Ohio Class

23

Just as revolutionary new technologies had opened a whole new world for submarines in high-speed heavier-than-water "flying" craft like the Manta, they had opened a new world in underwater weaponry as well. The perfect example was the rocket torpedo.

A Russian invention named "Shkval," for "squall," the rocket torpedo had a range of 7,500 yards and could travel at an unheard-of 200 knots — about 230 miles per hour. Western intelligence had been following the Russian development program for a long time. In 1998, China had purchased forty of the weapons, and there were reports that a Chinese naval officer had been aboard the ill-fated Kursk to observe Shkval test firings.

The western press first learned of the device in April 2000, when an American businessman named Edward Pope was arrested by the Russian FSB and charged with espionage. Pope, it seemed, had acquired detailed plans for a revolutionary, high-speed rocket torpedo.

The weapon, in both its original Russian version and, now, in the American copy, was a solid-fuel rocket that lubricated its passage through the water by releasing a high-pressure stream of bubbles from its nose, coating its entire body in a thin layer of gas. The process, called "supercavitation," essentially allowed the torpedo to travel at high speed inside an envelope of gas, which tremendously reduced drag from the surrounding water.

The original Shkval had been a three-ton monster designed to carry a tactical nuclear warhead fired by a simple timer, and was intended to take out U.S. aircraft carriers or other big-ticket items. Later versions had carried conventional warheads, and one application had been to use the high-speed capability to quickly put a warhead in the general area of an enemy ship, then slow to conventional speeds in order to conduct a search and home on the target.

The new American Stormwind Supercavitating Torpedo (Rocket), or STR, was considerably smaller, and had been designed with the Manta and various drone weapons platforms in mind. It carried only a small H.E. warhead — euphemistically referred to as a "lethality enhancer" — relying for most of its punch on mass and speed to achieve a kinetic kill. When a half ton of rocket hit the hull of a submarine at 230 miles per hour, it didn't need much in the way of high explosives to finish the job.

The Manta carried two of the weapons, nestled within an internal bay. When Hawking keyed the touch screen, the bay had opened and one of the STRs was lowered into the water. Its bubble jet switched on, and when Hawking pressed the trigger, it released, the rocket engine firing several seconds later.

A simple-minded active sonar guided the weapon in. Hawking felt a jolting lurch as the weapon fired, then watched a white streak of bubbles instantly appear, stretching from beneath the Manta to a point on the Kilo's hull on the upper deck just abaft of the sail.

For a longtime science fiction fan who'd been raised on Star Trek, the effect was remarkably similar to firing phasers. A large hole magically appeared in the Kilo's aft deck; an instant later an enormous, silvery blob of air exploded from the hole, rising.

The warhead possessed a slight time delay. As the air bubble expanded upward, the entire submarine shuddered, the hull visibly crinkling in places with the stress. More bubbles appeared from a dozen spots on the hull, and the sail appeared to wrench to port and crumple.

The shockwave hit Hawking almost immediately, and he found himself struggling to keep the Manta upright and in control. At fifty knots, he hit the expanding pressure wave, and the effect was much like flying into a solid wall. For several moments he had no attention at all to spend on the stricken Kilo; it was all he could do to keep the Manta from stalling out as the shockwave not only reduced his forward speed to zero, but actually swept him backward like a leaf caught in a gale.

Gradually, the stubborn little vehicle responded to his commands. He put the Manta into a dive to pick up speed, then reengaged the engine. "Note to R and D," he said aloud, as if addressing an invisible audience. "Next time, don't shoot the damn thing from point-blank range!"

Gently, he pulled up, leveling off at a depth of fifty feet and a speed of fifteen knots. Warning lights flashed; he ignored them. He was transfixed by the scene below.

"Whoa," he said.

The Kilo had already hit the seabed, at a depth of less than a hundred feet here. Under Manta's powerful forward lights, he could see large chunks of hull plating and debris that had broken off and fallen to either side, and the entire fair-water had torn free, ripping a huge gash through the upper deck just about where the control room had been. Bubbles continued to boil from the wreckage, and the water was filled with swirling bits of flotsam — sheets of paper, a tennis shoe, something that might be a bedsheet.

And a body… a man in uniform falling up toward the surface, an expression of shock and horror etched into his face that Hawking knew would be branded in his memory for the rest of his life.

Accelerating again, he began racing east, in the direction the Iranian torpedo had been traveling. He used his broadband sonar, listening for the homing ping of the weapon. The torpedo would have been wire guided, but the connection with the Kilo had been broken moments after launch; he didn't know if the torpedo had been dragged down with the sinking Kilo or if it had gone free and was now tracking the Ohio.

