by Jeff Edwards
The pressure inside the dying submarine dropped instantly, as the hungry fireball sucked up all of the available air. A millisecond later, the sea crashed through the broken hull and pulverized everything inside.
The broken pieces of U-307 tumbled to the bottom of the sea.
* * *
USS Towers (DDG-103):
The 29-MC speakers thundered to life. “All Stations—Sonar. Loud underwater explosions with secondaries, bearing zero-zero-two! I think we got the bastard!”
A cheer went up in Combat Information Center, followed by what seemed to be a collective sigh of relief.
The 29-MC speakers thundered to life again. “All Stations—Sonar has hydrophone effects off the starboard bow! Bearing zero-zero-five! Initial classification: hostile torpedo!”
Chief McPherson’s eyes jerked back to the CDRT. Oh shit! It wasn’t over yet! She keyed her mike. “TAO—USWE. We can’t evade in a minefield! Look at the plot, sir! We’ve got mines on both sides of us!”
* * *
Captain Bowie stared at the hostile-torpedo symbol flashing red on the Aegis display screen. There was nowhere to run. They couldn’t evade. The torpedo screaming toward them was a German-built DMA37, the same model that had broken the Antietam like a child’s toy. The same model that killed the Benfold.
The seconds dragged on, and the captain gradually became aware that nearly every pair of eyes in CIC was locked on him. He was their commanding officer, and their eyes were begging him to lead them out of this trap. He kept his eyes on the tactical display. There was nowhere to go.
The XO nudged him, “Jim?”
Captain Bowie stood without speaking. They were surrounded by mines. If they tried to run, they were nearly certain to hit one. If they didn’t run, the torpedo was going to kill them anyway. With a little more time, they could map the minefield with their Kingfisher sonar—find a clear passage out into safe waters.
He started to open his mouth and then stopped himself. A clear passage … They didn’t have time to find one. Could they make one?
He keyed his mike. “Weapons Control—Captain. Forget that last missile site. Train the 5-inch gun directly off the bow. Use maximum elevation and reduced powder charges. I want those rounds to fall as close to the bow as possible. HE-CVT, fused to go off when they hit the water.”
“Sir?”
“No questions, just do it. In fact, I want every gun we’ve got, including the .50-cals and the chain-guns pointed into the water off the bow. Maybe we can blow ourselves a safe path out of here.”
* * *
Two hostile-missile symbols vanished off the Aegis display screens, leaving two more inbound missiles.
“TAO—Air. Splash two more Vipers. Both of them to jamming. No takers on the chaff.”
“TAO, aye.”
The ship gave two shudders, accompanied by the roar of two missiles launching.
“TAO—Weapons Control. Two birds away, no apparent casualties. Targeted one each on the inbound Vipers.”
“Screw the missiles,” the captain said. He keyed his mike. “Weapons Control, this is the Captain. Let Aegis handle the missiles. We’ve got an inbound torpedo that we can’t shoot down. Concentrate on blowing us a path out of here.”
“Weapons Control, aye.”
The gunfire increased in intensity as the rest of the ship’s guns joined the 5inch. The barrage was unholy.
“Captain—Weapons Control. We’re pumping everything we’ve got into the water, sir. You may maneuver when ready.”
The captain keyed his mike. “Bridge—Captain. Let’s go! Left standard rudder! Get us out of here!”
“Bridge, aye!”
As the ship heeled over into its turn, the XO leaned near the captain’s ear. “Do you think this’ll work?”
The captain shrugged. “Frankly, I have no idea. I just know that it’s better than sitting back there waiting to die!”
A thundering boom rattled the ship.
“TAO—Bridge. Close-aboard explosion off the port bow.”
Another explosion followed immediately.
“TAO—Bridge. Close aboard explosion dead off the bow.”
All around CIC, watchstanders began exchanging glances. Maybe this really was going to work …
On the Aegis display screen, the speed vector for Towers’ NTDS symbol was pointed back out of the minefield. They were turned around now and headed for safety. The ship’s symbol inched toward the bright red line that represented the border of the minefield.
