Thorpe's Candle

RUN DEEP

The USS Orlando cruised 200 feet below the surface, 300 miles northeast of Norfolk. Behind it, like bait on a fishing line trawling for game fish, it towed its fully optimized passive sonar arrays.

The skipper of the Los Angeles-class attack submarine was Commander Michael Webster, a broad shouldered former defensive back for the University of Alabama Crimson Tide. Webster sat in his captain’s chair letting the soft hum of electronics in the sub’s command center relax him. He closed his eyes, picturing his wife and newborn son and wanted more than anything to hold them both.

“Conn, sonar!”

The thin voice from the intercom brought Webster out of his meditation. “Conn, aye. Captain speaking.”

“Contact, sir. Bearing two-three-zero.”

“Range?” Webster asked.

“Approximately twenty-five thousand yards, Captain. Sonobuoy just popped its top.”

“Can you identify?”

“From the plant signature I make it a Yankee-class boomer.”

Damn if we didn’t find him right out of the box, Commander Webster thought. “Thank you, Chief.” He rose and called out, “Man battle stations.” As alarms sounded, Webster said, “Helm, ahead two thirds. Bring us around to two-three-zero.” Adrenaline rushed through him. “Weapons, put forty-eights in tubes one and two, and plot a solution.” The commander watched the data input readout on his display monitor while he felt his ship turn toward the distant target.

“Coming around to new course two-three-zero, sir,” called the helmsman.

“All stop,” said Webster a moment later when the course was confirmed.

“Aye, sir, all stop,” replied the helmsman.

“Weapons, flood tubes one and two.”

A few seconds later the weapons officer acknowledged, “Tubes one and two are flooded, sir.”

“Weapons, open outer doors one and two.”

A pause, and then, “Doors one and two open, Captain.”

“Do you have a solution yet?”

“Solution is confirmed, sir.”

“Fire one and two!”

A burst of compressed-gas ejected the nineteen-foot-long, wire-guided Mark 48 torpedo from tube number one in the bow of the Orlando. As its five-hundred-horsepower engine spun to life, the torpedo accelerated. Like a newborn reluctant to detach its umbilical cord from its mother, the Mark 48 reeled out a wire from its tail and took a course twelve degrees off its intercept path. A few seconds later, a second Mark 48 emerged from tube number two. It sprang forward adjusting its course twelve degrees in the opposite direction so both torpedoes could cover the entire one hundred eighty-degree target sector. Carrying 650-pound warheads, the Mark 48s raced through the water at just over fifty miles-per-hour.

“Time to impact?” Webster asked, returning to his chair.

“Seventeen minutes, twenty seconds, sir,” came the reply from Weapons.

“Let me know when you have acquisition.” Webster let a smile cross his face. “Roll Tide,” he whispered.

“High-speed screws, sir!” yelled the sonar operator over the intercom on the bridge of the Tiger Shark. “Torpedoes in the water!”

Skyler held on to the back of the captain’s chair as the deck pitched forward in the crash dive. He saw the helmsman push the yoke to the hilt, exerting the maximum down position on the dive planes.

“Execute counter measures,” Schafer ordered.

His voice lacked the confidence Skyler expected from a missile sub commander. As he studied the man, he felt a bump from the compressed-air modules being launched out of the sides of the vessel. Clouds of noisy bubbles would shoot out of each, the resulting racket designed to distract the incoming torpedoes and draw them away from their real target.

“Sonar, start jamming,” Schafer said.

In the sonar control room, the operator attempted to create ghost targets by sending out timed pulses to coincide with the seeking pulses of the approaching torpedoes. He watched the data readouts then pressed the intercom. “Conn, sonar. The fish have not acquired us yet but are still running true.”

Skyler watched Schafer grow nervous, figuring this may be the captain’s first shot at commanding a boomer. As impressive as the crew was under the circumstances, it was still nothing more than a rag-tag band assembled by Escandoza from military organizations all over the world. Their lack of experience could prove deadly. Schafer’s forehead glistened with sweat. He held on to the railing around the periscope pedestal. “I promised you entertainment,” he said to Skyler. “I hope you’re not disappointed.”

