Joint Operations

TWENTY-ONE

“Conning officer. I want you to listen to me very, very carefully.” The captain’s voice was calm, betraying no hint of nervousness. “This is just like making an approach on the pier. You just can’t see it. We’re going to use the same speeds, the same tiny course corrections. And on my signal, let engineering know that I want this boat backing down as hard as she’s ever backed in her life.”

The conning officer nodded nervously, and glanced at the Chief of the Boat, who was positioned behind the helmsman and the planesman. The chief nodded. “Piece of cake, Captain,” the COB said, more for the conning officer’s ears than for the captain’s. “Done this a hundred times in my sleep.”

The captain grunted. “Well, if you were contemplating a nap now, I suggest you put that off for a while.” Although the joke was lame, pent-up nervousness in the small compartment sent a wave of quiet chuckles through the crew.

“Okay, men — here we go. All ahead one-third, indicate turns for one knot.”

The submarine’s movement was not perceptible, but everyone watching the speed indicator saw it creep slowly up. It quivered, barely moved off the zero mark, and held there. “Good job, engineer,” the captain said softly, noting how well the engineering personnel were maintaining steam pressure in the main turbine. “A really sweet job.”

They crept forward for what seemed like an eternity, and then the captain ordered, “All stop.” He glanced around the control room, then said, “Sound the collision alarm.” A red light began flashing in the compartment in a distinctive pattern to indicate an impending collision, albeit one that was intentional. “All hands brace for shock,” the captain continued, his voice still quiet.

Suddenly, the submarine jolted. Violent movement were not a normal part of the submariner’s life, and even the more experienced crew members gasped. A horrible grinding noise rang through the submarine like a hollow bell, and equipment shuddered in its racks. Pencils and papers not secured were flung to the deck. Then one sailor let out a moan of panic.

“Steady, steady,” the captain warned. “Remember, we’re doing this on purpose.”

The noise and shuddering seemed to go on forever, growing louder and deeper as the submarine’s hull made contact with the ancient battleship now permanently at rest on the Pacific floor. Finally, there was a perceptible decrease in the motion. Then it ceased just as suddenly as it started.

In sonar, Jacobs and Pencehaven had taken off their headsets to avoid damage to their ears. They listened to the noise of the collision through the overhead speaker, then slapped their headsets back on as soon as the noise ceased. Softer, but clearly discernible, they heard the groan of old metal shifting in its position, of tons and tons of World War II steel moving from where it had been planted so many years before. The Arizona might not be breaking up this time, but there was no doubt that their maneuver had had its intended effect.

“I hear her!” Jacobs shouted, his sensitive ears the first to catch the sound of a new noise. “Propellers turning — she’s going to try to make a run for it.” But even as he spoke, he could tell it was no use. The Arizona, once it decided to move, was an inexorable force. And the submarine had sought out a position too close to her side for protection.

“We got it,” a voice howled over the SEAL circuit behind him. Batman turned to stare at it, and a grim smile broke out over his face. He turned to Tombstone.

His former lead nodded, then said, “Weapons free on all Chinese units. I want that ship a blackened, smoking hull in the water, do you hear me?”

“Aye-aye, Admiral,” Batman answered, his voice filled with savage glee. “A smoking hull it is.” He turned to Bam-Bam with fire in his eyes. “Make it so.”