He began sending out his own sonar pings, searching for a small, fast, relatively nearby target. He increased his speed. For a long-range shot they would have had the weapon set for a fuel-conserving 35 knots; by now it would have covered a good half mile or more.

Damn it, where could it be?

"You heard what?"

"Yes, sir! I'm definitely picking up the Manta somewhere astern. High-speed jet and active pinging. And… and breakup noises, sir. There was an explosion, and then the sound of a sub breaking up and sinking. There's no mistaking it, sir." The kid sounded shaken.

"Very well."

"Sounds like the Kilo following us had an accident," Shea commented.

"Yeah. An accident called Lieutenant Commander Hawking. Maneuvering! Slow to one-third!"

"Maneuvering, slow to one-third, aye, sir."

Stewart caught Shea's quizzical expression. "Just letting our fly-boy catch up…. Helm, come left fifteen degrees." He wanted the sonar crew to be better able to hear what was going on back there.

"Helm, come left, one-five degrees, aye."

"Torpedo!" came the sudden call over the intercom. "Torpedo in the water! Coming in dead astern!"

Shit! "Maneuvering! All ahead flank!"

"Maneuvering, all ahead flank, aye, sir!"

As soon as Ohio's speed had dropped to less than twelve knots and turned slightly, the broadband sonar was able to detect the telltale whine of a torpedo.

The Kilo, Stewart thought, must have popped a fish moments before it died.

There it was. Homing on its sonar return, Hawking had finally spotted the Kilo's torpedo, still on course. He could also "see," in the sonar sense, the Ohio several miles ahead.

The torpedo had acquired the Ohio, and was closing now for the kill.

Hawking wrestled for a moment with a dilemma. How was he supposed to stop a torpedo traveling at 35 knots without setting the thing off and blowing up himself in the process? When he began the chase, he'd been toying with the vague idea, in the back of his mind, that he could match speed with the thing and possibly give it a tap with one of the Manta's extended wings, or bump it from behind. A light nudge might knock it into the seabed, damage its sensitive sonar electronics, or knock out its screw.

But now that he could actually see the torpedo, he was having second thoughts. Some of those weapons had proximity fuses, and he might set it off just by getting too close. He also didn't know how sensitive the impact fuse was. If he bumped the torpedo too hard… would that detonate the warhead?

Okay, what other options did he have?

He had one STR left, but he didn't know if the rocket torp's homer could pick up such a small target, or if the guidance system was good enough to hit it. The shot would have to be perfect to destroy the Iranian weapon, and there was no third round for a second shot.

There might be a safer, surer way. Easing back on the throttle, he let the torpedo draw ahead of him, and at the same time he angled up, gaining altitude on it. When he was in position, he rammed the throttle forward, giving the Manta every bit of power he could.

His speed rocketed upward… sixty knots… seventy…. When he'd brought the Manta up, he lost sight of the torpedo, so he now had to guess at its position. When he thought he'd passed it, he shoved the joystick forward, going into a steep dive.

The seabed appeared, brilliantly marked by a fast-expanding circle of light from the Manta's headlights. He pulled back on the stick, bringing the nose up. For an agonizing second or two the craft didn't want to respond; then the nose was coming up, but slowly… slowly…

… and then the nose pulled high, the sea floor dropping away behind him as he started climbing again. The torpedo… where was it?

The explosion caught the Manta from behind, flinging the craft end for end and slamming Hawking forward against his seat harness. White water exploded around him, and he found himself in the open air, flying, really flying, for just a second or two before he hit the water again and began to sink.

It had worked. By streaking down in front of the torpedo, he'd created a powerful wake that had sucked the torpedo forward and down, dragging it into a dive that sent it slamming into the sea floor. The explosion, though, had been way too close. Hawking studied the Christmas tree of flashing warning lights and raucous alarms. His engine was dead. Could he restart?

The Manta was sinking now… passing thirty feet. The water here, he noticed, was 110 feet deep; at least he wasn't going to be crushed by the depths, which was the big danger out in the open ocean. All he needed to do was hit the cockpit eject, and he would bob to the surface.

Of course, that would mean capture by the Iranians, who would not be real pleased that he'd just single-handedly sunk one-ninth of their total submarine force. They would also be able to recover the Manta easily enough, and there was quite a bit of classified equipment on board.

No, he was going to ride this out if there was any possible way to do it.

He cleared the compression chamber, powered up the start fan, and hit the ignition. Nothing. Sixty feet. He tried again. Seventy-five feet…

On his third attempt the engine fired, sucking in sea-water, compressing it, expelling it astern. He nudged the throttle forward, feeding it more power. The engine temperature was still high, but the momentary shutdown had let the seawater cool it slightly.

