Hunter Killer: The War with China: The Battle for the Central Pacific

by David Poyer

  All four hits had been to starboard, more or less spaced along the side. Only one seemed to be a penetration near the waterline, but that, unfortunately, was fairly far aft, which placed it somewhere in Auxiliary Machinery Room #2, #1 main switchboard, and Main Engine Room #1. Even worse was McMottie saying both engine-control consoles had tripped off. She pressed Transmit. “Chief, CO. Can you get them back online?”

  “Can’t tell yet, ma’am. Hell of a shock when that last one hit.”

  “These are the same panels that went down before?”

  “Back when the tsunami wave slammed us in the Indian Ocean, yes, ma’am. It’s the grounding on the panels. We tried to get it fixed when we were in the yard, but they always said too hard, take too long.” A pause, as he shouted to someone else. “Uh, can I get back to you? I got to work this—”

  “We need those engines, ASAP. Is Mr. Danenhower down there with you?”

  “No shit, ma’am. Working it. CHENG’s in DC Central, I think.” He clicked off.

  Lenson wanted an update. She couldn’t give him much, just that they’d lost main engines and power to both shafts, and all the gas turbine generators. “When can you get them back?” he asked. “We need power. I can’t manage this formation without comms, without radar. You can’t defend yourself either.”

  She unzipped the top of her coveralls and tucked her arm in, gasping at the pain. She bit back an angry reply. “Bart and the master chief are working it, Admiral.”

  Relays chattered, and the battle lanterns went off. Then came back on again. Flashlights flickered from the consoles. Frightened voices rose, before a shouted order silenced them.

  The smoke got thicker, the air hotter. Clicking from circuit to circuit, she tried to raise the pilothouse. But no one answered. Had one of the hits taken them out? “I’m going up to the bridge,” she said, pulling her gas mask out of the carrier. “Until we get power back, I can’t do a thing from down here.”

  Lenson raised a hand as if to stop her, then dropped it. She crossed to the watertight door and set her palm to it. Warm, but not hot. She undogged it and jerked it open. Smoke flooded in. She pushed her shemagh back, set the mask to her face, sucked in rubber-smelling air to hold it there, snapped the spider around her ponytail with her good hand, and tested it. Tight. She stepped through, into a smoky murk probed with flashlight beams, and dogged the door firmly behind her.

  * * *

  TWO decks down and far aft, a diminutive strawberry blonde in scrubs positioned herself on a wire-basket Stokes litter. Two smoke-stained repair party team members in dripping-wet oversuits stood gripping the other side.

  “He got a name?” the older man beside Duncanna Ryan said.

  “No tags, no name tag,” one of the HTs rasped, coughing. “But he’s an Army guy, from the Stinger battery. They say he was trying to heave one of his rounds overboard when it cooked off.”

  “Hold his head. Goddamn it, think about the spine! Ready. One, two, three,” the chief corpsman, Grissett, said, and they grunted together as they shifted the flaccid bundle on the litter onto the operating table set up in the center of sick bay. The new hospitalman seaman, Kimura, swung out stainless steel overhead lamps from their stowage against the bulkhead. One lamp tinkled as it swayed, broken with the shock of the explosions. Two others clicked on, illuminating what lay beneath with the brightness of noon.

  The body was a wrecked horror, torn apart, then roasted. It seemed impossible, but he was still breathing, panting as if after a hard run. Grissett bent to listen to heart and lungs. “Respiratory distress. Impending failure. Ryan, get the IV in. Kimura, get his clothes off. If they’re unconscious, the first intervention is to intubate. Watch how I’m doing this!”

  Forcing numb hands into motion, she slid in an IV, then hung a plasma bag. The other corpsman seized heavy cast shears and began cutting off bloody clothing, torn, scorched flash gear, half-melted nylon webbing. “Done with us?” one of the HTs said, a heavyset, muscular woman.

  “We got him,” Grissett murmured. “How many more are there?”

  “A lot,” said the woman. “Mainly burns. They’re screamin’ up there. Can’t you hear ’em?”

  “Well, bring us the next one. —Dunkie, what have we got?”

  Steeling herself, she peeled back a torn sleeve.

  Under the shredded, bloody cloth, the arm was gone.

