by David Poyer
“Just a scalp wound. Give me a tissue, somebody.”
Goblin Hotel had been part of the northern group, but that torpedo had come from the south. Meaning that its firer, and possibly others, had transited the thermocline directly underneath the inner screen, then risen on the far side to reorient and attack.
Maybe making himself a sitting duck hadn’t been such a good idea. He listened, nodding as Graciadei updated him on Hornet’s damage: a massive hole in the starboard bow, flooded compartments, reduced speed. Her words reverberated in his ears. He turned away when she stopped speaking, pressing the tissue to his temple. “Uh, ASW air, where’s that fucking P-8? We need sonobuoys and helos to the south.”
“Still ten minutes out, Admiral.”
Carpenter called, “Sir, we should maybe pull Farncomb back in, slide her under the thermo—”
“Negative. Somebody’s going to hammer him by mistake if we do. The one sure thing we know now is, if we have contact, it’s a hostile.” Unfortunately, the only ASW-capable surface unit he had to the southward was Savo, and she’d just had her most effective sensor, her sonar tail, blown off. “Captain”—Graciadei turned—“you have all our helos in the air?”
“Bringing the first ones in for hot refuel, or padding them in on McClung.”
He swung to check the display. Kristensen was pulling closer. “How are we doing on ordnance? We have to—”
“Vampire, vampire, vampire,” the ESM operator announced, voice slicing through the hubbub. “Multiple vampires, bearing three-five-four to three-five-zero. Correlates to Yingji-82 Saccade.”
There it was: the second wave. Out to the northwest. Waiting until the first was in among the inner screen before launching missiles.
Against ships already crippled, constrained in their ability to maneuver, and bunched tight.
For a moment he couldn’t breathe. Clung to the back of his command chair, supporting suddenly weak knees, as one after the other scarlet carets bloomed on the display. As the readouts winked into existence. As incoming missiles jumped ahead with each sweep of the radar.
After an agonizing couple of seconds, he saw it.
The opportunity.
The red phone in his hand. Wait for the beep. “War Drums, this is Barbarian.”
“War Drums. Over.” Jung’s voice. The left wing, twenty miles north of the main body. Nine superbly capable ASW frigates and destroyers, flagshipped by Sejong the Great and led by one of the most aggressive commanders he’d ever met.
“Sub pack southwest of you, twelve miles, just launched multiple vampires against main body. Reverse course, sweep west, close in behind them. Wipe ’em out, Min.”
“This is War Drums. Roger all. Out.”
* * *
FIVE miles distant, the Hydra on Cheryl Staurulakis’s belt beeped. “Air Control reports: Multiple vampires, incoming. Bearing spread on three-four-zero. Correlates with CSS-N-8 Saccade.”
She’d been trotting aft, intending to check out the damage, since reports were confused, but was slowed by all the dogged hatches. She reversed course and pelted back forward. She arrived puffing in Combat, and plunked down in her chair, checking that her firing key was still locked in. Beside her Mills was finishing target designations. He said from the side of his mouth, “We’re splitting them with Kristensen. They’re taking the three to the east. We’ve got the ones to the west.”
Terranova was bent over the Aegis console. “We have lock-on.” On the display, four of the quickly advancing red carets began winking bright orange halos.
Mills said, “Ready to fire, SM-2s on Vampires Alfa, Bravo, Delta, Charlie. One-round engagements. Followed by another one-round engagement on any leakers.”
“Kill ’em,” Cheryl snapped.
A distant clunk as the vent dampers toggled shut. The ventilators dropped the scale. The rush of icy air stopped, and suddenly it was much quieter in Combat.
Mills flipped up a switch cover and hit a button.
The roar rattled the bullkheads. A star ignited in the forward hatch area camera field of view. Terranova chanted, “Bird one away … two away … bird three away … bird four away. Preparing for refire from after magazine.”
On the center display bright symbols left the blue circle and cross. Cheryl pulled her mind off that and clicked on the Hydra. “Lieutenant Jiminiz? Have you got a report yet?”
“We’re still hauling in on the tail. It looks intact, but we’re not getting an output.”
