“Sir—” the chief said.
“Shhh,” Winthrop whispered. “Let me think.”
The chief blinked at him, and the man began to tremble. That had never happened before. The chief’s arms shook so his hands twitched against his legs. The sight twisted Winthrop’s gut. Panic could be infectious, he knew. For that reason, a submarine captain had to maintain a calm demeanor at all times.
Winthrop understood he should order the chief out of the control center, or say something, at least. But he couldn’t form the words, so he averted his gaze. In any event, he could not let the chief’s actions persuade him to turn away.
Don’t fool yourself. The painkillers are keeping you calm, nothing else.
Only heavy dosages of painkillers kept the continuous agony of his lower back from making him groan and twist. Was he even rational anymore? The drugs stole emotions, right? No. He didn’t want to think about that. He had a duty to his country. More than that, he had to protect his loved ones. If America could destroy the Chinese navy and merchant marine, the enemy’s North American invasion would wither on the vine.
Submarines and orbital THOR missiles were the answers to defeating the enemy. The USN lacked a surface fleet, but America churned out underwater vessels as fast as it could. The Avenger VII-class submarines were a new model specially constructed for the war. Mass-produced by sections inland, Port Seattle welders fitted the parts and launched the completed machine in days. A year ago, small American submersibles had used underwater drones that fired missiles far from the mother-sub. New Chinese countermeasures meant going back to the old, old way of slinking near the enemy with a crewed vessel to launch torpedoes while risking destruction.
The Chinese fought back every way they could. One of the enemy answers to US submarines was drone-dropped nuclear depth charges. The Chinese had to keep those weapons far from their own ships.
“We’re too close, sir,” the chief whispered.
“The last depth charge hurt us pretty bad,” Winthrop said, meaning the one two days ago.
The chief licked dry lips. Winthrop heard the rasping sound.
If you’re going to do this, now’s the moment. Don’t torture everyone with the waiting. Winthrop opened his mouth, but no words came. He closed his lips, and he almost panted. Instead, he envisioned a Chinese victory, with Chinese soldiers in his hometown raping American women and killing children. The enemy already stole enough food so people died of starvation in Texas, Arkansas and the rest of the occupied territories.
Can you let that happen to the entire country, to your friends at home?
Once again, Winthrop tried to speak. In a hoarse voice, he said, “Load the torpedo.”
No one asked him which torpedo he meant. They all knew. In honor of a different war, a different Asian foe, they called the torpedo Fat Man. That had been the name of the nuclear bomb dropped on Hiroshima at the end of WWII. The special torpedo was huge, twenty-one inches in diameter and twenty-seven feet long. It carried America’s answer to the Chinese nuclear depth charges: a ten-kiloton nuclear warhead.
The problem with firing it this close to the carrier was obvious. It was unlikely Sherman would survive the blast. By launching the torpedo, they signed their own death warrant. Surely that was better than trying to slip away and dying anyway.
“We’re going to win this war,” Winthrop told the others.
“Pardon me,” the chief said, without add “sir.” He paused, twisting the gold wedding ring on his finger, before plunging ahead, saying, “I-I don’t want to die.”
At the words, Winthrop felt cold inside. He didn’t want to die either. A lump rose in his throat. Could he even give the order? Maybe they could escape. A fluke had brought them here. Maybe it was time to use a fluke to slip back the way they had come.
“Captain,” Sonarman Stevens said. “The enemy has made contact. They know we’re here.”
The cold in Winthrop’s heart became heat. Finally, the Chinese had found them. There was no going back now. The heat squeezed in him, and in a quiet voice, he said, “Fire the torpedo.”
No one moved, including the launch officer. Winthrop glanced at the heavyset man with his skewed collar and undone buttons. Large sweat stains had spread outward from the launch officer’s underarms. The man stood frozen in place, staring at his panel.
With his jaws clenched, Winthrop strode to the launch officer’s panel. He didn’t look around at the others watching him. Panic can be infectious.
“Please,” the launch officer whispered. “Don’t do it, sir.”
Winthrop wanted to say a hundred things to them. They were good men, his brothers in arms. Each had endured terrible pressures that no one should ever have to face. Instead of making a speech, Winthrop reached out with his right hand, and he almost wished the launch officer would grab his sleeve to stop him. The man moaned instead. In silent horror, Winthrop watched the index finger of his right hand tap the red circle on the screen.
Sherman was a small submarine, especially when compared to a boomer. Although they stood in the control center, each of them heard the burst of compressed air that expelled the torpedo from its tube. The launch officer staggered backward as his legs became like jelly. The man crashed onto a chair.
“Damn them,” the chief whispered. “Damn the Chinese. Why did they have to invade us in the first place?”
With a leaden step, Captain Winthrop returned to his position by the screen. He felt his heartbeats thud with anticipation. He should give the order for them to flee, to dive, to do something. It all seemed so futile, though.
The brutal seconds ticked away as silence reigned aboard Sherman. Then a blinding flash appeared on the screen where the enemy aircraft carrier floated.
“Yes!” Winthrop said, and he found himself shaking a fist at the screen. “Helm, right fifteen degrees rudder, steady on course one seven six.”
No one moved, nor did helm respond. In that second, it felt as if the crew had become zombies and he the last man on Earth. In moments, a terrible shock wave struck the submarine. As Winthrop staggered across the chamber, he felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. Was this the end?
Metal groaned all around him. Alarms rang. Then the sounds of gushing water announced their doom. Before he could speak, a bulkhead burst and a wall of water roared across Captain Winthrop.
Will our sacrifice help America beat the Chinese? It was his last thought as the water picked him up and hurled his body against a bulkhead, killing him instantly.
Soon, the submarine pieces and corpses of USS Sherman sank toward the bottom of the ocean, and the war between China and America continued with its brutal ugliness and destruction.
US Marine Master Sergeant Paul Kavanagh felt helpless as his wife clung to him in bed, weeping softly.
A scarred warrior in his early forties with broad shoulders and narrow hips, in his younger years in college, he’d been a terror on the football field, slamming running backs onto the sod with bone-jarring hits.
Cheri and he had just made love… again. He hadn’t touched his wife or been in her presence for over a year. On leave, he had another three days to go.
Paul sat up against several pillows. In his absence, Cheri had filled the bed with more and more pillows. She wrapped her thin arms around his torso, her face concealed against his chest, her long dark hair in disarray, hiding her features. His left arm lay on her skin, with his fingers rubbing the small of her back.