  Though not all of it. Some unimaginable force had stripped all the flesh away. The bone beneath gleamed white and pink. It smelled like freshly cooked pork. She swallowed, trying not to barf.

  “Good thing he had his flak jacket on. Check the other side,” Grissett muttered. “Shit, look at that bleeding. We’re gonna need a central line, some O neg blood. Lactated Ringers.”

  When Kimura cut through the other sleeve, Ryan swayed and had to grip the table. The other arm was gone too. Just a macerated stump, and more flesh flayed off down to bone.

  Grissett murmured, “Traumatic amputation of both upper extremities. Massive hemorrhage. Pupils equal. Heart rate regular and fast. This guy needs a surgeon, but we’re all he’s got. You kids ready?”

  Duncanna made herself nod, but this was the first time she’d seen an injury like this.

  Muffled voices approached again, out in the passageway. A thud made her flinch. But it wasn’t another rocket hit. Just a litter-corner whacking the steel jamb of the sick bay. When she stepped to the door and glanced out, her lips tightened. The stretcher bearers weren’t bringing them in. They’d just laid the wounded end to end down the narrow corridor, leaving only enough space to walk. Four, five … no, six men and women lay moaning and bleeding on the terrazzo. Plus silent ones who lay perfectly still … “We’re gonna need help down here, Chief,” she said. “We got molto wounded. Maybe some dead.”

  “Get out there in the passageway, Dunkie. Airway, breathing, circulation. Don’t fixate on the visible injuries; remember to palpate for internal injury. Try to stop the bleeding when you can. Tourniquets are nice, but they’re not limb-salvage devices. We don’t have a vascular surgeon, so I’m gonna have to amputate. Kim and I’ll treat, you morphine and triage.”

  “Me? I’m not qualified to—”

  “Yeah, you. Pick out our next one. Man up, Dunkie, it’s up to us to save them.”

  She grabbed a fistful of syrettes from the open can and went from litter to litter, icy inside. Bending to lift a bandage that exposed pink-and-gray intestine, to turn a head whose breath bubbled blood through a gashed throat, to inspect chemical burns, flash burns on exposed skin, take mental status and vitals so she knew who could wait and who needed to see Grissett right now.

  She’d drilled it, yeah. But this wasn’t moulage, the fake plastic wounds they’d trained on. Each body had its own smell, its own glistening, fluid-pulsing horror. Blood, urine, meningeal fluid, and water slicked the deck. The corridor stank of phosphorus, propellant, feces, and burnt bacon. She tightened tourniquets, cleared airways, took pulses, injected succinylcholine so they didn’t fight the tube, set up drips, sealed gaping chest wounds with adhesive-edged bandages, injected morphine and lidocaine and norepinephrine, traced letters and the time of administration on pallid foreheads. Hands groped for the leg of her coveralls, clutched, weakened, fell away. One of the limp bodies began convulsing, boots drumming on the deck, then turned its head and died.

  More casualties arrived. Their stertorous breathing and hoarse, hacking coughs echoed in the passageway. She dragged oxygen bottles out. Most cases of severe smoke inhalation ended up on the vent. Better sooner than later, due to edema.

  “Help me,” someone murmured. “Tell my wife…”

  As Grissett shouted for the next casualty, a heavyset black man staggered around the corner and fell to his knees. He too was in Army camo. His face hung in charred rags, showing bone beneath. Fluid dripped from this ruin, staining the front of his uniform. He knelt there for several seconds, watching her with eyes that wept blood, then struggled up and grabbed the other end of the l
itter she was trying to drag.

  “You’re wounded,” she muttered, straining under the weight.

  “Not bad as some. I got medic training. Washed out, but I remember. I’ll give you a hand.”

  “You’re burned. Your face—”

  “Let’s get these guys taken care of first.”

  “Jeez, that would be great. Just let me get a bandage on you.… Can you do the vitals? That would really help. And bag that guy over there? There’s body bags in the med locker. What’s your name? What do I call you?” She couldn’t read his name tag for all the blood.

  “Custis, babe. Jus’ Custis.”

  * * *

  IN a vestibule off the helo hangar, Bart Danenhower checked his mask. He peered through the circular porthole, but couldn’t see the sea. Only eddying smoke. Flames crackled, and something let go with an echoing boom. He picked up a portable fire extinguisher, touched the door gingerly with the back of his other hand, then pulled his glove back on and undogged it.

