As they watched, bright noise splattered across the screen, overlapping clusters and blobs of brilliant noise. The contact faded out, its acoustic return blanked out by the noise.
“Sir, we need that active,” Pencehaven said urgently.
“I hear, I hear — go active,” the captain said.
The submarine had evidently detected the torpedo — and who could not, as much noise as she put in the water — and ejected a series of noisemakers. They spun frantically through the water, churning up massive flumes of air bubbles, probably with acoustic generators inside them as well. The entire passive spectrum was clotted with new frequencies, lines that wavered crazily in and out of contact, completely obscuring the other submarine.
They could see that the torpedo was distracted by a noisemaker off to its right. It fell away from its original course, and started to make an approach on the noisemaker. Jacobs made the correction automatically, steering it away from there and back onto its original course.
“How much longer?” Pencehaven asked.
“Another five hundred yards,” Jacobs said. Another five hundred yards, and the wire umbilical that still connected the torpedo to the submarine would snap, terminating the submarine’s guidance capabilities.
“Man, look at her go. What’s she doing, forty knots?”
“Has to be,” Jacobs agreed. “Her propulsion has to be — ”
“Let’s get another shot off, boys,” the captain’s voice ordered. “No sense in taking any chances.”
“Second shot, aye, sir,” Pencehaven said promptly. Without even looking, he could tell that Jacobs was readying the second shot now. This one would be his, all his. He waited until Jacobs nodded, then depressed the fire button. Another low rumble swept through the submarine along with the whish of compressed air exploding outward from the tube.
“Shit!” Jacobs and Pencehaven exclaimed simultaneously.
“Inbound, inbound!” Pencehaven shouted. “Torpedo, torpedo in the water, bearing zero-zero-zero relative. Range, ten thousand yards. Snapshot procedures.” He had Jacobs toggle off another torpedo immediately down the line of bearing, then held tight to the arms of his chair as the submarine broke into a hard turn to the right. “Noisemakers, decoys,” he ordered.
Suddenly, the water around them was as alive with sound as it had been around the enemy contact. The submarine had managed to snap off a torpedo at them, and while the American submarine had sent one immediately down the same line of bearing, their main problem right now was not to guide their torpedo onto the target, but to avoid being a target themselves. Jacob snapped the wire guidance and said a silent prayer that the torpedo would find its mark.
The submarine was now traveling at one hundred and eighty degrees off its base course, establishing a line of bearing. It then cut hard to the right again, then to port, crossing its own wake several times. Finally, the depth tilted down at a steep angle. Pencehaven watched the depth indicator, and noted that they were moving below the thermocline, entering a region of the ocean where sound waves would be bent downward rather than upward. The change in depth across the gradient was intended to obscure the noise of the American submarine from the other torpedo.
“Can’t be much of a torpedo,” Pencehaven whispered, his voice barely audible. “Look, it’s buying the first noisemaker.” And indeed, the screen bore out his observations, as Jacobs watched the loud, slow torpedo fired by the minisub take dead aim on the first noisemaker they’d ejected. Thirty seconds later, they both pulled their headsets off long enough to avoid being bombarded by the noise of the explosion. “Wonder how many she carries,” Pencehaven said, his voice slightly louder.
“Can’t be more than one or two,” Jacobs observed. “Not as small as she is.”
“Back to the hunt, boys,” the captain’s voice said over the circuit. “I’m coming shallow — I want two more torpedoes up that bastard’s ass.”
The thermocline was a tricky bitch, one that worked both for you and against you, Pencehaven reflected. Sure, it obscured your own noise from an enemy submarine, but it also blocked the return of your own active sonar transmissions, although of course they’d gone silent during evasive maneuvers. The best hunting is done when both the submarine and the target are in the same acoustic layer.
As they came shallower, the enemy contact reappeared on their screens. “Got a targeting solution,” Jacobs announced.
“Hold fire, hold fire!” the captain shouted. “We’re too close to the carrier.”