“I’m more worried about the screws right now.” She pushed buttons on the 21MC and hit the lever. “Main Control, CO. Can you up the turn count on the remaining shaft? We need maneuverability bad, right now.”
“Skipper, we’re still seeing a lot of vibration. I’m not sure what’s going on down there.”
“Is this Chief McMottie? I can’t hear you very well.”
“I have an e-beedie on. Toxic gas dump here. Halon leak. Shock from the explosion popped a valve. I evacuated everybody.”
“Okay … the vibration … is it a shaft issue, or a prop issue?”
“Offhand I’d say the prop.”
“Stand fast, Chief. I’ll get you degassed as soon as we get a break here.”
“Damage Control’s working it, Skipper. No worries. Let middle management handle it.”
The ASW operator called, “Sonar reports contact … torpedo in the water! Torpedo launch, torpedo noise bearing two-five-zero. Bearing drift … rapid right.”
The ESM operator yelled from the other side of Combat, “I don’t have radar altimeters on these 802s. Trying to fox them, but I’m not getting a response.”
She lifted a finger to them both, clicked onto the command net. “Birkenstock, this is Matador. Torpedo headed your way. Out.” Clicked off without waiting for an acknowledgment. Then, to Mills, “Red Hawk is where?”
“Strafer’s bingo fuel. We need to come to recovery course.”
“Divert him to Hornet. We’re firing on this guy. Stand by on Mark 46s.”
“Not ASROC?”
“Too close range. Dump three Mark 46s and let them figure it out.” She hit the button to the bridge. “Come to two-four-zero. No, belay that. Continue right to zero-zero-zero. ASW Control, stand by to drop as we swing through two-four-zero. —Sonar, Chief Zotcher, got a firm ping on this guy?”
“No. Mushy. Drifting in and out.”
“Bearing, range?”
“Two-three-zero. Twelve thousand. Course, one-niner-zero. Increasing turn count. Hauling ass away.”
Extreme range for the Mark 46s Savo carried. But hearing the eggbeater whine of torpedoes behind him, at least he’d keep clearing the battle zone. Anyhow, the way this was going, maybe she shouldn’t worry about conserving ordnance. She breathed deep and held it, trying to slow her thinking. Her outgoing Standards had almost reached the rapidly streaking missiles, which were apparently targeted on Hornet. Savo was on the far side of the formation from her, unfortunately, making intercept time longer, but they might get there. The compartment leaned as the cruiser, increasing speed but slowly, careened into the turn. “Torpedo one away … two away … three away,” the ASW controller chanted.
Seconds ticked past as Savo steadied on her northerly course. Wilker reported he was headed to Hornet. Cheryl hit the 21MC to Main Control again, but no one answered. Had McMottie been overcome? She called DC Central. They said a party was en route with blowers to vent the gas.
“Stand by … intercept,” Terranova called.
The red carets winked out, except for one, which kept coming. Straight for them now … no, for the carrier … it seemed to be confused, switching its attention between the targets. Any second now, though, it would make up its mind. “Leaker, leaker,” Mills said tensely. “Stand by to refire.”
“Inside minimum range,” Terranova murmured. “Warhead won’t arm.”
Mills froze, fingers suspended over the keys, stare clamped to the display. The enemy missile paused, then jumped forward. Paused, jumped ag
ain.
“ESM—still no joy on jamming?”
“Can’t fox this dude,” the petty officer called. “I’ve run the program three times, but he’s not responding.”
“Hornet coming to zero-nine-zero,” the command net talker announced.
Cheryl selected the ruler tool and measured distances. Too close for Standard. Too far for Phalanx. Savo was closing the carrier, but she was just on the wrong side.
The single C-802 took a longer stride forward. “Going supersonic, into terminal run,” Terranova announced.
“Homing where?”
“Looks like … on us.”
“ESM?”
“No joy, no joy. Not responding to foxing.”
Cheryl clicked her IC selector to Weapons, trying not to think about the fate moving inexorably down its world-line toward Savo. Only one card left to play. “Sergeant, you on the line?”
“Custis here, ma’am.”
“Incoming missile bearing three-four-zero.”
“We’ve been looking. Don’t see anything—”
“You won’t. Too low. Supersonic. Slew to three-four-zero and salvo four rounds. Now!”
