The detonation from the northeast — the Nagasaki torpedoes hitting the first Seawolf-class ship — blew the Winged Serpent into a tailspin as the Second Captain lost control of the X-tail aft. The computer then regained control, but Captain Tanaka had been thrown to the deck. He picked himself up and looked up at the sonar console. The Nagasakis launched against the intruder to the north were still tracking. The first target was now gone, its sonar signature lost in the fireball of the Nagasakis. Tanaka smiled. Winged Serpent was winning.
Phillips learned almost immediately that his prayer should have been said for his own ship, the Piranha.
“Conn, Sonar, two torpedoes in the water, bearing two zero zero! Both of them Nagasakis.”
“Shit,” he said. “Attention in the firecontrol team, apparently Target Six isn’t as dead as we thought he was. And I’m not running, I’m shooting.” He paused, noting the eyes of the crew on him. “Firing point procedures, Target Seven, Vortex unit nine.”
The combat litany rolled through the room again until the Vortex roared off into the darkness of the sea, its destination the Destiny that had caused all the hell.
“Sir,” Mazdai reported from the sonar panel, now that he was back from recovering the Second Captain, “we’ve got another strong broadband contact. This is some kind of torpedo, sir. We’d better evade it.”
“No, First. The SCM will take care of it. Prepare to engage the Second Captain in ship-control mode. We’ve evaded eight torpedoes before, we’ll evade one more now—”
“But sir—”
“Mazdai!” Tanaka was furious, even raising his hand as if to strike Mazdai, but then they both froze, hearing the sound of a submerged rocket motor. There were no words capable of describing the power of that roar as the missile came shrieking in toward the Winged Serpent.
The Vortex missile detonated, raising the temperature of the vicinity around it to that of the sun’s surface.
Toshumi Tanaka was vaporized, the atoms of his body so elevated in temperature that they lost their electrons and became a plasma, glowing brilliantly in the depths of the sea.
Nothing was left of the ship, its steel becoming a plasma of iron and carbon atoms. The Second Captain died along with every living being aboard, the computer able to watch itself die, its consciousness much quicker than the processing of the human mind. It sensed the collapse of the hull, the propagation of the plasma front, the sequential vaporization of its process-control modules, watching the plasma eat it alive, finally howling in electronic pain as the plasma devoured it. There was nothing left then but a cooling bubble of gas and a shock wave of a pressure pulse moving through the ocean. An external observer would never have suspected that one of the world’s greatest designs had passed with nothing left to mark its passage.
XO Roger Whatney looked up at Phillips.
“Sir, now that the missile is away, maybe we should evade those Nagasakis.”
Phillips looked down at Whatney and thought about Pacino’s simulation in Norfolk. He’d be damned if he’d experience in reality what he’d experienced in that simulator, running from the Nagasakis and dying on the run.
He would die with his boots on, his Vortex battery empty.
“No, XO. Goddamned if I’m going to run.” Phillips raised his voice to the men in the room. “Attention in the firecontrol party. We’re going to do the same thing for ourselves as we did for the Barracuda. Helm, right two degrees rudder, steady course two three zero, all ahead two thirds. Mr. McKilley, give me a phantom target straight ahead, range four thousand yards.”
“We won’t make it, sir.”
“Five thousand yards and that’s it.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Firing-point procedures, phantom target at five thousand yards bearing two three zero. Vortex unit ten.”
The reports rolled in, and Phillips called for the launch. He put his fingers in his ears one last time, feeling sad that the last Vortex was gone. If only the icepack hadn’t eaten up the first missile, he would still have a ticket home.
Admiral Pacino pulled himself to his feet and made his way to the conn. He and four other men remained conscious, one of them Paully White, the other the helms man, the third the executive officer, Leo Dobrinski, the fourth, the chief of the watch at the wraparound ballast-control panel. The survivors seemed to have picked at random. Dimly Pacino registered that David Kane was collapsed on the deck of the conn. He bent down, fighting his dizziness, and rolled Kane over. Kane’s face was shattered, blood coming out of his nose. Pacino put his face down near Kane’s and heard rattling sucking breathing. Kane must have taken a hit in the chest as well as his face. Pacino lowered him to the deck. The ship was dying, he reminded himself. Save the ship, save the plant, then save the men, his old mentor Rocket Ron Daminski, long dead now at the bottom of the Mediterranean, had taught him back on the Atlanta. It sounded coldblooded but it made sense. A dead ship ensured a dead crew. Karie was wounded and down. Pacino was the senior submarine-qualified officer aboard. Navy Regs said he was now in command. Ironic. All the time since Seawolf had gone down he had missed command, and now it was his — a submarine crippled, drifting, probably flooding and sinking, hit by a Nagasaki torpedo, an enemy Destiny out there to be fought, a ship’s company that probably numbered more dead than living. Get with it, he ordered himself, and stood upright on the conn.
“This is Admiral Pacino,” he said in a ringing, probably foolish sounding voice. “I now take command of the USS Barracuda in the absence of her commanding officer in accordance with US Navy regulations.” He paused, wondering if anyone would dispute his claim, but all he saw were the eyes of Paully White and Leo Dobrowski, both ready for orders.
Pacino reached for the circuit-one microphone. “ALL STATIONS, THIS IS ADMIRAL PACINO. CAPTAIN KANE IS WOUNDED. I HAVE ASSUMED COMMAND. ALL STATIONS REPORT DAMAGE STATUS IMMEDIATELY.”
“Paully,” Pacino said, “get the reports off the battle circuits. Helm, keep this damned thing level.” Pacino pulled the 1JV phone from the conn cradle. “Maneuvering, Captain. Maneuvering! Pick up if you hear me.” There was nothing.
“XO,” Pacino said to Dobrowski, “lay aft and get the reactor back up.”
Dobrowski was gone before he had finished the order.
“Goddamnit, Paully, what’s on the phones?”
“There’s no one reporting. Admiral. We’re it.”
“Get into sonar and see what you can do. Just stay on the phones.”
White ran into sonar, leaving Pacino with the helmsman and the chief of the watch.
“Get the battle lanterns going. Chief. Mark ship’s depth.”
“Sir, we’re at one thousand feet and sinking. Speed is one knot, we’re showing no power and I have all ahead flank rung up.”
Were any more torpedoes coming in? He was helpless if they were. If the ship sank any deeper he’d have no choice but to surface the ship. He grabbed the 1JV phone to maneuvering.