Pencehaven swore silently. The carrier was showing up as a large, green lozenge on his screen, her acoustic signature unmistakable on both the waterfall display and in his earphones. Nothing but a carrier had that peculiar chug, chug, the rhythmic thumps that accompanied flight deck operations, the peculiar hiss and whine of reactor coolant pumps. “No way we can take the shot,” he observed.
“The best thing the carrier could do is get out of the way,” Jacobs said. He shook his head in frustration. “We’ve still got two torpedoes in the water, though. Maybe one of them — ” As he watched, the submarine contact disappeared from their screen.
Viking 701
1621 local (GMT –10)
Rabies let out a howl of glee. “Okay, boys and girls, time to earn our pay. It’s all ours.” The Desron had just handed off contact prosecution to the two ASW helicopters and the S-3. While their torpedoes were essentially the same type as those held on the submarine, with the helos bracketing the contact and providing a precise location, the targeting solution was improved by a factor of five.
“Who goes first, the helo or us?” the TACCO asked.
“Helo’s closer in — not within minimums, though,” the copilot pointed out. “I’d say the helo.”
Sure enough, moments later, the Desron’s TAO said, “Paddywhack Six Zero One, take target with torpedoes.”
The TACCO let out a groan of frustration. “It was mine, all mine,” he said brokenly. “If only — ”
Rabies put the S-3 into a tight turn, putting them nose on to the attacking helo. They watched the torpedo fall off of her hard point, splash noisily into the water, then dive. In the crystal clear waters, they could follow the course of the torpedo down to a considerable depth. Rabies fancied he could even see the outline of the minisub, a darker blotch against the white sand seabed and coral.
But wait, was that…
“Homeplate, you’ve got an inbound torpedo,” he said, his voice calm despite the tension twisting his gut into a knot. “Repeat, torpedo inbound!”
“We’ve got it, Hunter,” the TAO snapped.
As he watched, Rabies saw the Jefferson’s wake change in its configuration as the aircraft carrier started to turn. It was a standard ASW evasive maneuver, but was probably of no use in these waters. First, the carrier was just too massive, took too long to commence a change in direction. Her turning radius was measured in miles instead of yards. Second, the range was just too close. There was not time for the carrier’s wake to even reflect the change of course, much less for it to do any good.
USS Centurion
1630 local (GMT –10)
“With a target that big, she can’t miss,” Pencehaven said. He stared at the geometry of the attack, sick dread filling his heart. Sure, it wasn’t his boat that was going to get nailed, and he was glad about that. But what about the six thousand plus men and women on board that aircraft carrier? And wasn’t that the heart of the entire battle plan, having the air power to establish air superiority for the troops who would follow? An idea flickered through his brain, and without thinking, he toggled the communications switch. “Captain, recommend course two-four-zero, speed flank plus,” he said firmly. “Sir, if we can get close enough in, we can eject our noisemakers into the path. We’ve already seen that it’s a stupid torpedo — it’ll go for it, sir. I’m sure of it.”
“The carrier’s got her own noisemakers,” the captain said.
Pencehaven shook his head. “It’ll be too close, sir. Even
if they destroy the torpedo, it looks like it’s going to be astern of her. The overpressure wave and the explosion itself may damage the carrier’s propellers. I know she’s got four of them, but if she loses maneuverability…” Pencehaven didn’t need to finish the sentence. Everybody on board the submarine knew what it would mean to lose a propeller — a dramatic decrease in maneuverability. And if the aircraft carrier couldn’t maneuver, she couldn’t turn into the wind to launch and recover aircraft. “Recommend we deploy noisemakers for the carrier’s protection, sir,” Pencehaven concluded.
Men don’t rise to be the captains of submarines if they’re prone to indecision. The captain’s answer came back immediately. “Roger, conning officer, come right, steady course two-four-zero, flank speed. Engineer, give me everything you’ve got. We’ll be noisier than a pig, but let’s see what this old tub can do.”
