Scorpion in the Sea

SEVENTY-FIVE

“Goddammit, I thought that fish would get him,” Mike swore.

He took off his helmet and scratched his head. The report from sonar that their fish had gone to the bottom told the tale. They just could not use torpedoes.

“They just weren’t designed for shallow water,” declared the weapons officer. Mike nodded.

“OK, gang,” he announced to the team in Combat. “We’re going to have to run right over the bastard, or drive him so close to the beach that he has to surface. Set us up for depth charge attack. Ops, have that helo keep a tight cloverleaf pattern of buoys on this guy. I want him to think there’s an air dropped torpedo coming.”

He keyed the bitchbox.

“XO, what’s the status on the plant? I need to go faster if we’re gonna get on top of this gomer.”

“XO, aye, they’ve located the problem — busted air ejector line; ETR is twenty minutes to 27 knots available, Cap’n.”

Mike shook his head. Twenty minutes was too long; he was stuck with his slow boat. Sonar came back on the line.

“Combat, Sonar control, contact regained, and he’s showing null doppler, Captain; we think he’s turning.”

Turning. He knew he was running out of water, then. The chart showed less than three miles to water that was only 250 feet deep.

“What’s the contact’s bearing right now?” he asked.

“Sir, she bears 265,” said the surface supervisor. “Sonar is tracking him on a turn to an easterly heading. If he keeps coming, he’s gonna walk right into us.”

Mike thought for a moment. The submarine CO had to know that Mike had depth charges; they’d undoubtedly shaken him pretty badly already. Why on earth would he turn east to avoid the rapidly shoaling water. Why not north, or south? Maybe he had reloaded? It had not been that long since the first brace of four torpedoes had been fired. But maybe the first batch had come from his stern tubes. Shit, he could be staring four, maybe six fish right in the face.

“Range? And what’s the water depth?”

“Sir, the range is down to 4800 yards; we’re closing pretty fast. Depth of water is about 330 feet.”

4800 yards. He would have fired by now. Hell, he can fire off axis if he wants to. So maybe he doesn’t have torpedoes. Maybe he thinks I’m out of depth charges. Maybe he thinks I won’t roll ’em because the water is too shallow and I’ll hurt myself.

“Range is 4200 yards, closing. Up doppler,” said the operations officer. “He’s coming right towards us. What the fuck’s he doing?”

“Might be going to try to break contact by running under us and into our baffles,” said Mike.

What’s he doing, what’s he doing … he hadn’t fired any more fish, so maybe he can’t fire any more fish. He has to run for it. He’s probably spotted the fact that we can’t go fast. He knows my fish can’t hurt him, but he must know I have depth charges. If he can just get by me once, he can outrun me until I get this plant fixed … if he can get out to the Stream, he’s gone. That’s what he’s doing: he’s taking his shot — the quickest way past us is head to head. But he’s forgetting the helo.

“Ops, break off that helo and put him east of us on the 5000 yard fence; Weps, get your depth charges ready, set for 250 feet. Unless this guy’s got a nose full of torpedoes left, he’s making a big mistake.”

Mike stood back from the plot, mindful of the building tension. They were going head and head. The submarine might be preparing for a down the throat torpedo shot. But he’d fired six fish so far, and nothing out of his stern tubes when he had a clear shot. It was like counting cards in a life and death poker game: how many aces were face up? Would he try a down the throat shot? The submarine had fired only straight runners so far; they might not have pattern fish. In that case, Goldsborough’s best aspect was straight on — if he lost his nerve and turned, he would present his whole broadside to the enemy’s torpedoes. But if he were going to fire, the guy should have fired by now. He’s tapped out. This is a run.

“Range, Ops?”

“Sir, the range is 2200 yards. Steady up doppler, steady track. I can’t believe this shit. He’s gonna run right into the depth charge pattern.”

Mike called sonar.

“Linc, what do you make of this? Are we on him for real?”

“Yes, Sir. Unless this is a super big decoy, we’ve got the guy nailed. Sharp, metallic contact, smooth track, around eight to ten knots, steady depth, same definition against the bottom clutter, and he’s coming straight into us. I keep waiting for hydrophone effects, but he’s awfully close now. His fish couldn’t even arm—”

“Right, that’s my take. OK, stand by your DC rack. Shoot ’em all, 250 feet, at my command.”

“Sonar, aye; roll four, 250 feet, at your command; standing by.”

“Range?”

“Sir, 1400 yards.”

Mike stared down at the plot. Something was tugging at the back of his mind. Instinct. Something wrong here.

“Wait,” Mike said. The plotters looked up at him.

“Sir?” asked the ops officer, looking first at Mike, and then at the weapons officer, as if to say, what the hell? The plotters had stopped plotting, and were staring at him.

Mike tried to concentrate, but could see only the tiny red pinpoint of light on the NC2 plotting surface. Coming right at them. Just like the night of the collision, years ago. That red light. That sudden, awful silence when everyone knew that they weren’t going to make it. That the Captain had given the wrong order. Do something, a voice was saying, this isn’t right.

“Sir?” asked the operations officer again.

“Sonar reports depth charges are ready. Set for 250 feet.”

“Sir, range is 1000 yards.”

1000? That was a big jump. Mis-plot, or had the submarine increased speed?

“Bridge, Combat, this is Sonar Control. Doppler is marked up. He’s kicked it in the ass, Captain, I think he means to run out from under the depth charges. I think he’s coming right. Captain, we need to come left to hit him!”

Mike thought quickly.

“Range is 800 yards.”

Linc was right. They had to turn. Turn left!

“Combat, Sonar Control, we need to turn with him to keep the sonar on him. Sir, we need to come left.”

Mike stared down at the plot, at the little red light. Linc was right. Turn with him, keep the sonar pointed at him. If they went right, the target would pass behind the destroyer, through his sonar’s dead zone. The depth charges would miss. He might get away. But there was something wrong here. Something very wrong. He felt an awful sense of dread rising in his belly. His mind flashed back to the collision. He had said nothing. He had just stood there. His instincts then had been to go the other way, but he had been afraid to contradict the Captain. Only now he was the Captain. They were looking at him. Don’t go left.

“Captain, Sir? We need to come left. Right now, Sir!”

“Range is 600 yards.”

Listen to your instincts, Diane had said. This will be for keeps, not for show. Don’t go left.

“Captain?”

Mike stood up and grabbed for the bitchbox, punching in both sonar and the bridge.

“Sonar, check fire on the depth charges!” he shouted. “XO, right full rudder!”

“Sir,” cried ops, “That’s the wrong way — we’ll put him through the baffles!”

But the Exec did not hesitate. Goldsborough heeled over sharply to port, biting into a hard right turn to the north. Mike could feel her swinging, and something in his gut was urging her on. Go, ship, go. He felt her dip her nose into a wave, hesitate, and lunge back out of it, as if she was listening to him.

“Sonar has no echoes! Last bearing 190, last range 280 yards. Contact is entering the baffles. We’ve lost—”

A horrendous blast plunged CIC into a maelstrom of darkness, flying objects, and screaming men. Mike felt a punishing hammer blow in both his legs, and then a blinding red arc of pain in his head, before everything roared away into blackness.