Sea Strike

by James H. Cobb

  A Sea SLAM burned down out of the sky like a vengeful comet, diving full into one of the open gun pits. Its quarter ton warhead scooped the big twin mount and the vaporizing remnants of its crew into the air. A microsecond later the wreckage was scattered farther afield as the ready-use ammunition in the adjoining bunker succumbed to its torment, the entire emplacement area erupting like a miniature volcano.

  316 James H. Cobb Oto Melara rounds rained down on the other battery sites.

  The autocannon shells were too light to damage the massive concrete fortifications themselves, but proximity-fused, they exploded overhead, raking the open mounts with hypervelocity shrapnel.

  Steel found flesh, and gunners died. Their comrades maintained the loading cadence, however, hunkering down against the storm and continuing the rituals. Round in the breech!

  Breechblock closed! Lanyard pulled! Round on the way!

  "Captain, we have reversed three five zero yards by GPU ... " The helmsman was by the shell howl and rippling roar of the salvo detonation. The plumes were closer now. The rounds were walking in to mate lethally with the Cunningham.

  "... awaiting orders, ma'am."

  "Stop all engines. Hold position. Resume station keeping."

  "Engines answering all stop, Captain. Station keeping on hydrojets."

  Amanda slid one hand under her helmet and held the command-set earphone more tightly against her head.

  "Dix, status on the torpedo?"

  "System's hot and the fish is spinning up now. Targeting datum point and range safeties set. Ready to shoot. But no promises, ma'am."

  "None asked. Shoot!"

  "Fire one!"

  From near the Duke's waterline amidships, a Barracuda torpedo sliced out of its fixed launching tube. Trailing the hair-fine filament of its guidance wire behind it, it curved away from the ship's hull.

  Abruptly, the sea domed up off the Cunningham's starboard bow, an upheaval of shattered water far greater than any shell hit. The destroyer leaped in the water like a startled horse, the shock coming as a blow through the soles of the feet.

  "Dix, what happened?"

  ' ' lost the torpedo, Captain. It swung wide in the channel and clipped one of the contact mines."

  SEA STRIKE 317

  "Reset systems and try it again! Expedite!"

  "Acknowledged. Fire two!"

  This time there was only the briefest of howls. Three jets of spray lifted out of the river to port.

  And one to starboard.

  "Captain!" one of the lookouts cried. "They've got us straddled!"

  "I'm aware of that, mister. Stand easy." Amanda silently counted out seconds of running time, willing the torpedo to make the turn, willing it down into murky depths of the river.

  Backlit by the starshell glow, a massive, muddy column of water lifted out of the center of the channel, straight on beyond the Cunningham's bow.

  "Yes!" Amanda leaned forward in the captain's chair.

  "Dix, did we get the watchdog?"

  "Torpedo detonation is on target, Captain."

  "Dix, did we get the mine? Do we have a clear channel?"

  "Can't tell, Captain. Not yet. Bottom conditions are disturbed.

  We do not have clear imaging."

  "Dix, we have got to get the ship out of here ... "

  Amanda Garrett would never be able to explain just what made her do what she did at that instant. Possibly, she felt the brush of the incoming shell's shock wave. Whatever the reason, she threw her arms up in front of her face and curled forward in the captain's chair. A fragment of a second later, a wall of orange flame caved in the thermoplastic of the windscreen.

  "They aren't buying it anymore, Lieutenant," Gus Grestov itch reported from the rear cockpit. "They're just shooting at us now too."

  "I know." Arkady had felt two small-arms strikes on that last pass. They had been making dummy firing runs on the beach to try to keep the Chinese troops at bay. Unfortunately, the bluff was wearing thin. As he swung back over the estuary, Arkady keyed the CSAR again.

  "Moondog, how you doing down there?"

  "Not so good, Retainer. We're getting fired on again. That damn gunboat is drifting down on us, and I think they can see us from the beach."

  Arkady glanced upstream at the flaming hulk. "Sorry 318 James H. Cobb about that, Moondog. It seemed like a good idea at the time."

