Vortex

by Larry Bond

  Or NAVIGATOR, for example. Malloy’s helmet read SKIPPER.

  Craig accepted a spare set, and with the boatswain’s help, donned the gear. Someone had turned a spare helmet over to the Wisconsin’s Marine detachment, and the steel pot had been painted in camouflage colors to match his fatigues, then adorned with three black plastic stars and the

  Marine Corps insignia. As Malloy watched, the short, stocky Marine general donned the helmet with a smile and a shake of his head.

  The phone talker turned his phone set over to the man who held the position at general quarters, and the new talker reported the Wisconsin’s progress toward battle-ready status.

  “Damage control is on the line.

  Engineering reports all boilers lit off, ready to respond to all bells.

  Gunnery reports all

  turrets manned, all mounts manned, all guns in automatic.” His tone was calm, cold, clear, and completely factual. A good talker never let emotion cloud his repeated messages.

  A final report was more immediate.

  “Electronic Warfare module reports a

  J-band radar bearing zero nine five.”

  Probably a gunfire control radar, Malloy thought. The bearing was consistent with the mountain. Well, he hadn’t really expected to catch them napping.

  Malloy watched the clock. Three and a half minutes after he’d ordered general quarters, the talker reported, “All stations manned and ready.

  Damage control reports condition zebra set throughout the ship. ” They were ready, all right. Clearing for action usually took five minutes or more. Still, his crew was helping him look good in front of the general.

  Malloy needed to take control of the ship’s movements.

  “This is the captain. I have the deck and the conn. Navigator, what’s the range to

  Green Point?”

  “Twentyfive point four miles to Green Point, sir, twenty eight point two to Table Mountain. Recommend we come right three degrees to zero nine seven true.”

  “Very.well. Helm, come right to zero nine seven.” Malloy turned to the 21MC intercom and pressed the button that allowed him to talk to the combat information center.

  “Harry, tell our screen to split off as planned. “

  The radio speaker came to life as his coded signal was transmitted. The

  Wisconsin’s screen of three frigates and two destroyers normally surrounded her, protecting the battleship from air and submarine attack.

  They wouldn’t be able to help with this job, though, and some of them couldn’t even keep up with the battleship at top speed.

  As his escorts turned away, Malloy ordered, “All engines ahead flank.”

  The four ships of the Iowa class were rated at thirty-three knots, but his engineers had promised him thirty-five, and the captain believed them. He planned to close on Table Mountain at high speed, firing as soon as his ship came within maximum range. There wasn’t any point in messing about. Malloy wanted to go in fast, hit the Boers hard, and get it over with.

  Even the weather was helping. The sea was relatively smooth, with waves no more than four feet high and the wind at less than fifteen knots-conditions the Navy labeled Sea State Three. They wouldn’t interfere with the big ship’s progress or rock the vessel beyond the capabilities of its gun stabilizers.

  Malloy stepped out on the bridge wing and looked aft. Four sleek warships, tiny when compared to his battlewagon, were falling away behind. One ship remained. USS Scott, a Kiddclass guided-missile destroyer, would fall in astern and to seaward of the Wisconsin-to protect her from air attack while she worked. Picked for her high speed,

  Scott had five inch guns that couldn’t possibly reach Table Mountain, so she’d just have to wait and watch.

  The navigator reported, “Range to Green Point is twenty one point two miles. On course.”

  Table Mountain was a little under three miles from Green Point, which showed up clearly on radar and thus made a better place from which to mark the ship’s position. Table Mountain’s guns, if intelligence reports could be believed, had a range of twenty-one and a half miles.

  The Wisconsin’s current course took her straight toward the mountain. On this heading, her rear turret, one-third of her firepower, could not be brought to bear. When she was in range, Malloy planned to turn his ship’s bow thirty degrees to one side. That would bring the aft turret into play, while still letting the Wisconsin continue to close with her target. Anytime enemy fire got too hot, he would put the ship’s rudder over-” tacking” to the other side of her base course, continuing to close.

  A fountain of white and gray water erupted to port, almost drowning out the navigator’s latest report.

