“Good shooting,” Jake said. “Keep it up.”
Requiring five seconds for each round, the railguns punched eight holes through the Grisha’s engine room, turning the space into a white-hot vision of friction wounds and a secondary fire.
But the Russian crew fought back, and Cahill saw flashes erupt on his display from the cannon and the thirty-millimeter gun. He tapped the icon that blew the scaffolding to the exoskeleton, and thumps echoed around him as the fake bulkheads splashed.
“Take out that cannon!” he said.
“I’ve ordered it,” Walker said. “We’re aiming.”
Three rounds from each railgun walked toward the Russian cannon until a round punctured it and silenced it. But Cahill felt a shudder across the catamaran’s hull.
“What’s been hit?” Jake asked.
“Damage report, Liam!” Cahill said.
“No response from the port cannon. The port induction mast is off line. The port gas turbine intake system has automatically shifted to a cross-connected feed from the starboard induction mast.”
“Shit,” Cahill said. “A round hit the port weapons bay. Use the starboard cannon to take out the thirty-millimeter gun.”
“Hurry!” Jake said. “They’re pummeling my conning tower.”
As the starboard railgun found its way to the thirty-millimeter gun, Cahill watched the last active threat fall silent. He exhaled a sigh of relief that he knew would be short-lived.
“Continue to the Gecko surface-to-air launcher,” he said. “We don’t want them coming at us in slam mode.”
“Continuing to the Gecko,” Walker said. “We have them now, you know. That’s it for the short-range weapons.”
“I know. Coming to ahead two-thirds. Right full rudder.”
“Why?” Jake asked. “I think I know what you’re doing, but explain.”
“I’m going to circle around this Grisha with me starboard cannon and take out its surface-to-air missiles and torpedoes.”
“Agreed,” Jake said.
“How’s the damage report?” Cahill asked.
“The port engine room is sealed,” Walker said. “Damage is restricted to the compartment above it. It appears that the round hit the port cannon’s magazine.”
“No communication from the port weapons bay?”
“No. I’m sorry, Terry.”
His heart sank.
“Take the bridge, Liam. I’ll head back there.”
“No, Terry. Damage control is an executive officer’s job. The ship needs its captain here.”
Walker darted down the stairs, and Cahill slid a headset over his ear.
“Starboard weapons bay, come in,” he said.
“Starboard weapons bay, here, sir.”
“Send two more rounds into the surface-to-air launcher, then put three into the starboard torpedoes. Do it while we’re turning. I’ll get you a clear shot of the port torpedoes as we head out of here.”
As the Goliath-Specter tandem doubled back behind the silenced Grisha, the starboard railgun disabled the corvette’s starboard torpedoes. Passing its stern, Cahill opened range to give his functional cannon a line of sight to the port torpedo nest.
Noting that Walker had illuminated the Goliath’s phased array radar system, Cahill looked at the influx of tactical information. Two high-speed jet fighters raced towards him, as did several surface combatants.
“I think we need to submerge,” he said.
“Agreed,” Jake said. “Time to hide.”
“Let me make sure I have no holes in me people tank first.”
He tapped a key to send his voice throughout the Goliath.
“Liam, contact the bridge.”
“Liam, here,” Walker said. “I’m in the port engine room.”
“What do you have?”
“That round hit the port weapons magazine.”
“What about Daniels? The port weapons bay watch?”
The delay in Walker’s answer concerned Cahill.
“He’s hurt bad. His legs are shattered, and I’m not sure he’s going to keep them both. I’ve got him being moved to the port hull berthing area, and the corpsman will do what he can for him.”
“What else can we do for him?”
“Let the corpsman determine that. For now, he’ll just stop the bleeding and give him sedatives.”
“What about the port cannon?”
“The round took out communications, electronics, and hydraulics. The cannon might be operational again in manual mode after clearing out the magazine.”
“That’s good news about the gun. I’ll be submerging us. Stay there to watch for leaks.”
“I heard the mixed news,” Jake said. “Sorry about your man. Specter is ready to submerge.”
Cahill narrated as he tapped icons.
“Shifting propulsion to the MESMA systems. Securing the gas turbines. All six MESMA systems are running normally, bearing the electric strain. Propulsion is running on air-independent power. Maintaining five knots. Shutting the head valves and recirculating internal air.”
He then tapped icons to flood his ballast tanks. Cargo containers blocked his habitual views of the diving process, but patience and the laws of physics brought dark, lapping crests to the bridge windows. He anticipated the creaking of the cargo containers that had refused to topple away with his exoskeleton, but the noise was subtle as the crates floated away on the sea’s surface.
The Goliath settled at twenty meters with the Specter scant meters below the surface.
“Twenty meters,” he said. “I’m giving Liam a few minutes to check for leaks before we go deeper.”
“Fine, but bring us to ten knots. Let’s create distance and start becoming harder to find.”
As Cahill accelerated his ship, an overhead silhouette startled him. He looked up, and the primal fear of being shark food turned his skin into needles. Then a pair of thuds reverberated throughout the bridge, and two sleek aquatic forms absconded into the darkness.
His mind registered that two explosive devices had latched onto his windows. Flat metal surfaces under each device appeared to be electromagnets seeking ferrous metal, while the suction cups in each corner explained how the attackers had planted the devices on the glass a meter from his head.
He turned and jumped down the stairs, guiding his crash-landing by sliding his palms over the railing. His ankle turned over as he hit, but he hopped to the watertight door, yanked it open, and ducked through.
“Help me close this! Now!”
Standing on his good foot, he pulled the door shut and felt a pair of helping hands finish the job.
The sonar supervisor released the latch and frowned.
“What’s wrong, Terry?”
Scanning the tactical control room, Cahill sought a monitor, limped to it, and sat.
“Patch me through to Jake.”
“Done,” the sonar supervisor said.
“What’s going on, Terry?” Jake asked.
“I think I was just attacked by dolphins.”
Jake frowned.
“You think, or you’re sure?”
“I’m sure I was just attacked by something. There are two explosive detonators attached to me bridge windows. God knows what else is attached where.”
“We need to surface, then,” Jake said. “In case we’re facing a loss of watertight integrity.”
Loud cracks preempted Cahill’s response.
“Never mind,” Jake said. “Take a look. Unless you’ve got flooding somewhere else in your ship, it’s over.”
Jake’s face disappeared, and a camera view of the Goliath’s bridge appeared. Water poured in, and within seconds, the compartment flooded. Cahill had power to the bridge secured to avoid an electrical short.