A snapshot, that was all it had been, he thought frantically, scanning the water around him for any trace of the incoming torpedo. A desperate shot back down the bearing the submarine had seen the torpedo on, intended to shake up the carrier and force her to react as much as to actually target her. It’d be the first — but it wouldn’t be the last. As soon as the American submarine was relatively certain she’d shaken off Ishi’s first torpedo, she’d let off a barrage of torpedoes more carefully targeted, each one individually guided in on the carrier by an experienced crew.
For a moment, Ishi felt a moment of hopelessness. The deck that had seemed so spacious and safe now seemed ominously empty.
“Only two, sir,” Otter was saying into the bitch box as Renny slid back into his seat next to him. “We’re carrying dummy loads for REFTRA, sir, not a full loadout. We’re in REFTRA.”
“And we’re damned well not supposed to be shooting war shots,” Captain Tran answered. “I know that — I know. You get me a firing solution. Make it right, Otter. We can’t afford to miss.”
Otter turned to Renny, desperation in his eyes. “We’re in REFTRA,” he said, as though that made some sort of sense.
The chief sonarman was standing behind them now, his presence a calming and steadying influence. “That’s all this is, son. REFTRA for real. You just do it like we’ve been doing it for the last five days, smooth and easy. I’m going to be watching the solution — we’ll nail that bastard.”
“What the hell is it?” Renny asked, all the while plugging in the bearings and readings he needed for a more accurate firing solution. Looking at it now, knowing that they had only been carrying three live torpedoes, getting off the snapshot might not have been that good an idea. Under normal circumstances, yeah, you’d want that. But not now.
“Bearing separation looks good,” the chief noted. He toggled on the mike in his hand. “Conn, Sonar, we have a firing solution.”
“Is it the one you want, Chief?” Tran asked, speaking to him as an equal. “Let me know.”
“I’ll take this one, sir,” the chief answered. “Single shot. We’re working up the second solution right now.”
“Very well. Weapons free, Chief.”
“Weapons free, aye.” The chief’s eyes were still fixed on the sonar screen. “Weapons, Sonar — you have — hold it. She’s turning. Captain, give me fifteen seconds, sir. I want a better solution.”
“Advise me when you have a solution.”
Renny swore quietly but passionately as he watched the odd surface contact’s acoustic signature waver across the bearings. “Zig-zag?” he asked.
“Yeah, the asshole,” the chief muttered. “S’okay. As long as we know about it, we can compensate for it. Look, he’s already starting to fall into a pattern. Get ready, Renny, Otter. I’m going to want this one off right when I say.”
Renny felt the sweat trickling down his back. It itched as it found his spine and coursed down it, soaking his undershirt and his coveralls. The waiting grew unbearable. Just as the chief started to give the order, a new sound cut through the quiet of the sonar shack. “Conn, sonar, torpedoes in the water. Two of them skipper.”
“Two, aye. Stand by for evasive maneuvers.” Even as the skipper spoke, the submarine leaned steeply to port and tilted forward. “Sonar, no change in the thermal layer?”
“No change, sir. Standing by with decoys.”
“You know when, Chief.”
“Aye-aye, sir. Renny, watch the contact — I’ve got the depth gauge — and keep your hand on the decoy.”
“Got it.” Renny knew what he was doing, had done it so many times in simulators and during REFTRA that the whole thing had a feeling of unreality to it. The chief standing behind him, Otter at his side — how many times had he done this in the last four days?
The chief would be watching the depth gauge. As the submarine approached the isothermal layer, where the temperature of the water was no longer the primary determinant of the speed of sound, the chief would eject the noisemakers. The decoys would churn up masses of bubbles in the water, enough sound to both mask the other sonar’s detection and hopefully confuse the inbound torpedoes. If the torpedoes were acoustic or active sonar, the submarine would have an excellent opportunity to make a mad dash to depth, make the ship lose sonar contact, then maneuver back around to take another shot at the ship.
Of course, acoustic blindness worked both ways. If the ship couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see the ship. No matter — if the decoys didn’t work, they’d hear the torpedo itself.
“Now,” the Chief said.
Renny slammed up the toggle that released first one decoy, then another. How many did they have? He was tempted to glance over at the status board, but the chief would have already checked.
The two decoys performed as they were supposed to, frothing up the water and blasting acoustic noise across the entire spectrum. The automatic gain controls kicked in, attenuating the noise in his headset down to a manageable level.
The first torpedo on Renny’s screen veered off to the right, clearly enticed by the attractive noise source saturating the water with acoustic energy. It reached a point that satisfied some primitive firing mechanism in its brain and it detonated.
The second one wasn’t so sure. The detonation of the first torpedo evidently confused it. It wavered along its track for a moment, then started a hard lefthand turn. “Search pattern,” the chief announced. “Conn, Sonar — it’s lost us. For now.”
“Roger,” the skipper answered. “Chief, I’m going to make a run for it back toward the contact. You see any problem with that?”
“Couple of ships between us and Sierra two, Skipper,” the chief answered. “Any word on their status?”
Renny listened to the conversation, his fingers still on the decoy buttons and his eyes glued to his screen. What the chief was asking made perfect sense, if you had to believe that someone just off the coast of Hawaii was shooting torpedoes at them.
“No information, Chief. Until I hear otherwise, every one of them is potentially hostile. Can you rule any of them out — any positive friendlies?”
“Yes, sir. I have Jefferson and her escorts, solid contact. I know where they are.”
“Under the circumstances, I’m not sure the carrier would appreciate a high-speed run toward her. Give me a course.”
“Two eight zero,” Renny whispered before the chief could ask. “That’s the straightest course that will leave us well clear of Jefferson.”
“Two eight zero,” the chief immediately repeated. Renny didn’t know whether the chief was just relying on Renny’s ability or whether he’d done the math himself. Verified it, probably. He’d seen the chief do that sort of instantaneous angles calculation before.
The submarine heeled hard in the opposite direction. She’d backed off on the down bubble and the deck was now almost level.
“Six minutes, captain. Four until we’re inside minimums.”
But we don’t want a max range shot, Renny thought. Not with only two more warshots onboard. No, Chief will want us in a good deal closer, maximize the probability of a kill.
A kill. The word sent fresh shivers down his spine, and just for a moment — not long at all, but enough to make him waver — Renny paused. The kill — it would be either them or the other boat.