  “Range twenty one point five miles. ” The shell burst was close, no more than a hundred yards away.

  Right on the money, Malloy thought. He was in the maddening position of being outranged by a six-inch-gun shore battery. It was time to give them a harder target.

  “Left standard rudder. Steady on course zero eight eight.”

  At thirty-plus knots, the eight-hundred-and-ninety-foot

  ship responded quickly to its helm. She would never be as nimble as a destroyer or a frigate, but Malloy loved his ship’s feel as she lumed.

  The rules were simple. Head toward the last shell splash so that the enemy’s corrections would move his next shot off target Occasionally make small turns, since they might not be noticed and the enemy might assume you were still on your old course. Finally, stay off the cardinal points of the compass, since that might let an enemy guess your course.

  At least running through standard tactics kept his mind busy while he waited for the next ranging shot. Time of flight at this range was almost a full minute-a fact that gave every potential target plenty of time to think about the next salvo between corrections.

  A second shell splash appeared, this time to starboard, and closer. Malloy waited approximately twenty seconds, then ordered, “Right full rudder, steady on course one two six.”

  The massive vessel actually heeled over in the hard highspeed turn and quickly steadied up on her new course. Half a minute later, a ragged line of shell bursts tore the sea apart, well off to port. Those bastards would have to work harder than that to catch him. Malloy felt as if he were in a pitchers’ duel. He looked over at Craig, who nodded in approval.

  A loudspeaker mounted on the overhead carried the gunnery officer’s voice.

  “Director reports we are in range, all turrets unmasked. Request permission to fire.”

  Malloy pressed the intercom switch.

  “Batteries released.

  Nine sixteen-inch guns fired simultaneously, bellowing in a thundering crack of noise and smoke that made him think he’d unleashed a thunderstorm.

  But would the lightning strike where he wanted it?

  Normally a ship twenty miles away would be invisible from the bridge, hidden by atmospheric haze and the curvature of the earth. During World War II, big-gun ships Re the Wisconsin had al I carried their own spotter planes, launched from catapults, to adjust their gunfire.

  The target this time, though, was Table Mountain, with a recorded elevation of 3,566 feet. Its rocky, barren cliffs rose straight up out of the sea, visible to the naked eye. Malloy watched the summit carefully through his binoculars-waiting for his shells to arrive.

  Another Afrikaner salvo landed, a half dozen splashes a hundred yards behind them. Ordering their speed down to thirty-three knots, Malloy also changed course to zero three three. That should throw them off, he thought, and he continued to watch the target.

  At the Wisconsin’s stern, its aft turret swiveled around, its guns now pointing forward and to starboard. The crews inside worked frantically, bringing massive shells into alignment with gun bores and ramming them home. Bags of propellant powder were carefully loaded behind each projectile. Finally, the heavy breech was closed and locked. It took over a hundred men, working in close harmony, to serve the guns of each three-gun turret.
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  Malloy heard “Splash” over the loudspeaker just as the upper third of the mountain disappeared-enveloped in a cloud of smoke, flame, and dust.

  Cheers filled the bridge. Malloy turned round.

  “Quiet down. Did you really think we couldn’t hit a mountain?” He kept his tone light, but the message was clear.

  Malloy heard a Klaxon and braced for his battlewagon’s second salvo. It roared out and he hoped his guns were having an effect. Time to start thinking about a course change again.

  TABLE MOUNTAIN

  For the first time during the siege, Sergeant Skuller was worried. They’d endured artillery bombardments, commando raids, even attacks by aircraft.

  The Mountain and its garrison had withstood all of them-sometimes with ease.

  They’d never fired at a naval target, though. During peacetime, his battery had trained against target barges, but they’d been slow-moving creatures, towed in a straight line by a civilian tug. This battleship, though, maneuvered and dodged and worst of all, shot back.

  And what shots! In five minutes of action, they’d received seven or

  eight tooth-rattling salvos. Lieutenant Dassen reported that they were being hit by sixteen-inch shells! The Afrikaner artilleryman looked at his own gun and tried to imagine the size of such a projectile. His eyes widened when he visualized the size of the gun you’d need, and the crew you’d have to have to serve such a weapon.

