“Damage report,” Cheryl was saying urgently into the 21MC. “Bridge, I need damage reports.”
“Missile hit aft, starboard side, vicinity frame 200,” the 1MC announced. “Repair three provide. Damage reports to the bridge.”
“CIC, bridge. Aft lookout reports hit to upper part of the hangar area. Right about where the Stinger guys were.”
“Stinger team, come in,” Cheryl was saying urgently. “Stinger team, Army, are you on the line?”
“CO, Damage Controclass="underline" Fire, heavy damage, starboard boat deck area.”
“CO, Air Controclass="underline" four F-18s launching for SuCAP, heading our way.”
“At last,” Fred Enzweiler murmured. “About fucking time.”
The displays flickered again. Dan pulled his attention away, trying to concentrate on the rest of his force. Zembiec, Sejong the Great, and Hampton Roads had formed one mutually supporting group, a few miles from the second, of Savo, Kristensen, and McClung. Reports began to come in. McClung had been hit hard, with fourteen wounded and no count yet on KIA. Kristensen had absorbed two missiles, both striking well aft, wiping off her after five-inch mount and her Harpoon launchers. Both reported they were fighting fires and nearly out of ordnance. Zembiec, Sejong, and Hampton Roads were still untouched.
But the activation of Gangbusters had done what it was supposed to: attracted the incoming aircraft to Savo instead of Reagan.
He caught sandalwood and sweat as Amy Singhe bent over him. “They hit us hard,” she murmured. Strong fingers dug into the knotted muscle of his shoulders.
He leaned back, closing his eyes, but feeling unreal. Getting a chair massage from a beautiful woman in the middle of a battle? Not exactly PC, but hell, bring it on. “We screened the carrier.”
“You pulled the strike onto us instead? That’s what we just did?”
He shrugged her hands off. It felt great, but Staurulakis was eyeing them. And he had to agree. A massage before imminent death was one thing… but now that it looked as if they might pull through, it was definitely inappropriate. At the same moment, Mills leaned over. “We’re getting some kind of near-sea return from bearing 215 degrees.”
Dan pulled a sleeve across his forehead. “What kind of return? Range?”
“Sixty miles. Intermittent. Nothing from EW on that bearing.”
“Strike Bravo’s still a hundred and thirty miles out,” Staurulakis put in.
Dan eyed the display. “Nothing on Aegis.”
“It’s not sure it’s a contact yet.”
“Got a speed? A course?”
“Too intermittent.” As if guessing what he’d ask next, Mills said, “Commander Jamail said range on the KH-31s was seventy miles.”
“So they couldn’t have launched yet? The SU-35s, Gaggle Bravo?” But as soon as he asked it, he knew he couldn’t depend on the intel alone. “We have to assume there’s something there. — Fred, get us reoriented. The three damaged units haul out to the north. Zembiec, Sejong, Hampton Roads, move up to the south.”
But the callouts were coming up now. In red.
With each update from the SPY-1, they jumped ahead in giant strides.
“Twenty miles and closing fast,” Mills breathed. “Christ, they’re coming in hypersonic!”
Blue carets winked on from Zembiec and Hampton Roads. The last defensive missiles clicked outward, but more slowly than the incoming weapons were traveling. Within seconds, Dan could see they weren’t going to reach them in time.
“Go EMCON silent?” Mills asked urgently. “Shut down Dan?”
They looked to him, but he nodded to Staurulakis. “Ask your CO.”
Cheryl bit her lip. “We shut down, we lose targeting. The gun radar. Phalanx. And jamming. No. We stay up.”
From the EW console: “Vampire, vampire! X-band seekers. Correlates with KH-31 seeker head.”
“Fire chaff—”
Mills said quietly, “Tubes are empty, ma’am. Never reloaded. Too much fire and smoke topside. If those things are infrared guided, they’ll home on us just by those fires.”
She reached for the 21MC. Pushed the DC Central button. “Water washdown,” she snapped. “Shipwide. Right now.”
The 1MC announced, “All hands retire within the skin of the ship. Set Circle William throughout the ship. Initiate water washdown.” In the one remaining topside camera, a nimbus of fog burst out along the side as dozens of sprinklers activated.
The topside washdown was designed to sluice away fallout, but maybe she could reduce their infrared signature. Blend the ship with the sea around her.
What the hell. It was all she had left.
A terrific shock whipped the deck from beneath her, knocking down everyone on his feet, jerking and whiplashing those buckled into chairs. Something snapped in her arm where she’d been leaning on it, and her head glanced off the desktop as it came up to meet her skull. A white flash. A bewilderment.
Then another jolt, even harder, whipping the deck up and then down in an undulation like shaking out a carpet. Only this one was steel, beamed with heavy stringers. She grabbed at the arm of her chair, which bucked like a mechanical bull. A console operator staggered back, pawing at a mask of blood under his flash hood.
The whole ship groaned, crying out, as the twin Phalanxes aft fired BRRR BRRR BRRRRRRRRR.
Slam.
SLAM. More echoing detonations whipcracked them. The air seethed with dust. Papers fluttered. Screens went dark. Lights burst, and shards of glass pinged off consoles and tabletops. A scorching stink like worn-out brake pads filled the air. The 1MC said something, or started to, in the boatswain’s excited voice, before it cut off.
The consoles went dark. The large-screen displays blanked. The fans in the consoles descended the scale. With a chatter of relays, the yellow battery-powered battle lanterns mounted in the corners came on, firing dim cones of tallow light through choking, smoky air, outlining staggering figures tugging on EEBDs and gas masks.
Gritting her teeth, Cheryl set her left arm — which felt like it was broken — in her lap, and with the other hand clicked to the sound-powered circuit. A babble of voices. Finally Chief McMottie’s growl quieted them. “For Christ’s sake, pipe the fuck down! Damage reports!”
All four hits had been to starboard, more or less spaced along the side. Only one seemed to be a penetration near the waterline, but that, unfortunately, was fairly far aft, which placed it somewhere in Auxiliary Machinery Room #2, #1 main switchboard, and Main Engine Room #1. Even worse was McMottie saying both engine-control consoles had tripped off. She pressed Transmit. “Chief, CO. Can you get them back online?”
“Can’t tell yet, ma’am. Hell of a shock when that last one hit.”
“These are the same panels that went down before?”
“Back when the tsunami wave slammed us in the Indian Ocean, yes, ma’am. It’s the grounding on the panels. We tried to get it fixed when we were in the yard, but they always said too hard, take too long.” A pause, as he shouted to someone else. “Uh, can I get back to you? I got to work this—”
“We need those engines, ASAP. Is Mr. Danenhower down there with you?”
“No shit, ma’am. Working it. CHENG’s in DC Central, I think.” He clicked off.