“Hard right rudder!” the bitch box said, as the officer of the deck gave standard evasive maneuver orders. “Flank speed — now, engineer. I need it now!” It was odd to feel the deck of the carrier move under their feet. Normally she made slow, ponderous course and speed changes as she made allowances for the ships around her, the safety of personnel, and the security of the aircraft spotted on her deck. But this was no time for safety — not at all. Coyote swore softly, wondering why in the five hells he hadn’t taken the submarine out the first time they had contact on her.
Because you were under orders not to — you know that’s why it was. If it had been up to you or anybody out here, it would have been flotsam and jetsam by now. And to hell with international relations, walking the brink of diplomacy, all that shit. Because it allowed threats that we knew about to continue to exist, ones that could have been eliminated before they were allowed to jeopardize my entire battle group.
The terse commands continued over the bridge circuit as the officer of the deck ordered decoys and noise makers dumped over the side. The aircraft carrier herself had no torpedoes. United States depended on the other ships and aircraft in the battle group to keep the enemy submarines out of weapon’s release range. The orders from higher authority had sabotaged all that, and allowed the submarine to get within range of the carrier. And there was little that the carrier could do, except use a few tricks of the trade and watch and wait.
USS Lake Champlain
0826 local (GMT +8)
Norfolk felt a moment of horror as he saw the torpedo symbol pop up on the monitor screen. It was coming in from the south, heading directly for the United States, and would pass about three thousand yards on the Lake Champlain’s starboard bow. He wished to hell he’d taken it out when he’d had the chance — dammit, it was always easier to ask forgiveness than permission, and he had known this moment was coming from the very second that the admiral had told him not to fire his ASROCs.
And now, it had come to this. Norfolk had known what he should do, had known and not acted. And now men and women would die by the thousands. Not only at sea, but on land, on the day that Taiwan was no longer under the sheltering protection of the U.S. airwing.
“All ahead flank,” the captain ordered, barely even aware of the words as he spoke them. The TAO turn to look at him, his face a mask of doubt.
“Captain, the torpedo?”
“I gave you an order, mister,” Norfolk snapped. He reached out to punch the button that connected the TAO to the bridge. “All ahead flank!”
“All ahead flank, aye-aye, sir,” came the acknowledgement from his XO.
Maybe he doesn’t know. If he’s not watching the screen, if he doesn’t see the geometry, he may not realize that we’re going directly into harm’s way.
Because that is the only way to prevent the greater tragedy — this situation should have never been allowed to develop like this, and I contributed by obeying orders.
And now, even though it required that he risk the ship and his entire crew, he would set it right. Set it right, if it was the last thing on earth that he did.
USS United States
TFCC
0824 local (GMT +8)
“What the hell is she doing?” the TAO said, his voice angry. “Dammit, the bitch is…” He fell silent abruptly as it sank in exactly what the Lake Champlain was doing.
“Damn, that man has balls,” Coyote said. Whether or not he made it, he sure as hell was giving it the good old Navy try.
There was no mystery to what the Lake Champlain’s captain was attempting. It was clear that the torpedo would pass in front of the destroyer on its way to seek out its primary target, the aircraft carrier. What the Lake Champlain was trying to do was offer herself up as a sacrificial lamb, to take the shot to prevent it from reaching the carrier.
There were a hell of a lot of reasons that it might not work. First, if the torpedo was equipped with advanced acoustic analysis gear, it would immediately recognize that the destroyer was a smaller ship than the one it intended to hit, and would divert around to avoid the Lake Champlain and continue with its targeted mission. Second, the ranges and distances were such that it was extremely close. Indeed, the Lake Champlain’s captain’s plan depended on the torpedo having acoustic ranging gear onboard, on being in active mode, on detecting a noisy mass of metal nearby and deciding that was a better target. The Lake Champlain would have no chance to decoy the weapon if it was simply a wake-homer, because the destroyer’s wake was well out of the torpedo’s detection range. But acoustically, the bow on aspect of the ship to the receiver was the most preferred target angle for detection.
Coyote picked up the mike. “Lake Champlain, United States. We’re standing by with SAR assets.” He nodded to the TAO, who gave the order to the air boss. More helicopters were moved into immediate launch status.
“Good luck,” Coyote concluded, and replaced the mike, although he was not entirely certain what would constitute good luck for the Lake Champlain—achieving her mission and saving the carrier, or failing and saving her own skin at the expense of the carrier? He wondered which one Lake Champlain thought it was.
USS Lake Champlain
0829 local (GMT +8)
“One thousand yards,” the TAO announced. “All stations report zebra set throughout the ship. Evacuated all unnecessary personnel from below the waterline.” The last measure was a last-ditch effort to keep as many people as possible from being trapped below on a flooding ship.
All unnecessary personnel — that didn’t translate into everyone. There would be perhaps fifteen people below the waterline.
Norfolk reached a decision. “All personnel — all of them,” he ordered. “Get everybody out of there, TAO. I want every single body above the waterline.”
