The chief nodded hesitantly, “Yes, Captain. All stations, fore and aft, acknowledged, sir. I don’t understand what could’ve happened.”
Edwards spoke into the open microphone, clear aggravation in his voice, “Where did the transient come from, Sonar?”
“Conn, Sonar. Transient originated aft, in the engine room.”
Edwards needed only to glance at the chief of the watch.
“I’m on it, Captain,” the chief said as he keyed his phone set to call Maneuvering.
Edwards and Miller gazed at the waterfall display with hidden trepidation. Damage control was still in full force on the Hatta as was evident by the small blips popping up around her location. A rough estimate from the fire control system put her at six thousand yards off the port bow, due southwest of Providence’s position.
“Only time will tell if she heard us,” Miller stated the obvious. “If her sonar’s still functional.”
All watched in stark silence as the waterfall display scrolled on.
Then came another transient. This one even louder than the first. It sounded like metal striking against metal, and it was so loud, that everyone in the control room clearly heard it over the open sonar speaker.
Frustrated and feeling powerless, Edwards reached up to grab the engineering microphone. If the men in the engine room would not listen to the chief of the watch, maybe they’d listen to him over the loudspeaker. But before he could key the handset, Miller touched his arm and pointed at the waterfall display.
“Captain, look!”
On the display, a large swath of green blips obscured the Hatta’s position, then the swath receded into a thin green line. The line moved ever so slightly to the right, then steadied on a constant bearing.
“Conn, Sonar. Picking up bulkheads imploding to the southwest. The Hatta has imploded! Torpedo in the water, bearing two two eight!”
Edwards could only imagine what had happened. After detecting the Providence’s transients, Peto must have decided to give her one final parting shot. But something had happened as the Hatta fired the torpedo, something that caused a catastrophic bulkhead failure. Quite possibly, her torpedo tube breech mechanism had been damaged by Providence’s earlier weapon, and then fractured entirely when she fired her last weapon. At near test depth, with a torpedo tube open to sea, the column of high pressure seawater twenty-one inches in diameter would have gutted her forward compartment like it was made of jelly, bending solid steel and ripping bodies apart.
This time the Hatta would not be coming back, but she had left the Providence with a very deadly parting gift.
“Torpedo bearing constant! Range five thousand five hundred yards and closing!”
On cue, the WLR-9 active intercept panel blurted out an alarm. The torpedo was in an active pinging mode and had already acquired the Providence’s hull.
“Helm, ahead full! Cavitate! Right full rudder, steady on course north!”
The helm rang up the engine order and Providence answered, accelerating from her stopped position, but Edwards suddenly wondered if it would be enough. The pickup was already painfully slow. Twenty seconds passed and Providence had only just surpassed ten knots. The hardworking starboard engine was doing its best to turn the big shaft alone, but it would need its twin’s help if Edwards expected any kind of strong acceleration.
“Conn, Sonar. Torpedo bears two two zero. Range four thousand five hundred yards.”
Providence’s speed log took another full minute to steady out on her maximum single engine speed of twenty-one knots. Once again, the Providence had a torpedo driving toward her stern at thirty-six knots, closing the distance by five hundred yards every minute, only this time the Mendar wasn’t around to trick the enemy weapon. The only hope was to run, as fast as her single main engine could take her. A dismal look from Fremont gave a clear indication of their chances. He had already done the math on his calculator.
“At this speed that torpedo will overtake us in seven minutes, Captain,” Fremont said gloomily. “We can’t outrun it on one main engine.”
Edwards knew that, of course. He had no clue what the status of the port main engine was, but regardless of its condition, Coleman would have to get it back on line, and fast.
“Maneuvering, this is the captain.” He spoke calmly into the engineering microphone. “Report status of number two main engine.”
After a long pause, Kemper’s voice came back, “Number two main engine status unknown, sir. I can’t find Lieutenant Coleman! Sir, we …”
Edwards cut off the nervous young officer and switched the microphone circuit over to the 1MC. Wherever Coleman might be, he would certainly hear him now.
“Lieutenant Coleman, this is the captain.” He heard his own voice reverberating throughout the passages beyond the control room. “Restore number two main engine immediately! Conduct an emergency start-up! Repeat. Restore number two main engine immediately! Conduct an emergency start-up and place number two main engine back on line!”
Edwards waited for several minutes, but no response came.
“What the hell’s going on back there?” he said through his teeth, exchanging desperate glances with Miller. “And where the hell’s Coleman?”
Warren Bloomfield lingered by the port-side electrical panels in the upper level of the engine room, trying to stay out of Chief McKennitt’s way. A circuit breaker fire had been reported to the crew’s mess and McKennitt’s damage-control team had been the first to respond. Bloomfield tagged along as the damage-control officer, but every sailor in the team knew who their real leader was. They kept their wide eyes glued on McKennitt for both guidance and orders. Bloomfield suffered no small blow to his ego, when he arrived on the scene and, recalling his days of DC training as a junior officer, announced, “This is Lieutenant Commander Bloomfield! I am the man in charge!” His announcement was met by a burst of laughter from every sailor in the area, each man having to be silenced by a swift whack on the side of the head from McKennitt’s open palm.
McKennitt quickly took charge of the situation, which turned out to be nothing more than a little arcing and sparking. One sailor de-energized the panel while McKennitt emptied the contents of a CO2 fire extinguisher on it for good measure. Slowly and quietly, Bloomfield made his way to the back of the group, utterly humiliated. He felt like the odd man out. The men made all of their reports to McKennitt, and McKen-nitt in turn reported his status to the control room, bypassing Bloomfield altogether. He had no useful purpose, and he knew that the men felt the same way about him. In fact, he was certain they considered him to be some sort of ship’s fool. They’d laughed for months at their blundering XO behind his back, and now apparently, they had no compunctions about laughing to his face as well.
Bloomfield was tired of it. He was tired of a lot of things.
As he shuffled aft, he overheard one of the headset-laden sailors say that one of Providence’s torpedoes had hit the Hatta. That being the case, he couldn’t understand why the ship had suddenly gone to full speed, and he suddenly wondered if there could be another enemy torpedo out there. Then he heard Edwards’ announcement over the 1MC, ordering Coleman to restore the number two main engine, and at that moment he knew there was an enemy torpedo out there, and Providence was running from it. It could be the only explanation.