Straits of Power

by Joe Buff

  Bell motioned for Torelli to join the discussion. “Figure a cruise missile is about the size of four naval mines?”

  Torelli nodded. “So twenty-four mines means the harness could hold six missiles, in protective capsules, say.”

  “Given the total number of missiles we know were launched,” Bell said, “and assuming each Two-twelve came with a full six torpedoes in her torpedo room plus a missile or torpedo in each of her six tubes, they’d have what left?”

  “About ten torpedoes apiece,” Torelli said.

  “A salvo of six, and then a salvo of four,” Jeffrey stated. “Maybe. Maximum. We don’t know how much space they used up for missiles they fired toward Newport News well after we departed.”

  “Concur,” Bell and Torelli said together.

  “But we have to assume the worst, including that the Two-fourteen has a full load.”

  “Two salvos of six,” Bell said. “If those are the tactics they follow.”

  “It’ll be a close call as to who runs out first,” Jeffrey said. “Them out of torpedoes, or us and Ohio out of antitorpedo rockets.”

  Chapter 12

  Twenty minutes and almost twenty miles later, Jeffrey ordered Meltzer to slow the ship and turn in a circle again. Jeffrey dared not go farther without another check for targets and threats. The icons on his computerized tactical plot were mere abstractions, but he knew that what they stood for was totally real. The positions of the pair of 212s was an estimate, but that was far better than nothing. What scared him most was the phantom that didn’t even have an estimate icon: the milch-cow 214, whereabouts completely unknown.

  Jeffrey dearly wished he could trail his ship’s special fiber-optic towed array. This new array, installed before his previous mission, had three parallel lines of sensors instead of just one. The array was ideal in hunting for diesel subs in shallow waters.

  But Jeffrey was handcuffed. The array took many minutes to reel out on the special winch and then reel it all back in again. The array didn’t work at flank speed, and might even be damaged by flow drag through the ocean at such high velocity. In water so constricted, with many uncharted wrecks on this part of the U.S. Eastern Seaboard, the danger of snagging the array and losing it altogether was serious.

  But unless I detect the Two-fourteen soon . . . Whoever gets in the first accurate salvo in a sub-on-sub engagement usually wins.

  Somewhere out there is a strong steel tube, half as long as Challenger and only one quarter the weight. But she has two dozen officers and men inside, each of them hell-bent on destroying my ship. And they’re doing what they’re best at—staying invisible, toying with me.

  The pair of smaller 212s and their crews in front of Parcelli’s mad dash were bad enough.

  Challenger continued making another gradual turn. Once more Jeffrey, torn by frustration, waited for word from Milgrom on any contacts.

  “Sir,” Meltzer reported, “my course is zero-four-five.”

  The ship had completed another circle.

  “Sonar, anything?”

  “Nothing on our passive hull arrays, Captain.”

  “Very well, Sonar. . . . Helm, my intention is to resume flank speed on course zero-four-five after doing another active search.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  “Sonar, ping on—”

  “Torpedoes in the water!” a sonar man screamed. “Multiple Seehecht torpedoes inbound, bearing two-nine-zero, range twelve thousand yards!” West-northwest, six nautical miles. All sonar contacts were listed with true bearings, as if from a compass centered on Jeffrey’s own ship; Challenger’s course wasn’t relevant.

  The Two-fourteen has sprung its trap.

  Jeffrey needed good information now more than ever.

  “Sonar, go active, melee search mode.”

  Challenger’s bow sphere emitted another powerful crescendo chorus of sound.

  Data started pouring in.

  Milgrom called out each contact.

  Bell updated the tactical plot.

  Jeffrey hated what he saw. Ohio was directly ahead of Challenger, by four miles. She’d slowed to do her own target search. The 214, contact designated Master 1, was off to the left, in between them—past Challenger’s port bow, and in the broad blind spot of Ohio’s baffles. Both class 212s, contacts designated Master 2 and Master 3, were ahead of Ohio, as Jeffrey expected, by about another ten thousand yards—one beyond Ohio’s port bow and one beyond her starboard bow.