Without questioning him, the TAO amended his order, and the captain could hear men and women running throughout the ship.
The hangar deck would be crowded, as would every passageway above the waterline. Few would seek safety on the open weather decks, because a hard explosion would rock the ship so violently that they might be thrown overboard. And even with the carrier’s promise of SAR assistance, the odds of being rescued were not high.
Eight seconds now. Maybe ten. He had always wondered how he would act if he had known he was going to die. Whether he’d be who he wanted to be, the brave naval officer that by his own personal courage somehow made it easier for his men, who kept them so focused on the task and on duty as an overriding imperative that they barely even counted the personal cost? Or would he dissolve into the man his father thought he was, weak and screaming in terror?
He had always thought such a moment would be a watershed for him, and it seemed a profound shame that he would not know the answer until the very end of his life.
How long now, a few seconds? Oddly enough, the moment felt anticlimactic. He had thought that he would be frightened, reacting, but it was as though he had stepped outside himself and watched another man deal with the danger. A calm man, hard in some ways, one who could watch the closure between torpedo and ship impassively, as though it meant nothing to him personally whether the two symbols intersected on the screen or not.
Five seconds now. “Is everyone up from below decks?” he asked the TAO, still surprised to find out how calm and professional the stranger sounded. And why was he asking that, during these final moments? Shouldn’t he be more worried about his own skin instead of the fate of some very junior sailors on the ship?
With an abrupt wrench, the captain felt himself back inside his own skin, and a sense of uncanny peace descended over him.
Because they are my men. I have trained them, I have worked with them, and they have trusted me — the Navy has entrusted me — with their very lives. And in the end, for every one of them that dies, a bit of me dies as well, no matter if I survive.
“Hard right rudder,” he ordered, marveling at what he was about to do. How impossible was this, to try to calculate the
exact point on the ship to take the hit?
Forward, and the missile launch cells might be irreparably damaged, not to mention the danger they would pose to firefighters. Completely astern, and there was a risk of fatal injury to the propeller itself, in which case the Lake Champlain would be a floating hole in the water completely at the mercy of waves and the sea. So where, if he had to take the hit, would he prefer it to be? It was like deciding whether to have a right or left hand amputated — or maybe whether to lose a hand or an eye. Every part of the ship was precious to him, just as every sailor was.
And yet the decision had to be made, even if it was a wildly improbable maneuver to attempt. Astern of amidships, he decided, but not all the way astern. Somewhere in the aft third quarter of the ship, where most of what would be damaged would be living quarters and support facilities. God help them, the propeller shaft ran all the way through there as well, but there was a chance that the shock bearings would be sufficient support. Along that last one-quarter of the ship, where his shafts were exposed to water, a hit would be more dangerous.
At times like this, no one questioned him. The Lake Champlain, a marvelously maneuverable beast, pivoted smartly as the officer of the deck wisely chose to use one shaft ahead full, and one shaft astern full in order to pivot the ship. She had just time for one maneuver before the first torpedo hit.
Everyone in combat was strapped into his or her chair, but he knew that the bridge crew and men and women crowding passageways above the waterline would not fare as well.
The ship slammed violently to the right, and Norfolk felt his harness cut hard into his gut, knocking his breath out of him. The strap itself seemed determined to cut through his midsection, and his head slammed into the side of the seat. In the next instant, the ship heeled back to the other side almost as violently, and he heard his neck creak and snap as he was flung to the other side. Combat was filled with muttered curses and a few cries of pain and surprise.
The cant on the deck increased alarmingly. She was five degrees down now, maybe ten. Oh God, how bad is it? The ship continued to rock back and forth, attempting to right herself, as the impact of the torpedo reverberated throughout her hull.
There were loud moans coming from some sections of combat now, and the captain could only imagine the damage the attack had done to the bridge. Even if they were braced, holding on for dear life to structural supports and stanchions, the impact must have flung them around the compartment like rag dolls.
And inside the ship — well, he would know soon enough. There was no time to worry, not if he was going to keep the ship afloat.
“Damage report!” he snapped at the TAO, marveling at his own voice. “Come on, mister — we’re still afloat.”
The sound-powered phone circuits sprung to life now, as weak, sometimes broken voices began summarizing the situation for them.
The torpedo had hit in the general area he’d hoped for, although not as forward as his best projection. It had penetrated in the lowest compartments, blasting a gaping hole open in them, and then continuing on through the ship before finally exploding. There was a massive fire in the ports stern sections of the ship, the investigator was reporting. No apparent casualties from the explosion, since everyone had been evacuated.
On the bridge, the situation was serious. The XO had been slammed against the hatch, and had slumped unconscious to the deck. The officer of the deck had not been able to ascertain his condition yet due to taking a fairly hard hit himself. There were no apparent fatalities, but numerous injuries. At that very moment, the officer of the deck was handling the helm himself, while the junior officer of the deck checked on everyone’s condition. Did the captain have any orders?
“Not at the moment — we’ll probably want to come right before long, to try to stabilize her. Give me a full steering gear check, including both rudders and both rudder cables. Tell me how much maneuverability we have left.”