“TAO—Air. Splash one more Viper. We still have one inbound, and it’s too close for another missile shot.”
“TAO, aye. We’ll have to let the aft CIWS mount handle it.”
Another explosion rocked the ship, this one much closer than the others had been. The shock wave rolled the ship hard to starboard, and circuit breakers began to trip, cutting off electrical power to parts of the ship.
“TAO—Weapons Control. Aegis is down! Primary computer is off line! I’m taking control of the backup computer and reloading in alternate configuration.”
“Weapons Control—TAO. What’s the status of the aft CIWS mount?”
“Just a second, sir,” the Weapons Control Officer said. “It’s … uh … It’s … I can’t tell, sir! I lost my data feed from CIWS! I can’t tell if CIWS is up or down!”
* * *
HY-1 Silkworm (mid-flight):
The missile was an ugly thing. It bore little resemblance to the sleek, dart like airframes of the German and American missiles. Its blunt nose, fat cigar shape, and stubby wings gave it the same general lines and proportions as a 1950s airliner. Seen in the daylight and under other conditions, it might have seemed comical.
But in the darkness, it was invisible, except for the yellow-blue streak of glare that trailed its engine exhaust.
It was a capable machine, despite its comic appearance, and there was nothing even remotely amusing about the 454 kilograms of high explosive packed in its warhead.
The missile made a last-second course correction and darted in for the kill.
* * *
USS Towers (DDG-103):
The aft CIWS spun on its mount and pointed its six barrels at the incoming missile. With a sound akin to a lawn mower, the high-tech Gatling gun spun its barrels up to speed and unleashed a burst of 20mm rounds. A fraction of a second later, the cluster of hardened tungsten bullets slammed into the incoming missile, and the HY-1 Silkworm missile disintegrated in an expanding cloud of fire and shrapnel.
The CIWS mount swung back around to its zero position and waited for another target.
* * *
“TAO—Bridge. We are clear of the minefield.”
Chief McPherson nearly broke her finger jamming the mike button. “Bridge—USWE. Crack the whip! I say again, crack the whip!”
“Bridge, aye!”
The ship heeled abruptly to starboard as the bridge began the series of tight switchback turns that were supposed to throw off the pursuing torpedo.
* * *
“Weapons Control—TAO. Cease fire on all guns!”
“Weapons Control, aye!”
The deck heeled to port as the ship began a switchback turn in the opposite direction. The guns stopped firing, leaving a strange, ear-ringing silence in their wake.
* * *
Over the 29-MC, the Sonar Supervisor shouted, “Hostile torpedo is still locked on!”
“Crack the whip!” Chief McPherson said into her mike. “Crack the whip!”
The ship heeled again as the bridge threw the destroyer into a second set of switchback turns.
“It’s not going to work,” a voice said from over her shoulder.
The chief turned to see Captain Bowie standing behind her, his eyes glued to the CDRT’s tactical display. “It’s not going to work,” he said again. His voice was quiet, almost as if he was talking to himself rather than her.
The captain swung the microphone of his comm-set up to his mouth and keyed into the tac
tical net. “Bridge—Captain. Bring the port screw on line! I want all engines ahead flank right now!”
The OOD’s voice came back over the net immediately. “Bring the port screw on line, all engines ahead flank—Bridge, aye!”
A metallic groan resonated through the ship, and the damaged port screw began to turn. The sound gained rapidly in pitch and volume as the mangled propeller came up to speed, rising from a groan to an ear-splitting shriek that rivaled even the explosive hammering of the now-silent guns.
The sound turned Chief McPherson’s blood to ice water. In torpedo evasion, sound was the enemy. An acoustic torpedo could home in on a sound source like a bloodhound sniffing out a fox.
“Captain!” Chief McPherson said. “The torpedo can hear that!”
“I know,” the captain said. His eyes never wandered from the flashing torpedo symbol on the tactical display.
“Sir! Speed won’t help us now! We can’t outrun this thing! And it’s going to follow that howling screw right up our ass!”
