“Take us back up to twenty meters, light and with a ten-degree down angle.”
The bow rose, and Cahill saw moonlight shimmering above the dome as the ship began slowing. Bright exhaust plumes lit the sky as the Harpoons passed overhead, but Cahill held his breath and looked to his sonar information.
“That torpedo’s sound level is growing,” he said.
“It’s getting dangerously close,” the sonar supervisor said. “We can’t stay down here at twelve knots.”
“We can’t surface under four Harpoons,” Walker said. “They’re going to circle back like the others.”
Having thought he’d survived every conceivable danger on the Goliath, Cahill sought a solution to his unique dilemma.
Inspiration struck.
“How fast do you think we can go on the gas turbines while submerged?” he asked.
“No idea,” Walker said. “Twenty knots. Maybe twenty-two.”
“Sonar, does twenty knots get me away from the torpedo?”
“It’ll be close, depending on the accuracy of our estimate of its fuel state.”
“Let’s raise our induction masts and snorkel,” Cahill said.
“And run the gas turbines underwater?” Walker asked.
“You have a better idea?”
The executive officer shook his head.
“I’ll make it happen,” he said.
The deck rolled and pitched in the shallows, and the whine of inhaled air echoed in the hull.
“We’re on the gas turbines,” Walker said.
“All ahead flank.”
“Can you give me a quick turn?” the sonar supervisor asked. “I want to get a fix on the torpedo.”
Cahill aimed his voice at the microphone.
“I’ll give you thirty degrees to the right for thirty seconds.”
“I’ll take it,” the supervisor said.
“You heard me, Liam. Make it happen.”
During the turn, the damning clunk of a head valve shutting as a swell sucked an induction mast underwater alarmed Cahill, but he heard the cross-connected air system feeding his gas turbines from the solitary valve that remained open. Then the waves released the ship back to its dual-intake feed.
A minute later, the Goliath steadied with the pursuing weapon in its baffles.
“It’s crude, but I have a fix on the incoming torpedo of less than a mile,” the supervisor said. “Nineteen hundred yards.”
“Are we going to make it?”
“I don’t know. It’ll be close, but even if we outrun it, they could command-detonate it and give us a hell of a beating. I’d feel better if you’d get us back to thirty-four knots on the surface.”
Having circled back, the missile quartet traced translucent brightness above Cahill’s head.
“The timing needs to be perfect,” Cahill said. “We’ll surface after the Harpoons make their next pass.”
Walker stared forward into the sea’s nothingness.
“You scared?” Cahill asked.
“Yeah. You?”
“Yeah. I’m taking us back up. Prepare to bring everything back online for surface combat. Target the helicopter with the cannons and target the Harpoons with the Phalanx.”
Walker glared at him.
“I don’t expect to need the Phalanx,” Cahill said. “But have it ready.”
“Harpoons are approaching,” the supervisor said. “I hear them. They’re passing behind us, giving me enough bearing rate to track them. You can see them on the system.”
Cahill looked to his display.
“You think we’re outside their seekers’ swaths?”
“Probably,” Walker said. “Now’s as good a time as any.”
“Here we go.”
Cahill set the stern planes to neutral and pumped off water. Artificial wind walked sheets of water across the dome’s windows.
“Bring everything online. Take down the last helicopter.”
“Targeting the helicopter with the cannons,” Walker said.
“Prepare to fire splintering rounds at will.”
“Ready.”
“Fire.”
“Loud splash from the direction of the helicopter,” the supervisor said.
Cahill found the voice behind the expected positive news unsettling.
“Was that the helicopter splashing?” he asked.
“Shit. No! High-speed screws. Torpedo in the water, bearing zero-two-five.”
“Keep shooting, Liam. Take down that helicopter.”
With the high-frequency link reestablished, the Frenchman’s face appeared on Cahill’s screen.
“I see a fire broken out on the helicopter on infrared imagery,” Renard said. “You hit it, and it’s running back towards the Hydra, but you still need to get under the Harpoons. They’re circling back in roughly forty seconds.”
“I’ve also got an air-dropped weapon from the helicopter,” Cahill said. “It must’ve launched before we hit it.”
“And the submarine-launched torpedo?” Renard asked.
The answer came as thunder, and a shockwave threw Cahill against his console. The handrail punched his belly, and then his head and chest smacked displays.
He staggered, palpated his forehead, and extended blood-covered fingertips. A glance across the small room showed his companion lying unconscious against the deck.
“The torpedo was command-detonated,” the supervisor said. “We’ve taken the shockwave, but we evaded it.”
“You sound none the worst for it,” Cahill said.
“We were all strapped in here. I’m not sure how the rest of the ship is, though.”
Having survived a heavyweight blast from the trailing fuel-exhausted torpedo, Cahill looked at a monitor and saw that twenty-five seconds separated him from the Harpoons’ impacts.
“Take control of the ship and crash dive us now!” Cahill said. “And I mean now. Shift propulsion to the MESMA systems and get us under the Harpoons.”
Working against the shifting deck, he reached for Walker’s wrists and dragged him towards the stairs. Gravity assisted his gentle descent to the tactical control room, and he opened the door.
He stepped through, pulled Walker into the compartment, and then latched the door shut.
From his chair, the supervisor looked to him.
“We’ve got about a minute before the helicopter’s torpedo hits us. Maybe less. We need to run.”
“Can’t do it, mate. They dropped it right in our face, and those Harpoons are still up there.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying, give me the microphone and listen.”
The man extended a handset, and Cahill spoke into it.
“We’re going to take a hit by a lightweight torpedo. God willing, we’ve got a big enough ship to take it. I’m betting that it hits the port bow. All hands lay to the closest engine room. Carry all injured personnel back with you. Shut every watertight door on your way back. Get your arses moving. Now!”
He returned the microphone to the supervisor.
“You heard me. Get some guys on Liam, and let’s get everyone back. I’m the last one to set foot in the engine room.”
As the men cleared out of the room, Cahill gave it a parting glance before sealing the door behind him. As he turned into the berthing area, the supervisor ogled him.
“We’re not going to make it, are we, Terry?”
“Maybe not. But don’t count out the Goliath just yet.”
CHAPTER 12
Surrounded by men he entrusted the most from his crew at the small table in a waterfront officer club in Karachi, Volkov tipped back a glass of vodka. Though his entourage was civilian, Renard had negotiated liberties for the Wraith’s crew.
As his vision blurred, Volkov needed an extra second to focus on each man.
Sergei, the executive officer, Anatoly, the sonar expert, and Vasily, the trainer, tried keeping pace with his alcohol consumption. Wondering if he indulged beyond the wisdom of his years, Volkov waived his hand over his empty glass when offered a refill.