Straits of Power

“No depth charges dropped or torpedo-engine sounds,” Milgrom whispered hoarsely once her chief and his men were positive.

Everyone, including Jeffrey, tried to breathe normally.

We sure are doing the unexpected. No nuclear submarine captain in his right mind would go through the Malta Channel if he had any choice. The deep water with its seamount maze was a much more logical tactic.

Not for the first time, Jeffrey asked himself if he’d done the right thing choosing to steer this way, or if he’d let down everyone whose survival depended on his leadership judgment.

And then, before his eyes, the bottom suddenly dropped off to 600 feet, then 1,500, then 6,000, and then 10,000. Jeffrey had been so preoccupied that he was startled to see that they were through the Malta Channel, safe. The Ionian Basin beckoned, the deepest part of the Med.

“Yee-haw,” the exhausted assistant navigator, a senior chief from Galveston, murmured under his breath. He typed and called up a different chart on the digital-plotting table, repeated on Jeffrey’s console screen; the Malta Channel vanished.

“Yee-haw is right,” Jeffrey answered out loud. Challenger’s course remained steady, east. The African coastline veered away south, while the heel and toe of Italy lay far north. Well ahead stood occupied Greece.

“Chief of the Watch, secure from battle stations.” Officers, chiefs, and other enlisted crewmen began to unwind, waiting for their regular watch-standing reliefs to arrive.

Two minutes later, Gerald Parker strolled in. “May I observe, Captain? Sheer curiosity. I’ve barely seen your control room since we set sail.”

Jeffrey wished Parker would just go away. The chemistry between the two was bad and not getting better. Their personal styles, their outlooks on life, the professional worlds in which they moved were too different. Dinner chitchat in the wardroom kept making this painfully clear. Jeffrey tried every human-relationship management tool he’d been taught over the years as part of his navy training, but Parker saw through them at once. He always bobbed and weaved, as if he were subtly taunting Jeffrey. His attitude stayed adversarial, and he never let down his guard. His goal appeared to be to show Jeffrey that the CIA man was vastly sharper at reading personalities, spotting needs and motivations, and exploiting weaknesses to manipulate people. He never gave an inch, never offered a single gesture of trust, and never tired of verbal jousting — he actually seemed to enjoy it.

But Jeffrey couldn’t exactly lock Parker in a stateroom between meals and head visits, and the man had an important role to play soon as Peapod’s handler. Jeffrey felt an obligation to respect him, but he didn’t have to like the guy. He showed Parker where to sit without getting in anyone’s way — at the unused photonics mast-control console, aft of the navigation table.

More crewmen arrived to take the places of those who’d been manning battle stations. Sonar men pulled off their headphones and handed them to fresh people when the new arrivals stated they were ready to relieve them. Lieutenant Milgrom waited until last, as a senior chief stood there to take over from her. She suddenly reacted, as if she’d been hit with a baseball bat.

“Aircraft overflight!” she shouted. “Multiple inbound aircraft! Helos and patrol planes converging from west and north! Sonobuoys! Active sonobuoys at very close range!”

Chapter 30

Jeffrey cursed, guessing instantly what had happened: That previous near-miss overflight carried LASH, and saw at least one of the submarines. It radioed in a report, a German commander somewhere made a decision and issued orders, and now armed aircraft were swarming in coordinated, overwhelming force.

“Battle stations,” Jeffrey snapped. “Sonar, suppress the hull echoes.”

“Echoes suppressed! Port wide-aperture array detecting sonobuoy echoes off Ohio rudder and screw!”

If Milgrom can hear them, the Germans might too.

There was pandemonium in Jeffrey’s control room, caught transitioning from battle stations to regular watch keeping and suddenly going to battle stations again. Challenger crewmen who’d just left ran back. Everyone tried to trade places at once. The compartment became much too crowded. A lieutenant (j.g.) tripped and fell as he passed the helm to Meltzer. Meltzer stepped on the other man’s kneecap to get buckled in at the wheel. Bell dashed from aft and practically tore a junior officer out of the fire-control-coordinator seat.

“More air-dropped active sonobuoys,” Milgrom called out.

“Rig for deep submergence!” Jeffrey shouted. “Rig for depth charge!” COB acknowledged. “Helm, emergency deep! Down-bubble forty degrees! Increase speed to twenty-six knots.”

Meltzer acknowledged, his Bronx accent thick, always a sign that he felt stressed. He pushed in on his control wheel until it was almost flush with his instrument panel.

Challenger’s bow nosed steeply down — uncomfortably, desperately so. Jeffery hated doing this, but the ship came first, not the people aboard her. Crewmen still playing musical chairs lost their balance or their grips on fittings. They grabbed for each other, for anything, or slid forward on the treacherous ramp that the flame-proof linoleum deck had become. The unlucky or clumsy ones lay piled in a heap at the front of the space. Two essential fire-control-men stations ended up empty. A stocky chief, dancing to try to stay upright as his shoes couldn’t hold against gravity, crashed into the tactical plot on the bulkhead — now tilted wildly off vertical — next to COB’s position. The display screen went blank. Jeffrey’s seat belt bit into his abdomen, and he was almost folded double while his console top sloped away from him at an outrageous angle.

Challenger gained speed and kept plunging deeper.

“Fire Control,” Jeffrey shouted, “to Ohio, break formation. Commence full evasive measures. Weapons free at your discretion.” Jeffrey had his orders from Hodgkiss; so did Captain Parcelli.

Bell typed madly on his keyboard. “Ohio acknowledges!.. We can’t just abandon them, sir!”

“We need to, we can, and we will.”

“Surface impacts!” Milgrom yelled. “Depth-charge pattern!” The range and bearing she gave were almost identical to Ohio’s.

Rumbling detonations sounded at shallower depth. Challenger shook but kept diving. She passed through five thousand feet.

“Helm, take her to the bottom, make your course due east!”

“You’re running?” Gerald Parker yelled as the depth-charge reverb died down. “You can’t just leave them there defenseless!”

“They’re not defenseless,” Jeffrey snapped.

“Sir,” Bell said, “we need to do something. They have Ohio localized!.. Acoustic link to Ohio broken!”

“We’re doing what we’re supposed to do, XO.”

More depth charges went off. Challenger’s disarrayed crew was buffeted violently. Men tried to claw their way uphill against the tilt of the deck to reach their stations.

“Torpedoes in the water,” Milgrom screamed. “Air-dropped, export-model Mark Forty-sixes.” Used by the Germans. “Ranges and bearings indicate the aircraft have Ohio surrounded.”

Jeffrey heard the torpedo engines scream. Then he heard gurgling, bubbling sounds. Parcelli launched noisemakers.

Above the other racket he heard dull booms.

“Reactor check valves,” Milgrom stated.

“Ohio’s going to flank speed,” Bell said, in disbelief that this whole thing was happening.

“Negative!” Milgrom said. “More check valves, different bearing!” Jeffrey couldn’t hear them this time. He still had a tactical plot on his console but the data was unreliable.