Vipers.”
“TAO — Weapons Control. We are locked on and tracking all three Vipers. Request batteries released.”
Captain Culkins keyed the net. “This is the Captain. You have batteries released.”
Out on the forecastle, the Mark-13 missile launcher rotated up to the
The one-armed bandit slewed around and pointed the nose of its missile in the direction of the enemy Vipers. With a brilliant flash of light and an unholy roar, the SM-1 leapt off the rail on a trail of fiery smoke. The launcher swung back around to the zero position, and another missile slid up the rail.
“Torpedo impact in approximately ten seconds,” Chief McPherson said over the net. “Nine … Eight …”
“Bridge — Captain. Hard to starboard!”
“Bridge, aye!”
The ship heeled over sharply, and the bow swung to the right as the rudder shot around to the hard-over position. A fraction of a second later, the ship began to shudder as the blades on the starboard propeller rotated from full ahead to full astern, reversing the direction of thrust on the starboard side of the ship. The bow came around even faster, and the ship heeled over even farther as it reefed into the turn.
Chief McPherson shouted into her mike, “Three… Two… One… Impact!”
The acoustic signal strength from the transducers was close to optimal.
The torpedo dove toward twelve meters and slid under the target’s hull, exactly according to the targeting algorithm in its computer. But the calculations were off somehow. The target signal strength peaked before it should have and was falling off rapidly by the time the torpedo reached twelve meters.
The target had made a violent turn toward the torpedo at the last second, and the torpedo overshot its mark, rocketing under the hull and beginning to come out the other side before it could correct its course.
Had the DMA37 been a hair smarter, it might have aborted the arming sequence and swung back around for another pass at the target — one with better placement. But the arming conditions had been met, however briefly, and the computer followed its program. The detonating signal reached the warhead, and 250 kilograms of high- explosive erupted into an expanding sphere of fire and death.
For an instant, the underwater explosion illuminated the darkened ocean like a flash of lightning. A microsecond later, the shock wave smashed into the port side of the destroyer, lifting the stern completely out of the water, and rolling the ship far onto its starboard side.
With a shriek of rending metal, hull plates buckled and collapsed. The ship’s stern seemed to hang in the air for a second, apparently suspended on a mushrooming bubble of steam and fire. The keel began to bend.
Then the spell was broken, and the stern crashed back into the waves, throwing plumes of seawater fifty feet into the air. The whipsaw effect torqued the keel in the other direction, and the steel backbone of the ship groaned like a wounded animal, a resonating sound that rose through the deck plates at an incredible volume. But the keel held.
Emergency battle lanterns came on automatically as power failed through two-thirds of the ship. The lanterns cast circles of light in the darkened passageways, raising the illumination level from Stygian blackness to something approaching evening twilight. The engines had fallen silent, but the semidarkness was far from quiet. The screams of injured Sailors echoed through the passageways, their cries competing with the shouts of damage control crews and the torrential rumble of the rising floodwaters.
CIC was a shambles. Captain Bowie climbed to his feet. His ears were still ringing, and a gash across the left side of his forehead leaked blood across his face and into his eyes. He clamped his left hand over the laceration and used his right hand to wipe the blood from his eyes as best he could. He blinked and strained to see in the near darkness. “TAO!”
Lieutenant Nylander’s voice came from behind him. “Here, sir!”
The captain turned to see the Tactical Action Officer struggling to get to his feet. The lieutenant winced and clutched at his right knee. Then he stood with a visible effort, holding on to the edge of a console for support.
“Establish comms with CCS. I need damage reports, casualty reports, and a report on the status of damage- control efforts. I want to know how long before we can make way and how long before we can fight.”
“Aye-aye, sir!”
The captain reached for his comm-set and then realized that he had lost it. He looked around and selected a face at random. “Surface!”
“Yes, sir!”
“See if we can go out over Navy Red. If we can’t fight, maybe we can still run this show from the sidelines.”
“Aye-aye, sir.”
A minute later, the Surface Radar Officer made his report. “The HF transmitters are out, Captain. We can hear, but we can’t transmit. The techs are working on it now, but we don’t have an ETR yet.”
The captain nodded. “Very well.”
A very young and timid voice asked. “Captain? Are we going to sink, sir?”
The captain made no move to locate the owner of the voice. The young man was scared, and he had every right to be. There was no sense in singling him out. “No, son,” the captain said. “We are not going to sink. We’re going to kill those bastards. Every goddamned one of them.”
Radar confirmed the kill a second later. “Splash one!” the Weapons Control Officer shouted. Then, a few seconds later, “Splash two! Splash three!” He clenched his fists and waved them in the air. “We got ’em all!” He let go with a loud wolf whistle. “And
Captain Culkins smiled. “Nice shooting.” This fight was far from over, but he could let them have a few seconds of self-congratulatory fun.
They’d earned it.
He keyed up Navy Red. “SAU Commander, this is
There was no reply.
Captain Culkins keyed up again and repeated his message.
Again, there was no answer.
This time, he went out to
“
Captain Culkins frowned.
