The Manta carried two of the weapons, nestled within an internal bay. When Hawking keyed the touch screen, the bay had opened and one of the STRs was lowered into the water. Its bubble jet switched on, and when Hawking pressed the trigger, it released, the rocket engine firing several seconds later.
A simple-minded active sonar guided the weapon in. Hawking felt a jolting lurch as the weapon fired, then watched a white streak of bubbles instantly appear, stretching from beneath the Manta to a point on the Kilo's hull on the upper deck just abaft of the sail.
For a longtime science fiction fan who'd been raised on Star Trek, the effect was remarkably similar to firing phasers. A large hole magically appeared in the Kilo's aft deck; an instant later an enormous, silvery blob of air exploded from the hole, rising.
The warhead possessed a slight time delay. As the air bubble expanded upward, the entire submarine shuddered, the hull visibly crinkling in places with the stress. More bubbles appeared from a dozen spots on the hull, and the sail appeared to wrench to port and crumple.
The shockwave hit Hawking almost immediately, and he found himself struggling to keep the Manta upright and in control. At fifty knots, he hit the expanding pressure wave, and the effect was much like flying into a solid wall. For several moments he had no attention at all to spend on the stricken Kilo; it was all he could do to keep the Manta from stalling out as the shockwave not only reduced his forward speed to zero, but actually swept him backward like a leaf caught in a gale.
Gradually, the stubborn little vehicle responded to his commands. He put the Manta into a dive to pick up speed, then reengaged the engine. "Note to R and D," he said aloud, as if addressing an invisible audience. "Next time, don't shoot the damn thing from point-blank range!"
Gently, he pulled up, leveling off at a depth of fifty feet and a speed of fifteen knots. Warning lights flashed; he ignored them. He was transfixed by the scene below.
"Whoa," he said.
The Kilo had already hit the seabed, at a depth of less than a hundred feet here. Under Manta's powerful forward lights, he could see large chunks of hull plating and debris that had broken off and fallen to either side, and the entire fair-water had torn free, ripping a huge gash through the upper deck just about where the control room had been. Bubbles continued to boil from the wreckage, and the water was filled with swirling bits of flotsam — sheets of paper, a tennis shoe, something that might be a bedsheet.
And a body… a man in uniform falling up toward the surface, an expression of shock and horror etched into his face that Hawking knew would be branded in his memory for the rest of his life.
Accelerating again, he began racing east, in the direction the Iranian torpedo had been traveling. He used his broadband sonar, listening for the homing ping of the weapon. The torpedo would have been wire guided, but the connection with the Kilo had been broken moments after launch; he didn't know if the torpedo had been dragged down with the sinking Kilo or if it had gone free and was now tracking the Ohio.
He began sending out his own sonar pings, searching for a small, fast, relatively nearby target. He increased his speed. For a long-range shot they would have had the weapon set for a fuel-conserving 35 knots; by now it would have covered a good half mile or more.
Damn it, where could it be?
"You heard what?"
"Yes, sir! I'm definitely picking up the Manta somewhere astern. High-speed jet and active pinging. And… and breakup noises, sir. There was an explosion, and then the sound of a sub breaking up and sinking. There's no mistaking it, sir." The kid sounded shaken.
"Very well."
"Sounds like the Kilo following us had an accident," Shea commented.
"Yeah. An accident called Lieutenant Commander Hawking. Maneuvering! Slow to one-third!"
"Maneuvering, slow to one-third, aye, sir."
Stewart caught Shea's quizzical expression. "Just letting our fly-boy catch up…. Helm, come left fifteen degrees." He wanted the sonar crew to be better able to hear what was going on back there.
"Helm, come left, one-five degrees, aye."
"Torpedo!" came the sudden call over the intercom. "Torpedo in the water! Coming in dead astern!"
Shit! "Maneuvering! All ahead flank!"
"Maneuvering, all ahead flank, aye, sir!"
As soon as Ohio's speed had dropped to less than twelve knots and turned slightly, the broadband sonar was able to detect the telltale whine of a torpedo.
The Kilo, Stewart thought, must have popped a fish moments before it died.
There it was. Homing on its sonar return, Hawking had finally spotted the Kilo's torpedo, still on course. He could also "see," in the sonar sense, the Ohio several miles ahead.
The torpedo had acquired the Ohio, and was closing now for the kill.
Hawking wrestled for a moment with a dilemma. How was he supposed to stop a torpedo traveling at 35 knots without setting the thing off and blowing up himself in the process? When he began the chase, he'd been toying with the vague idea, in the back of his mind, that he could match speed with the thing and possibly give it a tap with one of the Manta's extended wings, or bump it from behind. A light nudge might knock it into the seabed, damage its sensitive sonar electronics, or knock out its screw.
But now that he could actually see the torpedo, he was having second thoughts. Some of those weapons had proximity fuses, and he might set it off just by getting too close. He also didn't know how sensitive the impact fuse was. If he bumped the torpedo too hard… would that detonate the warhead?
Okay, what other options did he have?
He had one STR left, but he didn't know if the rocket torp's homer could pick up such a small target, or if the guidance system was good enough to hit it. The shot would have to be perfect to destroy the Iranian weapon, and there was no third round for a second shot.
There might be a safer, surer way. Easing back on the throttle, he let the torpedo draw ahead of him, and at the same time he angled up, gaining altitude on it. When he was in position, he rammed the throttle forward, giving the Manta every bit of power he could.
His speed rocketed upward… sixty knots… seventy…. When he'd brought the Manta up, he lost sight of the torpedo, so he now had to guess at its position. When he thought he'd passed it, he shoved the joystick forward, going into a steep dive.
The seabed appeared, brilliantly marked by a fast-expanding circle of light from the Manta's headlights. He pulled back on the stick, bringing the nose up. For an agonizing second or two the craft didn't want to respond; then the nose was coming up, but slowly… slowly…
… and then the nose pulled high, the sea floor dropping away behind him as he started climbing again. The torpedo… where was it?