“It’s been a hell of a day, Sir,” Silverton said.
“It has,” Jacobs replied.
“Con, sonar, torpedoes three and four going to active pinging, high speed screws.” Jacobs waited. “Direct hit,” Stephanos paused. “Second direct hit, Sir. Secondary explosions; she’s breaking up, Sir.”
“Okay,” Jacobs said. “Helm, take us up to periscope depth.”
“Periscope depth, aye-aye, Sir.”
As the Massachusetts rose toward the surface a panicked voice came from the sonar room, “Con, sonar, multiple splashes on the surface. Probable rocket launched torpedoes in the water, high speed screws and active pinging. Screw pattern confirms TU-7 rocket launched torpedoes.”
“Dammit,” Jacobs swore. “They must have launched as soon as our torpedoes went to active pinging. How many torpedoes?”
“Two, three… four active torpedoes, two, no three actively pinging sono-buoys in the water, we’re lit up like a Christmas tree!” Sono-buoys floated on the surface and sent sonar pings down into the ocean, helping the torpedoes locate the sub.
Jacobs, Silverton and Adams quickly assessed the electronic tactical display. “Four active torpedoes, are in the water, roughly in the shape of a square. We’re on the western edge,” Silverton said. “Active torpedo on each corner.”
“Helm, hard right rudder, come to course 090, flank speed. Fire Control, fire the MOSS decoys in tubes 5 through 7 on my command, standard spread.”
“Aye-aye, Sir,” Fire Control replied.
Jacobs watched as the Chinese torpedoes all turned in the direction of the Massachusetts. As the submarine’s heading crossed the 90 degree mark Jacobs said, “Fire tubes 5 through 7, now.”
“Tubes 5 through 7 fired, Sir.”
“Lieutenant Grimes, where are we on the Mark 48’s?”
“Still loading the first one, Sir, almost there.”
“Rig the Mark 48 for guide-by-wire, Lieutenant, tell me as soon as it’s ready to fire.”
“Aye-aye, Sir.”
“Con, sonar, decoys went active.”
“How many following the decoys?” Jacobs asked.
“Three. Torpedo to the north is still locked on us Sir, fifteen hundred yards and closing fast.”
“Helm, hard left rudder, come to course 000, flank speed.”
“Aye-aye, Sir.”
“Torpedo room, con, where are we?”
“Torpedo loaded, Sir, inner door closed, flooding tube, rigged for guide-by-wire. As soon as the pressure is equalized we can open the outer door and fire, Sir,” Lieutenant Grimes answered.
“Incoming torpedo at 800 yards and closing fast.”
“Come on, Lieutenant, we’re out of time,” Jacobs said.
“Opening outer door, Sir,” she answered.
“Fire as soon as that door is clear!”
“Five hundred yards, four hundred, three hundred, two, one hundred…”
“Torpedo fired,” Fire Control answered.
“You’ve got to hit that thing dead…”
The force of the blast jolted the entire sub. Loose objects flew through the air scattering across the deck. People were knocked out of their chairs, slammed into their consoles and slid across the deck. Jacobs, Silverton and Adams were hurled forward onto the deck, smashing into the forward bulkhead. Displays went dark and the lights went out.
CHAPTER 50
The battery-powered emergency lights flickered to life in the torpedo room, bathing everything in a red glow. Tiffany groaned as she put her hand over the sharp pain on the left side of her rib cage. Broken, she realized. She was crumpled against torpedo tube two, her legs folded under her, with her back toward the room. Her eyes darted around the room as she turned, searching for her crew.
Caleb Johnson was ten feet away on the starboard side of the room, lying on his side, back toward Tiffany. He wasn’t moving. Hector, Patrick and Gusman were struggling to stand up. The rest were at least moving. She winced in pain as she slowly stood and stumbled over to Johnson. She gently rolled Johnson over onto his back, expecting the worst. His eyes blinked.
“Oh God,” he mumbled. He looked up at her. “What the hell happened?”
“Two torpedoes, head to head,” she said.
“Oh yeah,” he replied as he lifted his left hand to his head. “Where’s all the water coming from?”
Tiffany had been so intent on her crew that her mind had blocked out the hissing sound from the spraying sea water coming from torpedo tube one. She saw Hector grab the damage control kit and rush over to the source of the water. She looked back at Johnson. “You okay?”
“I think so.”
They both got up and headed toward the blasting streams of water emanating from torpedo tube one. Johnson grabbed the two-handed wrench that was used for manual override for many of the automated functions on the torpedo tube. He placed the socket over the square end of the drive rod that connected to the outer door gear train. It wouldn’t budge. “Hector, give me a hand.” Hector grabbed one side of the wrench while Johnson put both hands on his side. “Ready?” They strained to turn the drive rod, but it wouldn’t move.
“Try opening the outer door,” Tiffany suggested. “Maybe we can unjam it.” They got a turn and a half out of the drive rod before it stopped moving. “Now try closing the door,” she said.
The drive rod jammed at the same place. “Not going to work, ma’am,” Johnson reported.
Captain Jacobs opened his eyes and tried to focus his mind on the condition of his boat. He rolled to his hands and knees and staggered as he attempted to stand. Leaning against the bulkhead he began to assess the damage. The electronic tactical display was dark and had a deep crack that ran from the upper left corner diagonally down to the bottom of the screen near the lower right. He worked his way over to the command platform and pressed the intercom button. “Damage control, con, report.” He released the button waiting for a response. The only thing he heard was the ringing in his ears. “Damage Control, con, report,” he repeated. Still nothing.
The Massachusetts started to tip slowly toward the front. Jacobs saw Silverton struggle to his feet and look around, his eyes coming to rest on Adams, who was lying crumpled against the forward bulkhead. Silverton bent over Adams and shook him. “COB, COB.” He checked for a pulse and looked at Jacobs. “He’s alive, but unconscious.” More of the men in the control center started to move and gradually return to their stations. Silverton stood, held on to the side bulkhead and made his way over to the command platform. “Captain, you’re bleeding.”
Jacobs reached up with his left hand and touched his left cheek. When he looked at his fingers they were dripping with bright red blood. Silverton staggered over and opened the First Aid kit. He pulled out several gauze pads and put them on the gash on Jacobs’ scalp.
“It’s not too bad,” Silverton said. “But head wounds bleed like a bitch. Just keep some pressure on it.”
“The intercom isn’t working,” Jacobs said. He looked around. “Nothing is — main power is out.” He pointed to a young man who was one of the first to stand up. “Seaman, Karpinski.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Break out the Sound Powered Phone. See who else is doing the same thing.”
“Aye-aye, Sir,” he replied. Karpinski opened a cabinet under the display console, removed the headphone and mouthpiece from the box, put them on his head and plugged the connector into the receptacle. The Sound Powered Phone system didn’t depend on any outside power system. The operator’s voice vibrated the microphone, which generated an electrical signal that powered the speakers in the headphones in the system. “This is the control center,” he said. “Anyone there?” He listened. “Sir, reactor room and engineering reporting in, minor damage, no water, trying to reset systems.”