A rippling thud resounded from above. In the camera display, whitish-yellow smoke blew across the screen. Custis’s Stingers were on their way. Short-ranged, and with only seven-pound warheads, but the incomer was only ten feet above the wavetops. If they could knock it even slightly off course, it would plow harmlessly into the sea. Across the compartment the operator shouted, “Phalanx in automatic.” The 25mm operator was hollering, “Mount 21, mount 22, incoming missile, bearing three-four-four.”
A clamoring racket started outside, the blam blam blam of the contact-fuzed 25s underscored by the bass brrrrrrr of the CIWS, and, at intervals, the heavier wham … wham of the forward five-inch, pumping out the new hypervelocity projectiles. Her gaze welded itself to the pulsing caret of the incomer. For three long seconds the noise was continuous.
The red caret winked out. “Splash Vampire Charlie,” Terranova announced.
Cheryl sighed. “Very well. —Bridge, right hard rudder, course zero-nine-zero.” She hit the lever for DC Central. “Any word from the Engine Room?”
“About to call you, Captain. McMottie was passed out in there. We hauled him up and Dunk’s administering oxygen. She thinks he’ll be okay. Getting the blowers lined up. The watch section’s standing by to go in … wait one … they say, ready to answer all bells.”
Abruptly there seemed nothing left to do. She checked with Sonar. No detonations from that bearing, but the goblin they’d fired torpedoes on was still tracking outbound. The air controller reported Red Hawk still refueling and rearming aboard Hornet. Cheryl realized she was panting. But no one seemed to have noticed. They looked shaken too. She pushed wet hair from her face and smoothed it back into its ponytail.
* * *
IN Hornet’s CIC, the pace of battle slackened. Dan caught up on the reports. The wave of 802s from the northwest had been knocked down, but at a massive cost in ordnance. His inner-screen units were scraping the bottom of their magazines. Another attack like that, and they’d be reduced to slow targets.
His Korean wings had barely expended a round yet. But Jung was racing west. His van units had begun the hook-around, surrounding and cutting off the boats that had just launched the wave of missiles. He told Soler to refuel and rearm the HSL and get them out to help. The Koreans would swing the front doors shut, the helos would slam the back, and the slaughter would begin.
A clink at his elbow, a waft of cinnamon. “Brought’cha some joe, Admiral. And a sticky bun. Y’oughta eat something.”
He wanted to say “Not hungry,” but made himself take a bite. Drizzled with hard sauce, and still hot. Longley must have run up the ladders from the mess decks. “Uh, thanks.” He blew on the coffee and tried a sip. Twice as strong as usual, exactly what he needed just now.
Unfortunately, the cup clattered on the saucer as he set it down. Hoping no one had heard, he pushed the saucer aside and finished in quick gulps. Longley whisked the china away and vanished.
All right, recapitulate … This did seem to be a lull.… They’d beaten off two submerged groups, from the northeast and southeast. The enemy had penetrated the screen and inflicted damage, but paid a high price: five boats, by his count. He had tracks on two that seemed to be fleeing, or at least retiring, perhaps for reload. The wave to the northwest was still too far off to attack, and would shortly have their hands full with Jung’s ravenous wolves, eager to avenge Seoul and Jeonnam. He’d never gotten a firm count on how many attackers there were overall. But if Intel was right, he’d just engaged fully half the total Chinese forces in the mid-Pacific.
He told Soler to pull Farncomb back inside the main body, slip her under the thermocline, and eavesdrop for any lurkers. “But make sure all units roger up on her location, to avoid mistakes.” He asked Enzweiler for damage reports, and listened with chin in one hand as the ops officer totted up a grim butcher’s bill.
Graciadei came over. Avoiding his gaze. “Congratulations, Admiral.”
“On what, Captain?”
“On your victory.”
“Uh, thanks. I guess. Anyway, it’s ‘ours,’ not ‘mine.’ What’s your status? I asked Bart Danenhower to give your people a hand.”
She told him Commander Danenhower was in DC Central, helping coordinate the repair-team response. Hornet was speed-limited by the hole in the bow, although the compromised compartments had been sealed off and bulkheads were being shored up. “I hope to resume at least twenty knots in a couple of hours, though we’ll need dry-docking, inspection, and repair.”
