Finally: “Sonar. Captain, line up the BSY in active mode and report when you’re ready,” he said into his headset microphone.
The Vortex missile blew through the water at terminal velocity, over 300 knots, the waves high above flashing by in a blur. The solid-rocket fuel burned rapidly, the missile getting lighter with each passing second. The unit’s blue laser seeking device scanned the water ahead in a wide cone, the need for last-instant depth and course corrections vital to success.
When the target appeared in the blue light shining through the water, the computer realized the target submarine was far below it, deeper by some three hundred feet. The aft nozzle rotated and sent the missile into a dive as it corrected its course by a few tenths of a degree.
The target size grew from a speck to a huge blur in milliseconds, and the missile’s warhead of seven tons of high molecular density Plasticpac detonated and ignited the sea around it to a temperature approaching the surface of the sun.
Toyoda in the Eternal Spirit was’still in his bunk thinking of Suni when the missile arrived. The hull ripped open, and the Eternal Spirit became a huge teardrop-shaped mass of vaporized iron and steam rising toward the ocean surface above. The steam formed smaller bubbles, the ocean condensing the steam into smaller bubbles and eventually collapsing them from the pressure and near-freezing ocean temperatures, the sea boiling with loud noise for the next thirty hours.
“We’re ready to go active. Captain,” Gambini’s voice reported from Piranha’s sonar.
And just then the ship shook to a violent earsplitting explosion as the Vortex missile detonated on target. On the sonar screens, all screens of the broadband system went completely white, the sonar blue-out complete, so much noise in the ocean that there was nothing to hear.
The explosion went on for a long time, roaring and ebbing and roaring again.
“Officer of the Deck,” Phillips said to Court, “secure battlestations. I’ll be in my stateroom.” He clomped out of control and disappeared into the door marked CO STATEROOM.
CHAPTER 36
In the sonar room just forward of control. Chief James Omeada sat at his console glaring at the sensors. He checked his watch. In two minutes Lt. Chris Porter would come barging in to ask the usual questions — “Any contacts?” and “You us in’ the right search plan?” and “What’s the status of the BSY?” Omeada and Porter had worked together as sonar chief and sonar officer for almost two years. Secretly Omeada liked and admired Porter, but for reasons long forgotten he was crusty with the young chubby officer, regularly throwing verbal barbs at him, especially in front of the other enlisted men, which most officers would strongly object to. At first Porter had taken the insults, since most of them were based on Omeada’s correct assertion that sonar officers didn’t know squat about the BSY-2 combat-control system, the combined firecontrol, sonar suite and navigation computers. Sure, they knew how to play with their little knobs in the control room and stack their little dots, but the real work of nailing down an enemy sub was done in sonar, and Omeada felt Chrissy needed to know that.
However, inadvertently Omeada had created himself a monster. Chris Porter had taken aboard each insult about his dangerous lack of knowledge, withdrawing from sonar to study. The next day he’d be back, exploring the same question he’d asked the day before, but now armed with knowledge and often challenging Omeada’s own knowledge, more than once sending the sonar chief to the tech manual. It was almost spooky how Porter did it — he sure as hell didn’t spend any extra time on the ship. The sonar officer was notorious for leaving the ship at five p.m. every day, no matter the crisis, and at sea, he rarely missed sleep, reliably counted on to be in his rack when he wasn’t standing officer of the deck watch.
In fact, Porter slept so much that Omeada had taken to calling him Bunky. Porter hadn’t reacted, had never threatened Omeada in spite of his elevated rank. He took Omeada’s taunts as if he himself were just another of Omeada’s seamen striking for sonar technician. Porter’s acceptance of Omeada’s criticism and the way he responded to it by learning rather than resenting had gained Omeada’s unconditional respect. This was something that had never happened to him, respecting an officer. The other chiefs in the goat locker gave him tremendous grief about it. After all, Omeada had spent years putting down officers and their lack of knowledge coupled with the fact that they got all the credit, all the glory, all the medals and all the money. Omeada, in his defense, kept saying that Chrissy Porter was different, that he was “heavy,” submariner’s respectful term for knowledgeable. The other chiefs had just laughed and made noises about Omeada and Porter having some kind of weird thing going on. Now that it was Omeada’s turn to take the heat, he learned a lesson from Porter and accepted it, and soon the sarcastic taunts of his fellow chiefs died down.
Omeada was still amazed, after twenty years of frustration with officers, how much he did admire Porter. So much so that he felt duty-bound to disguise that feeling in front of the men, doubling his cuts at the twenty-six-year-old lieutenant. As for Porter, an odd thing had happened to him during the course of their association— he became bitingly sarcastic, to the point that the other officers accused him of being Omeada with lieutenant’s bars, which he met with Omeada-style wit.
In addition to the growth of their professional relationship, Omeada could now closely predict Porter’s rhythms. Of course, it helped that Porter was a soul who loved routine, always coming on watch at midnight, going off watch at zero six hundred hours, sleeping until he could no longer sleep, then coming into sonar to check the status of the equipment prior to taking his watch. Porter would be coming into sonar now to get his prewatch brief in about ten seconds. Five seconds.
Two. One. Zero.
“Hello, Chief,” Porter said. Porter, of medium height, paunchy with pasty skin, a five o’clock shadow, a double chin and a receding hairline, looked fifteen years older than his age. “Any contacts?”
“A thousand of them, Bunky. All over the map. All high-value Destinys. I just forgot to tell control about them.”
Porter leaned over a console and punched some softtouch function keys, flipping the display through several channels, spending only a moment looking at each.
“You us in’ the right search plan?”
“Oh, my God! I knew we forgot something. The search plan. Williams, get the damned plan entered in.”
“Come on. Chief.”
Omeada pointed to the computer running in the corner of the room. Porter nipped through the windows, seemed satisfied with the plan.
“What’s the status of the BSY?”
“Broke-dick, sir. Down hard. I just neglected to tell control.”
“Chief.”
“Nominal, okay? Jeez, you’re worse than my mother-in-law. Although, come to think of it, you do kind of look like her. She’s got a gut just like you.”
“We can’t all be skinny and beautiful like you. Chief.”
“Don’t forget young-looking. With silky skin.”
“And great legs.”
“I try.”
A serious look crossed Porter’s face. “I’ve got a feeling about this watch.”
“I don’t want to hear about your feelings, sir. This isn’t an encounter group.”
“Oh? You wouldn’t know it from all the moaning and groaning in here. Let me know what you get. Today’s the day.”
“Have a good watch, sir,” Omeada said. Porter stared at him for a moment, realizing it was the first statement made in a month by him without sarcasm. It seemed to confirm Porter’s feelings. Today was the day, this was the watch.