  Skuller shook off his speculation and concentrated on the job at hand.

  At least his G-5 could fire twice as fast as those on that ship, and rate of fire counted for a lot in a gunnery duel. After all, he told himself, they only needed one or two hits.

  LISS WSCONSIN

  Malloy had long since ceased bracing himself for each salvo from the guns.

  Keeping one arm wrapped around a bracket, he stayed close to the 21MC intercom speaker and concentrated on dodging the increasingly accurate shell bursts.

  After a little more than ten minutes, they’d closed another six miles on the target, dropping the range to about thirteen and a half miles. His guns grew more accurate as the range decreased, but the enemy’s accuracy was improving as well. A shorter range meant a smaller time of flight, less dispersion in the fall of shot, and even reduced error in the range-finding equipment.

  The Wisconsin’s guns fired again, and Malloy ordered another course change, this time back to a starboard “tack.” The trick was to get the ship’s rudder over and steady up quickly. The turret crews were reloading while the guns pivoted to the opposite side, and if everything went by the numbers, rate of fire wasn’t affected in the slightest.

  Another line of shell bursts tore up the ocean, close aboard, just off the port side. A fraction of a second later, the water on either side of the Wisconsin vanished in tower columns of yellowish spray. The ship shook violently as a ball of black smoke and orange flame cloaked her forecastle. They’d been hit!

  Malloy leaned forward, peering out through the bridge windows. He couldn’t see the damage. Even with the wind created by the battleship’s speed, the shell smoke streamed astern only slowly.

  As if to reassure him, all three turrels fired on schedule, and Malloy ordered a change in speed and direction almost by reflex. When the gun smoke cleared, the site of the shell hit was visible-a small, ugly hole forward of the Wisconsin’s Number One turret, slightly to port.

  It was a solid hit, and he shuddered to think of the damage their escort destroyer, the Scott, would have suffered from that impact. The

  Wisconsin, though, had three armored decks. The top deck, the one penetrated, was three inches thick. A second right below the first was twice as thick. All told, nine inches of solid armor had easily stopped the force of the 155mm, exploding shell.

  But not all of his ship’s vital areas were so well protected. Malloy could only hope there wouldn’t be many more like that.

  TABLE MOUNTAIN

  Sergeant Skuller listened to the news with incredulity. The A Gun had taken a direct hit on its gun shield. The impact had pushed the thirteen-ton artillery piece twenty meters back down the tunnel, killing its crew instantly and mixing them with their weapon in an unholy tangle of metal and flesh.

  Another enemy salvo shook C Gun’s tunnel. The mountain could absorb a lot of punishment, thank God. The little bit that reached them was bad enough.

  “Calling C Gun. Are you all right?” Lieutenant Dassen sounded shaken.

  Skuller waited a beat as Hiller pressed the firing switch. The gun’s breech leapt backward. Even when wearing protective earphones the noise was almost deafening.

  “We’re fine here, sir.”

  “D Gun is out of action. A shell in that last salvo collapsed the tunnel on them.”

  D Gun was right next door. Skuller’s eyes leapt to the rock ceiling above them. The rough surface was covered with air

  ducts, water pipes, and electrical cables. He scanned the ceiling for any sign of damage. Nothing was visible.

  Another salvo from the American battleship hammered the mountain above them. Skuller was too busy readying his gun for its next shot to notice the network of fine cracks spreading through the ceiling overhead. They’d been invisible when he looked before, more weaknesses in the rock crystal than actual cracks. But the sledgehammer pounding created more and more fractures. Every linked crack weakened the overhead rock’s ability to support its own weight.

  Skuller continued to listen on the headphones and report to his crew while he supervised the gun’s firing. Dassen, in his observation bunker, was calling the fall of shot, making adjustments, and informing his surviving crews of the results. Isolated in rock holes, with only a small sighting telescope for each gun, they needed the big picture to do their best.

