The Seventh Angel

by Jeff Edwards

  “I know,” the captain said. “And you’ll be sailing in the dark, without radar. So use the infrared cameras on the mast-mounted sight, and make sure your forward lookouts have night vision goggles.”

  “We’re going to bump some ice, Nick,” he said. “No way to avoid it. But try not to hit too much of it, and try not to hit it too hard.” He smiled. “I don’t think our ship’s band knows how to play Abide With Me.”

  Ann registered the last sentence as a joke, but she didn’t get the reference. Maybe it was some Navy insider thing.

  The captain turned to Chief McPherson. “Chief, we can’t use ASROC in there, so make sure we’ve got port and starboard torpedo tubes prepped for urgent attack. We don’t know when we’re going to get a shot, and I don’t want to miss our window.”

  He looked at the TAO. “We’ve been operating just across the fence from those MiGs and helicopter gunships all night. We’ve been lucky so far, but now we’re going to climb over the fence and go right into their backyard. Sooner or later, they’re going to notice us and start shooting. When that happens, the jig will be up. Forget about EMCON, and forget about stealth. Get the radars up as fast as you can, so we can shoot back. Engage inbound missiles first, and then worry about hostile aircraft.”

  Finally, he turned to Ann. “I appreciate your assistance,” he said. “We couldn’t do this without you.”

  Ann nodded, and felt her stomach take a turn. She wondered if this might be a good time to throw up all over Combat Information Center again.

  The captain regarded the little group. “Any questions or suggestions?”

  No one had any.

  “You’ve all got your orders,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  CHAPTER 56

  USS TOWERS (DDG-103)

  SOUTHEASTERN SEA OF OKHOTSK

  THURSDAY; 07 MARCH

  2243 hours (10:43 PM)

  TIME ZONE +11 ‘LIMA’

  Seaman Apprentice Richard Melillo—better known to his shipmates as Rich Man—raised the binoculars to his eyes again and resumed scanning the star-flecked Siberian sky. “It turns out,” he said, “that bondoc is the Tagalog word for mountain. So these American Soldiers who fought in the mountains of the Philippines during World War II were fighting in the bondocs. Only the GIs didn’t pronounce it correctly. They called it the boondocks, or the boonies. And that’s where the term comes from.”

  Somewhere to his right, Seaman Dreyfus summoned up a measure of phlegm, and hocked it over the lifeline. “Where do you learn all of this crazy shit?” he asked.

  Melillo panned his binoculars slowly to the right, methodically taking in small sections of sky at a time, the way they’d taught him during lookout training. “I just pick it up here and there,” he said. “I read. Watch the History Channel. Stuff like that.”

  “Yeah,” Dreyfus said. “But how do you remember it? Half the time, I can’t remember where I put my shoes. How do you remember all this history junk? I bet you’d kick total ass if you ever went on Jeopardy.”

  Melillo smiled to himself. “I guess,” he said. “Maybe.” In truth, he though he probably would kick ass on Jeopardy. But it didn’t seem right to say so.

  Dreyfus hocked another one over the rail, and followed it up with a nasty sounding snort. “This cold is killing me,” he said. “My feet feel like they’re frozen to the deck plates, my damned nose won’t stop running.

  He stomped his feet several times, to get his circulation moving. “Damn,” he said. “It’s cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey.”

  Melillo grinned. “Yeah it is,” he said. “Hey … Do you know where that saying comes from? About freezing the balls off a brass monkey?”

  “Get the hell out of here,” Dreyfus said. “You really know where that comes from?”

  “Yeah,” Melillo said. “It goes back to the days of sail, when they used to stack cannonballs on deck, ready for use—next to the cannon. You know, in little pyramids, like you see on pirate movies. Well cannonballs are round, right? So they had to come up with a way to keep them from rolling all over the deck …” He paused, his binoculars held motionless as he listened intently.

  Dreyfus got tired of waiting for him to finish. “Yeah?”

  “Be quiet for a second,” Melillo said. “I’m listening.”

  “Listening for what?” Dreyfus asked.

  “Shhhhhhhh!”

