“TAO, go active with the sonar. He knows we’re here. Let’s find out exactly where he is.” Spangle paused and looked at the wind meter.
“TAO, launch the SH-60 when it’s ready.”
“Roger, Captain. Estimated time to launch is five minutes.”
“Not good enough, Commander. Have them airborne in three minutes.
Weapons load out
“One Mark Forty-six torpedo and full complement of twenty-five sonobuoys.” “I thought I told them to load two when we reached the Mediterranean!” Spangle snapped.
“Yes, sir. I’ve checked, and they had intended to load the second Mark Forty-six later this afternoon as we entered the Strait of Gibraltar.”
“Captain, TAO. The two ‘over the sides’ have gone into circular search mode. No contact.”
The ping of the Spruance-class destroyer’s sonar rose through the skin of the ship like a muffled pistol smothered deep within a pile of pillows. Ten pings later, the ASW voice returned. “Submarine located twenty-six thousand yards on a bearing of one one zero. Its speed is twelve knots and target is steering a course of zero six zero heading for the entrance to the Strait of Gibraltar, Captain.”
“Good job, ASW. Turn that sonar up until it hurts. I want a slow increase to full power. Make him think we’re bearing down on him.
Scare the shit out of him!” The enemy submarine had turned east. It no longer had wire control of the torpedoes. It was running. The inbound torpedoes would be functioning on their passive and active logic programs only. The quick torpedo shots, though they hadn’t scored, had accomplished what Spangle wanted.
“Captain, intercept course to torpedoes at flank speed is one minute on course zero eight five!” yelled the navigator.
“Roger, right full rudder, steady on course zero eight five,” Spangle ordered.
The ship tilted slightly to the right as the helmsman acknowledged the command and brought the destroyer onto the new course.
“Have targeting solution for Sealance launch!” shouted the TAO on the intercom.
“Launch!” shouted the captain. He turned back to the helmsman. “All ahead flank.”
“Captain!” the navigator, who was buttoning his life vest, shouted.
“Current course and speed will bring us in front of the torpedoes, sir!” He leaned over the quartermaster and ran his finger along the chart. “Recommend new course zero nine zero. That’ll take us behind the torpedoes as they pass.”
“Maintain current course and speed,” the captain reiterated.
The whine from the four LM-2500 gas turbines of the USS John Rodgers climbed to a spine-chilling screech as the nose of the warship leapt out of the water on a collision course with the torpedoes. Spangle felt the acceleration as the destroyer knifed through the water, leaving its normal twelve-knots cruising speed behind as the same engines that powered a Boeing 747 surged the USS John Rodgers to a flank speed of twenty-nine knots.
Spangle grabbed the 1MC. “This is the captain. We have minimum of six torpedoes fired from long range heading toward the Stennis. My intentions are to put the Rodgers between the torpedoes and the Stennis.” He wiped the sweat from his palms on his pants leg.
“Engineering, give me all the power you can and be prepared to evacuate the spaces if necessary. Damage control parties stand by for action.”
He replaced the 1MC and moved to the center of the bridge. Fear beat inside him, screaming to be released. He took a couple of deep breaths. This was his first time in combat, and he suddenly realized intellectually — it surprised him to think that he was able to reason at that level — that fear must be a constant companion to warriors. And without arrogance or conceit, Spangle placed himself on the same level as great military leaders of the past, to include Spruance, Halsey, Pat ton, and his favorite, Robert E. Lee. He felt a calm he’d never envisioned possible for him.
Some would have called it heroic — bravery. But neither of those romantic images resonated in Spangle’s thoughts. It was years of training and acceptance of duty that guided the destroyer’s captain now as, knowingly, he sent Rodgers into harm’s way. In the back of his mind was a forlorn hope, an unreasonable belief, that the ship would survive the torpedoes. He accepted the fact that sailors under his command were going to die as he accepted the fact that he might be one of the dead.
All he had to do was steer the ship, according to figures provided, and ignore the consequences. Too many near heroes in the past had given in to fear. Failure to conquer fear caused retreat, and with retreat, defeat followed. Retreat was not a word they taught in the United States Navy. It was not something they taught at the Academy. So Captain Spangle stood, looking out over the bow of the destroyer, knowing the ultimate sacrifice for him and his crew was less than a nautical mile ahead. His knees felt weak. He put a hand against the narrow shelf that ran along the front of the bridge. Going knowingly to one’s death shouldn’t be like this. What was it about “not going quietly into the night”? But here he stood doing just that.
“ASW, this is the skipper. Status of inbound torpedoes?”
“Captain, our calculations show they’re still heading toward the carrier. No change, sir.”
The only thing left to do was pass the word to the battle group.
Captain Spangle lifted the secure phone. His mouth dry, he took a sip of water from a bottle sitting in the cup-holder on his bridge chair.
The water eased the lump in his throat. “Stennis, this is Rodgers.
Torpedoes remain on course, inbound your way. Our calculations show your maneuvers ineffective in losing contact. I am steaming into a defensive position between you and them. Recommend you reverse course westward and deploy ASW decoys. Submarine located, Sealances fired.
NTDS data entered. SH-60s launching even as we speak.”
There were other things he wanted to say. Tell my wife and kids I love them. Tell them what we did and try to convince them why we had to, even when my soul cried for me to run. But he put the red phone down, vaguely noticing a tingling sensation in his palm. He forgot that no reply came from the Stennis.
A half minute later the secure speaker came to life.
“Warren, this is Dick Holman,” the commanding officer of the Stennis transmitted. “May God be with you and your brave crew at this time.
Our prayers are with you, and regardless of what happens, our weapons will avenge your actions. I am launching helos to your position.” “Thank you, Captain,” Spangle said softly into the handset. He took a deep breath. “I think you know what each crew member here would like to tell their loved ones. Please convey those thoughts, if necessary.”
The SH-60 helicopter from the USS John Rodgers roared by the starboard side of the bridge.
“Rodgers, this is USS Hue City. Our 60 airborne at this time, heading your way.”
“Rodgers, this is USS Ramage. We are four miles to your starboard quarter and closing at flank speed. Request orders.”
“USS Ramage,” Captain Holman broadcast before Rodgers could reply. The Ramage was an Arleigh Burke-class destroyer capable of waging an anti air anti surface and antisubmarine battle simultaneously, much like the DD-21 class.
“Aye, Stennis, this is Ramage. Go ahead.”
“Request you assume OTC ASW and go sink the bastard.”
“Roger, sir, but Rodgers had initial contact and in better position to control the attack.”
“I know that, Ramagel But Rodgers is defending Stennis. Just do it!” Holman shouted, and then in a softer voice added, “And sink the son of a bitch.”
“Roger, sir. Ramage going in for the kill.”
“Captain, this is ASW,” the sonar technician on USS John Rodgers said into his mouthpiece. “The torpedoes are on a constant bearing, decreasing range, sir. They’re heading into us, Captain! Recommend a course change at this time.”