His executive officer stood framed in the door of sonar, his face a grim mask, eyes boring into Newell’s. “Captain, we have been firing on American submarines. There is absolutely no doubt among anyone in sonar. It is my duty—”
Pasadena jerked wildly to starboard and seemed to leap toward the surface at the same time a deafening blast rocketed through the ship. The lights blinked out. Loose bodies and gear were hurled in every direction.
The first voice to be heard shouted, “Lost steering control.”
Chapter Seventeen
Buck Nelson had read those articles in the Navy publications in his spare time. Professional reading it was called. Speculation. That’s what he called them — pure speculation. No one, especially some young buck at a typewriter, could tell what it was really going to be like until it actually happened. Now that it had, one of the terms that had been used kept coming back to him — melee warfare.
Simply stated, modern sonar and silencing techniques combined with computer technology and high-speed torpedoes would create the melee. Like a catfight, nothing would happen until the contestants were almost on top of each other. Then it was a high-speed melee with the old tactics tossed out and intuition and luck the deciding factors.
And that’s what Nelson anticipated now as sonar attempted to keep him abreast of the nearby action. He wondered if he would ever learn why two 688s were fighting with each other after one had actually fired on him. His concern over the 688s abated with the next report from sonar.
“Torpedo still has us — or something near us — range gating now at one-second intervals.”
“Time for that decoy. Shoot …” Nelson ordered.
“We’re only at six hundred now,” Jimmy Cross said. They couldn’t get too deep as far as he was concerned. He’d double that depth now without blinking an eye — after the creaking and groaning of the hull contracting under pressure, it was still a piece of cake when one considered the alternative. Either pull the plug or vent main ballast….
Florida turned away from the decoy, increasing speed and going deeper on Nelson’s orders. Even though the wires had been broken when the 688 turned toward the other submarine, that torpedo was persistent. But the decoy would sound like Florida.
“Make it a thousand feet.”
“Continuous range gating … doesn’t seem to be any change in—” Dan Mundy’s calm, even voice was cut off by an explosion off her port quarter.
Florida was still increasing her depth when the blast occurred, and it seemed to give her an added push. But it was distant enough that there was no damage. The decoy!
“Make her level,” Nelson ordered. “Speed ten knots.”
“You’re going to stay around for the action,” Jimmy Cross commented soberly, a slight smile forming at the corners of his mouth.
Nelson nodded. “They’ve forgotten us for the time being. More than likely, they heard an explosion out here but they don’t know what happened. It makes sonar worthless for a while. It’s just mush out there between us and them. I think if we just stay near all that busted-up water where the torpedo blew, no one’s going to be the wiser. I can’t take the chance of running and having the bad guy come chasing after us later. If we just shut up, sooner or later someone’s going to do something dumb.”
“Captain,” Chief Delaney reported, “we can’t tell what’s happening out there. Between those explosions and their maneuvering, we can’t tell who’s who.”
David Hall had a special way with words, a method of calling a spade a spade in visual terms. There was never any doubt about his opinion of other people or a particular situation. Ben Steel had eventually developed almost a dependency on his sonar officer’s critical assessments. Although it wasn’t rare for David to raise his voice, this time he was anything but loud. His tone as he stood at the entrance to sonar was solemn, “Captain, continuous range gate on that torpedo.” He was pointing toward their starboard quarter as if he were able to see the torpedo beyond their hull. “No doubting we’re the target. Recommend we pull the plug—”
Before he could finish the sentence. Steel had barked the order and they were plunging. The blast that followed was too close. Manchester reeled sideways and over as if she had fallen downstairs. Hall disappeared into sonar. Ben Steel was hurled against the OOD. Together they landed at the feet of the diving officer, who was already braced against the control panel to his left. It seemed as if Manchester’s bow was pointing straight down.
Peter Simonds maintained a death grip on the support above him. “Up angle, Chief. Stand by the ballast tanks. We may have to blow.”
The executive officer was the only one left standing as the lights flickered out. His hoarse voice was steady, barking orders. “Emergency back full.”
Then the beams of battle lanterns pierced the dusty gloom. There was an eerie silence broken only by the moans of those who had been injured. Manchester had righted herself and she no longer seemed to be standing on her side, but there was still a steep down angle to the deck. She hadn’t leveled off.
Steel stumbled to his feet. Blood from a gash on top of his head ran down the side of his face. “Can you stop the dive, Chief?”
“We’re passing nine hundred feet but it’s slowing, Captain. Control surfaces seem to be okay.”
“I don’t want to blow main ballast if I can help it. Chief. Damage reports, XO.”
“Nothing yet. We’re just reestablishing communications with other spaces.”
“Captain, torpedo room has a loose weapon. Two men badly hurt. One’s the chief.”
The voice was unfamiliar. “Who’s in charge down there?” Steel inquired.
“Commander Burch,” the voice boomed back from the SEAL who loved the shiny torpedoes.
“Secure the unit any way you can for the time being. Wrestle it if you have to. But don’t slow down loading tubes. I want a status report on time to shoot again. We’re in this up to our ass.” Steel remembered Wayne Newell’s habits well, his persistence, his lack of fear. Only the sounds of an imploding hull would stop him, how do you change everything you’ve been taught?
“Engineering reports some flooding from internal piping. Electrical system back on line no more than two minutes. No problems with the reactor. Some vibration in the shaft. Could be the propeller. Ready to answer all engine orders.”
David Hall reappeared in the entrance to sonar. His left arm, obviously broken, hung at his side. His left eye was swollen shut. “The sphere and hull arrays appear to be functioning properly. Nothing from the towed array. Probably lost it. There’s nothing out there but wild water. It’ll take a while to regain any contact.” He was still as calm as before the blast. “I think it must have detonated prematurely, Captain, or we’d be dead meat by now.” The sonar officer’s voice rose to its familiar level. “I would appreciate it if we could get on the other side of this mess so I can locate that son of a bitch.”
More reports came into the control room. The hull was still sound. Damage to auxiliary systems was minor. Damage control reported they were even with the flooding. Most injuries were cuts and bruises, with some broken bones. Manchester was level and maneuvering at ten knots. The exterior controls, rudder, and planes reacted normally.