“ST-3 has detected the torpedo. Aspect change, he’s turning. Admiral. Turning and speeding up. He’s running, sir. Same with ST-5, ST-8, now ST-4. All across the board. Admiral, the submarines have counter-detected the torpedoes and are turning away.”
“Very good.” Was it? he asked himself. Or was this part of an elaborate deception? And yet it wasn’t good, because the longer the fast 688s ran, the less chance they had of being hit, the 85-click torpedo going up against a 90-click submarine. All he could hope for was the termination plasma detonation of the weapons would kill the running submarines.
The first explosion sounded in the room, audible to the naked ear, although it was twenty kilometers away.
Then the second, the third and fourth explosions came.
Finally Chu lost count. The corner of his mouth rose slightly. The Americans were paying for costing him so many sleepless nights.
USS DEVILFISH, SSNX-1
“What the hell was that?”
Paully White stood in the ring of officers, waiting for their battlecontrol system to come back up. The vessel was blind without the Cyclops system. A single loud explosion had registered in the room, two more following shortly afterward, then more, with uneven intervals between them.
Pacino arrived in the forward door to control in a dead run.
“How many explosions?” he asked.
Patton gave him the bad news. “Twelve, Admiral. I think the 688s took hits.”
“Dammit,” was all Pacino could say.
“Cyclops?”
“Down hard. Colleen thinks—”
Just then the eggshell canopies flickered, went dark, then nickered again, then held, each one reconfiguring. The officers on the room’s port side ran back into their stations and donned their helmets.
“Control, Computer Room, Cyclops is initializing now and back on-line.” Colleen’s voice was low and measured, giving no trace of the hopelessness Pacino had seen twenty minutes before.
“Sonar, Captain,” Patton’s voice rang in Pacino’s headset. “Report the situation.”
“Captain, Sonar,” Demeers’ answer came. “Still initializing, stand by. Captain, Sonar… we have six Rising Sun contacts, twelve unidentified large-diameter, low-density spheroids, and multiple objects—”
“What?” Patton was annoyed. “Do you have the twelve 688s?”
“Cap’n, Sonar, the twelve spheres are explosion zones from plasma weapons, and the multiple objects we interpret to be broken submarine hulls. Cyclops is showing them traveling vertically downward. They’re sinking. All twelve show that they are now between two thousand and twenty-five hundred feet deep. Some are hitting the bottom and are disappearing from Cyclops as being bottom clutter. Captain, Sonar… as of now I only show six Rising Suns and the Piranha.”
“God damn that son of a bitch,” Pacino spat. “That’s almost two thousand of my men that bastard just killed.”
A murderous rage choked him. He wanted to kill the Red force commander with his bare hands.
“Admiral, Piranha is in range of three Rising Suns with his Vortex missiles.”
USS PIRANHA, SSN-23
Captain Bruce Phillips stood on the conn and squinted down on the battle stations crew arrayed at the attack-center consoles.
“Sonar, Captain, status!” he barked into his boom microphone.
“Captain, Sonar,” Master Chief Henry said in his baritone voice, the tone of it fitting perfectly with his shaved head, tree-trunk neck, and wide shoulders — the only thing missing his earring, which went on immediately when he left the ship. “We’ve got no contacts, just sonar blueouts at the previous bearings to the 688s.”
“Sonar, Captain, I’m going upstairs and getting on the radio. Maybe Uncle Mikey on the D-fish can give me better information than you and your sonar girls.”
The master chief’s answer was as professional as Phillips’ was casual: “Captain, Sonar, aye. Do you intend to clear baffles?”
“Sonar, Captain, no. Offsa’deck, upstairs now!”
“Aye, sir,” the officer of the deck snapped back, a twenty-eight-year-old lieutenant named Gustavson.
“Dive, make your depth six six feet, steep angle. Helm, ahead full!”
“Sixty-six feet, aye, twenty-degree up bubble.”
“Ahead full. Helm, aye. Maneuvering answers, all ahead full.”