There! The familiar pulse and throb caught hold. He pulled back on the stick and accelerated, reaching the critical flight speed of fifteen knots, and started climbing once more.

Okay… now where was the Ohio? He sent out another sonar ping, spotted her echo five miles ahead to the southeast, and started picking up speed.

The crew cheered when they heard the explosion astern.

"Silence on the deck!" Shea barked, and the cheers stopped.

"Sonar, Control Room," Stewart called. "Do you have anything on the Manta?" He was wondering if Hawking had done something valiant and stupid, like diving into the torpedo to detonate it.

"Yes, sir!" came back Caswell's excited reply. "I lost him for a minute, there… but I hear him now. Manta is approaching from astern at three-five knots."

"Very well." Inwardly, Stewart sagged with relief. For hours now the lives of every man on board the Ohio had been riding on his decisions, one after the next, under insane stress and the knowledge that one mistake would kill them all. He also knew that his orders had sent Hawking out in an unproven prototype under combat conditions, another decision that could easily have fatal consequences for the Manta's pilot.

For a few seconds he'd been convinced that he'd ordered the man's death.

"Control Room, Sonar! Torpedo in the water! Bearing one-eight-five, closing fast!"

From ahead!

"Helm! Hard left rudder!" They were already moving at flank speed. "Come to zero-nine-zero!"

"Helm, hard left rudder, aye! New course zero-nine-zero, aye aye!"

Stewart caught Shea's eye. "The trap closes," he said. "They were waiting for us."

Stewart listened for a moment. He could still hear the background chorus of active pinging. How many ships were out there looking for them? Too many to fight. The Ohio wasn't a hunter-killer like an L.A.-class boat. She was designed to take on targets ashore, not at sea.

"Control Room, Sonar. Torpedo has gone active, Captain. Range three thousand and closing!"

"Here we go again," Shea said. "How are you getting us out of this one?"

Stewart was touched that his exec seemed to still have faith in his ability to pull a rabbit out of his tactical ball cap. The truth was, however, that he felt like he was fast running out of ideas… and out of options. If they continued the turn to outrun the torpedo, they would be heading back toward the north, and toward the headland near Bandar-e Lengeh. Northwest, the way they'd come, lay the shallows of Charak Bay. Northeast, the shoal waters and coral reefs west of Qeshm Island.

And the entire southern horizon was ringed in by sonobuoys and approaching Iranian ships.

All he could do was wait until the torpedo was close enough to try another decoy, then turn south, hoping to slip past the enemy's ASW net.

"Torpedo range now at two thousand yards, Captain, and closing."

"We're also getting tonals, bearing one-nine-two. They match with that Ghadir-class sub we've been playing tag with. It's not active."

"The trap springs shut," Stewart said. "He must have guessed what we were up to and snuck around the south side of Forur Island so he could be waiting for us."

They needed help, fast, or the Iranians were moments from having them pinned.

"Come on, baby, come on," Hawking coaxed his battered submarine fighter. "Hold together!"

The engine was cutting on and off erratically. It had tried to perform an automatic shutdown three times in as many minutes, but each time Hawking had been able to override. He wasn't sure how much longer he could keep it going, however. He figured he had just about enough power left to get back to the barn.

And there she was! He could see the Ohio looming out of the murk ahead and below, a true leviathan, black above, dark red below, her fair-water so close to the rippling ceiling overhead it seemed to scrape it.

She was heading due east, and at full throttle, too. Why? Turning, he began sending out more sonar pings. In another moment he'd identified the trouble — another torpedo homing on Ohio's wake.

And in the distance… more ships than he could number. His sonar picked up another submarine relatively close by… fourteen thousand yards to the southwest. The torp must have come from there.

Well, he knew how to deal with the torpedo now. He just needed to allow himself some more room.

Lining up on the weapon, he accelerated, ignoring the warning chirps from his console.

An explosion thundered from astern. "What the hell was that?" Shea asked. "Our guardian angel," Stewart replied. "Hawking?"

"Hawking. I think he's found a way to bounce torpedoes off his wake."

"That son of a bitch. That wonderful son of a bitch!"

"Helm! Come right to one-eight-zero! "Helm, come right to one-eight-zero, aye aye, sir!" He looked at Shea. "It's time to run the gauntlet, Wayne."

This time, he'd been well clear of the blast, using his wake to redirect the torpedo, but at a shallower angle. The concussion rocked him, but at least this time he wasn't flung out of the water.

Pulling the stick to the left, he adjusted his course to approach Ohio from the port stern quarter. She was turning, he saw, swinging around to the south once more. Passing above her aft deck, crossing port to starboard, he could only imagine what kind of reaction his fly-by would get from those on board.

Pulling right again, he slowed as he flew down the SSGN's vast side, which rose above him like a curving, smooth-faced cliff.