  "Yeah, well, I think we could use another one, guys."

  "Coming up, Moondog."

  Arkady lifted his thumb off the transmitter key. "Any brilliant notions?"

  "Just one, sir."

  "What is it?"

  "Call the fucking ship."

  "I think you're right."

  As he toggled across frequencies to the command channel, Arkady looked downstream to where the starshells still rained down." As he did so, however, he saw an atypical flash of light play across the mouth of the estuary like heat lightning. That had to have been an explosion.

  "Gray Lady, this is Retainer Zero One. Do you copy?"

  He was answered with dead air.

  "Gray Lady, this is Zero One. Do you copy?"

  Arkady tasted sudden copper fear.

  "Gray Lady, this is Zero One. Do you copy? ... Amanda, Goddamn it, you answer me!"

  She didn't.

  Amanda straightened slowly. The burning stench of cordite hung thick in the air and soured her throat. Behind her, over the ringing in her ears, she could hear the soft, mindless wail of a human reduced to the level of a wounded animal.

  She could also hear a quiet, cool voice speaking from deep in the center of her being: You aren't hurt that badly. The ship is in trouble. Get moving! Do something!

  She found that she was on the deck beside the captain's chair, and she used it to pull herself to her feet. The bridge structure was essentially intact, but the windscreen was gone and there was systems damage: telepanels broken and electronics chassis lifted out of their bulkhead mounts.

  She staggered over to the grab rail and peered out and down onto the foredeck. They had been lucky, extremely lucky.

  A few feet farther forward and the Chinese 152mm round would have struck the number-three Vertical Launch System with its scores of closely ranked guided missiles. A few feet farther aft and the bridge would have been gone. A few feet

  SEA STRIKE 319

  to either side and it might have pierced through to the forward Oto Melara magazine.

  As it was, however, it had struck the gun mount itself. The turret shell had been blown away completely, and the distorted wreck of the autocannon stood centered in the deck like some scrap-yard sculpture.

  The plating was torn around it, and Amanda could see a flicker of flame down between the framing.

  "Damage control, this is the bridge ... Damage control!"

  The command headset links were down. Amanda tore off her helmet and headset both and snatched one of the emergency sound-powered phones from out of its clips.

  "CIC, this is the bridge!"

  "Bridge, what is your status?"

  "We have wounded. We need first-aid parties. The forward gun mount has been hit. Get damage control up there.

  Flood forward Oto Melara magazine. I say again, flood forward Oto Melara magazine."

  "Acknowledged. Do you wish to shift the con to the CIC?"

  "Negative. Not at this time. Have Mr. Beltrain standing by."

  Amanda stumbled across to the helm console. The lee helm operator was the one producing the agonized keening as he sprawled on the deck. The helmsman was still slumped, bloody-faced, at his station. Gripping the collar of his life jacket, Amanda pulled him out of the chair, not allowing herself to care too much as she lowered him to the deck as well.

  There was blood on her hands as she dropped into the helmsman's seat.

  She didn't know if it was hers or his. The console screens were dark, but Amanda hit the systems reset and they lit off again. Most important, the Navicom came on line, showing the path the Duke must follow to get
out.

  Amanda verified that the ship was still aligned with the passage, then she spoke deliberately into the phone again.

  ' Tactical Officer. Do we have a clear channel?"

  "Captain, the mine-hunter sonar is still not imaging clearly. There is no way to tell!"

  "Yes, there is."

  320 James H. Cobb Amanda's right hand went to the main throttles and shoved them forward.

  She felt the faint surge of acceleration across the small of her back, and the indicator bar of the iron log began to creep up its scale.

  Amanda took the throttles to their stops. The mine-hunting sonar was irrelevant now; she had the bearing she must steer.

  Her left hand had gone to the helm controller, her fingers closing around the tiny spokes of the miniature ship's wheel, holding the course line.

  She heard the building wail of the next incoming salvo, building into the ripping roar of their arrival. With the bridge open, the shell detonations were as loud as the word of God ... and away beyond the Duke's stern.