Dan sucked air through bared teeth. That would mean heading to Pearl Harbor or San Diego. After the attack during their sortie from Apra, he couldn’t see PaCom risking another major combatant in the dry dock there. The Allies might still hold it, but Guam was in the battle zone now.
He was updating Fleet by covered satcomm when a stir rose over by the air control consoles. “Stand by one,” he said into the red phone. He called to Singhe, “What’s going on over there?”
Then he swiveled, and saw the answer on the displays.
A barrage had emerged from the empty sea to the southwest. Small, fast contacts marched north. The ESM operator yelled, “Vampire, vampire—multiple X-band radars.”
Dan grabbed the arms of his chair when he realized where they were headed.
Straight for his helos.
“Correlates to—German?—IDAS antiair missile,” the operator stammered.
“Break right, break right—flares, now,” the air controller spat over the circuit. “They’re coming straight up your ass.”
The CIWS on Hornet’s superstructure burst into its bass brrrr, but almost immediately cut off.”Out of range,” the controller called.
“What are they? Where’d they come from?” he shouted, mind racing.
“Farncomb reports convergence zone contacts bearing two-one-zero, twenty-eight thousand yards from formation center. Two contacts, possibly three. Stand by … possibly four contacts. Classify as Victor-class nuclear submarines.”
Not Russian Victors, of course, but Chinese Shangs … the enemy’s nuclear boats.
The first team was on the field. At last.
And their opening play was taking down his helicopters.
The chatter rose to a crescendo. “Falcon two-two-one down, in the water.”
“On the deck … incoming … Falcon leader, say again, over.”
The leading red carets met the blue of friendly helicopters. They blinked, and callouts began spinning downward. In the video from a mast-mounted camera, puffs of black smoke stippled the horizon. From them fell comets of flame.
Dan leaned in, staring at the screen as the ambush unfolded. He’d been well and truly had. Far from “taking the bait,” the enemy commander had deliberately sacrificed his slower, older diesel boats to deplete the task force’s magazines before sending in the first team.
Now, with a weapon the Allies hadn’t even known he owned, he’d crippled the helicopters, the biggest advantage surface ships held over submarines. His next move would be to launch another wave of 802s, exhausting the last of the task force’s antiair ordnance. Then he would close, to finish them off with a mass torpedo attack.
Sick at heart, nails digging into the arms of his chair, Dan realized he’d been outmaneuvered from the start. Baited, switched, and sucker-punched.
Singhe, at his elbow. “Admiral? Fleet calling.”
He accepted the red phone as if in a trance. “Barbarian Actual.”
“This is Husky. Interrogative situation and intentions. Over.”
He cleared his throat with an effort. “Husky, this is Barbarian. We are being attacked from southwest by multiple Shangs. Taking heavy casualties to helicopter force. Ordnance nearly exhausted. My intention … I guess … to fight to the end.” Though really there was no choice. He couldn’t outrun the nuke boats. Their top speed submerged was faster than a damaged Hornet’s. “Uh … Over.”
A deliberation in the background, only part of which he caught. Then, “This is Husky. Clear the area to the east. Over.”
He blinked, uncomprehending. At the same moment, two contacts winked on to the eastward. The callouts identified them as friendly air, fifty thousand feet up. “What the hell are those?” he asided to Enzweiler.
“Wait one … IFF as C-5s.”
What were Air Force transports doing out here? He could use a resupply, but Galaxies took miles of runway to land. Probably just more troops on their way to Guam. His brain realized he was still squeezing the phone in a sweaty hand. “Uh, Fleet, this is Barbarian. Request you say again. I have helos down west of me. Crews in the water. Torpedo damage. What exactly are you advising me to do? Over.”
“This is an order, not an advisement. Clear your task force to the eastward at maximum possible speed. Recover aircraft still operational. Leave damaged units and casualties behind for now. P-8s will drop rafts to them. Acknowledge.”
Totally in the dark, he reluctantly rogered. He told the ops officer, “Make to all units: come to course zero-nine-zero, flank speed. Vector remaining helos to recover before they bingo. Pick up as many survivors as possible while withdrawing. Make sure War Drums rogers.”
