As soon as the last aircraft lifted off the deck, the Chinese carrier cut hard to the north, headed straight in for the coastline. Behind her, the amphibious assault vessel was launching its own contingent of aircraft, as well as a tanker. They remained overhead, loaded out with air-to-air missiles, as protection against the fighters from the aircraft carrier.
They need not have worried, at least not right away. The
Well below the waterline, Chinese sonar technicians had heard the ghostly, drawn-out voices over Gertrude, and had managed to triangulate the transmissions from the submarine. A linguist was perched on a high stool next to the console, holding on to the metal desk beside him to keep from slipping across the steeply canted deck as the aircraft carrier turned. He listened to the transmissions, then quickly translated the words that came over the unclassified circuit.
The final firing solution was not particularly refined. The submarine knew the danger of using Gertrude, and had transmitted only the briefest acknowledgement of her new orders. Still, that blip of sound was enough to narrow down the sonarman’s search, and he selected the higher frequency active transmissions that would let him pinpoint the submarine’s location.
Of course, going active was a risk as well. The American submarine would be able to hear the sonar pings at a greater range than the carrier would be able to hear the returns from her hull. Additionally, the high speed of the carrier was producing a massive amount of noise, further degrading the Chinese ASW ability. But the carrier was counting on being able to find and attack the submarine with a barrage of weapons and at least hold her at bay until the ship popped out its final surprise.
On the weatherdecks, Ishi Zhaolong struggled across the deck, moving as quickly as he could to the port SVTT tube. The first return from the active sonar had just squeaked across the sonarman’s headphones, providing enough data for a bearing-only launch. Ishi had been sure that the submarine would be to their right, and he was slightly alarmed to find that he’d guessed wrong. Still, the other team would be loading up the port SVTT. He wasn’t critically needed there, but as the senior torpedoman onboard, he wanted to watch the evolution. With the deck now clear of both aircraft and disguises, darting back and forth between the four sets of launchers, two to the port, two on starboards, was much less of a problem than routine maintenance had been.
He arrived at the port launcher just as the tube reached one thousand pounds of pressure. The other torpedomen had hearing protectors clamped down over their ears and were stepping back from the pressurized tube. If anything went wrong now, the men would be peppered with shrapnel.
Ishi stepped forward and double-checked the settings himself. The torpedo was set to run shallow for a surface target. Its seeker head combined advanced wakehoming technology along with a relatively rudimentary acoustic discriminator. It also housed a command destruct secondary charge that could be used if the torpedo insisted on acquiring its own aircraft carrier as a target.
He nodded to the man crouched down beside the SVTT tube, then stepped back into the doubtful protection of a stanchion. He couldn’t resist peering around the metal support to watch the actual firing.
There was a surprisingly smooth blast of noise, only slightly louder than the test firings they’d practiced back in the Yellow Sea and then enroute Hawaii. A metal cylinder four feet long and a foot in diameter shot out of the tube, remained airborne for thirty feet, then slid smoothly into the ocean with only a small splash and some expanding ripples that the ocean swells quickly smoothed out. Before the last ripples had faded away, the crew was manhandling another torpedo into the tube.
“Torpedo inbound,” a voice snapped over Ishi’s headset. He shouted at the crew to move faster, now desperate to get as many torpedoes in the water as he possibly could. What had seemed so thrilling, so very daring when it involved disrobing the carrier and launching aircraft now seemed all too deadly and personal.
A snapshot, that was all it had been, he thought frantically, scanning the water around him for any trace of the incoming torpedo. A desperate shot back down the bearing the submarine had seen the torpedo on, intended to shake up the carrier and force her to react as much as to actually target her. It’d be the first — but it wouldn’t be the last. As soon as the American submarine was relatively certain she’d shaken off Ishi’s first torpedo, she’d let off a barrage of torpedoes more carefully targeted, each one individually guided in on the carrier by an experienced crew.
For a moment, Ishi felt a moment of hopelessness. The deck that had seemed so spacious and safe now seemed ominously empty.
“Only two, sir,” Otter was saying into the bitch box as Renny slid back into his seat next to him. “We’re carrying dummy loads for REFTRA, sir, not a full loadout. We’re in
“And we’re damned well not supposed to be shooting war shots,” Captain Tran answered. “I know that — I know. You get me a firing solution. Make it right, Otter. We can’t afford to miss.”
Otter turned to Renny, desperation in his eyes. “We’re in REFTRA,” he said, as though that made some sort of sense.
The chief sonarman was standing behind them now, his presence a calming and steadying influence. “That’s all this is, son. REFTRA for real. You just do it like we’ve been doing it for the last five days, smooth and easy. I’m going to be watching the solution — we’ll nail that bastard.”
“What the hell is it?” Renny asked, all the while plugging in the bearings and readings he needed for a more accurate firing solution. Looking at it now, knowing that they had only been carrying three live torpedoes, getting off the snapshot might not have been that good an idea. Under normal circumstances, yeah, you’d want that. But not now.
“Bearing separation looks good,” the chief noted. He toggled on the mike in his hand. “Conn, Sonar, we have a firing solution.”
“Is it the one you want, Chief?” Tran asked, speaking to him as an equal. “Let me know.”
“I’ll take this one, sir,” the chief answered. “Single shot. We’re working up the second solution right now.”
“Very well. Weapons free, Chief.”
“Weapons free, aye.” The chief’s eyes were still fixed on the sonar screen. “Weapons, Sonar — you have —
“Advise me when you have a solution.”
Renny swore quietly but passionately as he watched the odd surface contact’s acoustic signature waver across the bearings. “Zig-zag?” he asked.
“Yeah, the asshole,” the chief muttered. “S’okay. As long as we know about it, we can compensate for it. Look, he’s already starting to fall into a pattern. Get ready, Renny, Otter. I’m going to want this one off right when I say.”
Renny felt the sweat trickling down his back. It itched as it found his spine and coursed down it, soaking his undershirt and his coveralls. The waiting grew unbearable. Just as the chief started to give the order, a new sound cut through the quiet of the sonar shack. “Conn, sonar, torpedoes in the water. Two of them skipper.”
“Two, aye. Stand by for evasive maneuvers.” Even as the skipper spoke, the submarine leaned steeply to port and tilted forward. “Sonar, no change in the thermal layer?”
“No change, sir. Standing by with decoys.”
“You know when, Chief.”
“Aye-aye, sir. Renny, watch the contact — I’ve got the depth gauge — and keep your hand on the decoy.”
“Got it.” Renny knew what he was doing, had done it so many times in simulators and during REFTRA that the whole thing had a feeling of unreality to it. The chief standing behind him, Otter at his side — how many times had he done this in the last four days?
The chief would be watching the depth gauge. As the submarine approached the isothermal layer, where the temperature of the water was no longer the primary determinant of the speed of sound, the chief would eject the noisemakers. The decoys would churn up masses of bubbles in the water, enough sound to both mask the other sonar’s detection and hopefully confuse the inbound torpedoes. If the torpedoes were acoustic or active sonar, the