  When he stepped out the wind was at his back. The sea, twenty feet down, was coated with yellow powder and a rainbow slick of fuel. Flames darted and smoked along the swells, but hadn’t yet caught over much of the spill. Maybe the wind was driving the fire back. Savo was rolling slightly, but otherwise lay dead in the water. He searched the horizon for help, but it rocked empty, empty, empty.

  Both engines off the line, #1 switchboard gone, #1 gas turbine generator wrecked, something wrong with the emergency switchboard … Savo’s former chief engineer swung to look forward.

  Flames racked the starboard side, but he couldn’t see much. Just smoke, wreckage, flames, bent metal, pieces of aluminum, and here and there, bodies.

  One was on fire a few steps away, hanging over the edge of a pit blasted out of the main deck. He pulled the pin and aimed the extinguisher. A frosty cone of carbon dioxide blasted out, instantly quenching the flames. He waved it over the body, then knelt to drag the recumbent form up onto the deck. When he turned it over, though, he might as well not have bothered. The upper chest and throat were hollowed away as if by some huge, sharp-bladed ice-cream scoop.

  Forms in metallic-looking oversuits emerged from the smoke, rolled the corpse into a litter, glancing at him through curved faceplates, and trudged off again, vanishing.

  Getting to his feet again, Danenhower leaned out over the lifelines, inspecting the hull. The floating yellow powder was moving. Water was sucking into the side. He could feel the incline already. They were heeling at least five degrees.

  He unholstered his Hydra, then pushed his mask up. The first breath filled his lungs with reeking fumes. “Damage Control, Danenhower.”

  “Go, Commander.”

  “I’m out here looking at a four-foot hole at the waterline, frame 220. Major fires from here forward at least to the boat deck and quarterdeck area. RHIB’s gone. Multiple superstructure penetrations. Blast damage. Frag damage. Where the hell are the hose teams? All I see is casualty recovery.”

  “Lost firemain pressure. No point exposing hose teams until we get that back. We’re preparing to counterflood, to fight this list.”

  “I wouldn’t do that until you get power back. Every ton you take on is gonna give you more free surface. Number three GTG’s undamaged, right? All the way aft? I’d get that—”

  “We’re working it, sir. Gotta go. DC out.”

  The jaygee’s voice was succeeded by another. “N5, you there?”

  He choked back a retch. Without the mask, the smoke was getting to him. “Here,” Danenhower said, coughing.

  It was Enzweiler, the chief of staff. “That you, Bart? Where are you? We need you to coordinate damage reports from the task force.”

  “We don’t control this fire, this flooding, we’re gonna all be in the water.” He clicked off and turned back to the hangar.

  Four figures in flame-retardant suits were gathered just inside the doorway. In the reflective suits and heavy gloves, they looked like robots from an old Flash Gordon serial. One carried an axe. Another stood beside a hose reel.

  No water pressure? He stared around.

  He seized the heavy stainless nozzle from the reel and began unspooling the thick red rubber hose. The flight deck foam system didn’t depend on the firemain. Designed to fight aircraft fires, it tapped prepressurized tanks in the hangar. “Tail on to this,” he shouted, then doubled over, wheezing.

  When he straightened they were ranged behind him. He pulled the mask down again, but still couldn’t stop coughing as he bulled his way through the door once more.

  Outside was even heavier smoke, the radiant glare of growing flame. His throat felt seared. Through the speaking diaphragm in the mask he choked, “Let’s get some foam in there.” He pointed to the flames at their feet, an inferno that was starting to roar in earnest. “That’s a fuel fire down there. We’re gonna flood that compartment with foam. Got it? But be careful, watch your footing, for fuck’s sake don’t fall in.”

  Without speaking again—his throat was too raw now, and the howl of the flames blotted out all sound—he signaled them to follow, ignoring the call note from the radio hooked to his belt.

  * * *

  DAN stood tiptoe on the bridge wing, peering aft. The whole starboard side was on fire, from the waterline up to the 04 level. The smoke had been white for the first few seconds, but was turning black now as the fuel floating alongside caught. It blew toward him, making his already-damaged bronchial tubes constrict. There were oblong holes in the steel splinter shield, as if they’d caught a load of square buckshot. Beside him “Ammo,” the lookout, stared at a body floating facedown in the burning water. Then jerked his gaze up again, scanning the horizon with binoculars.

