by Jeff Edwards
Culkins shook his head and keyed into Navy Red. “SAU Commander, this is Ingraham. Request permission to break formation and close Benfold’s position. We can provide missile defense coverage until Benfold gets her Aegis system back on line, over.”
“Ingraham, this is SAU Commander. Roger. You are cleared to break formation. Keep an ear in the water, though. Those subs are still out there.”
“You don’t hear that every day,” Ingraham’s Tactical Action Officer said. “A frigate providing missile coverage for a destroyer. My, my, how the mighty have fallen.”
“Don’t enjoy it too much,” Captain Culkins said. “Those are our people dying over there.”
“Of course, sir,” the TAO said. All traces of mockery were gone from his voice. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean …”
“Don’t sweat it,” the captain said. “It’s an honest mistake. I went down that road myself, for a couple of seconds.”
“Yes, sir.”
* * *
USS Towers:
“USWE—Sonar. Hostile torpedo number one has broken acquisition. Looks like we fooled it.”
On the CDRT, Chief McPherson watched the symbol for one of the enemy torpedoes go astray. She keyed her mike. “Sonar—USWE. What’s the status of the second torpedo?”
“Still closing, Chief. It’s sticking to us like peanut butter sticks to the roof of your mouth.”
“USWE, aye. Break. TAO—USWE. We have evaded the first torpedo, but the second torpedo is still locked on. We’re not going to shake this one, sir.”
“TAO, aye.” Lieutenant Nylander looked at the captain. “Any ideas, sir?”
“One,” the captain said. “A crazy idea that one of my academy buddies came up with about a hundred years ago. I have no idea if it’ll work, but it’s not like we’ve got a lot to lose.” He looked up at the Aegis display screens. “The torpedo is coming dead up our stern, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“All right,” the captain said. He keyed his mike. “Bridge—Captain. Come right thirty degrees and steady up.”
“Bridge, aye. Coming right thirty degrees.”
The ship began to turn.
“The idea,” the captain said, “is to get the torpedo to come in from your quarter, about thirty degrees off your stern.”
The TAO watched the tactical displays. “What does that do for us, sir?”
“Nothing, by itself,” the captain said. “But we know the torpedo is programmed to dive under our hull and detonate. So we have to give him as little hull as possible at the critical moment. It won’t eliminate the damage, but—with a little luck—it might keep this fucking torpedo from blowing us in half.”
“Captain—Bridge. We are steadied up on new course zero-six-five.”
“Captain, aye. Stand by for my orders. When I give the command hard to starboard, I want you to throw the rudder over hard to starboard, then go all-ahead flank on the port engine, and all-back on the starboard engine. Got that?”
“Bridge, aye. Copy all, sir. Standing by for your order.”
“Good,” the captain said. He keyed his mike again. “USWE—Captain. I need to know when that torpedo is going to hit us. I know you can’t give me an exact answer, but I want Sonar’s best guess, based on signal strength and elapsed run-time. Understand?”
“Uh … I think so, sir. That is, yes, sir. Do you want us to give you a countdown?”
“That’s an excellent idea,” the captain said.
* * *
USS Ingraham:
“TAO—Air. I’ve got three missile pop-ups! Bearing two-seven-five!”
The Electronics Warfare Technician confirmed the report a few seconds later. “TAO—EW, standing by on chaff. I have active H-band seekers on all three missiles. Classification: Exocet SM-39s, ‘November Variants.’”
“TAO, aye. Break. Weapons Control—TAO. Let me know the second you get fire control lock on those Vipers.”
“TAO—Weapons Control. We are locked on and tracking all three Vipers. Request batteries released.”
Captain Culkins keyed the net. “This is the Captain. You have batteries released.”
* * *
Out on the forecastle, the Mark-13 missile launcher rotated up to the zero position and an SM-1 surface-to-air missile rode up the vertically aligned rail to lock into place on the launcher’s single arm. Nicknamed the one-armed bandit, the Mark-13 system was an unwieldy-looking contraption, but it was fast. Although it could handle only one missile at a time, it could load and launch fast enough to keep up with most twin-armed launchers.