The deck inclined upward, and the crew grabbed for handholds. Their bodies strained against seat belts as the deck became a staircase-steep ramp.
“Eight hundred feet, sir.”
“Very good,” Gustavson said.
“Six hundred feet, sir.”
“Sonar, Conn, coming to PD, no baffle clear,” the OOD said to his boom mike. He was standing behind the number two periscope, which was still stowed in its well because the ship’s speed was too high to raise it.
“Conn, Sonar, aye.”
“Four hundred feet, sir.”
“Helm, all back one-third. Dive, flatten the angle to up ten.”
The deck trembled as the backing bell was answered.
Phillips had to slow the ship before it emerged above the thermal layer, where a dangerously close surface contact could be lurking.
“Two hundred feet, sir!”
“Helm, all stop, mark speed seven knots.”
“Helm, aye, maneuvering answers all stop. Speed ten knots.”
“One five zero feet, sir,” the diving officer barked.
“Mark speed seven knots, sir,” the helmsman called.
“Lookaround number two scope,” the OOD called, an order that required the diving officer and helm to report the ship’s depth and speed to avoid shearing off a periscope and opening a huge hole in the hull.
“Depth, one one zero feet, sir.”
“Speed, six knots, sir.”
“Up scope!” Gustavson rotated the hydraulic control ring in the overhead, and the stainless steel pole lifted out of the well. He bent over to catch the optic module as it came out of the well, snapping down the grips as the module appeared.
“Dark, dark, dark,” Gustavson said, training the periscope view upward to see the underside of any hulls that might be close enough to collide with. He rotated himself around in frantically fast circles. “No shapes, no shadows,” he called.
“Eight zero feet, sir.”
“Scope’s breaking,” Gustavson said as the periscope became awash in the phosphorescent foam of the sea at night. He continued driving the pole around in rapid circles, one per second. “Scope’s breaking…”
Seven five feet.” ‘Scope’s breaking—”
‘Seven zero feet!” ‘Scope’s clear, low-power surface search,” Gustavson said, puffing from the exertion of spinning around the periscope.
The control room was silent, waiting for Gustavson to cry either “Emergency deep” or its functional equivalent! “Oh, shit!” which would be greeted with the same emergency actions to get the ship down fast, but finally Gustavson announced, “No close contacts.”
Bruce Phillips reached for the red radio handset, the UHF satellite secure-voice tactical frequency named Nestor for some forgotten reason. He glanced at the call sign sheet, raising his eyebrows at his call sign and the Devilfish’s.
“Ricky, this is Lucy,” he said into the red handset.
“Ricky, this is Lucy, over.”
The burst of blooping static immediately followed.
“Lucy, this is Ricky, flash message to follow from Fred. Message reads, coordinate readout, alpha at zero golf, bravo at eight hotel, charlie at two foxtrot, delta at nine mike, echo at six tango, foxtrot at five sierra.” The Royal Navy executive officer, Roger Whatney, hurriedly scribbled the coordinates to the six Rising Sun submarines as fast as they were read off, then typed furiously, entering the data into the BSY-4 fire-control system.
“Immediate release of all packages, break, break, acknowledge, over.”
Phillips snapped his fingers at Whatney to get the data into the plot, and leaned o
ver position two of the fire-control system. Three of the Rising Sun vessels were inside the range circle of the Vortex missiles. The ship was carrying them on the outside of the hull like a bandolier, since they were much too big to carry inside the ship. Plus, the launching mechanism for the old Mod Bravos was an external tube because the older missile could not be launched from a torpedo tube without rupturing the hull.
“Ricky, this is Lucy, tell Fred we are mailing packages.
Lucy out.”
“Sir,” Roger Whatney said, “targets one, two, and four are in range.”
Phillips had kept Vortex missile power applied ever since they’d entered the operation area. He’d risked the gyros overheating, but now he was glad he had, because now there would be no waiting.
“Weps, detach muzzle caps tubes ten, one, and nine.
Lock in solutions as follows, target one to tube one, target two to tube ten, target four to tube nine.”
“Locked in. Captain.”