  The German subs used updated Seehecht torpedoes, wire-guided from the parent sub. The Seehechts’ top speed was almost forty knots; Jeffrey could outrun them easily. But the Seehechts were much faster than Ohio, so the last thing Jeffrey could do now was run. Ohio badly needed Jeffrey’s help, even though all vessels were still well inside the two-hundred-mile limit, so German nukes—hopefully—were precluded.

  Challenger moved slowly through the water; the 214’s Seehechts were gaining by more than a thousand yards per minute. It made Jeffrey’s nerve endings feel like they were on fire.

  Patience. Don’t rush the ballet or you’ll botch it.

  “Contacts on acoustic intercept,” Milgrom called out. “Masters One through Three have gone active!”

  “Sonar on speakers,” Jeffrey ordered. The control room was suddenly filled with quadraphonic sound, eerie echoes of enemy pings and the frightening mechanical screams of electric torpedo engine sounds.

  “More torpedoes in the water,” a sonar man yelled. “Fan spread, mean bearing zero-four-five, inbound at eighteen thousand yards.”

  “They’ve got superior position and better immediate firepower,” Jeffrey said to Bell. “Masters Two and Three can shoot a dozen torpedoes at Ohio compared to her four in any one salvo. After they overwhelm her, they’ll all close in on Challenger.”

  “Concur.”

  “We fight the fight their way, we’ve had it. We need to change the rules, make this a battle of maneuver.”

  “Bearing rate on Ohio,” Milgrom said. “Ohio turning to starboard. . . . Ohio has fired four torpedoes, sir, two each at Master Two and Master Three.”

  Parcelli needs time to reload. At least those shots might force the 212s to run, and break the guidance wires to their weapons in the water, and give us a chance to outsmart the torpedo software with our human brains.

  “Fire Control, signal to Ohio on acoustic link: ‘Maintain your turn, steer onto course two-two-five.’ ” Southwest, the opposite of the way they’d just come. “ ‘Put yourself in my baffles, direct all further fire at the class 214 I designate Master One.’ ”

  Bell typed madly and had the message sent.

  “Ohio acknowledges!”

  “Sonar, speakers off. Go active. Melee ping.”

  The noise, even with the speakers off, was almost unbearable. Jeffrey told Milgrom to turn the speakers back on—he craved sensory data. Seconds later he could hear each echo come back off the German subs, and the quadraphonic surround sound gave him a three-dimensional feel of the battle.

  The tactical plot was refreshed, with new positions and courses and speeds—including icons for over a dozen torpedoes dashing this way and that.

  “Fire Control, snap shots, tubes one and two, on bearing to Master One, shoot.”

  Bell acknowledged and relayed commands. Torelli’s team quickly programmed the torpedoes, flooded and equalized the pressure in the tubes, and opened the outer doors. The force of water pent up behind big, stiff elastomer membranes quietly shoved the fish out of the tubes. As they came free of the ship, their closed-cycle liquid-fueled engines started.

  Snap shots lacked a proper fire-control solution to lead a moving target; they were done to save time in a combat emergency. But the homing sonars and software on the fiber-optic wire-guided Mark 48 Improved ADCAPs were very good.

  “Tubes one and two fired electrically,” Torelli reported, his voice dead flat, as always in combat. By making himself sound almost bored, he kept his people calm and focused.

  “Bo
th units operating normally,” Milgrom confirmed by using passive sonar.

  Jeffrey’s opening shots in this battle were well on their way. But to win would demand subtle strategy, not just brute strength.

  “Decoy in tube seven, set speed to fifty-three knots, snap shot on bearing to Master One, shoot. . . . Helm, ahead two thirds, make turns for twenty-six knots.” Twenty-six knots was Challenger’s top quiet speed, one knot faster than Ohio at her fastest and loudest. The decoy was meant to follow Jeffrey’s torpedoes, which moved at almost seventy knots, to make the 214’s captain think that Challenger was charging at him right behind Jeffrey’s own fish.

  I’ve got to shake him up, and force him to make a hard turn, and make him break the wires controlling his weapons.

  Jeffrey watched on the tactical plot and listened on the speakers as Challenger and Ohio passed each other in opposite directions; Ohio was rushing down Challenger’s starboard side.

  “Fire Control, signal Ohio. Reverse your course, assume station five hundred yards off my stern. Increase to flank speed, steer your weapons well clear of my decoy at rough bearing two-nine-zero. Support appearance that decoy is Challenger, shielding you from the class Two-fourteen. Do not use your active sonar. Rely only on active search by your fish.”

