“Enabling run completed on one of the incoming torpedoes. It’s snaking.” That meant its speed had slowed. The torpedo was now searching for its target.
Manchester’s deck pitched forward as the planes dug into the water. Then, with full rudder on, she banked like a plane.
“Rudder is still full left.”
Steel watched the compass heading. There was a picture in his head of the relative position of all three submarines. If Wayne Newell continued to be his precise self, Pasadena would want to turn to starboard to intercept Manchester. But that would be suicide. The two sets of torpedoes fired at him from opposite directions would have him in a pincer. Newell had to turn to port, away from both of them, away from Manchester, and continue to evade. Therefore Steel had turned to port. More than likely they would end up close to the same depth to evade the torpedoes. A torpedo’s greatest weakness was adjusting to a rapidly changing target depth. So Newell would want to come around on his tail. Steel knew he couldn’t hold a course for long. He looked up at the course indicator. “Amidships.”
“Our first unit is in enabling run.” The search!
“Target’s first unit is range gating. Appears to have picked up a noisemaker. Second unit range gating also — I’m damn sure on us — at a three-second ping interval.” The torpedo was homing, coming in at high speed for the kill.
Another sonar wave washed over Manchester. Damn, Newell hadn’t turned away yet. He was taking another range to….
“He’s getting ready to shoot again.” David Hall was thinking the same thing.
“He couldn’t … I don’t think. His tubes were empty. That’s too fast for reloading,” Simonds said. “Less than five minutes from that first shot at the boomer. He’s just refining his solution.” He called down to the torpedo room. “How long to reload one and two?”
“Three minutes — maybe less if we level off sometime. Christ, this reloading isn’t the easiest thing to do standing on your ear.”
“You’re doing a wonderful job,” Simonds called back. “But if you don’t do it faster, you may find yourself swimming.”
“Our first unit’s homing on something now. Second unit’s … something’s wrong with that second one. Both the boomer’s shots are range gating, but I can’t tell on what. A hell of a mess out there.”
Steel closed his eyes. If he held course for too much longer, Pasadena would eventually come in behind him. But that would be suicidal for Newell! He’d used four torpedoes — two for the boomer, two for him — and there was at least one range gating on Pasadena right now. How long before she reloaded?
With his eyes still shut, a vision of Wayne Newell materialized. No, it wasn’t a single likeness, more a multiple image of different stages in Wayne’s life — a serious, single-minded student at nuclear power school, the faultlessly impeccable navigator, a nondrinker because he couldn’t drink and maintain his perfect vision of himself, even the perfectionist who questioned superiors about anything less than 4.0 on his fitness reports. He was a man of absolutes, and it was now quite obvious that he intended to eradicate this interruption in his pursuit of Florida.
Once Wayne had made up his mind, there was no turning back. He was a man who established goals and met each one before he went on to the next. Manchester — or rather, her destruction — had become the next goal, and Steel understood that Newell would be persistent in his attack. He would go to unusual lengths, following his own concepts of pressing the attack rather than any established doctrine. He was a club fighter and he would press in for that final shot, ignoring his opponent’s punches, seeking the surprise shot that would drop the other to the canvas — or the ocean floor.
Steel thought about the loss of the other boomers and imagined the tremendous pressure that Newell must be under. What in God’s name had possessed him? How had he managed to hold his crew together? There were no immediate answers to those questions, and Steel knew in a flash that he would never know because one or both of them would shortly be dead.
There was also another thing he understood. Manchester could fire as many as she was capable of, and Newell would continue to press the attack as long as he remained afloat. He was that type of individual. Steel thought about how impressed he’d always been with Wayne’s determination. He still was.
“Two-second ping interval on the one that’s after us.”
What was it closing on? Was it Manchester? Was it a noisemaker? They had turned away from the torpedoes, gone deeper to confuse them. That was increasing the range, a bit more time anyway, even if it was only seconds. How do you change everything you’ve been taught?
“Our first unit’s in a two-second ping interval.”
Steel had two full tubes. Pasadena was reloading all four. “Come right. Sonar, let’s go active and get another range. Firing-point procedures on three and four.”
The OOD had worked with Steel for a long time. “Settle on a course off his stern, Captain?”
“Correct.”
“Fifty-six hundred yards.…”
Steel wasn’t concerned with anything else. The OOD would settle on a course. The fire-control coordinator, Peter Simonds, would have a solution. The weapons in tubes three and four had been ready before they fired the first two.
“We’re turning toward that torpedo, Captain,” Simonds said under his breath. Everyone else in control understood that, but none of them would want to hear it broadcast either.
“Hell,” Steel answered, “he’s never bothered to turn away from us.” How do you change everything you’ve been taught?
The XO had one thumb in the air. “We can do it at this range. Solution is.…”
The thumb was enough of an answer. “Tube number three, match sonar bearings and shoot.”
The water slug was physical confirmation that the torpedo was on its way.
“One-second ping interval on that torpedo, Captain. I don’t know what it’s on to but it sounds happy,” called Chief Moroney. Even with a torpedo bearing down on him, the chief was no different than he’d been during exercises.
The hell with the wire. “Add another two hundred feet,” he called to the diving officer. “Left full rudder.”
“Our unit is in continuous range gate.” That meant their first shot was homing on a target … a noisemaker … perhaps Pasadena.
“Launch transient on the target’s bearing … another single torpedo in the water.”
Somehow, Wayne Newell had reloaded and held his course long enough to fire. Now he had to turn away and go very deep.
An hour before, the General Secretary had been talking about balancing on a high wire with no net beneath them. It seemed an accurate comparison. The other members of his Defense Council — the new Defense Council — had been in agreement. None of those remaining had any desire to become involved in a missile exchange unless it was apparent that the odds were heavily weighted on their side.
Now they were startled to note that both the General Secretary and the Minister of Defense were visibly shaken as they reentered the council chambers. The former appeared more exhausted than disturbed, while the latter’s face had become a ghostly white, vividly contrasted by his heavy beard. There was an aura of defeat about them.