targets lined up for the missile attack-I figured we'd hit with our missiles first, then go in with torpedoes-'
'Sounds good to me,' Simms agreed.
'And somebody else launches his own torpedo attack. Screwed everything up. We lofted three Harpoons, but a helo saw us do it, and, bingo! we had the bastards all over us.' McCafferty pulled open the door to the Officers Club. 'I need a drink!'
'Hell, yes!' Simms laughed. 'Everything looks better after a few beers. Hey, that sort of thing happens. Luck changes, Danny.' Simms leaned over the bar. 'Two strong ones.'
'As you say, Commander.' A white-coated steward drew two mugs of warm, dark beer. Simms picked up the bill and led his friend to a corner booth. There was some sort of small party going on at the far end of the room.
'Danny, for crying out loud, let up on yourself. Not your fault that Ivan didn't send you any targets, is it?'
McCafferty took a long pull on his mug. Two miles away Chicago was reprovisioning. They'd be in port for two days. Boston and another 688-class sub were tied to the same quay, with another pair due in later today.
They were to be outfitted for a special mission, but they didn't yet know what it was. In the meantime, the officers and crewmen were using their modicum of free time to breathe fresh air and unwind. 'You're right, Todd, right as ever.'
'Good. Have some pretzels. Looks like quite a shindig over there. How about we wander over?' Simms lifted his beer and walked to the end of the room.
They found a gathering of submarine officers, which was not a surprise, but the center of attention was. He was a Norwegian captain, a blond man of about thirty who clearly hadn't been sober for several hours. As soon as he drained one jar of beer, a Royal Navy commander handed him another.
'I must find the man who save us!' the Norwegian insisted loudly and drunkenly.
'What gives?' Simms asked. Introductions were exchanged. The Royal Navy officer was captain of HMS Oberon.
'This is the chappie who blasted Kirov all the way back to Murmansk,' he said. 'He tells the story about every ten minutes. About time for him to begin again.'
'Son of a bitch,' McCafferty said. This was the guy who had sunk his target! Sure enough, the Norwegian began speaking again.
'We make our approach slowly. They come right'-he belched-'to us, and we creep very slow. I put periscope up, and there he is! Four thousand meters, twenty knots, he will pass within five hundred meters starboard.' The beer mug swept toward the floor. 'Down periscope! Arne-where are you, Arne? Oh, is drunk at table. Arne is weapons officer. He set to fire four torpedoes. Type thirty-seven, American torpedoes.' He gestured at the two American officers who had just joined the crowd.
Four Mark-37s! McCafferty winced at the thought. That could ruin your whole day.
'Kirov is very close now. Up periscope! Course same, speed same, distance now two thousand meters-I shoot! One! Two! Three! Four! Reload and dive deep.'
'You're the guy who ruined my approach!' McCafferty shouted.
The Norwegian almost appeared sober for a moment. 'Who are you?'
'Dan McCafferty, USS Chicago.
'You were there?'
'Yes.'
'You shoot missiles?'
'Yes.'
'Hero!' The Norwegian submarine commander ran to McCafferty, almost knocking him down as he wrapped the American in a crushing bear hug. 'You save my men! You save my ship!'
'What the hell is this?' Simms asked.
'Oh, introductions,' said a Royal Navy captain. 'Captain Bjorn Johannsen of His Norwegian Majesty's submarine Kobben. Captain Daniel McCafferty of USS Chicago.'
'After we shoot Kirov, they come around us like wolves. Kirov blow up-'
'Four fish? I believe it,' Simms agreed.
'Russians come to us with cruiser, two destroyers,' Johannsen continued, now quite sober. 'We, ah, evade, go deep, but they find us and fire their RBU rockets-many, many rockets. Most far, some close. We reload and I shoot at cruiser.'
'You hit her?'
'One hit, hurt but not sink. This take, I am not sure, ten minutes, fifteen. It was very busy time, yes?'
'Me, too. We came in fast, flipped on the radar. There were three ships where we thought Kirov was.'
'Kirov was sunk-blow up! What you see was cruiser and two destroyers. Then you shoot missiles, yes?' Johannsen's eyes sparkled.
'Three Harpoons. A Helix saw the launch and came after us. We evaded, never did know if the missiles hit anything.'
'Hit? Hah! Let me tell you.' Johannsen gestured. 'We dead, battery down. We have damage now, cannot run. We already evade four torpedoes, but they have us now. Sonar have us. Destroyer fire RBU at us. First three miss, but they have us. Then-Boom! Boom! Boom! Many more. Destroyer blow up. Other hit, but not sink, I think.
'We escape.' Johannsen hugged McCafferty again, and both spilled their beer on the floor. The American had never seen a Norwegian display this much emotion, even around his wife. 'My crew alive because of you, Chicago! I buy you drink. I buy all your men drink.'
'You are sure we killed that tin can?'
'You not kill,' Johannsen said. 'My ship dead, my men dead, I dead. You kill.' A destroyer wasn't exactly as good as sinking a nuclear-powered battle cruiser, McCafferty told himself, but it was a whole lot better than nothing, too. And a piece of another, he reminded himself. And who knows, maybe that one sank on the way home.
'Not too shabby, Dan,' Simms observed.
'Some people,' said the skipper of HMS Oberon, 'have all the bloody luck!'
'You know, Todd,' said the commanding officer of USS Chicago, 'this is pretty good beer.'
There were only two bodies to bury. Another fourteen men were missing and presumed dead, but for all that, Morris counted himself fortunate. Twenty sailors were injured to one extent or another. Clarke's broken forearm, a number of broken ankles from the shock of the torpedo impact, and a half-dozen bad scaldings from ruptured steam pipes. That didn't count minor cuts from flying glass.
Morris read through the ceremony in the manual, his voice emotionless as he went through the words about the sure and certain hope of how the sea will one day give up her dead… On command the seamen tilted up the mess tables. The bodies wrapped in plastic bags and weighted with steel slid out from under the flags, dropping straight into the water. It was ten thousand feet deep here, a long last trip for his executive officer and a third-class gunner's mate from Detroit. The rifle salute followed, but not taps. There was no one aboard who could play a trumpet, and the tape recorder was broken. Morris closed the book.
'Secure and carry on.'
The flags were folded properly and taken to the sail locker. The mess tables were carried below and the stanchions were replaced to support the lifelines. And USS Pharris was still only half a ship, fit only to be broken up for scrap, Morris knew.
The tug Papago was pulling her backwards at just more than four knots. Three days to shore. They were heading toward Boston, the closest port, rather than a naval base. The reason was clear enough. Repairs would take over a year and the Navy didn't want to clutter up one of its own repair facilities with something that would take that long. Only those ships that could be repaired for useful war service would get rapid attention.
Even his continued command of Pharris was a joke. The tug had a reserve crew, many of them salvage experts in civilian life. Three of them were aboard to keep an eye on the towing cable and 'advise' Morris on the things he had to do. Their pieces of advice were really orders, but polite ones.
There were plenty of things to keep his crew busy. The forward bulkheads required constant watching and attention. Repairs were under way to the engine plant. Only one boiler was working, providing steam to turn the turbogenerators and provide electrical power. The second boiler needed at least another day of work. His main air-