  For the moment, she had jerked her ship out of the enemy's gun sights.

  Scylla had been passed. Now came Charybdis.

  The Cunningham was rolling down on the datum point of the watchdog mine.

  Impassively, she watched as the image of her ship and the mine merged on the screen. There was nothing else to be done, except to take a deep living breath a moment later as they passed over it and swept clear of the minefield.

  Another Chinese salvo dropped farther astern. Amanda became aware of the other people crowding onto the bridge, corpsmen tending to the injured and replacement hands taking over the functional workstations. A new helmsman was standing by at her shoulder.

  She also became aware of the breeze flowing in through the empty windscreen frame, clearing away the stench of blood and explosives.

  "Keep her in the main channel," she said. "We have some people waiting for us."

  Inland, the Communist guns grated against the limits of their traversing range, no longer able to track their target. The engineers who had laid out the battery had never visualized a foe that would dare to pierce so deeply into Red territory.

  The men who manned them were patient, however. They would clear away their dead and wounded, and they would wait. Their enemy had passed them to gain entry to the river.

  They would have to pass once more to escape.

  SEA STRIKE 321

  "What in the hell is the holdup on that support strike, No- I an?"

  ' ' had to upload a new set of Mission Data Modules, sir. Those coastal-defense installations were not classified as a potentially critical target. We never visualized one of our ships having to go upriver like this."

  "Admiral," the communications rating called out from his station.

  "Battle-damage report coming in from the Cunningham."

  "How bad?" Tall man demanded, striding across to the communications console.

  "Shell hit ... " the radioman relayed. "Forward gun mount out ...

  Casualties ... Ship still operational ... Clear of the minefield.

  Proceeding to recovery point."

  "Acknowledge the message."

  Jake Tall man looked as if he wanted to hit something, just once, very hard.

  "Take it easy, Jake," Macintyre said slowly, leaning back against the Pri-Fly bulkhead.

  "It's going to pieces, Eddie Mac. This operation is going to pieces, and we're going to lose all those people out there, and it's my fault."

  "Every operation always goes to pieces. And then we have to trust in the people we send out there to put it all back together again. Don't count Amanda Garrett out of this, Jake.

  The Lady has the touch."

  "I get that impression. I just hope I haven't wasted it, and her."

  The Pri-Fly windows buzzed softly and a booming roar leaked in from the flight deck. Twinned cones of blue-white exhaust flame climbed away from the end of the carrier's catapult as an F/A-18 Super Hornet hit the sky.

  "Support strike launching now, sir," the air boss reported.

  Tall man shook his head slowly. "Too late. Too damn late.

  By the time they can form up and get over the target, this thing is going to be over. One way or another."

  Digger Graves again heard the angry slap of a rifle slug skipping off the water. He was becoming too familiar with that sound. Thanks to the light from the burning gunboat, the 322 James H. Cobb Communist riflemen were beginning to get their range.

  The current was also drawing them closer to the bank. He had tried swimming farther back out into the channel, but burdened with a dislocated shoulder and Bub's limp form, he hadn't been able to make much headway. In growing despair, he groped for the CSAR radio.

  "Retainer, we are getting down to the wire down here!

  We are getting fired on! Can you get these guys off of us?"

  There was a long pause before the cool, steady voice Graves had come to hang on to replied. "No can do, Moon dog. No ammo left."

  No ammo left. That was going to be one shitty epitaph.

  "Retainer. How long till pickup?"

  "I don't know, Moondog. I've lost contact with my ship.

  I'm out of contact with everybody. No relays. We're sort of alone out here."

  He wasn't going to have to make that decision about staying in the Navy after all. It took Graves a second to work up the will to lift the radio to his lips again. "I think that's it, Retainer. You'd better call it quits, man."

  "Hang in there, Moondog. We're still working the problem."

  "Jesus, Retainer! Don't be stupid! There's nothing more you can do!

  We're going to be dead here in a second anyway.

  There's no sense in you going out with us. Beat it!" "I said, we are still working the problem!" the helo pilot's voice snarled back. "I am fucking well not giving up on this thing yet, and you fucking well aren't either. Stand by!"

