Skyler watched as a bobbing, cone-shaped object came into focus.
“It’s probably nothing more than a piece of flotsam discarded from the Carupano,” the first officer said.
Schafer looked over at the video monitor then back through the scope. Suddenly he backed away, his mouth gaping. “Mother of God. It’s a—”
“A sonobuoy,” Skyler whispered.
“A goddamn sonobuoy!” the captain yelled.
“Captain!” screamed the electronics officer. “It just went active transmitting a burst on the Juliet-band!”
Schafer slammed the handles of the periscope closed. “Down scope! Crash dive!” His face paled as he turned to Skyler. “We’re fucked!”
RUN DEEP
The USS Orlando cruised 200 feet below the surface, 300 miles northeast of Norfolk. Behind it, like bait on a fishing line trawling for game fish, it towed its fully optimized passive sonar arrays.
The skipper of the Los Angeles-class attack submarine was Commander Michael Webster, a broad shouldered former defensive back for the University of Alabama Crimson Tide. Webster sat in his captain’s chair letting the soft hum of electronics in the sub’s command center relax him. He closed his eyes, picturing his wife and newborn son and wanted more than anything to hold them both.
“Conn, sonar!”
The thin voice from the intercom brought Webster out of his meditation. “Conn, aye. Captain speaking.”
“Contact, sir. Bearing two-three-zero.”
“Range?” Webster asked.
“Approximately twenty-five thousand yards, Captain. Sonobuoy just popped its top.”
“Can you identify?”
“From the plant signature I make it a Yankee-class boomer.”
Damn if we didn’t find him right out of the box, Commander Webster thought. “Thank you, Chief.” He rose and called out, “Man battle stations.” As alarms sounded, Webster said, “Helm, ahead two thirds. Bring us around to two-three-zero.” Adrenaline rushed through him. “Weapons, put forty-eights in tubes one and two, and plot a solution.” The commander watched the data input readout on his display monitor while he felt his ship turn toward the distant target.
“Coming around to new course two-three-zero, sir,” called the helmsman.
“All stop,” said Webster a moment later when the course was confirmed.
“Aye, sir, all stop,” replied the helmsman.
“Weapons, flood tubes one and two.”
A few seconds later the weapons officer acknowledged, “Tubes one and two are flooded, sir.”
“Weapons, open outer doors one and two.”
A pause, and then, “Doors one and two open, Captain.”
“Do you have a solution yet?”
“Solution is confirmed, sir.”
“Fire one and two!”
A burst of compressed-gas ejected the nineteen-foot-long, wire-guided Mark 48 torpedo from tube number one in the bow of the Orlando. As its five-hundred-horsepower engine spun to life, the torpedo accelerated. Like a newborn reluctant to detach its umbilical cord from its mother, the Mark 48 reeled out a wire from its tail and took a course twelve degrees off its intercept path. A few seconds later, a second Mark 48 emerged from tube number two. It sprang forward adjusting its course twelve degrees in the opposite direction so both torpedoes could cover the entire one hundred eighty-degree target sector. Carrying 650-pound warheads, the Mark 48s raced through the water at just over fifty miles-per-hour.
“Time to impact?” Webster asked, returning to his chair.
“Seventeen minutes, twenty seconds, sir,” came the reply from Weapons.
“Let me know when you have acquisition.” Webster let a smile cross his face. “Roll Tide,” he whispered.
“High-speed screws, sir!” yelled the sonar operator over the intercom on the bridge of the Tiger Shark. “Torpedoes in the water!”
Skyler held on to the back of the captain’s chair as the deck pitched forward in the crash dive. He saw the helmsman push the yoke to the hilt, exerting the maximum down position on the dive planes.
“Execute counter measures,” Schafer ordered.
His voice lacked the confidence Skyler expected from a missile sub commander. As he studied the man, he felt a bump from the compressed-air modules being launched out of the sides of the vessel. Clouds of noisy bubbles would shoot out of each, the resulting racket designed to distract the incoming torpedoes and draw them away from their real target.
“Sonar, start jamming,” Schafer said.
In the sonar control room, the operator attempted to create ghost targets by sending out timed pulses to coincide with the seeking pulses of the approaching torpedoes. He watched the data readouts then pressed the intercom. “Conn, sonar. The fish have not acquired us yet but are still running true.”
Skyler watched Schafer grow nervous, figuring this may be the captain’s first shot at commanding a boomer. As impressive as the crew was under the circumstances, it was still nothing more than a rag-tag band assembled by Escandoza from military organizations all over the world. Their lack of experience could prove deadly. Schafer’s forehead glistened with sweat. He held on to the railing around the periscope pedestal. “I promised you entertainment,” he said to Skyler. “I hope you’re not disappointed.”
Suddenly the bridge vibrated with a high-pitched metallic sound. Ping…ping… ping…
“They’ve acquired us!” the sonar operator blared over the intercom. The tremble in his voice was not lost on Skyler.
Two miles behind the Tiger Shark, the lead Mark 48 released its guidance wire as it acquired its target. Following ninety-one meters behind it, the second Mark 48 did the same. Calculating the distance to the enemy sub, they cut their speed by a third to conserve fuel and executed a series of minor course corrections.
Schafer moved to stand in front of Skyler. “Since we only have a few moments to live, Mr. Skyler, I thought we might be honest with each other.”
“My picture on the news?” Skyler tried to remain unmoved at the discovery of his true identity.
“I’ve followed your accomplishments with interest as director of OceanQuest. You have a memorable face. My compliments to you for your quick thinking after you eliminated Knebel.” Schafer wiped his forehead on his sleeve.
“Your first time in combat?”
“A first for many things. Too bad we don’t get a second chance to die.” Then his expression turned desperate.
“Captain,” called the OOD. “The counter measures aren’t working. The fish are still on track. Should I inform the Carupano?”
Schafer’s eyes grew wide. He spun around facing the officer of the deck. “My God, I forgot about the freighter. Up planes!” he yelled. “Helmsman, put us on the deck as close to the Carupano as possible. Scrape the paint off her sides if you have to.” Then he turned back to Skyler. “Maybe we do get a second chance.”
Captain Sampson strolled out of the wheelhouse onto the wing of the Carupano’s bridge and studied the next squall line approaching from the south. He watched the swells break against the bow shooting wings of spray up and over the rail. The spray stung his face and the wind whipped his oilskin jacket. He stared aft, sighting the riggings and hatches along the length of the 142-foot freighter. They seemed to be holding.
Suddenly, the sea off his starboard side appeared to boil. A massive dome of white foam blossomed up with such force, it caused the Carupano to list slightly to port. Captain Sampson stared with gaping mouth as the immense bullet-shaped bow of a submarine emerged from the midst of the foaming ocean. It seemed to rise up like a slow-motion rocket launched from the depths. For a moment, Sampson believed it would keep rising until it took flight. As he gripped the railing with white-knuckled hands, he watched the giant monster hang suspended, its bow exposed back to the sub’s conning tower.