And then the reports began arriving in from engineering. The damage control teams were spreading out throughout the ship, fighting to contain the smoke, fire and flooding. Containing, then starting to push them back until they occupied the smallest possible area.
The chief engineer was in main control, which was co-located with damage control central. He was fully suited in his general quarters gear except for a firefighting ensemble and breathing apparatus.
Every alarm and telltale inside damage control was howling. Red lights flashed across all the status boards, indicating fires, flooding, and massive damage.
The chief engineer grabbed a sound-powered phone connected to the primary investigator. “As soon as they set smoke, fire, and flooding boundaries, I want a full report on shaft alley,” he said, referring to the long compartment that crossed watertight bulkheads in the shaft’s transit from the turbines to propellers. “Our first priority is to restore full maneuverability.”
“Roger, sir. I can tell you that we probably lost the port shaft. It’s still intact, but she looks like she’s been badly warped. I’m not sure if we should even try to put any knots on her — it may just do more damage. The good news, though, is that the starboard shaft looks like it’s okay.”
The engineer breathed a sigh of relief. Even if both shafts had been damaged, they could have made slow forward speeds with the bow thrusters. But the small pump jets were designed for maneuvering, and for emergency propulsion, not for the long haul back across the Pacific to a shipyard. He wasn’t even sure that they would stand up without burning out.
“The next question is steering. Can you get into aftersteering?”
“Hold on, sir. I’m going to move aft.”
The primary investigator unplugged from a sound-powered phone jack and made his way aft. He came back on line, and said “I’m not so sure, sir. The hatch is still intact, but it’s badly sprung. There may be a fair amount of flooding back there. What me to check the telltale?” The telltale was a small, independently operated access to allow personnel to check whether or not a compartment was flooded. It was easy to shut, where the massive hatch would not be if the full force of the water were against it. “What do the flooding indicators say?”
The chief engineer glanced at the enunciator board, then said, “It says flooding, but it says that about every compartment, even the ones we know are okay. I’m not inclined to trust it.”
“Okay, sir, let me try the telltale.” There was a moment of silence, then, “There’s a little water in there on the deck, sir, but nothing that amounts to anything. I’d like people standing by, though, before I open the hatch.”
“How deep?”
“From the little I can see, about six inches. I don’t see any major change, but that could change when I open the hatch.”
The engineer made his decision. “Stand by until I can get a team down there — we’ve got other things to take care of first, but they’ll get there as soon as they can. We’ll wait for the bridge to tell us whether or not they have maneuverability.”
It was a risk, albeit a small one. Attempting to actuate a damaged component could result in further problems, up to and including fire. But if aftersteering did have major flooding problems, the last thing he wanted to do was create access to the rest of the ship. No, he would wait for the bridge to tell him whether or not they had adequate control of the rudders, then decide what to do after that.
“Aye-aye, sir. What next?”
“Check all compartments around, above, and below aftersteering. Then get me a follow-up report and double check the fire, smoke and flooding boundaries. I need to know what the status is on our valve lineup, as well — I think we’ll have to pump fuel and water around in order to stabilize her.”
As the engineer glanced back at the status board, he had a sense of being overwhelmed. The ship was so badly damaged — for a moment the details threatened to overwhelm them. How could one group possibly catch up with it all?
Then the hard-learned lessons came flooding back. One thing at a time — prior
itize, prioritize, prioritize. No, you can’t do everything at once. Keep her afloat for now, and the rest of it can be sorted out later.
USS United States
0845 local (GMT +8)
“It’s bad, Admiral. But it could be worse.” Norfolk’s voice was tight and controlled. “We’re still working to control the flooding. No fire, yet. One shaft very questionable, the propeller probably okay. No personnel killed, although we have a couple of injuries, broken bones, that sort of thing. One concussion, the corpsman thinks.”
“What do you need from us?” the admiral asked.
“Medical evacuation, as soon as I can set flight quarters. We’ll have to use the stretcher — I’ve got about ten degrees list on the deck.”
Ten degrees — it didn’t sound like much, but Coyote knew it was a hell of a lot of list. Ten degrees would make everything uphill, would knock all loose gear around in a compartment. That more than anything else Lake Champlain’s captain said told Coyote just how badly the destroyer was damaged.
“Combat systems?” Coyote asked.
“All operational,” the captain said. “I’m not sure we can deploy the towed array, but sonar and all radars are on. As are our missiles and fire control.”
Coyote paused for a moment, and said, “I know what you did, Captain. That last maneuver — I’m not sure I’ve ever seen such an outstanding if damned dangerous shiphandling maneuver. It looks like it worked, though.”
“That it did, Admiral.”
“Did you know it would?”
There was a long silence online, and for a moment Coyote thought they had lost communications. But then the captain spoke, his voice for the first time showing some of his pain. “No, Admiral, I didn’t. But I had to try it — I pulled everyone up above the waterline before I did.”
“Everyone?” Coyote was astounded.
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