“Let’s hope so,” the captain said. He keyed his mike. “Bridge—Captain. Starboard engines all stop! Port engines maintain flank speed!”
Chief McPherson stared at her commanding officer in abject disbelief. “Sir! What are you …”
“We can’t stop this torpedo from hitting us,” the captain said. “But maybe we can control where it hits us.”
The chief frowned. “You’re saying it’s safer to get shot in the gut than in the head?”
“That’s the idea,” the captain said, his gaze still not wavering from the flashing red torpedo symbol. “Of course, a gut shot can kill you too, but it’s the only chance we’ve got.” He punched his comm-set into the 1-MC general announcing circuit. When he spoke, his voice came out of every speaker on the ship. “All hands, this is the Captain. Brace for shock!”
* * *
R-92:
The fifth-generation computer that formed R-92’s digital brain noted the changes in signal strength caused by the target’s evasive maneuvers. R-92 was not fooled by the target’s bobs and weaves. Over two-thirds of the 152 miniature sonar transducers in R-92’s acoustic seeker head had strong signal locks on the target. And then—improbably—the target signal grew even louder, giving R-92 a better acoustic lock.
R-92 did a range calculation on the target and determined that it was approaching optimum range for detonation. It sent a coded digital pulse to its warhead, initiating the final arming sequence.
R-92 did not know anything about the people it was programmed to kill. It had no understanding of politics, or national boundaries, or the fates of men. The torpedo had no way of knowing that the successful destruction of its target would point the future of the human race toward all-out war, whereas the failure to destroy its target would create a respite in which careful and thoughtful men might still be able to salvage the peace. The machine that was about to become the axis upon which history turned was not aware of history at all.
The weapon checked its depth and adjusted the angle of its elevator fins to take it under the hull of the target. Satisfied that its calculations were accurate, R-92 closed in for the kill.
The torpedo reached its optimum attack depth of twelve meters at the same instant the target’s acoustic signal strength hit its peak. R-92’s digital brain transmitted one final signal, and 250 kilograms of plasticized-hexite high-explosive erupted into an expanding shock wave of fire and vaporized water.
* * *
USS Towers (DDG-103):
The torpedo impacted on the port screw, near the after-edge of the huge hole left by the previous torpedo hit. The explosion crashed into the ship like the fist of God, rolling the destroyer onto her starboard side, ripping through the already damaged hull, and letting in tons of seawater.
All over the ship, people and unsecured equipment slid down the swiftly tilting deck toward the starboard side. The angle of the deck was crazy now, and still the wounded ship continued its roll.
* * *
Chief McPherson careened across the deck of CIC, her speed increasing as the slant became even steeper. Her shoulder slammed into the base of an Aegis radar console, and she screamed as she felt her bones shatter with horribly audible crunches.
The ship hung there for what seemed an eternity, wallowing on her starboard side, as though considering whether or not to complete the death roll and give herself up to the waves.
Someone screamed, “We’re going under!”
But then, with agonizing slowness, the wounded ship began to right herself. She finally settled, with a heavy list to port—where the water was still pouring in.
* * *
Captain Bowie tried to claw his way to his feet. His left knee was badly wrenched, broken maybe, and every movement brought nauseating waves of pain.
“The nets are down,” he hissed. “TAO, get a messenger to CCS! I want damage control teams down there now!”
He turned to the XO, who was just beginning to try to stand. “You all right, Pete?”
The XO’s face was a mask of pain. His arms were wrapped tightly around his chest. He staggered but managed to stand. “Broken … ribs … I think.” He gritted his teeth and stood up a little straighter. “Yes, sir, Captain. I’m okay.”
The captain stared at him for several long seconds before speaking. “Good. See what you can do to put this place back together; the Sirajis might not be done shooting at us.” He took a painful step and his knee nearly collapsed. His vision narrowed, and he had to grab a console to steady himself. “I’m going up to the bridge and see if I can still get some fight out of this old girl.”
The XO nodded. “Yes, sir.”
