.  Sure enough, it was a Krivak, although the Shadow Ponies had been busy modifying it. It had weapons systems that the old Soviet Union certainly hadn't installed. Considering that the helo hadn't been shot down, apparently the surface to air armament was unchanged.  But as Hart and everyone in the CIC watched the video feed, a bloom of fire erupted from the deck of the frigate, a sure sign of a heavyweight missile launch. It was not a time to panic, and no one did.  Intensive training helped, but so did the knowledge that they could do something about the incoming missile.  The primary missile defense system on the cruiser was the SLQ-32 “Slick Thirty-Two” electronic warfare suite used to jam missile seekers.  At closer ranges, that would shift to hard kill weapons like the cruiser's two CIWS gatling guns. Hart saw that the defensive measures were in place.  The ship's battery of SM-2 missiles were also being warmed up in case it looked like the jamming wasn't working.  Once the defenses were set, he ordered his crew to go on the offense. On Tippecanoe's aft deck, a pair of Harpoon anti-ship missiles burst out of their tubes and raced away.  They passed the Shadow missile in mid-flight. Hart studied the radar picture.  The enemy missile was visibly being swayed by the jamming.  It looked like it was going to miss aft by more than a mile.  The Harpoons, on the other hand, scored hits on the Krivak that were broadcast in spectacular detail by the helo's camera.  The ship started to burn and Shadow Pony sailors could be seen jumping over the sides. Battles fought from sixty miles' distance didn't seem like that much in the age of missiles, but it took almost two hours for Tippecanoe and McInerney to close with the crippled Shadow ship.  By that time, the helo was overhead and making preparations to round up the floating and flying Shadow Pony sailors. Their derelict ship was slowly taking on water, but still managed to keep afloat. McInerney received permission to close with the target and finish it off with a barrage of 76-millimeter rounds. Hart's thoughts turned to picking up the survivors.  They may have been enemies, but his orders were currently to pick them up.  That thought was broken, however, as a report from the helo came down. “Periscope spotted, bearing zero eight eight true, one mile.” Ships were not very effective submarine hunters.  Despite miraculous technology, submarines were still most often detected visually.  Still, the news sent the cruiser into a burst of activity. The engines kicked up. Armed with an approximate location, the sonar technician activated Tippecanoe’s bow mounted active sonar, almost immediately getting a return.  “It’s big, sir. Not a very traditional signal, either. It sounds about half biological. I’m thinking it’s Changeling." The Changelings were the least conventional species living on Arcaia.  Despite all the new species’ naïveté regarding human technology, such as spy satellites, it had not been easy to obtain surveillance on them.  Weather manipulation could obscure shipyards and facilities. As a result, the Changeling-built submarines were known, but not very well understood. Hart caught sight of the helo's camera feed as the surface of the ocean near the disabled Krivak began to foam.  A hulking black vessel rose from the waves, the surface of its hull mottled as if organic. It had a vague sort of shape that was clearly a submarine, but even more strange-looking than some of the eccentric Russian designs. The waves of its sudden surfacing rocked the Shadow Empire ship, throwing off its buoyancy and causing it to sink the rest of the way beneath the waves. McInerney stood less than a mile away, clearly just as surprised as Tippecanoe.  The foreign submarine's misshapen sail split open, revealing a core that pulsed ominously green.  McInerney’s gun fired just as a glowing ball zoomed out of the submarine and struck the frigate's superstructure. It was not an explosion that followed, but more like a splat.  What seemed to be green slime coated the ship's topside, congealing over the bridge windows and fouling the weapons.  Smoke or steam rose from the gelatinous mass, signifying that whatever it was carried an even greater risk than just blinding and disarming a ship. Hostile intent had been more than met.  Tippecanoe's fore and aft five-inch guns, already trained, began to fire.  At such a close range, it was nearly impossible for the computerized targeting to miss.  Seventy-pound shells moving at thousands of feet per second reacted far faster than the time it would have taken to target and fire missiles. Explosions raked the Changeling vessel bow to stern.  Hit dozens of times in less than a minute, the submarine heeled over, its destroyed topside awash.  It vanished beneath the waves in seconds. Sonar reported it breaking up as it sank. “Get the fire hoses up, we're going to see if we can wash that stuff off McInerney,” Hart ordered.  He didn't have to tell his men to keep on the lookout for more danger. Hart made his way to the bridge to oversee the hose efforts.  There was limited communication to the frigate, and as Tippecanoe came alongside, he saw a large antenna melt to slag and fall off. The frigate sailors were trying to clear away the green substance, but all of them were understandably reluctant to touch it.  With help from the cruiser, the decks were slowly sanitized, but it was clear that McInerney was out of the fight. She wasn't going to sink, but Hart wondered how long it would have taken for the mysterious weapon to have completely melted the ship. Kearsarge was nowhere to be found.  While survivors might still be out there somewhere, land based rescue aircraft would more quickly be able to cover the many square miles of ocean to locate them.  Hart saw a Japanese P-3 appear as a symbol on the radar scope, the aircraft identifying itself in the datalink. Given the choice between collecting survivors of the Shadow ship and assisting McInerney, Hart’s choice was easy.  Tippecanoe took the damaged American frigate under tow back towards Sasebo. Hart had a feeling that the port was soon going to be full of damaged ships.  He read message traffic on the way back. There still wasn’t an accurate count on how many allied units had been damaged or destroyed. It was a sick feeling, knowing that he’d likely lost personal friends today, and the war was only just beginning.  The first battle was over. The question was how many remained.