“Very well. Firing point procedures, tube one, target one.”
“Ship ready,” Gustavson called.
“Solution ready,” Whatney said.
“Weapon ready, tube one, target one,” the weapons officer said. “Launch auto-sequence start on tube one, target one. Computer has the countdown—”
“Sonar, Conn, Vortex launch!” Gustavson yelled, warning the sonannen to rip off their headsets or they would burst an eardrum.
“Three, two, one, igni—”
The rest of the weapons officer’s countdown was cut off by the earthshaking roar of the huge Vortex missile solid-rocket fuel igniting and blasting the rocket away from the ship.
“Tube ten, target two, firing point procedures.”
The same litany came again. The crew was a tightly orchestrated team, each with their own say in the sequence, until the computer was handed the task of coordinating the final weapon launch.
Ten seconds after receiving the Nestor radio information, Bruce Phillips had three Vortex missiles attacking three of the Rising Sun-class ships.
He pulled a fresh Havana cigar from his coverall breast pocket. “Now we’re cooking,” he said to no one in particular. He lit it with his USS Greenville lighter.
The cigar came to life, and as he stoked it, the cloud from it grew a yard in diameter.
* * *
The first explosion seemed as if it had come from just next door. The second was more distant, the third farther out. After each explosion, a small cheer rose up in the room. Phillips did nothing to dampen the enthusiasm.
His ears rang from the noise of the launches and the explosions. But this once he didn’t care.
The ship had remained at periscope depth, and Phillips grabbed the red phone.
“Ricky, this is Lucy, over.”
“Ricky, over.”
“Three packages in the mail. You got receipts?” Did we hit the bastards?
“Lucy, this is Ricky, affirmative.”
The roar of the crowd drowned out the next announcement on the Nestor.
SS-403 ARCTIC STORM
“What in heaven’s name was that?” Chu asked.
“And where did it come from. Navigator?” Lo Sun joined in, his voice tinged with anger. Why hadn’t either the explosions or the loud transients preceding them been detected by Lieutenant Commander Xhiu at the sensor panel?
“Yes, sir, checking now. The display is coming up, loud transients from bearing one one two. I have sonar blueouts on the bearings to the Volcano, Lightning Bolt, and Tsunami, Admiral.”
How quickly the tide could turn, Chu thought bitterly.
He’d just lost three of his ships, and his damned sensor operator was clueless.
“Navigator, feed the bearings to weps. Weps, program Nagasaki’s 24, 23, and 22 for submerged targets ST15, 16, and 17, all at bearing and range of transient starts.”
Xhiu worked his panel frantically. LT Sun leaned over Chu’s shoulder and whispered, “Admiral, why three torpedoes?”
“Might be three ships,” he answered.
“Sir, we only have eighteen fish left. You shoot three, we’re down to fifteen. And if we lost the three ships, our squadron weapon load is lower. Do we really need three weapons?”
Chu glared at Lo. “Yes,” he said, and Lo shut his mouth.
“Gas-generator high-impulse launches, highspeed search to the targets,” Chu commanded.
* * *
It took six and a half minutes to get the three torpedoes out. Completely unsatisfactory, Chu thought. They were beginning to make mistakes, forgetting to flood tubes, apply torpedo power. The sooner the mission was over, the better. Only now, if he had lost three submarines, and he was fairly sure he had, he might be down a hundred Nagasaki torpedoes.
At least the weapons were away, he thought. Now on to the next nagging problem, and that was, how had three loud weapons been launched from a submarine that he was not able to detect? He plotted the bearing to the transients on the chart pad. Then he made a decision.
He’d drive down the bearing line to the Americans, confirm the kill, then get set up on the convoy.
* * *
“Captain, Sonar, we have multiple torpedoes launched by the eastern Rising Sun toward the Piranha.”
Pacino sat up, startled. He found Patton standing outside the attack-center eggshell canopies. “We’ve got to warn Phillips,” Pacino said, reaching for the Nestor handset himself.
“Lucy, this is Ricky, over!”
There was no reply.
