by Tom Clancy
“Pretty ships,” Sanchez thought aloud, looking through his binoculars from his chair in Pri-Fly. “Nice tight interval on the formation, too.” The four Kongos were on a precise reciprocal heading, about eight miles out, the CAG noted.
“They have the rails lined?” the Air Boss asked. There seemed to be a white line down the sides of all four of the inbound destroyers.
“Rendering honors, yeah, that’s nice of them.” Sanchez lifted the phone and punched the button for the navigation bridge. “Skipper? CAG here. It seems that our friends are going formal on us.”
“Thanks, Bud.” The Commanding Officer of Johnnie Reb made a call to the battle-group commander on Enterprise.
“What?” Ryan said, answering the phone.
“Takeoff in two and a half hours,” the President’s secretary told him. “Be ready to leave in ninety minutes.”
“Wall Street?”
“That’s right, Dr. Ryan. He thinks we need to be home a little early. We’ve informed the Russians. President Grushavoy understands.”
“Okay, thanks,” Ryan said, not really meaning it. He’d hoped to scoot out to see Narmonov for an hour or so. Then the real fun part came. He reached over and shook his wife awake.
A groan: “Don’t even say it.”
“You can sleep the rest of it off on the airplane. We have to be packed and ready in an hour and a half.”
“What? Why?”
“Leaving early,” Jack told her. “Trouble at home. Wall Street had another meltdown.”
“Bad?” Cathy opened her eyes, rubbing her forehead and thankful it was still dark outside until she looked at the clock.
“Probably a bad case of indigestion.”
“What time is it?”
“Time to get ready to leave.”
“We need maneuvering room,” Commander Harrison said.
“No dummy is he?” Admiral Dubro asked rhetorically. The opposition, Admiral Chandraskatta, had turned west the night before, probably catching on, finally, that the Eisenhower/Lincoln battle force was not where he’d suspected after all. That clearly left a single alternative, and therefore he’d headed west, forcing the Americans against the island chain that India mostly owned. Half of the U.S. Navy’s Seventh Fleet was a powerful collection of ships, but their power would be halved again if their location became known. The whole point of Dubro’s operations to this point had been to keep the other guy guessing. Well, he’d made his guess. Not a bad one, either.
“What’s our fuel state?” Dubro asked, meaning that of his escort ships. The carriers could steam until the food ran out. Their nuclear fuel would not do so for years.
“Everybody’s up to ninety percent. Weather’s good for the next two days. We can do a speed run if we have to.”
“You thinking the same thing I am?”
“He’s not letting his aircraft get too close to the Sri Lankan coast. They might show on air-traffic-control radars and people might ask questions. If we head northeast, then east, we can race past Dondra Head at night and curl back around south. Even money nobody sees us.”
The Admiral didn’t like even-money odds. That meant it was just as likely somebody would see the formation, and the Indian Fleet could then turn northeast, forcing either a further move by the Americans away from the coast they might or might not be protecting—or a confrontation. You could play this sort of game only so long, Dubro thought, before somebody asked to see the cards.
“Get us through today without being spotted?”
That one was obvious, too. The formation would send aircraft at the Indians directly from the south, hopefully pulling them south. Harrison presented the scheme for the coming day’s air operations.
“Make it so.”
Eight bells rang over the ship’s 1-MC intercom system. 1600 hours. The afternoon watch was relieved and replaced with the evening watch. Officers and men, and, now, women, moved about to and from their duty stations. Johnnie Reb’s air wing was standing down, mainly resting and going over results of the now-concluded exercise. The Air Wing’s aircraft were about half parked on the flight deck, with the other half struck down in the hangar bay. A few were being worked on, but the maintenance troops were mostly standing down, too, enjoying a pastime the Navy called Steel Beach. It sure was different now, Sanchez thought, looking down at the non-skid-covered steel plates. Now there were women sunning themselves, too, which occasioned the increased use of binoculars by the bridge crew, and had generated yet another administrative problem for his Navy. What varieties of bathing suits were proper for U.S. Navy sailors? Much to the chagrin of some, but the relief of many, the verdict was one-piece suits. But even those could be worth looking at, if properly filled, the CAG thought, returning his glasses to the approaching Japanese formation.
The four destroyers came in fast and sharp, knocking down a good thirty knots, the better to make a proper show for their hosts and erstwhile enemies. The proper signal flags were snapping in the breeze, and white-clad crewmen lined the rails.
“Now hear this,” the 1-MC system blared for all to hear. “Attention to port. Man the rails. Stand by to render honors.” Those crewmen in presentable uniforms headed to the portside galleries off the flight deck, organized by sections. It was an awkward evolution for a carrier, and required quite a bit of time to set up, especially on a Steel Beach day. Having it done at change of watch made it a little easier. There was a goodly supply of properly uniformed sailors to perform the duty before going to their berthing spaces to change into their tanning outfits.
Sato’s last important act of the operation was to send out a satellite transmission with a time check. Downlinked to fleet headquarters, it was immediately rebroadcast on a different circuit. The last chance to stop the operation had passed by. The die was now cast, if not yet thrown. The Admiral left Mutsu’s CIC and headed back to the bridge, leaving his operations officer in charge while he conned the squadron.