Suddenly the bridge vibrated with a high-pitched metallic sound. Ping…ping… ping…

“They’ve acquired us!” the sonar operator blared over the intercom. The tremble in his voice was not lost on Skyler.

Two miles behind the Tiger Shark, the lead Mark 48 released its guidance wire as it acquired its target. Following ninety-one meters behind it, the second Mark 48 did the same. Calculating the distance to the enemy sub, they cut their speed by a third to conserve fuel and executed a series of minor course corrections.

Schafer moved to stand in front of Skyler. “Since we only have a few moments to live, Mr. Skyler, I thought we might be honest with each other.”

“My picture on the news?” Skyler tried to remain unmoved at the discovery of his true identity.

“I’ve followed your accomplishments with interest as director of OceanQuest. You have a memorable face. My compliments to you for your quick thinking after you eliminated Knebel.” Schafer wiped his forehead on his sleeve.

“Your first time in combat?”

“A first for many things. Too bad we don’t get a second chance to die.” Then his expression turned desperate.

“Captain,” called the OOD. “The counter measures aren’t working. The fish are still on track. Should I inform the Carupano?”

Schafer’s eyes grew wide. He spun around facing the officer of the deck. “My God, I forgot about the freighter. Up planes!” he yelled. “Helmsman, put us on the deck as close to the Carupano as possible. Scrape the paint off her sides if you have to.” Then he turned back to Skyler. “Maybe we do get a second chance.”

Captain Sampson strolled out of the wheelhouse onto the wing of the Carupano’s bridge and studied the next squall line approaching from the south. He watched the swells break against the bow shooting wings of spray up and over the rail. The spray stung his face and the wind whipped his oilskin jacket. He stared aft, sighting the riggings and hatches along the length of the 142-foot freighter. They seemed to be holding.

Suddenly, the sea off his starboard side appeared to boil. A massive dome of white foam blossomed up with such force, it caused the Carupano to list slightly to port. Captain Sampson stared with gaping mouth as the immense bullet-shaped bow of a submarine emerged from the midst of the foaming ocean. It seemed to rise up like a slow-motion rocket launched from the depths. For a moment, Sampson believed it would keep rising until it took flight. As he gripped the railing with white-knuckled hands, he watched the giant monster hang suspended, its bow exposed back to the sub’s conning tower.

When the submarine reached its apex, it dropped forward sending up a sheet of spray that reached higher than the top of the bridge where Sampson stood. The wave slammed him against the steel wall forcing what felt like gallons of choking salt water down his throat.

Sampson fell to the deck, his big body trembled. As he pulled himself back to the railing, he witnessed the slippery, eel-like skin of the submarine reveal its full length. Just as soon as it had settled into the water, it lunged forward past him. He could not believe its speed and maneuverability when it pushed through the swells cutting across his path and missing his ship by a few scant yards.

The sea frothed with the swirling brass blades of the sub’s twin screws as they cleared his bow. Sampson felt a sigh of relief escape his throat when he realized that as close as the sub had come, it had somehow managed to miss his ship. He gave a nervous laugh at how two enormous vessels could find each other in the middle of an empty ocean, come so close to disaster, and get away without a scratch.

All laughter died with his next breath, and his guts wrenched as the stern of the Carupano lifted out of the water several feet and then dropped back onto the ocean with a crippling concussion. Sampson watched a huge fireball form over the aft deck with a force that peeled the deck back like a sardine can.

The ship shuddered, its modest forward motion dying almost immediately. Black smoke rose up in a thick column with an acid stench assaulting the captain’s nostrils. The heat singed his hair and he covered his eyes as the blast enveloped half his ship.

Sampson found himself on his back, the smell of burnt flesh causing bile to rise in his throat. He pulled himself to a sitting position, looking at the mass of wreckage that used to be his ship.

The captain reached for the railing trying to stand when the second Mark 48 plowed its warhead into the hapless side of the ship. It struck just below the waterline only thirty feet from where he stood. In the next instant the paint on the bridge boiled, the steel deck turned to liquid, and Captain Sampson ceased to exist.