“Lucy, this is Ricky, come in, over!”
Beads of sweat broke out on Pacino’s forehead and ran down, one droplet hitting his eye and making it sting.
“Goddamn it, Bruce, pick up the phone,” he said to no one.
USS PIRANHA, SSN-23
Phillips lit up his second cigar of the night, or the first of the day, since the local time chronometer had just clicked past midnight on the wee hours of Friday morning.
“Thank God it’s Friday,” Phillips mumbled to himself.
“Captain, two more in range,” Whatney called, excited.
Phillips narrowed his eyes and addressed the crew.
“Firing-point procedures, tube three, target three,” he said, puffing the stogy.
“Lucy, this is Ricky, over.”
Phillips rolled his eyes in annoyance. The radio blared insistently in the room. He kept giving orders and listening to reports as he reached distractedly for the phone.
“Ship ready,” Gustavson called.
“Solution ready,” Whatney reported.
“Weapon tube three, target five, and launch auto-sequence start. Computer has the countdown—”
“Ricky, this is Lucy, I copy, over,” Phillips said to the phone, concentrating on the Vortex launch.
“Lucy, immediate execute. Clear datum to the east, emergency fl—”
The radio call was interrupted by the violent roar of the Vortex missile as it left tube number three on the starboard side, where the radio console was located. It took several seconds before Phillips could hear anything.
When he did, he clicked the transmit button and said! “Ricky, this is Lucy, say again?”
* * *
“He didn’t hear you, Admiral.”
“Lucy, this is Ricky! Immediate execute. Gear datum to the east, emergency flank! I say again, clear datum to the east, emergency flank, ASAP, ASAP, ASAP! Do you copy me, over?”
The reply was static-filled.
“Ricky, this is Lucy, say again, over.”
“Lucy, this is Ricky, clear datum, dammit! Get out of there now! Withdraw! Do you copy?”
* * *
Bruce Phillips glared at the phone.
“Weps, tube eight, target five, firing-point procedures.”
“Lucy, this is Fred, immediate execute, clear datum east, ASAP! Do you copy?”
Phillips made a face.
“Ship ready, sir.”
Phillips made a decision. Micromanagement had its place, bu
t he was two Rising Suns away from a Distinguished Submariners’ Medal, and he’d be damned if he was going to clear datum. Yet ignoring the radio call wasn’t his style. He’d confront the radio caller directly.
And this time he’d be damned if he’d use the stupid call signs.
“Admiral, this is Phillips, negative clear datum. I say again, negative negative negative. Piranha is at the firing point. I repeat. Piranha is at the firing point, negative clear datum. Phillips out.”
He looked at his officer of the deck while turning the volume down on the radio.
“OOD, lower the periscope, take her deep, one thousand feet, best listening depth.”
“Aye, sir,” the officer of the deck acknowledged, making the orders to the helm and diving officer.
“Well,” Phillips said to the weapons officer, peeved.
“What are you looking at? Status on the weapon, let’s go! Shoot eight!”
“Computer auto-sequence start at five, four, three…”
* * *
The three Nagasaki torpedoes soared through the water toward the target ahead, the one designated only as ST15, the fifteenth submerged target encountered that campaign.
The weapons ate up the distance at eighty-five clicks, against a target moving at ten clicks at periscope depth, the range getting closer and closer.
* * *
Patton stared at Pacino.
“I don’t believe it. He doesn’t want to hear there are three plasma torpedoes on the way inbound,” Patton sputtered.
“Shoot a Vortex at him,” Pacino commanded.
“What?”
“Now, John, let’s go, get a Vortex missile in the water, aim it for the Piranha, ceiling setting enabled, and make damned sure you disable the terminal-mode detonation. Move!”
A look of understanding dawned on Patton’s face.
“Line up tube one. Vortex Mod Charlie, swimout mode, ceiling setting enabled, terminal detonation disabled, target — the USS Piranha. Firing-point procedures, Piranha, Vortex one. Report!”
“Sir, what are you doing?” XO Walt Hornick asked.
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