couldn’t turn west, toward the torpedoes of
“Holy mother of God,” said Commander Ortiz in a quiet voice.
Flashing red hostile-torpedo symbols were popping up all over the tactical display — five of them so far. While he watched, a sixth enemy torpedo appeared.
Blue friendly-torpedo symbols began springing up as the ships conducted counterattacks against the submarines. At the moment, no one held sonar contact on any of the subs, so the ships were reduced to firing down the bearings of the incoming torpedoes.
The sub-surface part of the tactical plot was a few seconds behind real time. The carrier was too noisy to carry its own sonar, so it had to rely on the sonar systems of its escorts. It took a few seconds for symbols and updates to percolate through the Tactical Data Link, which meant that every torpedo that appeared on the screen had been in the water for at least two or three seconds by the time the computer assigned it a symbol.
“This is going to hell in a hand basket,” Admiral Joiner said. “Tell the bridge to take us up to flank speed and get us the hell out of here.”
Commander Ortiz looked up at the tactical display. “We’re at flank speed now, sir. Which way do we run?”
“South!” the admiral said. “It’s the only clear vector. Turn us south, now!”
Ortiz relayed the admiral’s orders to the bridge and then returned his eyes to the tactical display as the big ship began to come about. “We’re being herded,” he said. “We’re being systematically isolated from our screening units.”
The admiral nodded. “Just what I was thinking,” he said. “But I don’t see where we have a lot of options at the moment. We sure as hell can’t turn back toward those torpedoes!”
Groeler watched the situation unfold on his tactical plot. The Americans were reacting as he had expected, which was to say in accordance with their tactical doctrine. It was good doctrine, as far as it went, but it did have a few weaknesses. He was about to show the Americans what those weaknesses were.
The carrier was running toward him now. It was close; too close to dodge his torpedoes.
According to standing tactical doctrine, it was time to come to periscope depth and take a final peek at his target through the attack scope before shooting. It wasn’t just doctrine, either. The idea was so deeply ingrained into the minds of the submarine force that it had taken on nearly religious significance; you
Groeler knew without looking that his Control Room crew were watching him out of the corners of their eyes. They had practiced this shot in the simulators a hundred times, but it was such a fundamental violation of basic tactical principles that none of them could really believe that he would actually try it under combat conditions. Behind his back, they called it
“Stand by to fire salvo one,” he snapped. “Three torpedoes, shallow run, fifteen degree spread.” He checked the current sonar bearing to his target. “Centered on zero-two-zero.”
He took a breath and held it for several seconds. “Fire!”
Three quick tremors ran through the deck as a trio of Ozeankriegsfuhrungtechnologien DMA37 torpedoes were rammed out of their launch tubes by columns of high-pressure water.
An instant later, the Sonar Operator called out, “I have start-up on all three weapons.”
“Estimate fourteen seconds to impact,” the Fire Control Officer said.
“Right full rudder,” Groeler said. “Ten degrees down-angle on the forward planes.” This was one part of the tactical doctrine that he could not ignore. He had to separate himself from his firing bearing and depth as quickly as possible; without an actual contact to shoot at, the Americans would fire their own torpedoes down the bearing from which his torpedoes had come. Doctrine again.
“Sir, my rudder is right full,” the helmsman said. “My dive bubble is down ten degrees.”
“Torpedoes two and three have acquired,” the Sonar Operator said.
Groeler frowned. “What about torpedo one?”
“It’s gone astray, Kapitan. Sounds like it’s a bad fish.”
“Ten seconds to impact,” the Fire Control Officer said.
The Sonar Operator’s voice came over the speaker again. “They’ve detected our weapons, sir. Target is altering course to starboard.”
“Too late,” Groeler said. “Much too late.”
“Target is launching acoustic decoys,” the Sonar Operator said.
“Too late,” Groeler said again — a whisper this time.
“Impact in five seconds,” the Fire Control Officer said. “Four … three
… two … one … Weapons on top!”
Ortiz grabbed the edge of a radar console with both hands. “Brace for shock!”
His words were drowned out by the first explosion. The deck of the huge ship lurched violently as the shock wave surged down the length of the keel. The point of impact was on the starboard side, several hundred feet forward of Flag Plot, and at least nine decks down, but the intensity of the concussion was still unbelievably fierce.
A pipe ruptured in the overhead, spewing water in every direction. A third class Operations Specialist screamed as the shower of water shorted out the electronics in his console, making his body the path of lowest electrical resistance. For an instant, his muscles went rigid as four hundred forty volts of alternating current surged through his flesh and internal organs, finding its path to ground through the soles of his feet. Then, a circuit breaker tripped, cutting the power to the console, and he sank lifelessly back into his chair, the air around him permeated with the smells of ozone and singed meat.
The ship rolled heavily to port. Something hit Commander Ortiz from behind, throwing him against his console and then knocking him to the deck. The lights flickered, and it took him a second to realize that the hurtling object that had laid him out was another person — someone who hadn’t been properly braced for the explosion. The lights flickered again and then came back on. The ship had begun settling back toward starboard when the second torpedo found its mark and exploded.
The Ozeankriegsfuhrungtechnologien DMA37 torpedo had been designed as a ship killer. Programmed to dive under the target’s hull before detonating, it carried a 250-kilogram high-explosive warhead powerful enough to shatter the keel of any ship the size of a cruiser or smaller. To make matters worse, as the explosion ripped through the steel hull plates, a white-hot bubble of expanding gases would flash-vaporize the water directly below the ship’s keel. Combined with the devastating effects of the explosion, the nearly incalculable stress created by the sudden loss of all support beneath the hull was frequently enough to break a ship in half.
But at 82,000 tons,
The wounded aircraft carrier slowed a few knots and began to list to starboard as water poured in through the two enormous holes in her hull.
