“No return, sir,” the ensign said.
“Stow the sonar suite,” Kye said.
He waited a slow thirty seconds for the sphere to return to its nest within Taechong Nineteen’s bilge. The delay equated to half a nautical mile of a theoretical hostile torpedo’s inbound travel, with his ship in a deaf state, having stowed the mechanism to hear it.
Speed offered his only salvation from unknown dangers.
“Sonar is stowed,” the ensign said.
“All ahead full,” Kye said. “Steer course two-two-zero.”
He resisted the urge to review the nautical chart — a paper version, unlike the electronic versions his adversaries enjoyed. The overhead image of his waters, his location within them, and the boundary of his ship’s search zone lived in his mind.
The old gunboat rumbled, and sea spray pelted the bridge windows as he placed distance between his hide and any would-be pursuing torpedo. Nearing the edge of his search boundary, he ordered Taechong Nineteen slowed and its sonar suite lowered.
“Prepare to transmit active, half power, three hundred and sixty-degree search, twenty-degree wide beams. Transmit.”
As underwater sonic energy announced his vulnerable, motionless position, he awaited an acoustic return.
A wailing chirp. Then nothing. Another wailing chirp. Then again, no return. Four more repetitions, and no sign of an adversary.
Then, on the next transmission, his sonar operator shouted across the bridge.
“Active return! Range five and one half nautical miles. Bearing three-one-two.”
“Cease transmissions!” Kye said.
He marched across the bridge, brushing the backs of startled crewmen. When he reached the sonar monitor, the operator stepped aside, giving him a view of fuzzy green lines.
His eyes counted outward five concentric circles and settled on a faint constellation of green dots that traced the linear blob of an acoustic echo. He stepped back and let his executive officer, a lieutenant, satiate his curiosity.
“That’s near the limit of our system’s range, sir,” the executive officer said.
“The acoustic environment supports it,” Kye said. “The background noise is low. The surface layer runs deep. We can hear reliably to that distance, and that’s a submarine.”
“Shall I prepare rockets, sir?”
“Yes,” Kye said.
The executive officer stepped to a console and tapped buttons.
“Warming up the weapons, sir. Fifteen seconds remaining before warmup is complete.”
“Very well. Hold your fire until you hear an unequivocal order from me to launch.”
His pulse raced, and he grabbed the sonar operator’s arm.
“Can you hear anything?” he asked. “Incoming weapon seekers, high-speed screws, cavitation, launch transients?”
The man pulled his earpiece upward to talk.
“No, sir. The target’s too far away.”
“Prepare to transmit,” Kye said, “bearing three-one-two, half power, twenty-degree beam. Transmit.”
The chirp reverberated through his bones.
“Active return! Range five and one half nautical miles. Bearing three-zero-eight.”
“The bearing has changed,” Kye said. “The target’s evading.”
“Shall we take the shot, sir?” the executive officer asked.
“I will press the button myself,” Kye said.
He stepped to the weapons console, flipped up a guard, and pressed a red button. The rippled hiss of rocket exhausts made him cringe, and as the sounds subsided into the distance, he raised binoculars from his chest to his face.
Plumes traced a horseshoe of radiance against a blue sky, but he noticed fingers missing in the claw of contrails. He concluded that two rockets had failed to fire.
“Hang fire, tubes three and fourteen,” the executive officer said.
“Very well. Eject tubes three and fourteen.”
While his crew cleared the dud canisters from the launcher, he lowered his optics and watched his flying weapons converge in the distance.
White water droplets danced and dipped as the rockets dropped charges. He waited as the bombs sank to their detonation depth of one hundred meters.
Explosions rumbled, and spherical arcs of aqua bent the sea’s surface.
“Transmit again, bearing three-zero-eight, half power, twenty-degree beam.”
“Transmitting, sir.”
He felt and heard his gunboat’s chirping wail.
“No return, sir.”
“Prepare to transmit, bearing two-seven-zero to bearing three-five-zero, half power, twenty-degree beams. Transmit.”
“Active return, sir! Range four point nine nautical miles. Bearing two-eight-six.”
Kye recognized the brilliance and bravery of his adversary as he announced his next moves.
“The target turned towards us,” he said. “Since my attack assumed that the target would turn away, I have miscalculated, and my depth charges missed. I will engage the target with two torpedoes. Prepare torpedo one for launch on bearing three-zero-six. Prepare torpedo two for launch on bearing two-six-six.”
“Weapons are warming up, sir,” the executive officer said.
“Very well.”
“Torpedoes one and two are ready.”
“Launch torpedo one,” Kye said.
He heard compressed gas spit a cylinder from a launcher located amidships on the gunboat’s starboard side.
“Torpedo one is away, normal launch,” the executive officer said.
“Very well. Launch torpedo two.”
The second weapon hit the water, and Kye stepped to his sonar operator.
“Do you hear our torpedoes?”
“Yes, sir. Running normally.”
“Listen for enemy torpedoes.”
The operator nodded.
“Anything yet?” Kye asked.
“Nothing, sir.”
“We probably won’t hear them coming, and I’m not waiting. Stow the sonar suite.”
“Wait! High-speed screws, sir!” the sonar operator said.
The enemy submarine had launched at least one torpedo at him, and immediate speed meant life.
“Continue stowing the sonar suite,” Kye said. “Helm, all ahead flank.”
The helmsman acknowledged the order and rotated the engine order telegraph. The gunboat’s stern dug into the water, and the ship lurched.
“Left standard rudder, steer course one-three-five.”
As the old vessel rolled and shook, Kye wished for wings. With scant knowledge of the trajectory of the submarine’s retaliatory salvo, he fled with blind hope.
Despite its age, the boat flew, and like a sprinter, it reached its top speed in seconds. Kye preferred his odds over those of his adversary.
Minutes elapsed, and he feared that his rattling ship would break apart. But Taechong Nineteen held together, and he sensed he would survive. To convince himself, he left his executive officer in charge of conning the vessel and left the bridge. After passing through a doorway, he descended stairs, turned, and then opened a door to the weather deck.
The ship’s self-generated artificial wind whipped his cheeks. He trotted aft, bending around the starboard torpedo nest and then ducking under the emptied rocket launcher.
Reaching the fantail, he popped open a rusted locker and withdrew a sound-powered phone headset. He slipped it over his ears and screwed the set into a circuit.
“Bridge, fantail,” he said. “This is the captain. Communications check.”
“Fantail, bridge,” the executive officer said. “Communications check is satisfactory. Any sign of incoming weapons, sir?”
“Negative. But maintain flank speed.”
“Maintain flank speed, aye sir.”
Near the horizon, the ocean erupted, and Kye realized that one of his torpedoes had detonated. For a moment, he thought he had scored an absolute victory — one dead adversary and his ship unscathed. But then, as the rumble of the explosion reached his ears, he saw a contrail rise from the water.