The one-armed bandit slewed around and pointed the nose of its missile in the direction of the enemy Vipers. With a brilliant flash of light and an unholy roar, the SM-1 leapt off the rail on a trail of fiery smoke. The launcher swung back around to the zero position, and another missile slid up the rail.
* * *
USS Towers:
“Torpedo impact in approximately ten seconds,” Chief McPherson said over the net. “Nine … Eight …”
“Bridge—Captain. Hard to starboard!”
“Bridge, aye!”
The ship heeled over sharply, and the bow swung to the right as the rudder shot around to the hard-over position. A fraction of a second later, the ship began to shudder as the blades on the starboard propeller rotated from full ahead to full astern, reversing the direction of thrust on the starboard side of the ship. The bow came around even faster, and the ship heeled over even farther as it reefed into the turn.
Chief McPherson shouted into her mike, “Three … Two … One … Impact!”
* * *
DMA37 Torpedo:
The acoustic signal strength from the transducers was close to optimal. The torpedo dove toward twelve meters and slid under the target’s hull, exactly according to the targeting algorithm in its computer. But the calculations were off somehow. The target signal strength peaked before it should have and was falling off rapidly by the time the torpedo reached twelve meters.
The target had made a violent turn toward the torpedo at the last second, and the torpedo overshot its mark, rocketing under the hull and beginning to come out the other side before it could correct its course.
Had the DMA37 been a hair smarter, it might have aborted the arming sequence and swung back around for another pass at the target—one with better placement. But the arming conditions had been met, however briefly, and the computer followed its program. The detonating signal reached the warhead, and 250 kilograms of high-explosive erupted into an expanding sphere of fire and death.
* * *
USS Towers:
For an instant, the underwater explosion illuminated the darkened ocean like a flash of lightning. A microsecond later, the shock wave smashed into the port side of the destroyer, lifting the stern completely out of the water, and rolling the ship far onto its starboard side.
With a shriek of rending metal, hull plates buckled and collapsed. The ship’s stern seemed to hang in the air for a second, apparently suspended on a mushrooming bubble of steam and fire. The keel began to bend.
Then the spell was broken, and the stern crashed back into the waves, throwing plumes of seawater fifty feet into the air. The whipsaw effect torqued the keel in the other direction, and the steel backbone of the ship groaned like a wounded animal, a resonating sound that rose through the deck plates at an incredible volume. But the keel held.
Towers rolled a little farther onto her starboard side and then sluggishly, she rolled back to port. She settled onto her wounded side and began to take on water.
* * *
Emergency battle lanterns came on automatically as power failed through two-thirds of the ship. The lanterns cast circles of light in the darkened passageways, raising the illumination level from Stygian blackness to something approaching evening twilight. The engines had fallen silent, but the semidarkness was far from quiet. The screams of injured Sailors echoed through the passageways, their cries competing with the shouts of da
mage control crews and the torrential rumble of the rising floodwaters.
* * *
CIC was a shambles. Captain Bowie climbed to his feet. His ears were still ringing, and a gash across the left side of his forehead leaked blood across his face and into his eyes. He clamped his left hand over the laceration and used his right hand to wipe the blood from his eyes as best he could. He blinked and strained to see in the near darkness. “TAO!”
Lieutenant Nylander’s voice came from behind him. “Here, sir!”
The captain turned to see the Tactical Action Officer struggling to get to his feet. The lieutenant winced and clutched at his right knee. Then he stood with a visible effort, holding on to the edge of a console for support.
“Establish comms with CCS. I need damage reports, casualty reports, and a report on the status of damage-control efforts. I want to know how long before we can make way and how long before we can fight.”
“Aye-aye, sir!”
The captain reached for his comm-set and then realized that he had lost it. He looked around and selected a face at random. “Surface!”
“Yes, sir!”
“See if we can go out over Navy Red. If we can’t fight, maybe we can still run this show from the sidelines.”
“Aye-aye, sir.”
