Scorpion in the Sea

SEVENTY-THREE

“Sonar contact, bearing 265, range 5500 yards, echo quality sharp, classify as possible submarine!”

“Yeah, Linc!” exclaimed the Captain. “XO, come right to 265, prepare for depth charge attack. How many we have left, anyway?”

“Sir, we have four depth charges left. And Captain, that helo is airborne and coming to our control on button five.”

“Very well.”

The antisubmarine air controller, hearing the report of an inbound helo, slapped on his headset, punched up the frequency, and began to call the incoming helicopter.

The weapons officer was tugging on the Captain’s sleeve.

“Sir, recommend an urgent attack down the bearing with a 46; it’s a doubtful shot, but we might bag his ass.”

“No. The last one went right for the bottom. I want to run over him and put one of these 500 pounders right between his ears. Tell sonar to be alert for hydrophone effects.”

“Sonar, aye, and Captain, this contact is stationary. It may be a decoy. There’s a lot of clutter on the scope around the contact, but we can still see him in there.”

“Keep on him; we’re running in on the plot. Get your depth charges ready.”

“Sonar, aye. Wait one! Hydrophone effects! Hydrophone effects. One, possibly two torpedoes inbound, bearing 260!”

“Combat, aye, bridge, come left emergency to 240, speed twenty knots!”

“Aye, Cap’n,” came the Exec’s voice back over the intercom. “We’ve got the rudder over, but we’re stuck at about fourteen knots until they get vacuum back on number two; number two shaft is locked, and number one is making turns for twenty right now. She’s coming around.”

“Hydrophone effects, bearing 261, doppler up, amplitude increasing, make it a pair!”

Mike grabbed the 1MC microphone as Goldsborough came around to the southwest, grudgingly with that one screw locked.

“All hands, torpedoes inbound, starboard side. We’re maneuvering, but brace for impact, brace for impact!”

“Hydrophone effects, bearing 262—they’re drawing right, Captain!”

Every man in CIC stared at the plot while their brains feverishly broadcast the same message — draw right, draw right!

“Combat. Bridge, Cap’n, we see ’em! Big fucking wakes coming up the starboard bow! If they’re not pattern runners, we’re gonna be clear, they’re right on the bow, and there they go, two wakes, down the starboard side.”

Mike could hear the sounds of cheering out on the bridge. He keyed the 1MC again.

“All hands, the torpedoes have cleared, the torpedoes have cleared. We’re going in for an attack of our own, and we have a helicopter now to help out!”

He bent back over the plotting table. The operations officer was calling the course changes now, as Goldsborough limped in at fourteen knots in the direction of the submarine.

“Captain, Sonar,” called Linc over the intercom. “We’re not closing this guy — he’s kicked it in the ass. We’re showing down doppler, and a course that’s westerly. Request eighteen knots.”

“Can’t give it to you, Linc, the snipes have a problem; we’re maxed out right now until they get vacuum back on number two. When the helo gets overhead, we’ll put active buoys down; that should make him change course and maybe we can get closer.”

“Captain, recommend we shoot a torpedo down that bearing; he might turn to avoid it, and we’ll get closer.”

Mike thought about that for a moment. It was better than sitting back here and taking a chance on stern tube torpedoes from the submarine. They had been extremely lucky the last time.

“OK, weps, let one go, on the current bearing of the contact; set it for 150 feet, maybe it will see the submarine before it sees the bottom this time.”

“Weapons, aye, firing one MK 46 to starboard, on bearing 264, snake search, initial search depth 150 feet; torpedo away!”

The whoosh of the air flask was audible above the din of voices as the plotting team kept the picture going on the NC2.

“Evaluator, the helo is marking on top the contact, and is dropping active pingers on a line from 090 to 270, spacing 500 yards. He has no weapons.”

“Evaluator, aye, inform him we have a weapon in the water, headed down bearing 265 from us.”

The controller hurriedly passed this word to the helicopter, who promptly climbed out to 500 feet from his buoy dropping low pass, while Goldsborough drove in behind her torpedo.

Mike stared down at the plot, standing shoulder to shoulder with his tactical team around the plotting table. Everyone stank of sweat and fear, their eyes white with adrenaline. The contact data flowed up from sonar control, and the plotters acknowledged, making their marks on the trace paper.

Mike stared hard at the plot, thinking furiously. What do you do now? Think! Guy’s running away from you, you’ve got a torpedo chasing his ass, he’s got stern tubes. He’s fired two at you. He fired four at the carrier — we got three and a fourth kept going. Which means he’s empty forward. But what’s he got in his tail tubes. Four more? And we’re right behind him? He looked at the plot. They were headed west.

“Come right to 300,” he ordered. “Quickly!”

The operations officer relayed the order, and then looked at the Captain, a question forming on his lips.

“Stern tubes, Ops. Like chasing a guy who’s carrying his rifle over his shoulder — pointed right at you. We’ll lose ground, but zig zag across his bearing every two, three minutes. Try to keep it random. I don’t want to give him a sitting duck solution. And have radio get another OpRep out: tell ’em we are in contact, two more torpedoes fired at us, and give a position in case this all turns to shit!”

“Aye, Sir.”

The operations officer relayed the order to the bridge to execute a broad zig zag, and then called radio central.

“Status of our torpedo!”

“Sir, our fish is still running, but the range is extreme. Still in search mode. No acquisition.”

Mike continued to watch the plot. The torpedo would probably do what the last one did, look down, acquire the ocean floor, and zoom down to go bang in the mud. The submarine was getting away to the west, slowly opening the range, but he could not keep that up. To the west was shallow water, and two Spruance destroyers.

“Ops, once you get your amplifying OpRep out, find out where those Spruances are, and whether or not they can vector their heloes out here now. And get our helo back in front of the contact, dropping active buoys. I need to herd his ass back east, so we can have a go with depth charges.

“Ops, aye.”

The Exec’s voice sounded over the bitchbox.

“Combat, bridge, the carrier wants to know what’s going on.”

“Tell him we are in contact and trading torpedoes with this guy. Tell him to go east some more, stay out of range.”

“Bridge, aye.”

“Combat, sonar, torpedo at end of run. No acquisition.”

“Fire another one, Sir?” asked the weapons officer. “Keep him busy?”

Mike thought fast. Goldsborough’s torpedoes were useless in this shallow water. Good maybe for psychological warfare, but not much else. Why hadn’t the guy taken another shot? He had four stern tubes. Had they damaged him?

“Sir, the contact is changing course,” announced the red plotter.