I know what this old tub can do, Pencehaven thought. We’re on refresher training, for heck’s sake. If ever there’s a time that she’s got max speed available, it’s now.
Beside him, Jacobs looked sick. “We’re going to be back within range, then,” he said, “And noisier than a bitch in heat.”
“Not a problem, Renny,” Pencehaven said with more confidence than he felt. “Like I said, these are stupid torpedoes. They went for the noisemakers once — they’ll go for it again. And we both know she’s probably only carrying two. After that, she’s going to have to cut and run, and then we’ll nail her ourselves.”
“We haven’t been so good at that so far,” Jacobs pointed out.
Pencehaven shook his head, waving away the comment. “She’s mine, Renny. She’s all mine.”
Everything inside the submarine was shaking now as the submarine approached max possible speed. The water was coursing over her like a thick fluid, sound echoing through her limber hulls, vortices creating noise as the water flowed over every protuberance in her hull. The submarine was built for silence, but it was almost impossible to run silently at flank speed. The equipment required to maintain the engineering plant, the water over the hull, even the rattle of the periscope in its tube all contributed to the cacophony now pouring into the water.
As they watched, the contact turned back to meet them.
“Okay, bitch. Let’s see what you’ve got,” Pencehaven said softly. As they watched, the other submarine accelerated to her own flank speed. No new torpedoes appeared in the water. For a moment, Pencehaven marveled. They’d pegged it that time, hadn’t they? Two torpedoes, that was all. And now she was out of weapons, and running for safety. But she wouldn’t find it, not anywhere in this sector of water, not as long as USS Centurion was there.
“Captain, she’s headed back to the Arizona,” Pencehaven said. “I recommend you let her think we’ve lost her, then execute the maneuver recommended by the carrier.”
“Roger, that’s the plan,” the captain’s voice said, now firmly in control. “Go active, stay in a search mode. As soon as we lose contact. Let her think we’re clueless. Then secure on my command, and we’ll close the Arizona.”
TFCC
USS Jefferson
1645 local (GMT –10)
It was the Army officer’s turn to look puzzled as the naval officers and Coast Guard officer clustered around the table turned pale. He looked from face to face, searching for a clue, then looked back at the tactical display. “What’s that funny symbol?”
Finally, Magruder spoke. “An enemy torpedo. And it’s headed straight for us.”
“But what’s Centurion doing?” Green broke in. A frown creased her face, then slowly cleared. She turned to Lab Rat, and nodded solemnly. “Seems that we’re not the only ones with some good ideas around here.”
They all stared at the screen as the Centurion screamed toward them, her speed leader increased to an almost unimaginable length for a submarine. New symbols popped onto the screen, evidence that she was ejecting noisemakers. As they watched, the torpedo symbol turned abruptly left, and headed straight for one. Just as abruptly, the Centurion changed course, then disappeared from the screen.
“I’m gonna owe that man a beer,” Batman said softly. He turned his attention back to the TAO. “How many more fighters have we got to launch?”
“Six more, sir,” the TAO replied. “All standing by and ready to go.”
Batman turned to Tombstone. “Just like the old days, isn’t it?” he asked softly.
“Not quite,” Tombstone said. “We’re not in a cockpit.”
TWENTY-ONE
USS Centurion
1700 local (GMT –10)
“Conning officer. I want you to listen to me very, very carefully.” The captain’s voice was calm, betraying no hint of nervousness. “This is just like making an approach on the pier. You just can’t see it. We’re going to use the same speeds, the same tiny course corrections. And on my signal, let engineering know that I want this boat backing down as hard as she’s ever backed in her life.”
The conning officer nodded nervously, and glanced at the Chief of the Boat, who was positioned behind the helmsman and the planesman. The chief nodded. “Piece of cake, Captain,” the COB said, more for the conning officer’s ears than for the captain’s. “Done this a hundred times in my sleep.”
