One after the other, departments reported manned and ready. The bridge team finished donning flash gear. As Dan dropped his own hood over his head, his Hydra beeped. He snatched it up as he jogged to the far side of the pilothouse. Savo was kicking up a roostertail now, turbines and blowers whining, leaning as the rudder dug in. He picked up the VHF and got Mitscher. The destroyer was peeling off in the other direction.
Dan blinked down at the nav console. The torpedo had come from the south. Inside the barrier they were setting up. Did their attacker lie in that direction? The odds favored it, but they held no datum — no confirmed location of the sub — so he had to play the probabilities. The gear and weapons had changed since World War II, but antisubmarine tactics hadn’t, not that much, with the exception of adding helicopters to the mix. Which evened the odds.
On the other hand… one torpedo? Most attacks were carried out in salvos. And there’d been three targets. Had the sub simply selected the biggest, pickled off one fish, and pulled the plug? If so, they might have a hard time digging him out. Like taking out a nest of ground wasps: well concealed, yet packing a painful sting. They’d have to proceed step by step. Take their time. He’d let Mitscher prosecute. Meanwhile, he’d stay between Stuttgart and the threat, in case of a reattack.
Or was the replenishment ship the higher-value unit? Maybe Savo herself was more valuable, now that her fuel tanks were nearly full, and the replacement missiles secured on her decks.
He grimaced, not wanting to admit that abandoning the stricken ship might be one of his options. That, if push came to shove, he might have to leave her to her fate.
“Bridge, Combat. Starting the plot here. Come to one three zero. Slow to sonar speed.”
“Roger, Cheryl. You’re parking us to block the threat bearing?”
“Correct, Skipper. Stand by.”
Savo steadied on the new course, slowing to reduce self-noise. Cheryl Staurulakis had fleeted up from Ops to become the cruiser’s second-in-command. If she had a flaw, it was that she kept reverting to operations officer. But right now, she was where she belonged. He hit Transmit. “XO, 202’s on its way out the threat bearing. Put Mitscher where you want him and pass control of 202. We stand off, he prosecutes.” He debated going down to CIC himself, then dismissed it. He’d built a team. Now he had to trust them. “Take ASW command and nail this fucker down. I’m going to keep my head on the big picture.”
The OOD, at his side. “Captain, distress call from Stuttgart.”
When he looked back, the replenishment ship was heeled to starboard. The smoke plume was bleeding off, its cap sheared by upper-atmosphere winds. He accepted the handset, but kept his attention on the radar screen; the enemy might poke a scope up, just to gloat. “This is Savo actual. Over.”
“This is Captain Geisinger. We have taken a torpedo. Flooding. Fire. Request assistance.”
“This is Savo. We are prosecuting the sub that torpedoed you. Over.”
“That is good but… I need help here. Fire is out of control. If you cannot help, am abandoning in lifeboats. Over.”
Dan held the handset suspended, racking his brain. The German sounded close to tears. But doctrine was crystal clear. Laying alongside to render assistance, without neutralizing the attacker, would just mean another ship got torpedoed. “This is Savo. Nailing this guy takes priority. You’re on your own, Captain. If you have to abandon, do so in a timely and orderly manner. Over.”
“This is Stuttgart. I protest this decision. You are running away. You can save us. All I need is help. Firefighters.”
Dan almost snapped back at him, but just released the Transmit button. He felt cold, then hot. There didn’t seem to be anything to “you’re on your own” he could think to add.
He didn’t always like being in command.
Aisha stared horrified at the burning, sinking ship, which she’d left only minutes before. But the cruiser was turning away… leaving it behind… running.
Someone seized her arm. “We need to clear the flight deck,” a crew woman muttered. Grabbing her gear, she hustled Aisha down a ladder. Men and women in hoods and coveralls pelted by, laden with axes, coils of line, breathing gear. The woman led her into a side passageway, dumping her luggage helter-skelter in a corner. “Sick bay. Ma’am. Please stay here for the time being.”
Aisha looked around. “I need to see the exec. Or the command master chief.”
“Stay here,” the woman said again. “Gotta go.” She broke into a run, disappearing around a corner.
“Sir, CO of Stuttgart, calling you again.”
Dan almost waved him off, then reluctantly accepted the greasy, warm handset. “This is Savo,” he said. “Over.”
The return transmission was weaker than before, crackly. Probably a handheld. “This is Geisinger. I am abandoning. Making too much water, too fast. Plus, the fire. But there are men still aboard. The after lifeboats… destroyed. They’re trapped, on the afterdeck. We can’t reach them. A helicopter could get them off.”
Dan studied the overhead as cold sweat prickled his back. “This is Savo Island. With regret, Captain. We are continuing to prosecute the contact.”
“Your helicopter. There are five men up there. One of them I think is yours. Schell?”
Doctor Schell. Leo. The one who’d found what was killing his men, and helped them wipe it out. Dan scrubbed a hand over his face, and hardened his voice. “Once again, Captain, prosecuting the submarine has to take precedence. Once we’re done, I’ll send Mitscher to pick up survivors.
“God be with you, Captain. This is Savo Island. Out.”
6
The turbines whined, the air intakes behind the bridge roared. Savo was racing northwest, departing the scene. Stuttgart had disappeared from the radar, leaving only scattered returns.
No one spoke on the bridge. Dan stood on the wing, gripping the binoculars so tight his fingers hurt. Staring back at the dark stain that still discolored the horizon.
The talker leaned out. “Captain? Red Hawk reports bingo fuel. No contact. Also, patrol air from Kadena’s on its way to help prosecute.”
“Very well.” He drew a breath and let it out, forcing his gaze away from that dark blot. He wanted to stay, and nail whoever had fired that torpedo. The war was hot now.
But a commander had to stay above vengeance. Think coldly. Act rationally. The allies’ sole ABM-capable unit in the Western Pacific didn’t belong dawdling behind the barrier, trying to track down a single sub. He leaned in the doorway. “Air?”
“Captain.” Aside from the one he was speaking to, everyone in the pilothouse was carefully not looking his way.
“Hot-refuel Red Hawk, then vector him back to the sinking site. SAR as many as they can. OOD, come to final course for our sector, as soon as you have it plotted.”
They’d laid out the screen sectors in three ranks, or zones. The Yellow Zone stretched from the Chinese coast out two hundred nautical miles to the Okinawa Trench. Orange, for initial detection and tracking, stretched back from there fifty more miles.