Six hundred and ninety-five nautical miles northwest of Easter Island Captain Porter, commander of the Los Angeles class attack submarine USS Norfolk was looking into the eyepiece of his periscope at the largest ship in the world, the Jahre Viking. It was cruising between two of the largest warships in the world, the supercarriers Washington and Stennis. Surrounding those three massive ships, each longer than the Empire State Building was tall, were the escort ships that had once been part of the US Navy’s Task Forces seventy-eight and seventy-nine. Porter had been briefed that the human hands that now ran those shops were directed by minds infected with an alien nanovirus and were not to be considered friendlies. Since departing Pearl Harbor he had been operating under radio silence, cut off from updates.
That was easier said than done, Porter knew as he zoomed in on the Washington, the closer of the Nimitz class carriers. He’d been on that ship for six months as part of his career training and knew quite a few officers assigned to it. His submarine was sitting still in the water, all systems reduced to bare minimum functioning. His sonarman had already informed him that the escort ships were actively searching the water for intruders — surface, subsurface, and air.
His boat was one of six subs rapidly dispatched from Pearl Harbor and set up in a loose semicircle between Hawaii and Easter Island to intercept the fleet.
Satellite imagery had tracked the fleet and Porter knew that the other five subs were closing on this location, much like the German wolf packs had gathered in the North Atlantic during World War II.
Porter turned the scope slightly, back to what appeared to be the flagship of the fleet. He knew from his recognition handbooks that the Viking was the largest man-made moving object on the planet. Even the supercarriers were dwarfed by the former oil tanker as it pounded its way through the waves. Porter’s mission was to slow the convoy down to allow the other five submarines time to get in place. With three major targets coming into range, there was no question which one he would fire on. Despite the orders and explanations from higher headquarters, he was loath to fire on a Navy ship.
The problem, as his executive officer/weapons specialist had pointed out to him, was that the Jahre Viking, besides being huge, was constructed in a manner that almost defied attack. Like all modern supertankers it was double-hulled to prevent oil spills, a feature that would also help defeat attack by torpedo. Additionally, its interior was composed of oiltight — which also meant watertight — holds. Even if he managed to breach the double hull, he would only be able to flood one compartment.
Porter had passed the problem on to his crew, letting them war-game possible courses of action as they steamed to their present location. His executive officer had come with a suggestion that Porter felt was worth the attempt. There was the additional issue of a report that the ships might have the same sort of shield generator that surrounded and protected Easter Island. Porter clicked on a small button on the periscope handle, zooming in on the large tanker. He’d seen photos of the opaque shield that surrounded Easter Island — obviously, if there was one here, it was clear. If there was one, Porter thought once more to himself.
“XO, are we ready?” “Yes, sir.”
“Sending targeting information,” Porter told him as he clicked another button and the top of the scope “lased” the Jahre Viking with a quick series of laser pulses that would give the targeting computer range, speed, and direction of the massive target. Porter knew missing was out of the question but the plan called for precise shooting.
“We’ve got it,” the XO reported. “Ready when you are, sir.”
Porter did a quick scan from side to side. To remain undetected, he had turned off sonar and the surface radar on the periscope. He wondered briefly how effectively the escort ships would react — he had conducted war game missions against his own Navy many times but had never thought he would be doing it for real. He knew the escort’s antisubmarine capability and it was enough to cause a small trickle of sweat to go down his back.
“Fire at will.”
Unlike the submarines of World War II, the tubes on the Norfolk were amidships and vertical. The reason — the MK-48 torpedoes they fired weren’t line of sight, but guided either by wire or preprogrammed targeting. In this case, the XO had preprogrammed every MK-48 on board, all twenty-four.
Four torpedoes rushed out of the tubes. As soon as they were gone, crewmen rushed to reload. As the MK-48s rushed toward the Jahre Viking, they moved on two tracks, two torpedoes each. The trail torpedo was two seconds behind the lead missile. The XO’s idea had been to blow a hole in the outer hull with the first one, then follow it two seconds later with another warhead to breach the inner hull. Right at a junction between two cells, flooding both. And subsequent volleys would do the same from stem to stern.
“Tracking,” the XO reported. “Twenty seconds.”
Porter looked through the periscope. He noted that the closest escort, a destroyer, was already turning toward their location. Through his shoes, Porter felt the deckplates shudder every so slightly as the next volley of torpedoes was fired.
“We’re being pinged,” the sonarman reported.
“Keep firing,” Porter ordered. He could see the destroyer closing. He turned the handles, putting the Jahre Viking dead center in the crosshairs.
“Ten seconds.”
Even without headphones he could hear the oncoming destroyer’s sonar fixing their location.
“Five seconds.”
Two geysers exploded out of the ocean. “Too soon,” Porter muttered. Another two geysers as the sound of the first explosions reached the sub. As the geysers settled back, he could see the Jahre Viking unscathed, continuing on course. Porter spun about to face his bridge crew. “Helm. Hard right rudder, flank speed. Crash dive.” As the Klaxon announcing the dive sounded, he took a couple of steps toward his communications officer. “Radio Pearl. Tell them the ships do have a shield. Warn off the other subs. There’s nothing we can do.”
Checking the instruments, Porter noted that they were descending quickly while accelerating away from the fleet.
“Range to destroyer?” he asked. “One thousand meters and closing.”
“Prepare countermeasures,” Porter ordered.
The captain had known when he committed to the firing that they wouldn’t be able to get clear without the escort attacking them. In simulations his crew had managed to beat an escort 50 percent of the time. Now he was going to find out how realistic those simulations were.
“MKs are in water,” his sonarman announced. “Tracking two. Range one thousand.”
The best weapon against a submarine was the same weapon Porter had just tried using — MK-48 ADCAP torpedoes.
“Launch decoy,” he ordered.
A small, but very “loud” submersible was fired out of one of the torpedo tubes and raced away, in the hope of drawing off the two incoming torpedoes. Porter realized he was gripping the edge of his command chair, his knuckles white, and he forced the muscles in his arm to relax.
“Range five hundred. Still closing.” “Prepare for impact,” Porter ordered.
“Three hundred.” The sonarman’s voice rose. “One is breaking off. Tracking the decoy!”
Fifty percent, Porter thought. “One hundred.”