The explosion caught the Manta from behind, flinging the craft end for end and slamming Hawking forward against his seat harness. White water exploded around him, and he found himself in the open air, flying, really flying, for just a second or two before he hit the water again and began to sink.
It had worked. By streaking down in front of the torpedo, he'd created a powerful wake that had sucked the torpedo forward and down, dragging it into a dive that sent it slamming into the sea floor. The explosion, though, had been way too close. Hawking studied the Christmas tree of flashing warning lights and raucous alarms. His engine was dead. Could he restart?
The Manta was sinking now… passing thirty feet. The water here, he noticed, was 110 feet deep; at least he wasn't going to be crushed by the depths, which was the big danger out in the open ocean. All he needed to do was hit the cockpit eject, and he would bob to the surface.
Of course, that would mean capture by the Iranians, who would not be real pleased that he'd just single-handedly sunk one-ninth of their total submarine force. They would also be able to recover the Manta easily enough, and there was quite a bit of classified equipment on board.
No, he was going to ride this out if there was any possible way to do it.
He cleared the compression chamber, powered up the start fan, and hit the ignition. Nothing. Sixty feet. He tried again. Seventy-five feet…
On his third attempt the engine fired, sucking in sea-water, compressing it, expelling it astern. He nudged the throttle forward, feeding it more power. The engine temperature was still high, but the momentary shutdown had let the seawater cool it slightly.
There! The familiar pulse and throb caught hold. He pulled back on the stick and accelerated, reaching the critical flight speed of fifteen knots, and started climbing once more.
Okay… now where was the Ohio? He sent out another sonar ping, spotted her echo five miles ahead to the southeast, and started picking up speed.
The crew cheered when they heard the explosion astern.
"Silence on the deck!" Shea barked, and the cheers stopped.
"Sonar, Control Room," Stewart called. "Do you have anything on the Manta?" He was wondering if Hawking had done something valiant and stupid, like diving into the torpedo to detonate it.
"Yes, sir!" came back Caswell's excited reply. "I lost him for a minute, there… but I hear him now. Manta is approaching from astern at three-five knots."
"Very well." Inwardly, Stewart sagged with relief. For hours now the lives of every man on board the Ohio had been riding on his decisions, one after the next, under insane stress and the knowledge that one mistake would kill them all. He also knew that his orders had sent Hawking out in an unproven prototype under combat conditions, another decision that could easily have fatal consequences for the Manta's pilot.
For a few seconds he'd been convinced that he'd ordered the man's death.
"Control Room, Sonar! Torpedo in the water! Bearing one-eight-five, closing fast!"
From ahead!
"Helm! Hard left rudder!" They were already moving at flank speed. "Come to zero-nine-zero!"
"Helm, hard left rudder, aye! New course zero-nine-zero, aye aye!"
Stewart caught Shea's eye. "The trap closes," he said. "They were waiting for us."
Stewart listened for a moment. He could still hear the background chorus of active pinging. How many ships were out there looking for them? Too many to fight. The Ohio wasn't a hunter-killer like an L.A.-class boat. She was designed to take on targets ashore, not at sea.
"Control Room, Sonar. Torpedo has gone active, Captain. Range three thousand and closing!"
"Here we go again," Shea said. "How are you getting us out of this one?"
Stewart was touched that his exec seemed to still have faith in his ability to pull a rabbit out of his tactical ball cap. The truth was, however, that he felt like he was fast running out of ideas… and out of options. If they continued the turn to outrun the torpedo, they would be heading back toward the north, and toward the headland near Bandar-e Lengeh. Northwest, the way they'd come, lay the shallows of Charak Bay. Northeast, the shoal waters and coral reefs west of Qeshm Island.
And the entire southern horizon was ringed in by sonobuoys and approaching Iranian ships.
All he could do was wait until the torpedo was close enough to try another decoy, then turn south, hoping to slip past the enemy's ASW net.
"Torpedo range now at two thousand yards, Captain, and closing."
"We're also getting tonals, bearing one-nine-two. They match with that Ghadir-class sub we've been playing tag with. It's not active."
"The trap springs shut," Stewart said. "He must have guessed what we were up to and snuck around the south side of Forur Island so he could be waiting for us."
They needed help, fast, or the Iranians were moments from having them pinned.
"Come on, baby, come on," Hawking coaxed his battered submarine fighter. "Hold together!"
The engine was cutting on and off erratically. It had tried to perform an automatic shutdown three times in as many minutes, but each time Hawking had been able to override. He wasn't sure how much longer he could keep it going, however. He figured he had just about enough power left to get back to the barn.
And there she was! He could see the Ohio looming out of the murk ahead and below, a true leviathan, black above, dark red below, her fair-water so close to the rippling ceiling overhead it seemed to scrape it.
She was heading due east, and at full throttle, too. Why? Turning, he began sending out more sonar pings. In another moment he'd identified the trouble — another torpedo homing on Ohio's wake.
And in the distance… more ships than he could number. His sonar picked up another submarine relatively close by… fourteen thousand yards to the southwest. The torp must have come from there.
Well, he knew how to deal with the torpedo now. He just needed to allow himself some more room.
Lining up on the weapon, he accelerated, ignoring the warning chirps from his console.
An explosion thundered from astern. "What the hell was that?" Shea asked. "Our guardian angel," Stewart replied. "Hawking?"
"Hawking. I think he's found a way to bounce torpedoes off his wake."
"That son of a bitch. That wonderful son of a bitch!"
"Helm! Come right to one-eight-zero! "Helm, come right to one-eight-zero, aye aye, sir!" He looked at Shea. "It's time to run the gauntlet, Wayne."
This time, he'd been well clear of the blast, using his wake to redirect the torpedo, but at a shallower angle. The concussion rocked him, but at least this time he wasn't flung out of the water.
Pulling the stick to the left, he adjusted his course to approach Ohio from the port stern quarter. She was turning, he saw, swinging around to the south once more. Passing above her aft deck, crossing port to starboard, he could only imagine what kind of reaction his fly-by would get from those on board.