The destroyer came abeam of United States Ships Enterprise and John Stennis, exactly between the two carriers, less than two thousand meters to each. She was doing thirty knots, with all stations manned except for the vacancies caused by the people standing at the ships’ rails. At the moment that his bridge crossed the invisible line between those of the two American carriers, the sailors on the rails saluted port and starboard in a very precise rendition of courtesy at sea.
A single whistle from the bosun’s pipe over the speakers: “Hand salute ... Two!” the orders came over the speakers, and the sailors on the galleries of Johnnie Reb brought their hands down. Immediately thereafter they were dismissed with three notes from the bosun’s mate of the watch.
“Gee, can we go home now?” The Air Boss chuckled. Exercise DATELINE PARTNERS was now fully concluded, and the battle force could return to Pearl Harbor for one more week of upkeep and shore leave before deploying to the 10. Sanchez decided to stay in the comfortable leather chair and read over some documents while enjoying the breeze. The combined speed of the two intermingled formations made for a rapid passage.
“Whoa!” a lookout said.
The maneuver was German in origin, formally called a Gefechtskehrtwendung, “battle turn.” On signal-flag hoist, all four destroyers turned sharply to the right, the aftermost ship first. As soon as her bow showed movement, the next ship put her rudder over, and the next, and then the flagship last. It was a move calculated to attract the admiration of the Americans, and something of a surprise in the close space between the two carriers. In a matter of seconds, the Japanese destroyers had smartly reversed course, now heading west at thirty knots, and overtaking the carriers they had only a moment before approached from the other direction. A few people on the bridge crew whistled approval at the ship-handling skills. Already the rails on all four of the Aegis destroyers were cleared.
“Well, that was pretty sharp,” Sanchez commented, looking down at his documents again.
USS John Stennis was steaming normally, all four of her propellers turn
ing at 70rpm, with Condition-Three set. That meant that all spaces were manned with the exception of the embarked air wing, which had stood down after several days on higher activity. There were lookouts arrayed around the island structure, for the most part looking in their assigned areas of responsibility, though all had sneaked at least one long look at the Japanese ships, because they were, after all, different from the U.S. ships. Some used hand-held 7 x 50 marine binoculars, many of Japanese manufacture. Others leaned on far more massive 20 x 120 “Big Eyes,” spotting binoculars, which were mounted on pedestals all around the bridge.
Admiral Sato was not sitting down in his command chair, though he was holding his binoculars up. It was a pity, really. They were such proud, beautiful ships. Then he remembered that the one to port was Enterprise, an ancient name in the United States Navy, and that a ship that had borne the name before this one had tormented his country, escorting Jimmy Doolittle to the Japanese coast, fighting at Midway, Eastern Solomons, Santa Cruz, and every other major fleet engagement, many times hit, but never severely. The name of an honored enemy, but an enemy. That was the one he’d watch. He had no idea who John Stennis had been.
Mutsu had passed well beyond the carriers, almost reaching the trailing plane-guard destroyers before turning, and the overtake now seemed dreadfully slow. The Admiral wore his white gloves, and held his binoculars just below the rail, watching the angle to the carrier change.
“Bearing to Target One is three-five-zero. Target Two bearing now zero-one-zero. Solution light,” the petty officer reported. The Isso wondered what was going on and why, most of all wondered how he might live to tell this tale someday, and thought that probably he would not.
“I’ll take it now,” the ops officer said, sliding into the seat. He’d taken the time to acquaint himself with the torpedo director. The order had already been given, and all he’d needed was the light. The officer turned the key in the enable-switch lock, flipped the cover off the button for the portside array, and pressed. Then he did the same for the starboard side.
The three-tube mounts on both sides of the ship snapped violently outboard to an angle of about forty degrees off the centerline. The hemispherical weather covers on all six tubes popped off. Then the “fish” were launched by compressed air, diving into the water, left and right, about ten seconds apart. The propellers were already turning when they were ejected into the sea, and each trailed control wires that connected them to Mutsu’s Combat Information Center. The tubes, now empty, rotated back to their standby position.
“Fuck me!” a lookout said on Johnnie Reb.
“What was that, Cindy?”
“They just launched a fuckin’ fish!” she said. She was a petite seaman (that term hadn’t changed yet) apprentice, only eighteen years old, on her first ship, and was learning profanity to fit in with the saltier members of the crew. Her arm shot out straight. “I saw him launch—there!”
“You sure?” the other nearby lookout asked, swinging his Big Eyes around. Cindy had only hand-helds.
The young woman hesitated. She’d never done anything like this before, and wondered what her chief might do if she were wrong. “Bridge, Lookout Six, the last ship in the Jap line just launched a torpedo!” The way things were set up on the carrier, her announcement was carried over the bridge speakers.
One level down, Bud Sanchez looked up. “What was that?”
“Say again, Look-Six!” the OOD ordered.
“I said I saw that Jap destroyer launch a torpedo off her starboard side!”
“This is Look-Five. I didn’t see it, sir,” a male voice said.
