Seas of Crisis

“Two more torpedoes in the water. F-Seventeen Mod-Twos.” French-made, they could go forty knots, slow for an antisubmarine weapon, but more than adequate for a twenty-five-knot target.

The other submarine had to be American if it was firing Mark 48 ADCAPs. The latest version could go over sixty knots.

“Second submerged contact appears to be a newer Ohio-class SSBN. Possibly Nebraska or Wyoming.” The Ohio- class boomers were built for maximum stealth, not speed. They only carried a dozen torpedoes and decoys, for self-defense. Their main weapons were the strategic deterrence of two dozen ballistic missiles tipped with multiple hydrogen bombs.

Jeffrey told himself this didn’t make sense. All boomers were assigned specific patrol areas and transit routes, large but not infinite. Higher commanders would never send a boomer toward where two American fast- attacks were set to rendezvous.

There were more blasts, deafening to Jeffrey’s ears with this closer range and direct acoustic path, as torpedoes exploded against noisemakers or decoys or ice bummocks. The throb and whine and hiss of submarines trying to kill each other continued.

O’Hanlon said something to Finch while pointing at one of his displays. Finch studied it, and nodded. “Captain,” O’Hanlon called for Bell. “Am getting additional tonals, intermittent traces, weak, suggesting an S-Six-W reactor aboard the American sub. Not an S-Eight-G.”

“What?” Bell was incredulous.

“Confirmed! Conjecture American vessel is Seawolf class, emitting false tonals to disguise her identity!”

Jeffrey stood up. “How big is she?”

“Acoustic shadow profile against noise of ice cap suggests approximately four hundred fifty feet.”

Carter. It had to be. Seawolf was the same length as Challenger, about three hundred fifty feet. Real boomers were more like five hundred fifty feet. All three classes had the same beam — width — forty or forty-two feet.

“American submarine tentatively identified as USS Jimmy Carter,” Sessions announced.

“There’s nothing tentative about it,” Bell snapped.

“Harley’s been ambushed,” Jeffrey said. “He’s obeying his orders to not let Carter be detected. At least not detected as Carter.” There were two melee pings in fast succession, one much deeper in tone than the other.

“Active systems confirmed as one French, one probable Ohio class!” Even Harley’s sonar was mimicking a boomer.

In seconds, there were more torpedoes in the water, F-17s and ADCAPs screaming toward each other, their pitches shifting up and down from Doppler as their weapons techs steered them after moving targets — thus altering the speed at which they seemed to approach or move away from Challenger far below.

Both sides’ ROEs let them go tactical nuclear when more than two hundred miles from land. But the dueling subs were too close together for that in this melee — their own warheads would sink them right along with their opponent.

Bell turned to stare at Jeffrey. “If Harley limits himself to half his real flank speed, and acts like he only has four torpedo tubes instead of eight, and doesn’t dive deeper than an Ohio can, he’s terribly handicapped.”

“I know. What are the chances the Amethyste-Two might get off a report if we put a Mark Eighty-eight up her ass?”

The ultra-heavyweight Mark 88 fish were custom-made for Challenger, able to function as deep as the parent ship’s crush depth. With a diameter of twenty-six and a half inches, to entirely fill her extra-wide torpedo tubes, they came in both high-explosive and tactical atomic versions; twenty-one-inch-diameter ADCAPs could carry either type of warhead but would implode at about three thousand feet.

The noise of submarines got louder than ever, as the tactical plot showed each vessel spawning a twin.

“Assess both contacts have launched decoys!” a sonarman yelled. F-17s and ADCAPS continued to scream.

The ocean was shattered by more torpedo detonations. Echoes and reverb pounded and roared. Jeffrey heard broken-off bummocks grinding against the underside of the ice, as buoyant shards were tousled by the newly made turbulence. The thin ice cap itself was blown sky-high in chunks; the heavy pieces showered back down, smashing and splashing.

O’Hanlon said that both real subs were still in the fight.

But how much longer can Harley hold out?

“Mark Eighty-eight engine tonals are distinctive, Commodore,” Bell warned. “If the Germans hear them, they’ll know right away it’s us who did the shooting.”

“She may eventually realize that Carter is really Carter, whatever tricks Harley pulls. The way he’s fighting, Carter’s too evenly matched with the German. We need to tip the scales.”

“There are open polynyas within a few miles,” Bell stated. “The German could float delayed-action radio buoys through one, sir, timed for when their polar-orbit comms satellite makes its next pass. Report both us and Carter as identified in company.”

“You know we can’t possibly let that happen.”

“Unless we really smash the Amethyste-Two, she might reach the surface herself, for long enough to bounce a short-wave transmission from here to Berlin.”

“Then let’s smash her real good, and quick. Two high-explosive Mark Eighty- eights.”

“From this depth they’ll take more than a minute just to get up to target depth.”

“We have to chance it.”

“Understood.” Bell cleared his throat. “Attention in Control. Fire Control Coordinator, remove ADCAPs from tubes one and two, reload with high-explosive Mark Eighty-eights.”

Sessions relayed commands. Torelli and his people got very busy. Down in the torpedo room, the men and the hydraulic autoloader gear went to work, shifting weapons.

Up above, the dogfight continued to rage.

“Mark Eighty-eights loaded in tubes one and two!” Sessions shouted ferociously. These would be his first- ever warshots as Challenger’s XO.

“Very well, Fire Control,” Bell said clearly and deliberately. “Make tubes one and two ready in all respects including opening outer doors.”

Sessions issued more commands. Jeffrey watched on his weapons status display, copied into a window on his console’s lower screen. The tubes were flooded and equalized to the outside water pressure, and the outer tube doors opened.

Torelli ordered parameter presets to define search strategies for the homing weapons, in case the weapon guidance wires broke — and to protect Carter from friendly fire. The presets were sent electronically to the computers in each fish.

Both tube icons turned green on Jeffrey’s display, ready to fire.

“Ship ready. Weapons ready. Solution ready,” Torelli recited coolly.

“Firing point procedures,” Bell ordered, “tubes one and two. Target is the Amethyste-Two. Match sonar bearings and shoot.”

“Set…. Stand by…. Tube one, fire!… Tube two, fire! … Tubes one and two fired electrically!”

Both Mark 88 units swam out silently under their own power, to avoid making a launch transient that the Amethyste-II might detect. Quickly they went to attack speed, while weapons systems technicians controlled each unit through their wires, spreading them apart by a hundred yards.

“Both units running normally,” O’Hanlon confirmed.