“Captain to the Control Room!” The chief’s voice blared out of the speaker on the bulkhead. “Sir, it’s urgent.”
Forsythe picked up his plate and tossed it on top of the doctor’s “Take that to the galley with yours. And, in case it isn’t perfectly clear to you, that’s an order.” He turned and raced out of the compartment.
As he raced down the single central passageway of the submarine, Forsythe’s heart was hammering. For a split second, he wondered if he was experiencing some sort of medical problem like the one that had killed Cowlings. In the next instant, he dismissed the thought. He was perfectly healthy, not carrying a ticking time bomb in his head as Cowlings had been.
“What is it?” he asked as he skidded in to Control.
“The Kilo, sir,” the chief said. He pointed at the sonar display. “She just turned and is heading directly for us.”
Forsythe studied the waterfall display, and at the same time said, “Set quiet ship.” He heard the word being passed softly down the passageways. “And battle stations.” The second word went out as well, but with a touch of electricity in it.
“She must have heard a transient,” the sonarman said, his gaze glued to the screen. “And, if she did, then her hearing’s better than we thought it was.” He shook his head, not denying the fact, but musing over the possibilities. “We need to re-evaluate this whole plan, then, sir.” He looked up at the lieutenant, his face thoughtful. “Our plan is based on certain assumptions. No, not cancel the plan,” he added hastily, seeing the lieutenant start to shake his head. “Just re-evaluate how far we want to stay from her. Out of her weapons’ range, maybe, a little bit farther away. I can still do it,” he concluded.
Back off from her? I don’t think so. But if her sonar is better than Cowlings thought, we have to take that into account. The unexpected — what you can’t plan for. I can’t be afraid to change our plans. Cowlings wouldn’t have been. For some reason, the thought of what the late operations officer would have done weighed more heavily on him than what he thought his captain would have done.
“She’s not going to leave her box,” Forsythe said, with more certainty that he felt. “But let’s move out to seven thousand yards. Can you still hold contact at that range?”
“Yes, sir.” Pencehaven said, although Forsythe could see doubt on Jacob’s face. “We can always move in closer if we lose her.”
“Right. But—” Forsythe stopped as he watched the display shift ominously. “Down doppler — she’s turned away from us,” he said.
Why is she doing that? She was heading straight for us like she knew where we were. And then she turned away — why?
Seconds before it was confirmed, he knew the answer. The hard squeal of tiny propellers followed by a hard pinging against the hull of the submarine gave him his answer.
“Torpedo in the water!” Jacob said, his voice carrying even though it was at a whisper. “Recommend evasive maneuvers.”
“Down doppler on the torpedo.” Pencehaven corrected, his more sensitive ears telling him what the display had not yet picked up. “Sir, the torpedo’s not heading for us. It’s headed for the bird farm.”
“Evasive maneuvering” Coyote howled, knowing it was useless, but not willing to give up without a fight. The officer of the deck had not waited for his command. Even as he spoke, he felt the ponderous ship start to turn, the deck shifting ever so slightly. The collision alarm beat out its staccato warning over the 1MC overhead, and he heard the pounding of feet as people raced toward their battle stations. Even though general quarters had not been set, everyone knew that it would be, in a few seconds.
The symbol for torpedo popped into being on the tactical screen, small, red, and deadly. It inched toward the aircraft carrier, bearing in unerringly. The speed leader for the Jefferson was already showing her turn, but there was little an aircraft carrier could do to avoid a torpedo. It was like an office building maneuvering to avoid a tornado.
Still, they had to try. They had to.
Captain Coleman stood beside his battle chair, his headphones tethered him to the elevated brown leatherette chair. Theoretically, he should be sitting there, strapped in, but he found it almost impossible to hold still when the ship was in physical danger. It was as though he could control her by pacing the deck, toughen her skin, and keep her sensors turned in the direction of the threat.
“TAO, Sonar! Sir, it should miss us by two thousand yards — it’s headed for the carrier, sir!”
“Time to CPA?” Coleman demanded.
“About ten seconds or a hair less,” the sonarman replied.
Coleman swore quietly. Ten seconds — not enough to get within range and eject noisemakers and decoys, although the carrier would certainly be doing that on her own. Still, it was worth a try. He gave the order, knowing that the entire crew had already anticipated it and was simply waiting for the command.
God, he hated being helpless. To sit here watching as the torpedo arrowed in on the one ship that wasn’t supposed to take a hit, the centerpiece of the battle group. Without the carrier, they had no chance of regaining control of Bermuda.
“Five seconds to CPA, sir,” the sonarman said. Coleman could see the geometries playing out on the screen in front of him, the torpedo squeaking past his ship, the hard turn the carrier was attempting — and the inevitable result.
“ASROC, sir?” the TAO asked. The antisubmarine torpedo could be launched from a vertical launch cell on the ship, and had the range to reach any possible submarine.
“Can’t,” Coleman said shortly. “Our locating data on the Seawolf is twelve hours old — and, at last report, she had been stalking a contact in this very area.” If the ship were to launch a torpedo into the box, there was every chance that it would find the Seawolf instead of the enemy sub. No, this was the Seawolf’s battle — and there was nothing anybody on the surface could do about it.
“Got her solid,” Pencehaven said, his voice as calm as if it were a drill. “Your orders?”
“Are we within weapons range?” Forsythe asked.
“Yes, sir. Two tubes loaded and flooded, waiting for weapons release.”
“Weapons free,” Forsythe said softly. “Two shots — now.”
Even as Forsythe gave the order, Pencehaven mashed down the red button. The submarine shook slightly as compressed air forced a torpedo out of the tube. Its tiny propeller immediately began whipping the water into a froth as it came to life, checked its orders to intercept the target, and pick up speed and headed off on its mission. A second later, another torpedo followed.
Forsythe watched the screen, desperately praying that he had done the right thing. Yes, he could ask the chief if he’d done the right thing — even the doctor, if he had wanted to. But, in the end, it was his decision to make, his responsibility to fight the submarine.
And, until that very second, he had not realized how lonely that could be.
Captain First Rank Sergei Andropov turned on his psychological services officer. “You said they would not fire!”