showing her turn, but there was little an aircraft carrier could do to avoid a torpedo. It was like an office building maneuvering to avoid a tornado.
Still, they had to try. They had to.
Captain Coleman stood beside his battle chair, his headphones tethered him to the elevated brown leatherette chair. Theoretically, he should be sitting there, strapped in, but he found it almost impossible to hold still when the ship was in physical danger. It was as though he could control her by pacing the deck, toughen her skin, and keep her sensors turned in the direction of the threat.
“TAO, Sonar! Sir, it should miss us by two thousand yards — it’s headed for the carrier, sir!”
“Time to CPA?” Coleman demanded.
“About ten seconds or a hair less,” the sonarman replied.
Coleman swore quietly. Ten seconds — not enough to get within range and eject noisemakers and decoys, although the carrier would certainly be doing that on her own. Still, it was worth a try. He gave the order, knowing that the entire crew had already anticipated it and was simply waiting for the command.
God, he hated being helpless. To sit here watching as the torpedo arrowed in on the one ship that wasn’t supposed to take a hit, the centerpiece of the battle group. Without the carrier, they had no chance of regaining control of Bermuda.
“Five seconds to CPA, sir,” the sonarman said. Coleman could see the geometries playing out on the screen in front of him, the torpedo squeaking past his ship, the hard turn the carrier was attempting — and the inevitable result.
“ASROC, sir?” the TAO asked. The antisubmarine torpedo could be launched from a vertical launch cell on the ship, and had the range to reach any possible submarine.
“Can’t,” Coleman said shortly. “Our locating data on the
“Got her solid,” Pencehaven said, his voice as calm as if it were a drill. “Your orders?”
“Are we within weapons range?” Forsythe asked.
“Yes, sir. Two tubes loaded and flooded, waiting for weapons release.”
“Weapons free,” Forsythe said softly. “Two shots — now.”
Even as Forsythe gave the order, Pencehaven mashed down the red button. The submarine shook slightly as compressed air forced a torpedo out of the tube. Its tiny propeller immediately began whipping the water into a froth as it came to life, checked its orders to intercept the target, and pick up speed and headed off on its mission. A second later, another torpedo followed.
Forsythe watched the screen, desperately praying that he had done the right thing. Yes, he could ask the chief if he’d done the right thing — even the doctor, if he had wanted to. But, in the end, it was his decision to make, his responsibility to fight the submarine.
And, until that very second, he had not realized how lonely that could be.
Captain First Rank Sergei Andropov turned on his psychological services officer. “You said they would not fire!”
The man beside him was pale and shaken. He had not understood initially what the hard, buzzing noise was from the speaker, but the crew had quickly filled him in. He would be lucky if he lived long enough for the torpedo to kill him.
“Every projection said that they would not,” he said, aware of how very lame his explanation sounded. “They would not risk it — they are too conscious of their body count, too afraid to take any casualties. They would not —”
“They did!” Andropov grabbed him by shoulders, shook him violently, then transferred his grip to the man’s neck.
“You imbecile, you have killed us!”
The Russians could not presume to know the American mind any more that the Americans could know the Russian psyche. For just one second, he wondered if the Americans had advisers such as this.
Coleman saw the two new bursts of noise on the display, and watched as they resolved into the characteristic shapes of torpedoes. Cold fear clutched at his gut, followed immediately by relief as they turned away from him.
“They’re ours, Captain. Ours!”
“Two thousand yards, Captain!” Stark terror filled the sonarman’s voice. “Bearing constant, range decreasing. Captain, your orders? Captain?”
“Hard left rudder, flank speed, and…” For just a moment he paused, uncertain of himself for the first time in nearly twenty years. Classic evasion tactics called for him to go deep, forcing the torpedo to follow him down, leaving hard knuckles in the water as he went and ejecting decoys and noisemakers. The theory was that the torpedo could be tricked into attacking one of the phantom targets as the submarine slipped safely below the thermocline.
But the hard, cold knot in his gut told him it wouldn’t work this time. Couldn’t work — no, they had no chance of evading this torpedo using classical tactics. Therefore, his only option was to attempt something radical.
“Surface the ship,” he ordered after what seemed like minutes, but in reality had been a few seconds. “Surface the ship.”
“Captain?”
The Captain reeled around to glare at the conning officer, murder in his eyes. The body of the psychologist stretched out across the deck was ample proof that he was prepared to follow through on his threats. “I said, surface the ship.” He waited.
The junior officer glanced down at the dead psychologist and made his decision. “Surface the ship, aye, sir.”
“One thousand yards — bearing constant, range decreasing.”
“Oh, no you don’t,” Otter said. The other submarine’s acoustic signature was changing. Otter made a tiny correction with the joystick, turning the wire-guided torpedo. “You’re a bad, bad little bastard, aren’t you?”
“What are you doing?” Forsythe asked. “You’re bringing the torpedo shallow! That sub’s not coming shallow. That would be insanity. She’s got no chance on the surface.”
“She’s got no chance either way, Captain,” the sonarman said quietly. “And she