A minute later, the Surface Radar Officer made his report. “The HF transmitters are out, Captain. We can hear, but we can’t transmit. The techs are working on it now, but we don’t have an ETR yet.”
The captain nodded. “Very well.”
A very young and timid voice asked. “Captain? Are we going to sink, sir?”
The captain made no move to locate the owner of the voice. The young man was scared, and he had every right to be. There was no sense in singling him out. “No, son,” the captain said. “We are not going to sink. We’re going to kill those bastards. Every goddamned one of them.”
* * *
USS Ingraham:
Ingraham’s first SM-2 reached its intercept point with one of the Vipers bound for Benfold, and a distant flash in the sky told the story. Radar confirmed the kill a second later. “Splash one!” the Weapons Control Officer shouted. Then, a few seconds later, “Splash two! Splash three!” He clenched his fists and waved them in the air. “We got ‘em all!” He let go with a loud wolf whistle. “And that … ladies and gentlemen … is how it is done!” The CIC crew began to cheer.
Captain Culkins smiled. “Nice shooting.” This fight was far from over, but he could let them have a few seconds of self-congratulatory fun. They’d earned it.
He keyed up Navy Red. “SAU Commander, this is Ingraham. We have splashed all three of Benfold’s inbound Vipers, over.”
There was no reply.
Captain Culkins keyed up again and repeated his message.
Again, there was no answer.
This time, he went out to Benfold. “Benfold, this is Ingraham. Radio check, over.”
“Ingraham, this is Benfold. Read you Lima Charlie, over.”
Captain Culkins frowned. Towers must have been hit pretty hard; they were off the air. He went out over Navy Red again. “Benfold, this is Ingraham. SAU Commander has taken damage and cannot respond via Navy Red. You are next in seniority. Are you prepared to assume SAU Commander at this time, over?”
The reply took nearly a minute. Rachel Vargas must have been tearing her hair out over there. No commanding officer ever wanted to turn down a position of command, especially in the heat of combat, but her bridge was knocked out and most of her weapons and sensors were off line. When she finally answered, the frustration in her voice was palpable. “Ingraham, this is Benfold. I’d love to take the ball, but I’m in no shape to run with it. This one is all yours, Mike. Good luck, over.”
“Ingraham, aye. Break. All units, this is the commanding officer of USS Ingraham. I am assuming SAU Commander at this time. I say again, I am assuming SAU Commander at this time, over.”
He released the mike button and scanned the tactical plot. He didn’t have much of a SAU left to work with. Benfold was out of it for the moment and so was Towers. That left Ingraham and Towers’ helo, Firewalker Two-Six. His own helo, Gunslinger Four-One, was at Ready Five. He could launch it in a matter of minutes if he had to. He decided to hold off on that for the moment. So far, helicopters hadn’t fared very well against the submarines. It wouldn’t pay to risk both of the SAU’s remaining air assets at the same time.
He keyed up Navy Red. “Firewalker Two-Six, this is SAU Commander. Say your current status, over.”
“SAU Commander, this is Firewalker Two-Six. My fuel state is three hours plus zero two minutes. Three souls aboard. My load-out is one Mark-54 torpedo and a mixed rack of sonobuoys. I am currently monitoring passive buoys, tracking one POSS-SUB contact, designated Gremlin Zero Three, over.”
“SAU Commander, aye. Do you have a firing solution on contact Gremlin Zero Three, over.”
“SAU Commander, this is Firewalker Two-Six. That’s affirmative. I’ve got this guy tagged and bagged. Give me batteries released, and I’ll bring you his head on a plate, over.”
Captain Culkins thought about this for a few seconds. “Firewalker Two-Six, this is SAU Commander. You have batteries released. You are authorized to drop below two thousand feet only long enough to make your attack. Your approach and return are to be made above Angels Two, over.”
“This is Firewalker Two-Six. Copy all. Out.”
Captain Culkins swallowed. The Navy had sent helicopters after these submarines three times, and three times the helos had been blasted out of the sky. He hoped like hell he hadn’t just ordered Firewalker’s air crew to their deaths.
