“Easy, mate. The two most important safeguards on a torpedo are keeping it from exploding in your torpedo room and keeping it from swimming back at you when you shoot it. Every torpedo on the planet has an anti-circular run feature to keep it from killing the ship that launched it. Trust me, they’re as helpless as a bug in our spider web.”
Cahill kept his eyes on the Romeo he had pinned down on his cargo bed. Its antiquated rakish shape allowed it better speed on the surface than submerged, and the red paint climbing high up its sides appeared sanguine in the water.
“Ugly and old, but still dangerous,” he said. “I have to give the captain credit for picking a good ambush position. He was in the right place and just got unlucky that we were extremely careful with our speed of approach.”
“Why didn’t he shoot Jake when he found him with his drones?”
“You assume that his crew heard the drones. His ship’s hydrophones and processing equipment are old. Jake’s drones aren’t as secure as the Specter when transmitting active, but they still can use very short duration bursts. They’re not exactly easy to notice.”
“Okay, but why didn’t you abort the loading when you saw that we had the wrong ship?”
“I thought about it, but I judged the risk of trying to slip away unnoticed too dangerous. One false sound, and we would’ve been an easy target. Then we would’ve faced a one-for-one exchange. I decided to keep them in me cargo bed.”
“Maybe, but now they know something’s wrong. We’ve grabbed their ship and are manhandling them to the surface. Why aren’t they doing anything?”
Both weapons bay watchmen shouted reports that trampled each other, but Cahill understood their redundant meanings — both men reported seeing the Romeo spinning up its propeller.
“There you have it, mate,” he said. “They’re trying something. They’re trying to escape.”
“Lateral stress on the hydraulic presses is rising.”
The darkness above the Goliath turned gray as the surface’s light approached.
“They won’t make it out of our bed,” Cahill said. “Our presses will hold, and we’ll be surfaced before they can break free.”
“Lateral stress is at the alarm point.”
“They’ll hold. I’m energizing the laser.”
“What the hell’s the laser going to do?”
“Cut pinholes in its forward ballast tanks. Maybe. I don’t know. It can’t hurt to try.”
“I see,” Walker said. “Do you want me to keep our radar dark when we surface?”
“Yes. God willing, we’ll be up here for hardly a minute, and if we get lucky, we’ll submerge again before anyone notices.”
“Wishful thinking.”
“I know. One crisis at a time. Let’s get rid of this Romeo and then worry about who might hunt us.”
Cahill tapped an icon.
“Port and starboard weapons bays, when we surface, I want you to aim the cannons manually three quarters up the side of the cargo vessel. In case you haven’t noticed, we accidentally loaded an enemy submarine. You’ll be putting holes through it hull high enough so that your rounds travel over the Goliath when they pass through. Acknowledge that you understand.”
Both watchmen responded.
“Five rounds from each of you. Start just aft of its conning tower and then walk each shot back five degrees, maximum rate of fire. Then you’re each going to put one round just below each ballast tank vent that you can see. Acknowledge that you understand.”
The Goliath rocked hard and then broke the surface as the men responded. Rain pelted the windows, and gray drizzle separated Cahill from the Romeo.
In the distance, he saw the dark gray forms of his railguns rising atop his stern sections.
“Commence fire!” he said.
The first rounds punctured the Romeo’s skin, created the horrific shriek of avulsed steel, and continued into the gray oblivion.
“The laser, Liam.”
“Aiming. Firing.”
“Did you hit?”
“I can’t tell in this infernal rain.”
The deck lurched in the swells, and Cahill grabbed a console for support.
“Keep shooting,” he said. “Pinholes could make a difference.”
As the next railgun rounds gored the Romeo, Cahill saw the submarine raise its antenna.
“Calling for help,” he said. “That’s not a concern. Keep shooting the ballast tanks.”
Motion atop the submarine caught his attention.
“Cease fire! Aim cannons at the top of the conning tower.”
Human forms took shape on the cargo’s apex, and Cahill thought he discerned a shoulder-launched weapon tube beside a man’s ear.
“Aim the cannons at their waists.”
“I can’t see anyone,” the starboard bay watchman said.
“Can you see the conning tower’s top?”
“Yes.”
“Aim for it. Fire!”
The rounds sliced holes in steel. Cahill thought the human forms crouched in a startle response, but he hoped they fell to their deck without legs.
“Keep firing.”
Two more rounds from each railgun proved that the men atop the Romeo’s conning tower were motionless.
“Cease fire!” he said. “Aim the cannons at its propeller. Shoot off the blades. Commence fire!”
Three rounds from each gun erupted.
“The propeller is wrecked,” the port bay watchman said.
“I concur. It’s useless,” the starboard bay watchman said.
“Aim at the after torpedo tubes. Disable those weapons.”
Two rounds from each cannon fired, and the watchmen reported that they had impaled the Romeo’s two rearward-looking torpedoes.
“Cease fire, all weapons. Secure all weapons. Submerging the ship.”
He tapped an icon that ordered the Goliath to inhale the sea into its trim tanks.
“We’re under,” Walker said. “The Romeo is still above.”
“Not for long.”
Abated by depth, the rocking became gentle.
“It’s under now, too,” Cahill said.
“How deep do you want to go?”
“I don’t. Stop us here.”
“Steadying at twenty-five meters.”
A report from his tactical control room filled the bridge.
“The Romeo is blowing its ballast tanks. High-pressure air is escaping from its rear tanks and mid-line tanks.”
“That means the forward tank is holding air,” Cahill said. “It’ll rip free from the forward presses if we stay under.”
“Then what the hell do we do?” Walker asked. “Shall we surface and pummel it more with our cannons?”
“No. I’ve got a better idea. We’ll pin it down. Watch.”
He tapped icons.
“Coming to thirteen knots. Coming to full dive on the stern planes.”
The deck dipped, and Cahill reached to a console for balance.
“Axial stress on the forward presses is rising through the alarm point.”
“Come on, Goliath. Give me speed.”
“We’re at six knots,” Walker said. “Now seven. Ship’s angle is fifteen degrees down. Now twenty. Passing fifty meters.”
Cahill envisioned emergency air filling the Romeo’s forward ballast tanks, converting them into submerged steel balloons. Against its upward force, his presses strained and seawater from his ship’s motion pushed down.
“Nine knots,” Walker said. “Twenty-two-degrees down angle. Passing seventy meters.”