  Seaman Apprentice Melillo shifted the earphone of his headset to free up his right ear, and pulled the cold weather hood out of the way. The air was insanely cold against his exposed skin, but he stood without moving, straining to recognize a sound near the very bottom end of his hearing.

  There it was. Yeah. It sounded like …

  His binoculars came up again, sweeping the sky in the direction of the sound. After a few seconds of searching, he found what he was looking for: a cluster of black shapes, silhouetted against the starry sky. He calculated a couple of quick angles, and grabbed the push-to-talk button on his headset.

  “Bridge—Starboard Lookout. Multiple helicopters, bearing zero-four-zero. Position Angle thirty-three. Moving from left to right very rapidly.”

  Even as he was listening to the reply from the bridge, he saw the helos turn toward the ship. He had a better look at them now, and the sound of their rotors was now easily distinguishable. He keyed his headset again. “Bridge—Starboard Lookout. I have three helicopters, I say again three helicopters, bearing zero-four-five. Position angle thirty-three. Helos have turned towards own ship, and they are inbound. I say again, helos are inbound.”

  The phone talker on the bridge said something in reply, but Melillo’s attention was focused on the helos now. Through his binoculars, he saw several brief flashes of light in the night sky.

  “Incoming missiles!” he shouted into his headset. “Missiles inbound, from the starboard bow! Bearing zero-four-five!”

  Again there was a reply from the bridge, but it was drowned out by the bark of an amplified voice from the ship’s topside speakers. “This is the XO from the bridge. We have inbound Vipers! This is not a drill! All topside personnel get inside the skin of the ship, now! All hands brace for shock!”

  The announcement was immediately followed by the raucous whoop of the missile salvo alarm.

  Melillo and Dreyfus were nearly knocked over by another Sailor, running past them through the darkness. They made it into the starboard break, clambered through a watertight door, and were dogging it behind themselves when they felt the ship shudder with the first launch of outbound missiles.

  As the roar of the missiles was fading, Seaman Apprentice Melillo said, “We’re getting our birds up there. They’ll knock down the inbounds.”

  The last word was overpowered by a prolonged metallic burp from the forward Close-In Weapon System, as the defensive Gatling gun hurled a thousand or so 20mm projectiles at the inbound missiles. The sound was followed by two muffled explosions, not very many yards from the ship. The CIWS growled again, pumping out another stream of 20mm tungsten bullets, but it was a fraction of a second too late.

  * * *

  S-24 Rocket (mid-flight):

  Even as two of the S-24 rockets were shredded by the ship’s Close-In Weapon System, a third flew toward its target, unaware that it had escaped early destruction by a margin of less than five meters.

  The 240mm Russian-built rocket was only marginally more intelligent than a rifle bullet. It had no sensors, no guidance package, and no processing capability of any kind. It knew only how to ignite its solid fuel engine, how to spin its airframe for flight stabilization, and how to detonate when its arming circuit was completed.

  It could not be fooled by chaff, or diverted by jamming. It could only fly in a straight trajectory, and explode on cue, but it did these simple things very well.

  Ten meters from the target, the rocket’s simple proximity fuse triggered the warhead. One hundred and twenty-three kilograms of RDX-based high explosive erupted into a directed cone of fire and shrap
nel.

  * * *

  USS Towers:

  The rocket struck the destroyer near the centerline of the 5-inch gun, blowing through the wedge-shaped carbon laminate faring, and ripping the large-bore naval cannon from its mount as easily as a child snapping a wishbone.

  The concussion heeled the destroyer several degrees to port. The ship immediately rolled back to starboard, and then righted herself as the kinetic energy of the exploding rocket was transmitted down through the keel, and passed from the steel hull into the icy water of the Russian sea.

  Broken and burning wreckage from the gun carriage tumbled down into the carrier room beneath the gun, spilling fire, fragments of scorched metal, and scalding hydraulic fluid on the Gunners Mates below. The Gunnery Officer, Ensign Kerry Frey, was killed instantly.

  Automatic fire suppression systems kicked on in the carrier room and the 5-inch magazine, limiting the cascade of damage. Two main electrical junction boxes and a breaker panel were shorted out by penetrating shrapnel. Electrical power failed, plunging the carrier room and magazine into darkness. The few surviving battle lanterns came on automatically, casting yellow circles of light over the injured and dying members of the 5-inch gun crew.