* * *
Firewalker Two-Six:
The pilot’s name was Lieutenant Clinton Brody, or just Clint to his buddies. He scanned his instrument panel and keyed his inter-phone. “Start your weapons check-off list,” he said to the Sensor Operator. He looked over at his copilot, Lieutenant (junior grade) Julie Schramm. “Here’s the plan, Jules. We stay above Angels Two for the approach. As soon as we start our attack dive, you launch a pair of flares. My guess is the sub will pickle off a heat seeker with our name on it the instant he detects our rotor wash. The flares will give the missile something to play with. As soon as our weapon is away, we bank hard to port, climb like hell, and you pop off two more flares. Got it?”
His copilot nodded. “Piece-o-cake, boss.”
“Good. Now, go ahead and make your reports.”
The copilot keyed her radio. “SAU Commander, this is Firewalker Two-Six. I am prepping for my attack run, over.”
“SAU Commander, aye. Good hunting.”
About a minute later, the Sensor Operator reported that the weapon was ready to drop. “Standing by to launch on your order, sir.”
“All right, let’s do this,” the pilot said. He nudged the stick forward, pitching his aircraft into a dive. “Weapon away on my mark”
“Aye-aye, sir.”
The copilot punched a button. “Flares away.” Two brilliant flashes of light appeared at the edges of their peripheral vision and rapidly fell away behind the aircraft.
In the darkness the ocean was invisible. But it was down there all right, rushing up to meet them at breakneck speed.
“Stand by …” the pilot said, watching the numbers on his altimeter unwind. “Launch—now, now, NOW!”
The Sensor Operator smashed his thumb down onto the firing button, and the aircraft lurched as the torpedo dropped clear. “Weapon away, sir!”
The pilot pulled back on the stick, and the helo began to climb. “Pack a bag, kids, ‘cause we are out of here!”
The copilot punched another button. Two more flares ignited and fell away into the darkness. “Flares away!”
“Here it comes!” the Sensor Operator shouted. “Missile-emergence, bearing one-three-six!”
“Holy shit!” Lieutenant Brody said as he jogged his aircraft into a sharp bank to the left, still fighting for every inch of altitude he could
get. “The welcoming committee doesn’t fuck around!”
Something caught his attention at the lower threshold of his hearing. His copilot was mumbling something. Her words were very soft, and he had to strain to make them out over the hammering of the rotors. “Hail Mary, full of grace … Hail Mary, full of grace … Hail Mary, full of grace …”
He looked over his left shoulder. “Where’s the missile?”
“I don’t know, sir!” the SENSO said. “I lost it!”
“Well find it!”
Below them, a circle of the night sky flashed yellow-white as the heat-seeking missile homed in on one of the flares and detonated.
“See that?” Lieutenant Brody said. “No big deal when you fly with the pros.” His cocky tone of voice gave no hint of the fact that he’d just been hit by a nearly overpowering urge to urinate.
The SENSO held his headphone closer to his ear. “We’ve got weapon startup, sir.” A few seconds later, he added, “Looks like good placement, sir. The weapon has already acquired.”
For the briefest of instants, a patch of ocean two thousand feet below lit up like daylight.
“Bull’s-eye!” the Sensor Operator shouted. “Loud underwater explosion with multiple secondaries! I think we just bagged us a submarine!”
“Outstanding!” Lieutenant Brody said. “Now comes Miller Time …”
His copilot looked at him. “Now comes what?”
“Miller Time,” the pilot said. “You know … the old beer commercials …”
Lieutenant (jg) Schramm shrugged. “Must have been before my time, boss.”
The pilot raised an eyebrow. “It all becomes clear, now. You’re the brilliant young Jedi apprentice, and I’m the toothless old codger who must educate you in the ways of the Force.”
“I don’t know about the toothless part,” the copilot said, “but the rest of it sounds dead on the money.”
“Uh … sir?” the SENSO said. “I hate to interrupt all that official pilot talk, but I think I’m getting a sniff on the third submarine.”