“I fucking saw it!” shouted a very excited young female voice, loudly enough that Sanchez heard this exclamation over the air, rather than on the bridge speakers. He dropped his papers, jumped to his feet, and sprinted out the door to the lookout gallery. The Captain tripped on the steel ladder, ripping his pants and bloodying one knee, and was swearing when he got to the lookouts.
“Talk to me, honey!”
“I saw it, sir, I really did!” She didn’t even know who Sanchez was, and the silver eagles on his collar made him important enough to frighten her even worse than the idea of inbound weapons, but she had seen it and she was standing her ground.
“I didn’t see it, sir,” the senior seaman announced.
Sanchez trained his binoculars on the destroyer, now only about two thousand yards away. What ... ? He next shoved the older seaman off the Big Eyes and trained them in on the quarterdeck of the Japanese flagship. There was the triple-tube launcher, trained in as it should be ... ... but the fronts of the tubes were black, not gray. The weather covers were off ... Without looking, Captain Rafael Sanchez ripped the phones off the senior lookout.
“Bridge, this is CAG. Torpedoes in the water! Torpedoes inbound from port quarter!” He trained the glasses aft, looking for trails on the surface but seeing none. Not that it mattered. He swore violently and stood back up to look at Seaman-Apprentice Cynthia Smithers. “Right or wrong, sailor, you did just fine,” he told her as alarms started sounding all over the ship. Only a second later, a blinker light started flashing at Johnnie Reb from the Japanese flagship.
“Warning, warning, we just had a malfunction, we have launched several torpedoes,” Mutsu’s CO said into the TBS microphone, shamed by the lie as he listened to the open talk-between-ships FM circuit.
“Enterprise, this is Fife, there are torpedoes in the water,” another loud voice proclaimed even more loudly.
“Torpedoes—where?”
“They’re ours. We have a flash fire in CIC,” Mutsu announced next. “They may be armed.” Stennis, he saw, was turning already, the water boiling at her stern with increased power. It wouldn’t matter, though with luck nobody would be killed.
“What do we do now, sir?” Smithers asked.
“A couple of Hail Marys, maybe,” Sanchez replied darkly. They were ASW torpedoes, weren’t they? Little warheads. They couldn’t really hurt something as big as Johnnie Reb, could they? Looking down at the deck, people were up and running now, mainly carrying their sunbathing towels as they raced to their duty stations.
“Sir, I’m supposed to report to Damage Control Party Nine on the hangar deck.”
“No, stay right here,” Sanchez ordered. “You can leave,” he told the other one.
John Stennis was heeling hard to port now. The radical turn to starboard was taking hold and the deck rumbled with the sudden increase of power to her engines. One nice thing about the nuclear-powered carriers. They had horses to burn, but the ship weighed over ninety thousand tons and took her time accelerating. Enterprise, less than two miles away, was slower on the trigger, just starting to show turn now. Oh, shit ...
“Now hear this, now hear this, stream the Nixie!” the OOD’s voice called over the speakers.
The three Mark 50 antisubmarine torpedoes heading toward Stennis were small, smart instruments of destruction designed to punch small, fatal holes into submarine hulls. Their ability to harm a ship of ninety thousand tons was small indeed, but it was possible to choose which sort of damage they would inflict. They were spaced about a hundred meters apart, racing forward at sixty knots, each guided by a thin insulated wire. Their speed advantage over the target and the short range almost guaranteed a hit, and the turn-away maneuver undertaken by the American carrier merely offered the ideal overtake angle because they were all targeted on the screws. After traveling a thousand yards, the seeker head on the first “fish” went active. The sonar picture it generated was reported back to Mutsu’s CIC as a violently bright target of yellow on black, and the officer on the director steered it straight in, with the other two following automatically. The target area grew closer. Eight hundred meters, seven, six ...
“I have you both,” the officer said. A moment later the sonar picture showed the confused jamming from the American Nixie decoy, which mimicked the ultrasonic frequencies of the torpedo seeker-heads. Another feature built into the new ones had a po
werful pulsing magnetic field to trick the under-the-keel influence-exploders the Russians had developed. But the Mark 50 was a contact weapon, and by controlling them with the wire, he could force them to ignore the acoustical interference. It wasn’t fair, wasn’t sporting at all, but then, who ever said war was supposed to be that way? he asked the director, who did not answer.
It was a strange disconnect of sight, sound, and feel. The ship hardly shuddered at all when the first column of water leaped skyward. The noise was unmistakably real, and, coming without warning, it made Sanchez jump on the port-after corner of the island. His initial impression was that it hadn’t been all that bad a deal, that maybe the fish had exploded in Johnnie Reb’s wake. He was wrong.
The Japanese version of the Mark 50 had a small warhead, only sixty kilograms, but it was a shaped charge, and the first of them exploded on the boss of number-two propeller, the inboard postside shaft. The shock immediately ripped three of the screw’s five blades off, unbalancing a propeller now turning at a hundred-thirty RPM. The physical forces involved were immense, and tore open the shaft fittings and the skegs that held the entire propulsion system in place. In a moment the aftermost portion of the shaft alley was flooded, and water started entering the ship through her most vulnerable point. What happened forward was even worse.