  The Mark I eyeball, about his only operational sensor left, gave him a blue sky airbrushed with lavender contrails. A blazing Pacific dawn, with the sun a thumb’s-width above a glowing sea of molten brass. And his only remaining operable weapons system was the 7.62 machine gun a little farther aft on the wing. Did those distant contrails, glowing lilac in the rising sun, mean another wave of supersonics were on their way? If so, Savo was finished.

  At least four missiles had connected already. Two had hit high, obliterating the top of the hangar, the Stinger mount, one of the Phalanxes, the after stack and intakes, and maybe a third of the ship’s thirty-eight antennas. Another had struck at about main deck level. The last had punched through at the waterline, according to what the phone talker had just reported. Casualties were still being tallied, but at least a dozen were stacked up in sick bay.

  Tearing his eyes from the sky, he ducked back in, holding his helmet secure with one hand, and dogged the door behind him. The air inside was nearly as smoky as out. Van Gogh was shouting into the IC circuit, trying to raise After Steering. “Rudder’s jammed full left, Admiral,” he yelled as Dan brushed past. The helmsman was crouched behind his console, low to the deck. No doubt to breathe as little of the foul air as possible, pending the return of steering control and propulsion.

  Staurulakis was speaking urgently into the sound-powered handset at the CO’s chair, where he’d passed so many hours.… One arm was tucked into a sling—apparently she’d broken it—and both hands were streaked with blood. Cut? There was enough torn metal around. He unholstered his Hydra. “Fred? Can you hear me?”

  “You’re faint, but I hear you, Admiral.”

  “Any comms with the task force?”

  “Uh, that’s a negative, sir. Tried the backups, but no joy. Probably out of touch until we get ship’s power back.”

  He lowered the heavy little radio, feeling helpless. His job as task force commander was to fight his force as long as he could, and when he couldn’t, to extract as many of his units as possible.

  But without comms he couldn’t do squat, other than worry. Were the carriers safe? Were his other ships damaged, burning, sinking, too?

  He hated to admit it. And he didn’t want to. But there was only one thing left to do.

  There w
ere precedents.

  In 1813. Oliver Hazard Perry, engaging the British on Lake Erie. With a flagship so damaged it could no longer fight, Commodore Perry had shifted his flag. He’d rowed across a mile of shot-torn water to the still-undamaged Niagara. Now commanding Niagara as well as the squadron, Perry had taken the fresh brig through the British line and won the battle.

  “Cheryl. How’s the arm?”

  “Greenstick fracture. Apparently I’ll live.”

  “Good. How long till we have comms back?”

  “Not getting a solid on that, Admiral.” She lifted a liter bottle of water and drank off half. He held out a hand and she passed it over. “Right now … well, you know the ship as well as I do.”

  Dan rubbed his mouth. Ticos had no emergency generators, just the three main gas turbine generators. All three were online in Condition One, in case of a casualty. Backup power now would have to be manually switched to alternate power at the panels. Some vital circuits were on automatic bus transfer—vital lighting, some comms—but not high-current-demand circuits like the radars. But with all three GTGs offline, Savo was dark until one could be restarted, either remotely, or locally with the remaining high-pressure air … since bleed air wasn’t available for restarting while the GTMs were offline too.

  She blinked at something past his shoulder. “Trouble is, one hit took out the power panel. Three dead, three more injured in Main One. We’re routing casualty power, but it’s not going to happen fast. And we’ve got a main space fire. Halon and CO2 dumps have been manually tripped. And flooding, and all our fire pumps are electrical…” She blinked again, this time meeting his gaze. “We’re out of the battle, Admiral. If I could hoist a white flag, I’d be thinking about it.”

  “Anybody in visual range? Somebody we can signal, who can see our smoke at least?”

  The phone talker yelled, “OOD! Radio reports emergency transmitter is up. McClung answers on 2182 kilohertz distress frequency.”

  “Thank God,” Dan said, looking around. “Where’s Bart? We need reports. We need whoever’s still got propulsion to stand by those who’ve lost power.”