"They're not even firing back at those Tomcats," said Welles.
"I imagine their mission is to get here the quickest way and not to worry about anything that might slow them down. We're the target. Any chance of putting helos up?"
"Not a one. They're either being refueled and rearmed, or they were shot down covering the subs."
"Look at that," whistled the lookout between them.
One of the jets was about to bracket a Soviet boat when it whipped around in a tight turn, going right under the Tomcat, then returning to its original course. There were still five of them. At about four thousand yards, two of them opened up with rockets while the others circled toward either end of the carrier, maintaining their distance as they sought to position themselves on the opposite beam. The rockets were like peashooters to the large carrier, yet their effectiveness cleared the deck as they found the range.
At fifteen hundred yards, the closest one fired its first torpedo. The boat did not turn away, but followed its fish directly toward Nimitz. The second one also fired a torpedo at the same distance as the first. Of the remaining three, one raced farther past to attack from the other side, while the other two bore in from bow and stern, waiting to see if Nimitz would turn to avoid the torpedoes. At one thousand yards, the firing boats put their second fish in the water. Welles had run to the pilothouse door and was vainly giving orders to the helm, knowing she would not begin to turn before they were hit.
The Soviet boat that had swung astern of Nimitz was hit in the same way as the first. It was so loaded with ammunition and fuel that it exploded under the concentrated 20-mm. fire.
The first two boats still followed their own fish, firing the rockets as they closed. The first torpedo exploded no more than fifty feet from the earlier one, buckling all the bulkheads that had been depended on to hold back the hullful of water, washing over the damage-control parties that had been working desperately to hold back.the sea. The second one hit just under the bridge. The third exploded near the stern. A fourth miraculously dove under the ship.
"Bridge has lost steering control," cried the helmsman.
"Switch to after steering," shouted Welles.
They waited. No response. "No answer from after steering, sir."
"Call DC Central. Tell them we've lost steering control,"
"The phone is dead, sir. I can't get anyone to answer."
A torrent of rockets shattered the pilothouse as a Soviet boat sped down the side spraying the upper decks of the island. David Charles, seeing the boat coming, had fallen to the deck. As the shelling stopped, he ducked into the open pilothouse door.
Stillness. No movement. There was smoke. Fire was shooting from exposed cables. His favorite bridge chair was torn and spattered with blood.
Frank Welles was sitting on the deck against the bulkhead, near the door David had just come through. He leaned over, jerking at David's pant leg. His face was pale, setting off the blood that seeped from his scalp. He said nothing, just pointed at the fallen sailor by the helm. David, understanding, grabbed the wheel, spinning it first one way, then the other.
"Nothing," he said.
Then Welles found his voice. "Ship's speaker. Let DC Central know we've lost control."
David did as Welles said. Nimitz' captain was in shock. A Tomcat streaked over the flight deck in front of the bridge, its guns chattering at a boat attacking on the other beam. The pilot found his target. The boat exploded as it followed its fish close in, but the torpedo also found its target.
David was about to speak into the mike when the torpedo hit. He had been entranced by the shimmering path of the torpedo. It was shallow running, and he couldn't believe it was that large. The explosion, catapulting water high above the ship, was followed by a second detonation of even greater magnitude. Somehow, he determined afterward, the warhead must have been armed with something that penetrated an avgas bunker. The flames from the second, blast surpassed the cone of water in height. The smoke that followed signaled trouble. Burning gas was difficult to fight when a ship was still under attack.
David's voice boomed throughout the ship, "After steering, this is the bridge. We have no control. Steer course.…" He looked for a course indicator, but that too was shattered. "Belay that, left standard rudder. I'll tell you when I want it amidships."
Smoke and towering flames, so intense that the heat could be felt on the bridge, covered the flight deck. He had to get the wind on the beam so the damage-control parties could see what they were fighting. Slowly, too slowly, Nimitz began to turn. The forward part of the flight deck came into view as the smoke blew aft, then the midships section. But he realized nothing would be able to land. The deck was a shambles. The remaining aircraft would have to ditch.
He spoke again into the mike. "This is the bridge. Rudder amidships." Now the after section of the flight deck came into view. The, port elevator sprawled halfway across, and a great jagged chunk had been ripped out of the angled part of the flight deck. Burning hulks of planes were being pushed over the side by deck trucks. Hoses snaked over every part of its surface. Another explosion ripped upward from the fuel tanks, driving fire-fighting parties back to the safety of the island.
Looking forward, he saw the last of the Russian boats making a run on Nimitz. At a thousand yards, it fired a final torpedo at the after quarter of the ship. He knew there was no way to turn her in time. "Mr. Dailey to the bridge on the double," he shouted into the mike.
The boat followed its own torpedo in, raking the stern with rocket fire. Then, as the torpedo hit, it swerved for a run up the side. Even before they were fired, David knew rockets were coming at the bridge again. He dove through the port-side door as the first round exploded inside, blowing out the forward bulkhead. Incendiary shells ignited the pilothouse. David crawled back on his hands and knees, remembering Frank Welles still inside. He inched his way along the deck plates to the other side. But now Welles was hunched over on his side.
"Frank… Frank?" He rolled his friend's lifeless body over, lifted the eyelids for a fraction of a second, then let Welles slide back against the bulkhead.
Looking up, he saw the torn metal of the starboard bridge wing. Then, remembering, he leaped up, tripped over a body in his first frantic lunge, then crawled, choking on the smoke, through the starboard hatch. He was searching for the lookout he had been talking with a few short moments before. Nothing was moving. Then, peering through wafts of dense black smoke that had risen up to the bridge level, he saw Seaman Apprentice Meehan mashed against the bulkhead. He had taken a direct hit from one of the rockets. David closed his eyes tightly for a moment. He had not done very well looking after the sailor who had trusted him. He crawled back into the pilothouse, knowing Nimitz was now out of control. There were so many more of his sailors in the same state as his young lookout.
Suddenly he heard a steady banging sound through the crackling of the flames. It came from the door behind him. It was partially open, but twisted metal kept the party on the other side from pushing through.
"Admiral, are you still out there?" It was Bill Dailey.
"Yes, Bill." He found a fire ax that had fallen from its place on the bulkhead. "Just a second. I'll smash the door open."
Gradually, he gained a few inches, enough so that Dailey and a sailor with him were able to squeeze through. Then Dailey realized they were the only ones alive on the bridge.