  Graves felt a hysterical laugh build up within him. Somehow he had never conceived of anyone ever having to order him to stay alive. Another bullet strike close enough to spray water in his face sobered him up abruptly. Digger Graves suddenly hoped that Retainer Zero One knew what he was talking about.

  "Moondog, you still with me?"

  "Still here, Retainer."

  "But not for long. I'm getting you guys out of there right now." "I thought you said you couldn't do a lift-out?"

  "I can't. But I do have a dunking sonar onboard. I'm going to lower the sound head so you can grab on to it. Then

  SEA STRIKE 323

  I'll tow you guys back out into the center of the channel.

  That'll at least get you out of rifle range. Got it?"

  "I'm not arguing, Retainer."

  "Rajah! Stand by, we're coming in."

  The noise of the circling helo began to grow. Scanning the darkened sky upstream, Graves picked up the angry insect silhouette of a Sea Comanche, outlined against the flames of the gunboat. The sound head was lowered, and it swung pendulously fifty feet beneath its sonar pod.

  "Yeah, Bub," he whispered. "Maybe he's right."

  "Okay, old buddy," the voice of the Retainer said over the CSAR. "You're going to have to talk me in the last couple of feet. I can't see you once you're in under my nose."

  "Roger, Retainer. Just get close."

  The rotor growl was dominating now, beginning to drown out all outside noise. But Graves could see a growing number of slug strikes on the water's surface around him. The locals were apparently unhappy with the notion of losing their prey.

  The tracer stream of a light machine gun cut the night, not aiming at the two downed fliers but up-angled at the approaching helicopter.

  The blast of the downdraft began to sheet-spray across the river's surface, and the sound head struck the water some twenty feet away. All too fast, it began to swim in his direction.

  Graves had to have a hand free! He laced his left arm through the straps of Bubbles's life jacket. Ignoring the pain of his d
islocated shoulder, he watched the tether approach through narrowed eyes. Waiting for the right instant, he lunged. A grunt of agony escaped him as he felt the drag on his injured limb and his fingers brushed braided Kevlar.

  Ashore, someone fired a rocket-propelled grenade at the rescue attempt.

  The projectile struck water and exploded some fifty feet away, the concussion striking Graves in the groin and abdomen like a booted kick.

  He buckled over in the water, gagging, and the tether was gone, passing beyond all reach. Graves groped for the CSAR radio on its lanyard.

  "Back!" he screamed. "Back!"

  Retainer Zero One forged ahead for another twenty feet, then went to hover. Gingerly, the helo began to reverse in 32.4 James H. Cobb Graves's direction, blindly trolling for the aviator.

  A rifle slug tugged at the collar of his flight suit and seared a welt into the skin of his throat. Graves ignored it. It was now. He would do it now or he and Bubbles would die here.

  He grabbed for the tether again and his fist closed around it.

  He pulled Bubbles to the sound head and wrapped his arms about both her and it. Every movement of his distorted shoulder was excruciating, but he forced his limb to move.

  "Go! Go! Go!"

  The helo nosed down and gained way, heading out into the channel. The speed was low, possibly five knots, but the drag through the water was heavy. If the pain in his shoulder had been severe before, now it was unbelievable. It tore a cry out of him and set sparks dancing in front of his eyes.

  He held his arms locked, however, simply because he had to.

  "We still got ', Gus?"

  "Can't tell, Lieutenant."

  Arkady held focus on his flight instrumentation, not daring to let his speed and altitude drift in the slightest. He literally had two lives hanging on a thread underneath him.

  The plastic canopy beside his head starred under a glancing slug impact.

  He could feel other faint but decisive taps ripple through the helo's airframe as well. More bullet hits.

  The Sea Comanche was armored against rifle-caliber fire in many critical areas, but not in all.

  Almost as if answering his concern, Arkady heard a warning tone begin to sound.

  "Gus, I've got my hands full. Check it out."

  "Engine systems warning! Low transmission fluid pressure!