distracted as he concentrated on the plan in front of them.
For the next fifteen minutes, they discussed the possible missions to Bermuda, how the problems might shape up, and what impact the initial reconnaissance missions would have on the air wing flight plan. When he finally ran out of things to go over, Lab Rat quit talking.
Rat stood, and held out her hand. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this, Commander. You just kept me from making a fool of myself in front of my boss.”
Lab Rat waved away her thanks. “My pleasure. And, since we’re members of the same species, call me Lab Rat.”
TEN
As early as the end of the second day, Forsythe could already see the strain starting on the faces of the crew. It wasn’t that they complained — far from it. In fact, since the death of Lieutenant Commander Cowlings, a new, grim determination had seemed to settle over them. A fire for vengeance burned in their eyes, and no one wanted to be the first to admit the strain was getting to him.
Forsythe and the doctor continued to take their meals in the small wardroom, although with only two of them it almost seemed pointless. In fact, the doctor had suggested that they begin messing with the crew, simplifying life for the three mess cooks on board. But Forsythe had decided not to, and not simply because the doctor suggested it — though the fact that that thought had crossed his mind made him somewhat ashamed. Later, he realized his instinct had been correct. He needed a bit of distance from the crew, and while the doctor might not be particularly his favorite company, he would have to do.
“They’re wearing out,” the doctor said, pointing his fork at his interim commanding officer as he spoke. “You can’t keep this up for long.”
“When there are complaints, let me know,” Forsythe said. There was a reason for the rank structure on a submarine, perhaps even more reasons for it than on a larger ship. The chiefs ate in their one small corner of the crew’s mess, behind a divider, and pretended to ignore the rest of the crew. That allowed sailors time to blow off steam. But, had their very junior captain been in the same compartment, they would have been silent.
“I’m already seeing the signs of stress in them.”
“Has someone complained?” Forsythe asked, keeping his eyes down on his plate.
“No. They won’t, you know. But, it’s only a matter of time. You have to listen to me in matters like this, you have to.” The doctor’s voice was smug and demanding.
“Listen to doesn’t mean obey.” Suddenly, Forsythe’s appetite was gone. He shoved the plate back slightly. The one concession to the reduced manpower had been that he and the doctor would obtain their food from the crew’s mess, eat it in the wardroom, then take their own dishes back to the galley. “Until then, keep me posted.”
“The enlisted people aren’t the only people who are my responsibility,” the doctor said softly, his voice carrying a note of menace. “Last night you suggested I read Navy regulations — I suggest you review them yourself. If and when I believe that you are becoming a danger to this crew, I will relieve you. Will relieve you for medical reasons, and order you confined to your stateroom. Between the Chief and the troops, we can get the boat back to the surface and the message out.”
Forsythe turned, icy menace clear on his face. “Then I think we both adequately understand our duties, doctor. And, yes, I am familiar with the passage to which you’re referring.” He could smell the rank stench of fear on the doctor now, and it disgusted him. “That said, I will tolerate no more insubordination from you. Just who do you think the crew will obey? Watch their eyes, doctor. You claim to know the mood of the crew — watch their eyes. Because I can guarantee you, what you’re seeing isn’t stress. It’s pure, one hundred percent pissed off American sailor. Right now, they’d follow me to hell and back if it meant avenging Commander Cowlings. And I suggest you try to stay out of their way.”
“Captain to the Control Room!” The chief’s voice blared out of the speaker on the bulkhead. “Sir, it’s urgent.”
Forsythe picked up his plate and tossed it on top of the doctor’s “Take that to the galley with yours. And, in case it isn’t perfectly clear to you, that’s an order.” He turned and raced out of the compartment.
As he raced down the single central passageway of the submarine, Forsythe’s heart was hammering. For a split second, he wondered if he was experiencing some sort of medical problem like the one that had killed Cowlings. In the next instant, he dismissed the thought. He was perfectly healthy, not carrying a ticking time bomb in his head as Cowlings had been.
“What is it?” he asked as he skidded in to Control.
“The Kilo, sir,” the chief said. He pointed at the sonar display. “She just turned and is heading directly for us.”
Forsythe studied the waterfall display, and at the same time said, “Set quiet ship.” He heard the word being passed softly down the passageways. “And battle stations.” The second word went out as well, but with a touch of electricity in it.
“She must have heard a transient,” the sonarman said, his gaze glued to the screen. “And, if she did, then her hearing’s better than we thought it was.” He shook his head, not denying the fact, but musing over the possibilities. “We need to re-evaluate this whole plan, then, sir.” He looked up at the lieutenant, his face thoughtful. “Our plan is based on certain assumptions. No, not cancel the plan,” he added hastily, seeing the lieutenant start to shake his head. “Just re-evaluate how far we want to stay from her. Out of her weapons’ range, maybe, a little bit farther away. I can still do it,” he concluded.
“She’s not going to leave her box,” Forsythe said, with more certainty that he felt. “But let’s move out to seven thousand yards. Can you still hold contact at that range?”
“Yes, sir.” Pencehaven said, although Forsythe could see doubt on Jacob’s face. “We can always move in closer if we lose her.”
“Right. But—” Forsythe stopped as he watched the display shift ominously. “Down doppler — she’s turned away from us,” he said.
Seconds before it was confirmed, he knew the answer. The hard squeal of tiny propellers followed by a hard pinging against the hull of the submarine gave him his answer.
“Torpedo in the water!” Jacob said, his voice carrying even though it was at a whisper. “Recommend evasive maneuvers.”
“Down doppler on the torpedo.” Pencehaven corrected, his more sensitive ears telling him what the display had not yet picked up. “Sir, the torpedo’s not heading for us. It’s headed for the bird farm.”
“Evasive maneuvering” Coyote howled, knowing it was useless, but not willing to give up without a fight. The officer of the deck had not waited for his command. Even as he spoke, he felt the ponderous ship start to turn, the deck shifting ever so slightly. The collision alarm beat out its staccato warning over the 1MC overhead, and he heard the pounding of feet as people raced toward their battle stations. Even though general quarters had not been set, everyone knew that it would be, in a few seconds.
The symbol for torpedo popped into being on the tactical screen, small, red, and deadly. It inched toward the aircraft carrier, bearing in unerringly. The speed leader for the