* * *
Chief McPherson lay on the deck, a fetal ball of pain and dizziness. Her comm-set was missing. She tried to turn her head to look for it, and the pain came down on her like an ax. She squeezed her eyes shut, and hot tears ran down her cheeks. She blinked them away.
An Operations Specialist who was just climbing to his feet looked down at her. The young man’s right cheek was bleeding, and it was clear that he was going to have two black eyes. “We made it, Chief! We’re still here!”
* * *
Hobbling as he was, it took Captain Bowie ten minutes to make it to the bridge. His left knee was already swelling, and each step he took got a little harder.
He staggered through the airlock and seized the back of the OOD’s chair to keep from falling down. “Officer of the Deck?”
The OOD was Lieutenant (jg) Karen Augustine. Her hair was matted with blood, and she was holding a scrap of bloody T-shirt to her scalp, but her eyes were bright and alert. “Yes, sir?”
The captain glanced down at the helm indicators. “How much speed can you give me?”
The OOD scanned her consoles. “A little less than eight knots, sir. Engineering is working to get us more, but right now, it’s a miracle that we can make way at all.”
“Eight knots it is,” the captain said. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
CHAPTER 52
OVAL OFFICE
WASHINGTON, DC
MONDAY; 28 MAY
4:30 PM EDT
The television was a rear-projection model, a big one that slid neatly into a recess in the ceiling when it wasn’t needed. The big screen made Friedrik Shoernberg’s face look huge.
Veronica Doyle pointed a remote at the screen, and the Chancellor of Germany’s face winked out of existence. “I guess that makes it official,” she said. “How did you know he’d resign, Mr. President?”
“I gave him a little incentive,” the president said. “I assured him that the United States wouldn’t seek reparations if he stepped down quietly. And I told him we would back a British attack on Germany if he didn’t.”
Gregory Brenthoven stared at him. “Tell me you’re joking, sir.”
The president shook his head. “I’m not joking, Greg. I did tell him that, and I was serious. Shoernberg’s resignation and a formal apology from the Bundest
ag were the only things that could keep Emily Irons from declaring war on Germany. If Chancellor Shoernberg had refused to step down, I don’t think I could have prevented a war. And if I couldn’t stop it, the least I could do was try to end it quickly.”
“Lucky for us that you read Chancellor Shoernberg correctly, Mr. President,” Doyle said. “You called this play all the way down the line.”
“Bullshit,” the president said. “Bull … shit.” He shook his head slowly. “I predicted that Friedrik would take the easy way out if his ass was on the line. That’s the only thing I was right about in this whole god-awful mess.”
He looked down at a folder on his desk, bound in dark blue leather and embossed with the presidential seal. He hadn’t opened it yet, but he knew what was in it: an operational summary of the entire incident, complete with charts, graphs, and satellite photos. Some of those charts represented dollars spent. Others discussed fuel expended and the amount of ordnance that had been launched. And one of the charts would show him the cost of this fiasco in human lives.
“I was wrong about a lot more things than I was right about,” he said softly. “And an awful lot of fine young Americans had to die to show me how wrong I was.”
CHAPTER 53
USS TOWERS (DDG-103)
CONTINENTAL MARITIME SHIPYARDS
SAN DIEGO, CA
THURSDAY; 21 JUNE
1320 hours (1:20 PM)
TIME ZONE-8 ‘UNIFORM’
Captain Bowie stood at the rail of dry dock number four and looked down at his broken ship. Out of the water and up on the blocks, the massive damage to the port side was clearly visible, and it was much worse than even the most pessimistic part of him had suspected. Showers of sparks fell like blue neon rain into the concrete bottom of the dry dock, as shipyard workers cut out mangled sections of steel and welded in new ones.
Many of the crew were gone now—the injured to hospitals for treatment, the dead to their families for burial. Some of the injured would return to Towers when their wounds were healed, but not many. The next time the destroyer put out to sea, much of the old crew would be gone, replaced by newcomers to whom the battles that Towers had fought would be the stuff of legend.
