Miller appeared in the room, zipping up his blue jumpsuit, his khaki belt completely forgotten.
“What is it, Captain?” he asked as one of the fire-control technicians tossed him a wireless headset.
“Helm, left fifteen degrees. Steady on three four zero,” Edwards ordered before turning to Miller and pointing at the green blips on the display. “Torpedo in the water. The Hatta’s out there. That’s one of her torpedoes trying to sneak up on us. She probably fired it while we were still on the surface and was trying to guide it in at silent speed. They’d have to keep it slow at this shallow depth, otherwise we’d hear it cavitate and detect it. I’m guessing we dove at just the right moment, and when we picked up speed a few moments ago they were forced to adjust the torpedo’s speed accordingly. Fortunately for us, their torpedo cavitates a lot easier than the Providence’s does.”
“Holy shit, sir, they must’ve been trailing us all along.” Miller stared disbelievingly at the display. “I guess we didn’t hit her after all, sir.”
“Not necessarily, Weps. There has to be a reason they didn’t attack us earlier. It wouldn’t have been that difficult. We certainly didn’t break any speed records while we were in company with the Mendar. I bet your torpedo exploded close enough to damage her propulsion systems at least, and the Hatta’s spent the better part of the afternoon catching up with us.”
Miller raised his eyebrows and shrugged, then focused his attention on the fire-control consoles.
Glancing at the speed log, Edwards saw that the Providence was making only twenty-one knots, just as he expected. Coleman had not had enough time to put the port main engine back together. The starboard engine was having to turn the big shaft by itself.
“Chief of the Watch,” Edwards called. “Tell Maneuvering to push number one main engine as far as its limits will take it. I need every last knot.”
The chief of the watch nodded as he relayed the order into his phone set.
Once again, the WLR-9 active intercept unit squawked from the starboard bulkhead.
“Conn, Sonar. Torpedo has increased speed. It’s gone into active searching mode. Range, two thousand yards off the port quarter.”
Good, Edwards thought. As long as that torpedo was in active pinging mode, they might have a chance. Providence couldn’t outrun it on one main engine, but she could certainly lead it on a chase. He watched and waited as the torpedo line on the sonar display passed into Providence’s port baffle. Now he had the torpedo following him on a northwesterly heading.
“No countermeasures, Captain?” Miller asked hesitantly.
“Countermeasures will only fool that torpedo for so long, Weps. Besides, I want this torpedo to follow us.” As Miller returned to the starboard-side consoles with a quizzical expression on his face, Edwards called after him. “Warm up the weapons in tubes two and three and prepare the tubes for firing in all respects. Open outer doors as soon as you’re ready, and stand by!”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” Miller answered, then quickly began issuing orders to his people.
“Nav, give me the range and bearing to the Mendar’s last position. Helm, left full rudder!”
As Providence’s deck heeled over to port Edwards grabbed the railing to stay on balance, eagerly awaiting the response from Fremont, who now fumbled with the chart table’s compass ruler. After what seemed like an eternity, he reported, “The Mendar s position bears two six one, range twenty-two hundred yards, Captain.”
“Helm, steady on course two six one!”
Fremont’s calculation had taken so long that the Providence’s nose was already close to the ordered heading, forcing the helmsman to jerk his control to the “right full” position in order to check the submarine’s swing in time to steady on the new course.
As Providence righted herself and the deck leveled, Edwards examined the sonar display. The thin green line had passed out of the port baffle momentarily due to Providence’s sharp turn, but it soon edged back into it as it mirrored Providence’s course. Edwards could picture the torpedo speeding through the dark water a thousand yards astern, following the maneuvering submarine as if the two were connected by an invisible string.
“Conn, Sonar. Torpedo bears zero eight one, directly astern. Range eight hundred yards!”
Edwards’ sweaty palms squeezed the metal railing. The torpedo was closing Providence’s stern at five hundred yards per minute. It would all be over in less than two minutes. He glanced at the clock on the bulkhead. The digital display read 2033. He suddenly wondered if it would ever read 2035. Or would it end up a thousand fathoms below scattered on the lonely ocean floor with the rest of Providence’s wreckage?
“Recommend course correction to intercept the Mendar, Captain,” Fremont said, now apparently understanding Edwards intentions. “Two five eight’s a good course. Range four hundred yards”
“Helm, come left to two five eight,” Edwards ordered, nodding an acknowledgment in Fremont’s general direction.
As the helmsman skillfully nudged Providence’s bow over to the new course, Miller reported from the starboard side, “Outer doors are open on tubes two and three, Captain. Torpedoes two and three are ready for firing in all respects. Standing by.”
“Conn, Sonar. Torpedo has shifted to terminal homing. Range, five hundred yards!”
This is it, Edwards thought. It’s now or never.
“Dive, make your depth seventy feet! Helm, watch your heading!”
“Full rise on the fairwater planes!” the diving officer shouted. “Full rise on the stern planes! Establish a thirty degree up bubble!” The diving officer normally muttered commands to his planesman, but the adrenaline rush of the moment must have compelled him to shout the orders unconsciously.
Providence’s deck tilted at an alarming rate as she drove toward the surface. Within seconds her deck was too steep to stand and everyone without a chair groped for something to hang on to before careening into the aft bulkhead. Any sailor walking down the fifty-foot straight section of the middle level passage would soon find himself riding an “E” ticket to the crew’s mess.
With a firm grip on the platform railing, Edwards heard Providence’s hull creak from the rapid change in depth and felt the vibrations in his hands. The digital depth gauge continued to count down rapidly. Two hundred feet… one hundred fifty feet… one hundred feet…
Just as Edwards was beginning to think the ship wouldn’t be able to pull down in time, the diving officer shouted, “Zero bubble! Make your depth seven zero feet!”
Instantly responding to the order they’d anticipated, the two planesmen pushed their control sticks to the floor until they reached the hard stops. The plane angle indicators on the ship’s control panel flipped to the opposite direction as Providence’s giant control surfaces responded to the three-thousand-pound hydraulic fluid. The change in angle had an immediate effect and, remarkably, the ship never went a foot above seventy feet, instead leveling off just one foot below. Edwards watched as the two expert planesmen exchanged a silent nod. Their training and teamwork had paid off.
“Mark on top!” Fremont reported. “We’re passing beneath the Mendar right now, sir.”