  * * *

  About sixty feet aft of the gun, Seaman Apprentice Melillo and Seaman Dreyfus were thrown bodily against a lagged steel bulkhead by the explosion. Melillo felt his nose crunch as he collided face-first with the lagging, and then bounced to the deck. He lay there for a few seconds, too dazed to move.

  The forward missile launcher fired again, and there were explosions in the distance, somewhere away from the ship.

  We’re not the only ones getting hammered tonight, Melillo thought groggily. He wiped blood from his nose, and staggered to his feet. A wave of pain and dizziness swept over him, and he stumbled against the bulkhead for support.

  The lighting was different now. Electrical power had failed in this section of passageway, and the emergency battle lanterns were on.

  Dreyfus lay on the deck, eyes open but not moving.

  Melillo looked down at his shipmate. “Hey, Carl? Are you okay?” His words sounded strange, partly because his ears were still ringing from the blast, and partly because he couldn’t breathe through his nose, which was already beginning to swell.

  Dreyfus lay on the deck without speaking.

  Melillo tried to lean over his buddy, and instantly regretted the move, as a rush of nauseous pain surged through his head and nose. He staggered again, but didn’t fall.

  He nudged Dreyfus with the toe of one steel toed boot. “Carl, are you alright?”

  Dreyfus looked up at him, blinking slowly. He seemed to be recovering his senses. “Yeah,” he said finally. “I … I think so.” He extended his hand. It trembled at first, but steadied down as Dreyfus began to regain control of his stunned muscles.

  Melillo grasped the outstretched hand, and helped his friend climb painfully to his feet.

  There was another rumble of launching missiles. Melillo could smell something burning, and people were shouting somewhere at the far end of the passageway.

  A voice came over the 1-MC speakers. “This is the Damage Control Assistant, from CCS. All available personnel report to the nearest repair locker.” The announcement was immediately repeated.

  Melillo looked at his buddy. They were both pretty beat up. But their ship was in trouble, and he knew that some of his shipmates were probably in much worse shape.

  “Let’s go, dude,” he said. “They’re playing our song.”

  * * *

  In the semi-darkness of Combat Information Center, Ann Roark was doing her best to tune out the battle. She swallowed, and took a deep breath. Don't pay any attention. Let the Navy people worry about their business. Take care of your robot, and leave the other stuff to them. Watch the screen. Just do your job.

  After a few minutes, she had honed that last sentence down to a mantra. Just do your job. Just do your job. Just do your job. She repeated the words over and over again in her head, unaware that she was rocking back and forth in her seat as she recited the mental litany. Just do your job. Just do your job.

  She knew from the reports bouncing around that some of the crew members were dead, and at least part of the ship was on fire. She wondered where Sheldon was. She had to fight the urge to jump up and go looking for him. Not that she thought she had a chance of finding him in this metal maze. Her brain just wanted her to be up and moving, probably because that was as close as she could manage to running away. Just do your job.

  Another report came through the overhead speakers. “TAO—Air, splash Bogie Number Three. All Bogies are down. All Vipers are down.”

  There was no cheering this time. The helicopters had been destroyed, and the inbound missiles were all gone. But the ship was wounded and there were MiGs out there somewhere.

  Just do your job. Just do your job.

  A hand touched her shoulder, and Ann nearly screamed.

  It was Sheldon, looking rumpled and tired, but otherwise intact. “How are you holding up, Princess Leia?”

  Ann tried to smile. “I haven’t thrown up yet.”

  “Me either,” Sheldon said. “But that’s not really a problem for me. When the missiles start flying, I’m more worried about peeing my pants.”

  Ann nodded. “I’ve been thinking about doing that, myself. I’m trying to figure out if it’s an acceptable alternative to yakking all over CIC. I mean, it might be alright. But I don’t know enough about Navy regulations. Peeing my panties might turn out to be a major breach of military protocol.”

  “We can always ask,” Sheldon said.

  “You ask,” Ann said. “I’m not good with that kind of thing.”

