Straits of Power

also carry an external harness that held up to two dozen mines. If this harness had been adapted to hold and launch cruise missiles instead, the U-boats might still have plenty of torpedoes.

Now Jeffrey felt as if the devil had yanked out the corkscrew, and pulled half of Jeffrey’s insides with it. He forced himself to stay rational, and analyze all that he knew.

If the 214’s captain gets the geometry and ambush timing just right, when the undersea brew up begins it’ll be three versus two in submarines, and eighteen to twelve, against, in loaded tubes.

Tubes to the front of us, tubes to the left of us….

Jeffrey’s brain changed gears. Now came the really hard part. He knew he needed to make a choice, then stick with it to the bitter end. The fact that Milgrom hadn’t detected the 214 with her latest ping suggested that it was farther away than he’d hoped, probably still heading north-northeast along the shore.

To break away from Ohio and do an independent pursuit of the 214 would violate that prime war-fighting rule, concentration of forces. Head to head, in isolation, Challenger could overwhelm the milch cow, but he’d leave Parcelli against the 212s outnumbered two to one in vessels, and outgunned twelve to four in tubes. No amount of arrogance and fancy tech on Parcelli’s part would make up for such long odds.

No, I have to stay on Parcelli’s tail, and keep acting as his wingman, like it or not. When we draw closer, I can try to reach him via secure undersea acoustic link. Then he’d better do what I say, and I can properly coordinate the engagement.

“Helm, maintain course zero-four-five. Ahead flank.”

Meltzer acknowledged. Challenger began to regain speed.

Jeffrey pursed his lips.

I can feel each one of these half-blind, nerve-racking sprints take a toll on my cardiovascular system. This can’t be good for my health.

But, what the heck? We could all be dead in an hour anyway.

At times like this, Jeffrey knew, an hour was an eternity.

“Fire Control,” Jeffrey addressed Bell by his formal role during an approach and attack. “How many torpedoes could those Two-twelves still have? Assume they used an external harness to carry some of their cruise missiles.”

Bell motioned for Torelli to join the discussion. “Figure a cruise missile is about the size of four naval mines?”

Torelli nodded. “So twenty-four mines means the harness could hold six missiles, in protective capsules, say.”

“Given the total number of missiles we know were launched,” Bell said, “and assuming each Two-twelve came with a full six torpedoes in her torpedo room plus a missile or torpedo in each of her six tubes, they’d have what left?”

“About ten torpedoes apiece,” Torelli said.

“A salvo of six, and then a salvo of four,” Jeffrey stated. “Maybe. Maximum. We don’t know how much space they used up for missiles they fired toward Newport News well after we departed.”

“Concur,” Bell and Torelli said together.

“But we have to assume the worst, including that the Two-fourteen has a full load.”

“Two salvos of six,” Bell said. “If those are the tactics they follow.”

“It’ll be a close call as to who runs out first,” Jeffrey said. “Them out of torpedoes, or us and Ohio out of antitorpedo rockets.”

Chapter 12

Twenty minutes and almost twenty miles later, Jeffrey ordered Meltzer to slow the ship and turn in a circle again. Jeffrey dared not go farther without another check for targets and threats. The icons on his computerized tactical plot were mere abstractions, but he knew that what they stood for was totally real. The positions of the pair of 212s was an estimate, but that was far better than nothing. What scared him most was the phantom that didn’t even have an estimate icon: the milch-cow 214, whereabouts completely unknown.

Jeffrey dearly wished he could trail his ship’s special fiber-optic towed array. This new array, installed before his previous mission, had three parallel lines of sensors instead of just one. The array was ideal in hunting for diesel subs in shallow waters.

But Jeffrey was handcuffed. The array took many minutes to reel out on the special winch and then reel it all back in again. The array didn’t work at flank speed, and might even be damaged by flow drag through the ocean at such high velocity. In water so constricted, with many uncharted wrecks on this part of the U.S. Eastern Seaboard, the danger of snagging the array and losing it altogether was serious.

But unless I detect the Two-fourteen soon… Whoever gets in the first accurate salvo in a sub- on-sub engagement usually wins.

Somewhere out there is a strong steel tube, half as long as Challenger and only one quarter the weight. But she has two dozen officers and men inside, each of them hell- bent on destroying my ship. And they’re doing what they’re best at — staying invisible, toying with me.

The pair of smaller 212s and their crews in front of Parcelli’s mad dash were bad enough.

Challenger continued making another gradual turn. Once more Jeffrey, torn by frustration, waited for word from Milgrom on any contacts.

“Sir,” Meltzer reported, “my course is zero-four-five.”

The ship had completed another circle.

“Sonar, anything?”

“Nothing on our passive hull arrays, Captain.”

“Very well, Sonar…. Helm, my intention is to resume flank speed on course zero-four-five after doing another active search.”

“Understood, sir.”

“Sonar, ping on—”

“Torpedoes in the water!” a sonar man screamed. “Multiple Seehecht torpedoes inbound, bearing two-nine- zero, range twelve thousand yards!” West-northwest, six nautical miles. All sonar contacts were listed with true bearings, as if from a compass centered on Jeffrey’s own ship; Challenger’s course wasn’t relevant.

The Two-fourteen has sprung its trap.

Jeffrey needed good information now more than ever.

“Sonar, go active, melee search mode.”

Challenger’s bow sphere emitted another powerful crescendo chorus of sound.

Data started pouring in.

Milgrom called out each contact.

Bell updated the tactical plot.

Jeffrey hated what he saw. Ohio was directly ahead of Challenger, by four miles. She’d slowed to do her own target search. The 214, contact designated Master 1, was off to the left, in between them — past Challenger’s port bow, and in the broad blind spot of Ohio’s baffles. Both class 212s, contacts designated Master 2 and Master 3, were ahead of Ohio, as Jeffrey expected, by about another ten thousand yards — one beyond Ohio’s port bow and one beyond her starboard bow.

The German subs used updated Seehecht torpedoes, wire-guided from the parent sub. The Seehechts’ top speed was almost forty knots; Jeffrey could outrun them easily. But the Seehechts were much faster than Ohio, so the last thing Jeffrey could do now was run. Ohio badly needed Jeffrey’s help, even though all vessels were still well inside the two-hundred-mile limit, so German