  The Ohio’s active sonar system—as a former boomer whose job was perpetual stealth—was less capable than Challenger’s. If Ohio pinged, she’d give Challenger away via echoes the Germans would hear off of Jeffrey’s hull, or she’d reveal a big, quiet hole in the water—Challenger, backlit by Ohio. Either way would ruin Jeffrey’s intended deception.

  And if I ping now, I betray that my decoy’s a decoy. It’s all up to the ADCAPs and my passive sonars now.

  Jeffrey was taking a gamble, but out-positioned and outgunned, he had no choice. There was an awkward moment while he wondered what Parcelli would say in response to his latest orders. Jeffrey was trying to make it look like Ohio’s captain was confused about what to do, turning and then running and then turning and then seeming to stop.

  “Ohio acknowledges! . . . Ohio turning into our baffles.”

  This way Challenger, silent, might shield Ohio from the 212s, who’d be tracking Jeffrey’s decoy, which was chasing the 214. Both American ships had the same outside diameter—forty-two feet. And the close spacing brought Ohio and Challenger under the protective umbrella of each other’s antitorpedo underwater rockets, which had an effective range of only a thousand yards before their solid-fuel motors burned out.

  Five hundred yards of separation was less than three ship lengths, from Ohio’s perspective. The two vessels were tucked in tight. Jeffrey now planned to pretend to the Germans that Challenger was Ohio.

  It’s time to go on the all-out offensive.

  “Fire Control, snap shots, tubes three and four, last known bearing to Master Two. Have both units begin active search after running for two thousand yards. Shoot!”

  Bell relayed the commands; Torelli and his weapons-systems technicians were kept very busy.

  “Fire Control, snap shots, tubes five and six, last known bearing to Master Three. Have both units begin active search after running for two thousand yards. Shoot!”

  The noise of torpedo engines was very loud now. The weapons, both friendly and enemy, began to ping more and more in search of targets. Silvery tings filled the air in the control room, musical and sweet, disguising the relentless menace each note stood for.

  Jeffrey glanced again at the tactical plot. The 214 was moving northeast from her ambush location at twenty knots, fleeing a clutch of inbound fish. She fired a series of noisemakers, which gave off bubbles and made loud gurgling sounds—but the ADCAPs weren’t fooled. One of Torelli’s weapons techs controlled the fifty-knot decoy to keep following in their wake. Jeffrey prayed the other U-boats still bought his trick, that the decoy was Challenger going after the milch cow.

  They did. Grouped together as if to present a united front, the pair of 212s moved boldly toward Ohio’s last-known position—toward Challenger—at their own flank speed, twenty knots.

  There was just one catch. The 214’s first set of weapons closed constantly from the side, even as Challenger led Ohio northeast. The Seehechts might be slow compared to ADCAPs, but their high-explosive warheads were nearly as large.

  I can’t ignore them forever.

  A new sound came over the speakers. Dull rumbles rose to heavy roars.

  “Assess Masters Two and Three have fired antitorpedo rockets!” Bell said.

  “Let’s see how effective they are.”

  Jeffrey and Bell waited. Ohio’s four weapons ran on, their wires undoubtedly broken now. Torelli had his technicians make Challenger’s torpedoes from tubes three through six jink to try to evade the rockets. But the antitorpedo rockets were more nimble.

  There were dull thuds and tremendous cracks as each rocket fired its warhead, a high-explosive shaped charge full of depleted uranium pellets, like a shotgun blast; Parcelli’s and Jeffrey’s ADCAPs were smashed, and two of their warheads were set off by the effects of the U-boats’ defensive rockets. Echoes finally died away, and the torpedo engine noises were lessened compared to before.

  This won’t do. . . . We need to use more fish, in quicker succession, from much shorter range.

  “Fire Control, reload tubes one through six, high-explosive ADCAPs.”

  Jeffrey hadn’t reloaded before, because doing so would cut the wires to the weapons already in the water. Jeffrey’s first two fish, aimed at the 214, were on their own now. Sinking Master One was Parcelli’s job, and a salvo of four of his ADCAPs was already on the way.

