Straits of Power

The inner effects of fear and worry, or excitement and battle lust, that people around him were feeling, Jeffrey was unable to see. Thoughts of home and family, prayers, grim determination, or daydreams of valor and glory? He could only guess. Tightened chests, churning stomachs, cramping intestines, these he imagined all too well from how his own body protested.

Jeffrey knew he had to say something, do something, for himself and for everyone else.

“Chief of the Watch,” Jeffrey ordered in as calm and routine a tone as he could muster, “put gravimeter display and tactical plot on all periscope-imagery monitors.”

COB acknowledged. The unused, darkened screens around the control room came alive.

Now at least they all saw what Jeffrey saw. He couldn’t make the risks and the burdens any less than they truly were, but he could make this gesture of sharing. Sharing the one thing that, as warriors with no turning back now, they’d crave the most: information, situational awareness, the big picture of what was going on outside the hull and beyond the narrow horizons of their individual consoles.

The gravimeter showed the shorelines of occupied Morocco and Spain. It showed the hills and mountains beyond, and the folds and humps and pillars in the seafloor under the water. It showed Morocco and Spain getting closer and closer together, and the water ahead getting shallower.

Another distant rumble sounded over the sonar speakers.

“Loud explosion bearing three-two-five,” Milgrom reported, “non-nuclear, range ninety thousand yards.” Closer than the previous blast; Milgrom’s voice was controlled, but subdued.

“Captain,” Bell said, “enemy platforms converging on site of explosions.”

Jeffrey watched the tactical plot on his screen. Crewmen without the same data on their consoles glanced at the monitors very briefly, when they dared shift their gazes from fixating on their own displays.

German airplanes and helos were dashing to join the escalating fight between their brethren on the one hand, and Dreadnought and Texas on the other. Enemy surface warships went to flank speed, and headed northwest like the aircraft. Merchant shipping altered course to stay well clear.

“Sonar, status of any submerged contacts to northwest?”

“No submerged contacts held, sir.”

It was too far, and Dreadnought and the sacrificial hulk of the semi-salvaged Texas were too quiet. Jeffrey knew he’d asked a dumb, impatient question: New contacts were always reported immediately, without prompting from him.

“Nature of detonations?”

“No torpedo engines detected yet. Conjecture weapons expended were Axis mines or depth bombs.”

“Very well, Sonar.” Did Dreadnought use an off-board probe to set off a mine on purpose? A faked blunder to draw attention, as was her job?

Jeffrey hated not knowing what was happening with the two Allied submarines forty-five miles away. “Fire Control, status of communications with Ohio?”

“Acoustic-link carrier waves still open in both directions, sir.”

Jeffrey’s task group was keeping in formation with each other, and maintaining a sonar signature with as few changes as possible, by sending a steady stream of random numbers through the low-probability-of-intercept acoustic link. The transmissions served as navigation beacons or running lights that — hopefully — only the task group units could hear, and that neither unit would lose.

“Sir,” Milgrom called out, “aspect change on Master Four-two.” Master 42 was a passive sonar contact held on the bow sphere and the port wide-aperture array. She was a German antisubmarine frigate, of the modern Brandenburg class. “Master Four-two relative bearing now constant, signal strength increasing.”

“Master Four-two is approaching us, sir,” Bell reported.

“Blade-rate increase on Master Four-two,” Milgrom said. “Flank-speed blade rate, sir!”

The tactical plot showed the Brandenburg accelerating toward thirty knots — faster than Challenger dared go because she’d be too noisy, and faster than Ohio could possibly go. The frigate, a formidable type of warship somewhat smaller than a destroyer, was coming from west-northwest, pinning Jeffrey’s task group against the African shore. She was only twenty nautical miles away, closing fast, and she carried four torpedo tubes and a pair of Super Lynx sub-hunting helos.

Jeffrey regretted having put the tactical plot on the unused periscope monitors: A shock wave of consternation ran through the control-room crew, more than would have been the case without all those reminders of the peril that was increasing for Challenger and Ohio every moment.

Barely at the portal to the Strait, and already we’re detected and trapped.

As if to foreshadow their doom, another loud explosion sounded in the distance, and Milgrom reported Axis torpedo engine noises near where Texas and Dreadnought would be.

“Captain,” Bell said, interrupting Jeffrey’s thoughts, “Ohio signals, ‘What are your intentions regarding Brandenburg?’ ”

“Signal Ohio, ‘Steady as you go.’ ”

Bell looked surprised, but repeated the message aloud and then had it sent. Parcelli acknowledged.

Milgrom reported more explosions in the distance, and Allied as well as Axis torpedo-engine sounds.

The Brandenburg was still closing.

As the reverb from the distant torpedo warheads died away, Milgrom reported two airborne contacts approaching at over a hundred knots.

The Brandenburg’s sub-hunter helos, working as a team, just like in our own standard doctrine.

“Contact on acoustic intercept,” Milgrom almost shouted. She steadied herself. “Axis air-dropped active sonobuoys.”

“Close enough to detect us?” Jeffrey demanded. He couldn’t hear them on the speakers.

“Not yet, sir. But helo search pattern developing suggests high risk of detection at their closest point of approach.”

“Sir,” Bell said, “Ohio signaling, ‘Repeat, Flagship, what are your intentions?’ ”

“Fire Control, reply to Ohio, ‘Repeat, steady as you go.’ ”

“Sir,” Bell objected, “you heard what Sonar said, they’ll be on top of us any minute.”

“Send the message to Ohio as I dictated.”

Bell acknowledged, and then Parcelli acknowledged receipt.

“Listen up, people,” Jeffrey said. “We don’t know for sure that the Brandenburg knows we’re here. The Axis might just be checking this area in case the two Allied subs they’re fighting off Trafalgar are a diversion.”

“But, sir, that means the diversion failed.”

“No, XO, it means the Axis aren’t stupid. We’ll have to make a mini-diversion of our own and hope our stealth holds up.”

“Captain?” Bell was obviously confused.

“They’re working hard to make a contact on any Allied sub or subs near Morocco, correct? Let’s satisfy their appetite. Give them something to detect.”

“Sir?”

“Fire Control,” Jeffrey snapped, “program brilliant decoy in tube seven to sound like HMS Dreadnought.” Jeffrey studied the tactical plot, and weighed the range and speed of the Brandenburg and her two helos. The picture was kinetic, dynamic, making it very hard to project ahead.

“Captain,” Bell said, “Dreadnought is presumed detected well northwest. Enemy will know our decoy is a decoy.”

“Exactly. Have decoy run at stealthy speed due north for five minutes.” For Jeffrey’s trick to work, he couldn’t rush it, but five minutes was cutting things close. “Then have decoy go to Dreadnought’s flank speed on course zero-eight-zero.” Toward the mouth of the Straits; the real Dreadnought was as fast as Challenger.