He noted that the ASDS was mounted in its accustomed spot on Ohio's aft deck. Good. The SEALs had returned, had managed to dock with mother. That meant all they needed to do to get out of this mess was to find a way for the Ohio to sneak past the Iranian ASW forces.

From the sound of things, they didn't have much time.

He flashed past the huge, bulbous nose housing the

Ohio's delicate broadband sonar. "Sorry, guys," he said. "Hold your ears!" He passed across Ohio's bow.

He was tempted to signal and attempt a docking. His Manta was fast failing, the engine overheating again, and alarms flashing warning of a dozen system failures.

The enemy was definitely closing on the Ohio now, coming in from all across the southern horizon, sonar blasting. They must have a very good idea by now of exactly where the huge submarine was. The ASW torpedoes would be flying fast and furious at any moment.

The Manta would not be able to deal with more than one of them… if that.

If only there was a way to jam the enemy sonar, he thought, the way fighter pilots could jam enemy radar. As with sonar, there were two modes in radar, active and passive — sending out signals, and simply collecting signals sent to you by others. Active jamming, he reasoned, generally involved beaming powerful radar signals back at an enemy transmitter, overwhelming it with radio noise.

It was too bad you couldn't overpower the enemy's active sonar transmissions the same way an EA-6B, the Navy's primary Electronic Warfare aircraft, jammed enemy radar.

And then the idea arose, clear, crisp, and perfect. Maybe there was a way after all.

He checked a compartment on his console. Yes… still there.

"O-kay, then," he said to no one in particular. "Let's get it on!"

Accelerating, he touched a control….

"Control Room, Sonar." It was Chief Sommersby. "Sir… we're getting really screwy noises from out there."

"What kind of screwy noises?"

"I don't know. It's… well… "

"Pipe it through, Chief."

A harsh static of sound filled the control room. It was strange, like static, but with garbled bits and pieces of what almost sounded like music. Or a voice. And an insistent, driving thumping.

Stewart listened to the hash of sound for a long moment. He could almost hear words, choppy, broken, and fragmentary… nothing that he could make out. But that beat, that rhythm. Hard. Demanding. Compelling.

"My God!"

"You know what it is, Captain?" Shea asked. "Yes, Wayne, I think I do…. "

And in Ohio's torpedo room, forward and two decks down, TM1 Rodney Moone looked at MM2 Jakowiac, a big grin spreading across his face. "Hey, dig it! That's our boy out there!"

"You mean?… "

"That, my man, is the Hammer goin' down! M.C. Hammer!"

" 'You can't touch this!' "

"Indeed you cannot! That is freakin' righteous, man!"

Accelerating, he touched a control….

"Our flyboy friend," Shea said wonderingly, "is playing M.C. Hammer?"

"I think he is, Mr. Shea. You hear the beat?"

"I, ah, don't listen to rap all that much, sir."

"I think we are hearing the ultimate in driving by with the music cranked up too loud. He's drowning out the Iranians' active sonar!"

"He's also drowning out our sonar, sir."

"Doesn't matter. We'll stay on this course until we work our way into deep water. Maneuvering! Ahead full! Make revolutions for twenty-five knots!"

"Maneuvering, ahead full. Make revs for twenty-five knots, aye aye, sir!"

Captain Damavandi was concerned. The Americans were showing unexpected resilience in this encounter, and were introducing unknown but sophisticated technology. Damavandi did not know what it was he was facing, and that made him nervous.

He refused to back off, however. He was still in the best possible position from which to launch an attack on the American submarine. He still had four tubes ready to go, while the fifth was being reloaded. He would fire four torpedoes, holding the fifth in reserve, just in case.

"Captain, Sonar."

Now what? "Go ahead."

"Sir… I'm getting a funny noise."

"From the target?" Perhaps they'd damaged the American after all.

"I… don't think so, sir."

Damavandi frowned. They'd all heard the explosion moments before, an explosion too soon to be a successful hit on the American submarine. Lieutenant Shirazi had also reported a loud throbbing noise, an underwater vehicle of unknown design, traveling as fast as a torpedo. An unmanned drone, perhaps?

And now this… "funny noise." What was going on?

"Let me hear!"

The sound began thumping from an overhead speaker. Damavandi listened, puzzled. It almost sounded like… music, of a sort. Muffled, broken and fragmentary… but he could almost swear he was hearing words.

But he couldn't understand them.

In any case, he didn't speak English, and he was sure that was what he was hearing.

"Captain, Sonar. Sir, I can't range on the target! I can't even track it!"

"What? Why not?"

"That… sound, sir. It's swamping all of our hydrophones. We're being jammed!" Damavandi groaned. The American had escaped once again.