  Both class 212s pinged. Milgrom used active out-of-phase emissions to suppress the echoes off Challenger’s bow and the front of her sail. “Assess echoes successfully suppressed.”

  “Very well, Sonar.” The Germans had to be wondering where Ohio had gone. Good. Perfect. Let them wonder.

  The reloading of all empty tubes was done very quickly, thanks to Challenger’s torpedo-room hydraulic autoloader gear. Six tubes were soon ready to fire.

  Enemy torpedoes began to draw too close for comfort. Jeffrey ordered Bell to have Torelli open fire with Challenger’s antitorpedo rockets.

  Once more, roars and rumbles began and raced through the sea. The rocket detonations, and the sympathetic explosion of several Axis high-explosive torpedoes, were much louder this time, close enough to rattle Challenger bodily.

  It was time to try to give the 212s’ captains the biggest surprise of their lives.

  Hopefully the last surprise of their lives. They’ll think Ohio just fired those rockets, while sitting stationary, maybe behind a big fold in the terrain.

  “Helm, ahead flank.”

  Challenger accelerated.

  Jeffrey ordered more snap shots fired, three each at Master Two and Master Three. They closed the range toward the pair of 212s very rapidly, since Master Two and Master Three had been lured before by Jeffrey’s sudden disappearing act into charging straight toward his quiet, invisible presence. The net closing rate of 212s and ADCAPs was almost 100 knots.

  Jeffrey ordered the six tubes reloaded. As soon as they were ready, he fired another six fish.

  They’ll know that I’m not Ohio, and they were fooled before. Ohio can’t shoot six fish in one salvo.

  The melee was in its end stage now; a stand-up slugfest at barely arm’s length. There was nothing subtle about it. Antitorpedo rockets flew back and forth through the water. Torpedo engines screamed, moving away or coming nearer. Homing sonars pinged at different pitches, all of them high and now seeming strident, not sweet. Noisemakers gurgled. The hiss of Challenger’s own flow noise made a continuous backdrop over the speakers.

  The 212s, in desperation, fired more antitorpedo rockets, and launched more Seehechts, and turned away to attempt evasive maneuvers. But they were running out of ammo, and Jeffrey’s gigantic torpedo room was still more than half full. Even in a stern chase, Jeffrey had a speed advantage of o
ver thirty knots. And in these shallow waters, where the sonar layer had never once come into play, the 212s had scant room in which to evade.

  This is where I find out if the German captains go nuclear.

  Torelli’s technicians struggled to follow the action, and control their fish through their joysticks and the guidance wires. Three ADCAPs ran at each 212, homing in independent mode, drawing the fire of German antitorpedo rockets. Three more ADCAPs ran behind each first triplet, a second wave of weapons taking commands through the fiber-optic wires. This was Jeffrey’s final offensive fire.

  But defense counted too.

  One Seehecht through Torelli’s screen of rockets and we’re doomed.

  There was a sharp crack and a merciless pummeling.

  “Most recent unit from tube one has detonated!” Bell shouted. “Assess direct hit on Master Two!”

  Crewmen cheered.

  “Quiet in Control,” Jeffrey shouted. It seemed an absurd request, given the decibel level, but he needed his people to stay steady, and concentrate.

  More roars and blasts resounded outside the hull. Inbound torpedo icons vanished as Torelli’s antitorpedo rockets scored hits.

  An erupting vroom enveloped Challenger’s hull, the worst noise and physical punishment yet. Jeffrey was shaken in his seat so hard his vision was blurred.

  “Most recent unit from tube seven has detonated!” Bell called out, projecting his voice above the cacophony. “Assess direct hit on Master Three!”

  That abruptly, the whole feel of the ocean outside changed. There were no more rockets, and no more torpedoes. Instead there was the terrible sound of the sea slamming into fractured hulls. The 212s had no subdivided internal watertight compartments. The water-cannon noise subsided soon. There was a final gush of escaping bubbles, and both dead U-boats thumped into the bottom mud.

  “Sonar,” Jeffrey ordered, almost whispering in the sudden quiet, “melee ping.”

  Another acoustic fist probed everywhere on an arc in front of the ship.

  Jeffrey waited.

  Milgrom reported no submerged contacts.