  The picture wasn’t improving. Dassen had reported three hits, so far, and several near-misses, but without visible effect. The Afrikaner gun crews were beginning to realize the power of the floating fortress that had decided to attack them.

  Another salvo from the battleship rocked the mountain, and Skuller heard a scream on the line.

  “We’ve lost E Gun.” Dassen didn’t elaborate further.

  The cracks in the ceiling continued to grow. They were clearly visible now, if only Skuller had taken the time to look up.

  Forty seconds later, nine more shells arrived, streaking in at more than 1,900 feet per second. Each an nor-piercing projectile weighed 2,700 pounds and bored thirty feet into the hard rock before exploding. Adding to the tremendous kinetic energy already possessed by each shell, 4,500 pounds of

  TNT detonated in nine separate explosions, sending pressure waves surging outward through the rock.

  One shell slammed into the cliff just ten meters away from C Gun and almost directly overhead. The shock was strong enough to rattle the gun on its rails. Without the locks holding it in place, the G-5 would have leapt off and smashed into one of the tunnel walls.

  Thrown to the floor by the pounding, deafening impact,

  Skuller and his men scrambled to their feet and raced forward to check their weapon for damage. But as the sergeant bent over C Gun’s delicate sighting mechanism, a small piece of rock pattered off his shoulder. As he looked up at the ceiling, reacting to the impact, a second chunk rattled off the gun barrel, followed immediately by a third. Realization came, and on its heels, panic.

  He ripped off his phone set.

  “Out! Get out, now!”

  But as he looked up to see how much time they had, the web of cables and pipes overhead was already falling-torn from the ceiling by man-sized chunks of rock. Skuller managed just two steps before his head and chest were crushed. Only Private Hiller made it to safety to report on the fate of C Gun and its eight-man crew.

  USS MSCONSIN

  “Sir, the gunnery officer reports no firing from the mountain for five minutes now.”

  “Very well. Cease fire.” A rolling blast from the battleship’s three gun turrets punctuated Malloy’s order, and the talker q
uickly relayed his command before the guns were reloaded.

  The last wisps of gun smoke trailed away, and Malloy took a deep breath.

  It would be a long time before the acrid powder smell was out of his nose, or his clothing. But he had other things to worry about right now.

  He turned from the bridge windows.

  “Navigator, course to the mountain?”

  “Zero eight three, sir.”

  “Helm, steer zero eight three. Indicate flank speed. Director, keep mounts one and two trained on the target. ” Malloy wasn’t going to give

  Table Mountain’s defenders a chance to surprise him. He planned to run in fast. The Wisconsin would take station ten thousand yards off the beach. If anyone on the mountain fired again, he’d give them all nine guns at point-blank range.

  Besides, his job wasn’t finished yet.

  Malloy looked away from the gyro repeater to see Craig

  studying the mountain. Dust and the smoke of fires started by their bombardment still obscured most of its heavily scarred surface. The Navy captain raised his own binoculars to the area.

  Men and vehicles were visible between the columns of smoke, advancing slowly up the mountain along winding roads-Taylor’s Cape Province infantry were making their assault.

  There were still defenders up in the tunnels and bunkers, though. The

  Cape troops were moving slowly-pinned down from time to time by heavy machinegun and rifle fire. Even without its heavy guns, Table Mountain would be a tough nut to crack.

  “Sir, lookouts report aircraft approaching from astern.”

  Craig and Malloy stepped out onto the bridge wing to watch as a cloud of aircraft appeared over the horizon. As they closed, Malloy identified them as Marine Ospreys. The amphibious assault ship Saipan had launched two dozen Ospreys carrying two companies of U.S. Marines. The tilt-rotor aircraft were headed for the top of Table Mountain.

  A flight of four AV-8B Harriers screamed past the battleship. Loaded with bombs and gun pods, they would hit any remaining defenders on top of the mountain-covering the LZ while the Marines landed.

  Malloy’s grim smile matched Craig’s. Caught between two advancing forces, with the Wisconsin’s guns and Marine fighters in support, the Afrikaners would have nowhere to go. They’d have to surrender-or die in place.