  Sheldon nodded absently. “We’re running out of missiles,” he said softly.

  Ann could tell instantly from the expression on his face that he hadn’t meant to say that out loud. She sat up. “What?”

  Sheldon blinked, but didn’t say anything.

  Ann lowered her voice. “We’re running out of missiles?”

  “Yeah,” Sheldon said. “The ship was doing training work-ups when they got tapped for this mission. The Towers wasn’t scheduled to deploy for several more months, so the ship wasn’t fully outfitted for deployment yet. When they got the order to come here, they were only carrying about half of their normal missile load.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Between the fight with those MiGs yesterday, and the helicopters tonight, we’re running out of missiles. And the 5-inch gun was wiped out by that rocket hit.”

  Ann felt her jaw muscles tighten. “Why are you telling me this? I was already scared out of my wits. Now you’ve got to dump all this on me?”

  “I’m sorry,” Sheldon said. “I thought you’d want to know the truth.”

  “Not when I’m trying to decide whether to pee my pants of throw up,” Ann said. “I don’t want the truth right now. I want to hear that everything is fine, and we’re all going to make it home alive.”

  “We’re going to be okay,” Sheldon said.

  Ann cocked an eyebrow. “It’s too late for that now, asshole.”

  “Just take care of Mouse,” Sheldon said.

  “That’s what I was trying to do when you came flitting in like the freaking Bad News Fairy,” Ann said. “I was trying to keep my mind on the job. Take care of my little robot.”

  Sheldon shook his head. “No. I mean now. Take care of Mouse, now.” He reached over and tapped the screen of Ann’s laptop. “ET is trying to phone home.”

  Ann turned her head. Mouse’s little green triangle was blinking. The data in the block to the left of the icon was updating every few seconds.

  Ann examined the readout carefully. “Go tell Chief McPherson that Mouse is tracking her submarine.”

  * * *

  Chief McPherson stood near the Computerized Dead-Reckoning Tracer, and looked down at the horizontally-mounted flat-screen digital display that formed the CDRT’s entire upper surface.
Five feet wide and almost six feet long, it was essentially an electronic map table, with a viewing area nearly as large as the big Aegis display screens. But unlike the Aegis screens, which could tap into feeds from any sensor or weapons system, the CDRT was optimized for Undersea Warfare. It had been designed specifically for hunting and killing submarines.

  Near the center of the display was the circular green symbol that signified USS Towers. The ship was surrounded by the white of the ice pack, broken only by the irregular ribbon of blue that represented the channel of open water they had sailed into. The ship was close to the northern end of the polynya, where the waterway constricted even further, and then narrowed to a close.

  A voice crackled in the left ear of the chief’s headset. “USWE—Tracker, testing Net One One.”

  The chief was currently the ship’s USWE, short for Undersea Warfare Evaluator. Her job was to coordinate the actions of the ship’s USW team, and direct the efforts to detect, classify, and destroy hostile submarines.

  Tracker was the temporary watch station ID she had assigned to STG3 Mooney, the Sonar Technician she had appointed to stand behind Ann Roark’s chair, and relay contact information from the civilian’s laptop.

  Because the sensor in question was an underwater robot, Mooney had tried to talk his chief into designating the new watch station as AquaDroid, or RoboGuy, or SubSlayer 2000. The Chief had settled on Tracker. It was simple, efficient, and she wouldn’t feel like an idiot every time she had to call him over the net.

  She keyed her mike. “Tracker—USWE. Read you Lima Charlie. How me?” (Lima Charlie was net-speak for Loud and Clear.)

  “USWE—Tracker. Read you same.”

  “USWE, aye. Break. UB—USWE, what’s the status of your torpedoes?”

  The Underwater Battery Fire Control Operator keyed into the net. “USWE—UB. Port and starboard torpedo tubes are prepped for firing. I’m ready to shoot as soon as I get a valid firing solution.”

  “USWE, aye. Break. Sonar—USWE, are you standing by to trigger the beacon?”

  The Sonar Supervisor’s voice came back at once. “USWE—Sonar. Affirmative, Chief. We’re queued up for a single active transmission, Frequency F2, with upward FM ramp. Standing by to transmit on your mark.”