“Very well.” He acknowledged the OOD’s decision neutrally, hiding the small thrill of satisfaction it brought him.
The man showed concern for his troops, another sign of good leadership to take note of.
The submarine chugged along, operating at snorkel depth, sucking in air through its masts to power the diesel engines below. The captain was uneasy, and his mood was reflected in that of his crew. It had been too long since they’d put to sea, despite his insistence over the past years about maintaining some minimum level of proficiency in submarine operations.
The crewmen on board were rusty; more than rusty almost dangerous.
Still, the mission was not terribly complicated. With any luck, they’d be back in port late that night.
“Captain, I have it.” The sonar man spoke loudly, then immediately clapped one hand over his mouth to warn himself to be more quiet.
“She’s only a few miles away,” he said in a lower voice.
“Bearing?”
“Three-two-zero true.”
The captain wheeled to the conning officer. “Three-two zero true, then.
And warn the weapons crew to stand by.”
“Si, Capitdn.” The OOD gave the new orders slowly, haltingly, desperately trying to refresh his memory for the mission that had been planned only the day before.
“Stand down from battle stations,” the captain ordered, “and make sure the crew gets fed. It’s been a long day.”
The announcement sounded throughout the ship minutes later, securing the vessel from General Quarters. He could hear the tread of feet down the corridors as the minimally manned vessel stood down. Crewmen would be crowding into the galley, gulping down coffee, and chattering excitedly over the day’s events.
“We’re setting the normal underway watch now,” the OOD reported. “Any special instructions?”
The captain shook his head. “Just the standard. And watch out for small boats that’s about all they could throw at us.”
The captain retreated into his wardroom and sat down for dinner with the small group of officers manning the Arsenal ship. At least it was over, the first operational test of this awesome platform. Now they would wait.
“Launch the first one,” the captain ordered. He waited, growing increasingly impatient as the crew moved sluggishly to obey. Finally, he felt the pressure change within the boat, followed by a shudder as the first mine was shot out of the torpedo tubes.
Mines. Not the torpedoes that any self-respecting submarine would have been armed with. Parts had been too hard to obtain, and the fuel and warheads on the ones they’d received from the Soviet Union had gradually deteriorated into rusting piles of metal and toxic liquid.
But mines-ah, now there was a weapon. Stable for decades with minimal maintenance, and capable of wreaking immediate destruction on anything they hit. Even the oldest Soviet models were still potent weapons.
Forty minutes later, they were done. A double line of mines ten miles long stretched out in the path of the Arsenal.
On the forward most portion of the weather decks. Seaman Fred Dooley took his lookout station. After a quick discussion with the sailor already standing the watch, he accepted the sound-powered phones, the binoculars, and the life jacket.
At least the weather was clear, a great improvement over the previous week. He shucked his foul-weather jacket, tossing it over the anchor chain. He doubted that he’d need it tonight.
He turned forward and lifted the binoculars to his eyes.
The cruiser was headed west, directly toward the setting sun. It dazzled him, and he tried to look to either side instead of gazing directly at the sun, to use his peripheral vision to pick up shapes and objects more clearly. Dooley was learning, just as the OOD was.
Something off to the right caught his attention, and he quickly focused the binoculars in on it, tweaking the small focus knob to sharpen the image. He tensed for a moment, wondering if he would be the one to spot the only survivor of the wreck.
Being first mattered on the USS Arsenal and mattered to Dooley more than most. Joining the Navy last year had been the best decision he’d ever made in his short life. A job, training, a steady paycheck and a way out of the grinding poverty of inner-city New York.
A few seconds later, Dooley’s hopes were dashed. It was merely a dolphin frolicking with a wave, trying in some odd fashion to complete a circle both above and below it. He watched it for a few moments longer, trying to decide exactly what sort of game the dolphin was playing.
Guiltily, aware that he’d let his attention be diverted by the eternal distractions of the sea, Dooley resumed his scan, carefully examining each area of the water in front of the ship. Another movement directly ahead caught his attention.
A dolphin, he figured; nothing else-should be moving out there.
He squinted, trying to make the object pop into view without refocusing the binoculars, which were set for dolphin length. The object was still unclear. Sighing, he focused again, then stared in horror.
It couldn’t be-no, wait. He pressed the button on the sound-powered phone that hung around his neck, his eyes still glued to the object.
“Bridge, forward lookout mine, in the water; I say again, mine, dead ahead in the water. It’s directly in front of us.”
“He said what?” The OOD wheeled on the operations specialist manning the sound-powered phone. “What the helm, hard right rudder. Lee helm, starboard engine back full, port engine ahead full.”
Captain Heather shot bolt upright in his chair, hit the deck in one motion, and was at the quartermaster’s side in a matter of seconds. He slapped down the collision alarm toggle switch, and seconds later the harsh buzz echoed throughout the ship. The bosun’s mate of the watch took that as his cue, and began passing, “Stand by for collision. Mine to port” He never had time to finish the announcement. The cruiser heeled violently to starboard, throwing the entire bridge team across the pilothouse. The captain hit the bulkhead just next to the hatch leading onto the bridge wing.
The officer of the deck hurtled past him, cleared the bridge wing railing, and was in the water before the ship had even finished its downward motion.
The captain tried to scramble to his feet, only to discover that his legs wouldn’t move. One of them, at least. He looked down, touched the raw, shattered bone protruding from his pants leg in horror, then groaned as he tried to twist around and survey the rest of the damage.
Six feet away, the bosun’s mate of the watch was struggling to his feet. He looked dazed, disoriented, but at least mobile. “Boats! Get the TAO up here. Man overboard, port side.” Captain Heather struggled to get the words out, relieved to see that the sailor appeared to understand. “And tell the exec ” As darkness overwhelmed him, he let the sentence slip away from his consciousness.
ELEVEN
The conference room was oddly still and silent. In response to the blast, everyone from the Senate subcommittee to the Secretary of the Navy through the Chief of Naval Operations had ordered the battle group to a heightened state of alert and to withdraw outside the Cuban no-fly zone until the politicians could assess the fallout. On board the carrier, pilots and other flight officers flooded the passageways, restless without the constant overhead pounding of their aircraft spooling up, launching, and returning to the carrier.