The conning officer nodded nervously, and glanced at the Chief of the Boat, who was positioned behind the helmsman and the planesman. The chief nodded. “Piece of cake, Captain,” the COB said, more for the conning officer’s ears than for the captain’s. “Done this a hundred times in my sleep.”
The captain grunted. “Well, if you were contemplating a nap now, I suggest you put that off for a while.” Although the joke was lame, pent-up nervousness in the small compartment sent a wave of quiet chuckles through the crew.
“Okay, men — here we go. All ahead one-third, indicate turns for one knot.”
The submarine’s movement was not perceptible, but everyone watching the speed indicator saw it creep slowly up. It quivered, barely moved off the zero mark, and held there. “Good job, engineer,” the captain said softly, noting how well the engineering personnel were maintaining steam pressure in the main turbine. “A really sweet job.”
They crept forward for what seemed like an eternity, and then the captain ordered, “All stop.” He glanced around the control room, then said, “Sound the collision alarm.” A red light began flashing in the compartment in a distinctive pattern to indicate an impending collision, albeit one that was intentional. “All hands brace for shock,” the captain continued, his voice still quiet.
Suddenly, the submarine jolted. Violent movement were not a normal part of the submariner’s life, and even the more experienced crew members gasped. A horrible grinding noise rang through the submarine like a hollow bell, and equipment shuddered in its racks. Pencils and papers not secured were flung to the deck. Then one sailor let out a moan of panic.
“Steady, steady,” the captain warned. “Remember, we’re doing this on purpose.”
The noise and shuddering seemed to go on forever, growing louder and deeper as the submarine’s hull made contact with the ancient battleship now permanently at rest on the Pacific floor. Finally, there was a perceptible decrease in the motion. Then it ceased just as suddenly as it started.
In sonar, Jacobs and Pencehaven had taken off their headsets to avoid damage to their ears. They listened to the noise of the collision through the overhead speaker, then slapped their headsets back on as soon as the noise ceased. Softer, but clearly discernible, they heard the groan of old metal shifting in its position, of tons and tons of World War II steel moving from where it had been planted so many years before. The Arizona might not be breaking up this time, but there was no doubt that their maneuver had had its intended effect.
“I hear her!” Jacobs shouted, his sensitive ears the first to catch the sound of a new noise. “Propellers turning — she’s going to try to make a run for it.” But even as he spoke, he could tell it was no use. The Arizona, once it decided to move, was an inexorable force. And the submarine had sought out a position too close to her side for protection.
“We got it,” a voice howled over the SEAL circuit behind him. Batman turned to stare at it, and a grim smile broke out over his face. He turned to Tombstone.
His former lead nodded, then said, “Weapons free on all Chinese units. I want that ship a blackened, smoking hull in the water, do you hear me?”
“Aye-aye, Admiral,” Batman answered, his voice filled with savage glee. “A smoking hull it is.” He turned to Bam-Bam with fire in his eyes. “Make it so.”
TWENTY-TWO
Lieutenant Brett Carter stared up at the speaker as though he could convince himself that the words that were coming over were true. His operations chief was already putting his watchstanders in motion, anticipating the lieutenant’s next command.
Finally, Carter picked up the microphone and answered up. “Puller, roger. Out.” He turned to the chief, his mouth still slightly open. “You heard.”
The chief nodded. “I did indeed.”
A new fire seemed to infuse the lieutenant. It had been a long day, longer than any one that he had ever had, fraught with uncertainty and the unexpected challenges of command. It had been his decision to get Puller under way at the first warning, his decision to steam straight out from port rather than wait for orders. At the time, he’d experienced gut-wrenching uncertainty alternating with the conviction that he’d screwed up so very badly that Shore Patrol would be waiting for him on the pier when Puller steamed back in to port.
But now… now this. Vindication, if he’d needed it.
“Firing keys,” Carter ordered, and it all went rather swiftly from that point on. The three Chinese vessels were already designated in the system as hostile targets and it was a simple matter to assign two Harpoon anti-ship missiles to each one. The six missiles rippled out of the quad canisters mounted along the sides of the ship with a slight jar.
As Carter watched the symbols materialized on the screen, each on arrowing straight and true toward its intended target, he felt a surge of pride. Challenges, responsibilities, crisis — all in all, he figured it had been the kind of day that he’d joined the Navy expecting. No matter what his next operational tour, it would be years before he would again have command — albeit only temporary — of a warship. And after today, he knew that nothing else he could do would ever equal that experience.
“Kelly, my dear, are you ready for this?” Bird Dog said over tactical. He glanced over at his new wingman as he asked it, taking his eyes off his heads-up display briefly. “You’re about to get blooded, woman.”
After four hours in Sick Bay, complaining at the top of the their voices that they were fine, Bird Dog and Gator had been released to full duty. Sure, they had a few cuts and bruises, but no worse than after any of their previous ejections. Gator insisted that, because of their experience, they were more qualified than the doctors to assess their own physicial conditions.
“I’m ready,” the calm voice of his new wingman said. “So is Tits.”
“Hell of a name for a RIO,” Gator cried happily. “You get Tits, I get Gator — now how did that work out?”
“Perhaps if Gator’s full name were Theodore Irving Turner, he might be Tits as well,” came a deep bass voice from Green’s backseat. “It’s just like your mother always told you, Bird Dog — don’t mess with tits.”
Gator suppressed a snort of disgust. His head was buried in the soft plastic cover surrounding his radar scope as he worked the angles and dangles, the relative velocities and kill ratios in his mind. Four MiGs headed out against two Tomcats and two Hornets — well, the odds were in their favor, weren’t they? Still, in Gator’s ever so humble opinion, Bird Dog had never taken this shit seriously enough. No, not seriously enough by half. And from the sounds of it, neither did Lieutenant Kelly Green or her RIO, Tits.
“Thor, you come in and get that first pair tied up,” Bird Dog said a second later. “Me and Kelly are going to go high and come in on the second two. You think you can handle them?”
“Oh, I imagine two Marines are more than enough to take care of a couple of MiGs,” a slow Southern drawl came from Hornet 106. “Hellman can pull his share of the load.”