“The safest place to ride out that storm is right here, bro. And as for our distinguished prisoners, regardless of what the Speaker has to say, their time’s a-comin’, never fear.”
“Where in the blazes did that sucker disappear to?” queried Brad Bodzin, in reference to the sonar signature that had unexpectedly faded from their waterfall display.
“Jaffers, run me a quick systems analysis, to see if the problem isn’t with our sensors.”
“My money says it isn’t. Sup. But it’s your call.”
While Jaffers attacked his keyboard, Bodzin addressed the blond-haired sailor seated beside him.
“I hope to God we haven’t lost Sierra Three, Wilford.”
“That we haven’t. Sup,” remarked the easygoing Tampa native while pushing back one of his headphones.
“The signature of our mini-sub is coming in loud and clear. ETA Rhode Island in two minutes, fifty-eight seconds.”
“Sonar, Conn,” a deep, amplified voice broke in over the PA.
“What’s the status of Sierra Seven?”
Bodzin recognized this concerned voice as belonging to the XO, and he answered him as honestly as possible.
“Conn, Sonar.
I can’t really say, sir. We never did have a firm lock on them, and sometime within the last two minutes, our sensors lost them altogether.”
“Sup,” said Wilford, his tone urgent, “I think Sierra Seven could be back.”
“It’s them, all right!” exclaimed Jaffers, a thick white vertical line forming on the right side of his CRT screen.
“Approximate rough range twelve thousand yards, bearing zero-eight-five.”
Bodzin hurriedly addressed his keyboard to isolate this contact on his headphones. And as he was in the process of putting the intercom handset to his lips, a dreaded, growling, buzz-saw whine sounded from the direction of Sierra Seven.
“Conn, Sonar. Torpedo in the water!” he shouted into the handset.
“Sierra Seven has reappeared on bearing zero-eight-five, and sensors indicate a confirmed torpedo launch. Relative rough range is eleven thousand five hundred yards and quickly closing, with Sierra Three a possible target!”
A garbled warning came from Dan Calhoun, courtesy of the Folk’s underwater telephone: “Sierra Three, torpedo continues its approach.
Range down to eleven thousand yards, and we have a definite confirmation that you’re the target!”
From his position in the mini-sub’s copilot seat, Benjamin Kram curtly spoke into his chin mike and acknowledged the transmission, then turned his attention back to isolating the oncoming threat on sonar.
“ETA Rhode Island in two minutes, eleven seconds,” informed the pilot, who was seated to Kram’s immediate right, his hands tightly gripping two black plastic joysticks.
“Can we make it, sir?”
Dozens of gauges and digital readouts were mounted into the cramped bulkhead before them, and Kram isolated the green-tinted CRT screen that monitored the mini-sub’s passive sonar array. He was able to make out both the signature of the advancing torpedo and that of the Polk as it steadily picked up speed, with neither readings lightening his spirits any.
“I’m afraid it’s just not worth chancing. Commander,” replied Kram glumly.
“That torpedo has us in its crosshairs, and we can’t risk drawing it any closer to our boomer. Come around hard on course one-nine-zero, and let’s see if she’s as fast as the contractor says she is.”
With a flick of the left joystick, the pilot was able to guide the mini-sub into a tight turn. Kram felt his restraint harness bite into his shoulders, and he could hear the grinding whirl of the boat’s single-screw, battery-powered propeller bite into the surrounding water. Even with this all-out speed, the digital knot indicator never budged over eight, and with the torpedo coming in at over ten times that speed, the prognosis wasn’t favorable.
“What are you trying to do. Captain, outrun the damn thing?” asked Doug Gilbert from the adjoining passenger module.
The SEAL team leader was seated there alongside a wet suit clad associate. Four additional SEALs sat shoulder to shoulder in rows of two behind them, with a full load of weapons and other equipment stuffed into the cramped, elongated compartment as well.
“Sierra Three, torpedo has broken the ten-thousand-yard threshold,” reported the Folk’s XO, his garbled voice barely recognizable over the mini-sub’s PA speakers.
“Please state your intentions. Over.”
Kram relayed their new course change, and he listened to his XO’s firm reply.
“Sierra Three, we intend to get between you and Sierra Seven. On my mark, please initiate wipe-off procedure. Five. four… three… two… one… Mark!”
Impressed with Dan Calhoun’s bravado and tactical ingenuity, Kram didn’t dare challenge his decision, and he ordered the pilot to immediately deactivate the mini-sub’s power train. As they powered back to zero, the digital knot indicator dropped accordingly, as did the constant whirring grind of the boat’s sole propeller shaft.
“What the hell are you doing up there?” quizzed Gilbert as the mini-sub began silently drifting.
“We’re nothing but a sitting duck out here, and without any propulsion, we don’t stand a chance.”
His fellow SEALs supported him with a chorus of concerned chatter, and Kram interceded to ease their anxieties the best he could.
“Gentlemen, we all knew the great risks we were taking when we started this mission without first addressing the threat of that unidentified submarine out there. Now that it’s taken a cheap potshot at us, the Polk is attempting to readdress the situation by getting between us and the torpedo. By powering down and going silent, we’ve essentially gone invisible to any probing passive sensors, including the sonar that’s directing that wire guided torpedo.”
“If that’s the case, how’s the Jimmy K gonna shake that fish off its tail?” asked one of the SEALs from the back of the passenger module.
Kram replied while worriedly rubbing his forehead.
“I guess we’ll all know the answer to that one about sixty seconds from now.”
Kram reached out to the console and set the digital timer to sixty seconds. He somberly watched the seconds begin counting down, all the while fitting on his headphones to listen to the frantic underwater battle that continued to develop outside their fragile hull.
In the cold depths almost due north of them, a warship he was still personally responsible for was selflessly positioning itself to draw away the ever-approaching torpedo. He knew that it would be the ultimate travesty to end his long career at sea by losing the Polk, and the one hundred and forty-seven men who remained on board, while he cheated death.
“Torpedo has lost us and reacquired the Polk.” informed the pilot, his own gaze locked on the target acquisition sonar.
“I make the new range to target five thousand yards and closing.”
This almost matter-of-fact revelation generated no joyous outburst from the mini-sub’s occupants. In their minds, they collectively knew that though they might be out of harm’s way for the moment, their co-workers on the Polk were now in a relentless race with oblivion.
The deep, guttural roar of the Folk’s nuclear reactor powering up for flank speed sounded in Kram’s headphones. With a distinctive cavitational hiss, the Folk’s propeller could be heard biting into the sea, and he could imagine the huge vessel gathering momentum, the eyes of the control room crew centered on the diving console, frantically urging the knot indicator forward.
“Range to new target, forty-five hundred yards and continuing to close,” came the rote voice of the pilot.
Kram breathlessly listened to the grinding report of the Folk’s noisemakers being launched. These diversionary simulators were designed to divert the torpedo, and the cacophony of sounds that soon met his ears seemed to meld together in a single, macabre symphony.