“Weapons Control — TAO. Cease fire on all guns!”
“Weapons Control, aye!”
The deck heeled to port as the ship began a switchback turn in the opposite direction. The guns stopped firing, leaving a strange, ear-ringing silence in their wake.
Over the 29-MC, the Sonar Supervisor shouted, “Hostile torpedo is
“Crack the whip!” Chief McPherson said into her mike. “Crack the whip!”
The ship heeled again as the bridge threw the destroyer into a second set of switchback turns.
“It’s not going to work,” a voice said from over her shoulder.
The chief turned to see Captain Bowie standing behind her, his eyes glued to the CDRT’s tactical display. “It’s not going to work,” he said again. His voice was quiet, almost as if he was talking to himself rather than her.
The captain swung the microphone of his comm-set up to his mouth and keyed into the tactical net. “Bridge — Captain. Bring the port screw on line! I want all engines ahead flank right
The OOD’s voice came back over the net immediately. “Bring the port screw on line, all engines ahead flank — Bridge, aye!”
A metallic groan resonated through the ship, and the damaged port screw began to turn. The sound gained rapidly in pitch and volume as the mangled propeller came up to speed, rising from a groan to an ear-splitting shriek that rivaled even the explosive hammering of the now-silent guns.
The sound turned Chief McPherson’s blood to ice water. In torpedo evasion, sound was the enemy. An acoustic torpedo could home in on a sound source like a bloodhound sniffing out a fox.
“Captain!” Chief McPherson said. “The torpedo can
“I know,” the captain said. His eyes never wandered from the flashing torpedo symbol on the tactical display.
“Sir! Speed won’t help us now! We can’t outrun this thing! And it’s going to follow that howling screw right up our ass!”
“Let’s hope so,” the captain said. He keyed his mike. “Bridge — Captain. Starboard engines all stop! Port engines maintain flank speed!”
Chief McPherson stared at her commanding officer in abject disbelief.
“Sir! What are you …”
“We can’t stop this torpedo from hitting us,” the captain said. “But maybe we can control
The chief frowned. “You’re saying it’s safer to get shot in the gut than in the head?”
“That’s the idea,” the captain said, his gaze still not wavering from the flashing red torpedo symbol. “Of course, a gut shot can kill you too, but it’s the only chance we’ve got.” He punched his comm-set into the 1-MC general announcing circuit. When he spoke, his voice came out of every speaker on the ship. “All hands, this is the Captain. Brace for shock!”
The fifth-generation computer that formed R-92’s digital brain noted the changes in signal strength caused by the target’s evasive maneuvers.
R-92 was not fooled by the target’s bobs and weaves. Over two-thirds of the 152 miniature sonar transducers in R-92’s acoustic seeker head had strong signal locks on the target. And then — improbably — the target signal grew even louder, giving R-92 a better acoustic lock.
R-92 did a range calculation on the target and determined that it was approaching optimum range for detonation. It sent a coded digital pulse to its warhead, initiating the final arming sequence.
R-92 did not know anything about the people it was programmed to kill. It had no understanding of politics, or national boundaries, or the fates of men. The torpedo had no way of knowing that the successful destruction of its target would point the future of the human race toward all-out war, whereas the failure to destroy its target would create a respite in which careful and thoughtful men might still be able to salvage the peace. The machine that was about to become the axis upon which history turned was not aware of history at all.
The weapon checked its depth and adjusted the angle of its elevator fins to take it under the hull of the target. Satisfied that its calculations were accurate, R-92 closed in for the kill.
The torpedo reached its optimum attack depth of twelve meters at the same instant the target’s acoustic signal strength hit its peak. R-92’s digital brain transmitted one final signal, and 250 kilograms of plasticized-hexite high-explosive erupted into an expanding shock wave of fire and vaporized water.
The torpedo impacted on the port screw, near the after-edge of the huge hole left by the previous torpedo hit. The explosion crashed into the ship like the fist of God, rolling the destroyer onto her starboard side, ripping through the already damaged hull, and letting in tons of seawater.
All over the ship, people and unsecured equipment slid down the swiftly tilting deck toward the starboard side. The angle of the deck was crazy now, and still the wounded ship continued its roll.
Chief McPherson careened across the deck of CIC, her speed increasing as the slant became even steeper. Her shoulder slammed into the base of an Aegis radar console, and she screamed as she felt her bones shatter with horribly audible crunches.
The ship hung there for what seemed an eternity, wallowing on her starboard side, as though considering whether or not to complete the death roll and give herself up to the waves.
Someone screamed, “We’re going under!”
But then, with agonizing slowness, the wounded ship began to right herself. She finally settled, with a heavy list to port — where the water was still pouring in.
Captain Bowie tried to claw his way to his feet. His left knee was badly wrenched, broken maybe, and every movement brought nauseating waves of pain.
“The nets are down,” he hissed. “TAO, get a messenger to CCS! I want damage control teams down there now!”
He turned to the XO, who was just beginning to try to stand. “You all right, Pete?”
The XO’s face was a mask of pain. His arms were wrapped tightly around his chest. He staggered but managed to stand. “Broken … ribs …
I think.” He gritted his teeth and stood up a little straighter. “Yes, sir, Captain. I’m okay.”
The captain stared at him for several long seconds before speaking.
“Good. See what you can do to put this place back together; the Sirajis might not be done shooting at us.” He took a painful step and his knee nearly collapsed. His vision narrowed, and he had to grab a console to steady himself. “I’m going up to the bridge and see if I can still get some fight out of this old girl.”
The XO nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Chief McPherson lay on the deck, a fetal ball of pain and dizziness.
Her comm-set was missing. She tried to turn her head to look for it, and the pain came down on her like an ax. She squeezed her eyes shut, and hot tears ran down her cheeks. She blinked them away.
An Operations Specialist who was just climbing to his feet looked down at her. The young man’s right cheek was bleeding, and it was clear that he was going to have two black eyes. “We made it, Chief! We’re still here!”
Hobbling as he was, it took Captain Bowie ten minutes to make it to the bridge. His left knee was already swelling, and each step he took got a little harder.
He staggered through the airlock and seized the back of the OOD’s chair to keep from falling down. “Officer of the Deck?”