The captain grunted. “Well, if you were contemplating a nap now, I suggest you put that off for a while.” Although the joke was lame, pent-up nervousness in the small compartment sent a wave of quiet chuckles through the crew.
“Okay, men — here we go. All ahead one-third, indicate turns for one knot.”
The submarine’s movement was not perceptible, but everyone watching the speed indicator saw it creep slowly up. It quivered, barely moved off the zero mark, and held there. “Good job, engineer,” the captain said softly, noting how well the engineering personnel were maintaining steam pressure in the main turbine. “A really sweet job.”
They crept forward for what seemed like an eternity, and then the captain ordered, “All stop.” He glanced around the control room, then said, “Sound the collision alarm.” A red light began flashing in the compartment in a distinctive pattern to indicate an impending collision, albeit one that was intentional. “All hands brace for shock,” the captain continued, his voice still quiet.
Suddenly, the submarine jolted. Violent movement were not a normal part of the submariner’s life, and even the more experienced crew members gasped. A horrible grinding noise rang through the submarine like a hollow bell, and equipment shuddered in its racks. Pencils and papers not secured were flung to the deck. Then one sailor let out a moan of panic.
“Steady, steady,” the captain warned. “Remember, we’re doing this on purpose.”
The noise and shuddering seemed to go on forever, growing louder and deeper as the submarine’s hull made contact with the ancient battleship now permanently at rest on the Pacific floor. Finally, there was a perceptible decrease in the motion. Then it ceased just as suddenly as it started.
In sonar, Jacobs and Pencehaven had taken off their headsets to avoid damage to their ears. They listened to the noise of the collision through the overhead speaker, then slapped their headsets back on as soon as the noise ceased. Softer, but clearly discernible, they heard the groan of old metal shifting in its position, of tons and tons of World War II steel moving from where it had been planted so many years before. The Arizona might not be breaking up this time, but there was no doubt that their maneuver had had its intended effect.
“I hear her!” Jacobs shouted, his sensitive ears the first to catch the sound of a new noise. “Propellers turning — she’s going to try to make a run for it.” But even as he spoke, he could tell it was no use. The Arizona, once it decided to move, was an inexorable force. And the submarine had sought out a position too close to her side for protection.
TFCC
USS Jefferson
1702 Local (GMT –10)
“We got it,” a voice howled over the SEAL circuit behind him. Batman turned to stare at it, and a gr
im smile broke out over his face. He turned to Tombstone.
His former lead nodded, then said, “Weapons free on all Chinese units. I want that ship a blackened, smoking hull in the water, do you hear me?”
“Aye-aye, Admiral,” Batman answered, his voice filled with savage glee. “A smoking hull it is.” He turned to Bam-Bam with fire in his eyes. “Make it so.”
TWENTY-TWO
USS Louis B. Puller
1703 local (GMT –10)
Lieutenant Brett Carter stared up at the speaker as though he could convince himself that the words that were coming over were true. His operations chief was already putting his watchstanders in motion, anticipating the lieutenant’s next command.
Finally, Carter picked up the microphone and answered up. “Puller, roger. Out.” He turned to the chief, his mouth still slightly open. “You heard.”
The chief nodded. “I did indeed.”
A new fire seemed to infuse the lieutenant. It had been a long day, longer than any one that he had ever had, fraught with uncertainty and the unexpected challenges of command. It had been his decision to get Puller under way at the first warning, his decision to steam straight out from port rather than wait for orders. At the time, he’d experienced gut-wrenching uncertainty alternating with the conviction that he’d screwed up so very badly that Shore Patrol would be waiting for him on the pier when Puller steamed back in to port.
But now… now this. Vindication, if he’d needed it.
“Firing keys,” Carter ordered, and it all went rather swiftly from that point on. The three Chinese vessels were already designated in the system as hostile targets and it was a simple matter to assign two Harpoon anti-ship missiles to each one. The six missiles rippled out of the quad canisters mounted along the sides of the ship with a slight jar.
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