Barracuda- Final Bearing

by Michael Dimercurio

Becker called to the helmsman, still looking down on the chart table.

  “Helm, all ahead flank, right two degrees rudder, steady three one zero.”

  The deck began to tremble. The room began to fill up with watchstanders, the lone firecontrol tech manning the four consoles of the attack center replaced with four officers. The executive officer Mike Jensen arrived.

  Lt. Comdr. Mike Jensen was a Stanford grad, a thickly muscled black man with an open face, a coathanger grin and an easy Southern California manner. His laugh kept ship’s morale high, as did Jensen’s girlfriends when he threw a wardroom party. He drove a Porsche, owned an airplane and gave glider lessons. A shark jaw graced the bulkhead of his XO stateroom, but the shark had its own trophy, a piece of Jensen’s leg from one of his scuba dives.

  Keebes and Jensen were as different as two men could be. Keebes was raised on a Pennsylvania farm. He had gone to the Naval Academy without the slightest idea of what he would be getting into. For him the Navy had been a vehicle for a college education. He found that he neither loved it nor hated it. He was a loner, quiet, enjoyed engineering and his weekends studying at the library.

  The librarian and he had become friends, and after knowing Louise for four years, on the eve of graduation, he had asked her if she wanted to go with him to the Smithsonian in D.C. One thing slowly led to another.

  Keebes had then passed his Rickover interview and gone nuclear, leaving Louise for the sea. She had moved to Virginia Beach on her own, showing up on his pier one day when the Buffalo was coming into port. Fifteen years and two kids later, and Keebes had never looked at another woman. He had wondered, though, if he would ever command a sub, since on his executive-officer tour the captain decided to take a disliking to him.

  That captain had been a drinker, a partier, with a mistress in every port. He had tried to deice Keebes, but Keebes wanted no part of it.

  Fortunately for Keebes the new admiral in command of the reorganized Unified Submarine Command, Admiral Pacino, had interviewed him after reading through his record and taken him to a battle simulator. After a sweaty eight hours of simulated approaches with an unfamiliar control-room crew, Pacino had offered him command of the Cheyenne.

  “Captain, battlestations are manned,” Jensen now reported.

  “Very well,” Keebes said. He stepped up on the conn and addressed the control-room crew.

  “Attention in the firecontrol team. We’ve just received orders to intercept a supertanker that may try to run the blockade. We’re setting up to position ourselves on the north of the supertanker’s track as it crosses the exclusion zone boundary. We’ll be at periscope depth with a solution to the supertanker. A flight of F-14 jets is on its way to intercept the supertanker and turn him around.

  If he turns around we’ll go deep and wait for the next violator of the blockade. If he’s stupid and doesn’t believe we’re here, we’ll get orders to put some torpedoes in him.”

  Keebes looked around at the watchstanders.

  “Chances are that he’ll turn around, but we’ll be doing an approach on him anyway. Carry on.”

  The watchstanders turned to their tasks. Keebes glanced up at the sonar display, waiting for the supertanker to become visible on the screen.

  sea OF japan SS-810 Winged Serpent Comdr. Toshumi Tanaka stood in the center of the control room of the Winged Serpent, the square room’s center dominated by the periscope control center. The starboard forward corner was the electronic section devoted to ship control, the starboard aft quarter the reactor controls, the port forward section laid out for navigation. The most crowded was the port aft corner, weapons and sensors control. The control room was electronically connected to a control system, the “Second Captain,” a neural network-layered control system that was only one development-generation behind the computers that controlled the Destiny I’ll-class ships.

  The Second Captain was able to control the ship and function without a crew—not very well but with adequate programming it could fight its way out of a battle.

  Tanaka preferred that it just take orders and leave ship command to the people.

  On the Second Captain’s sensor display now were several jumping, undulating curves, a second display showing the curves to be a Los Angeles-class nuclear submarine lurking in the shipping channels. Probably sent to enforce the blockade.

  “Program the two Nagasakis in tubes one and two for the enemy submarine and open the outer doors on tubes one and two.” atlantic ocean USS Piranha Bruce Phillips lay on his rack with his arm over his eyes.

  The phone from the conn buzzed.

  “Captain.”

  “Off’sa’deck, sir. Sounding is 600 fathoms. We’re legal, Captain.”

  “How long to the Labrador Sea?”

  “By the morning, sir. Are you going down?”

  “I think I will.”

  “Good night, sir.”

  Phillips put the phone back, and without opening his eyes peeled off the poopysuit and got under the covers.

  He yawned and fell asleep before he shut his mouth again. In his dreams he wore a sombrero and carried a machine gun, a bandoleer of bullets hanging off each shoulder.

  sea OF japan

  “VLCC Petersburg, this is US Navy flight leader. Do you copy?”

  Finally the captain of the Petersburg spoke up, his speech clear and understandable through his Russian accent. “This is the captain of the Petersburg. What do you want?”

  “Sir, you are standing into danger. You are two miles from the exclusion boundary set up by the United States of America. Japan is now under blockade by forces of the US Navy. You are ordered to reverse course and turn away from Japan. Do you read me, sir?” Silence on the radio. “I say again, you are standing into danger,” Galvin repeated. Still no answer. “VLCC Petersburg, I am warning you that you are now one point five miles from the exclusion boundary. You are running the blockade set up by forces of the US Navy. You are ordered to turn back now. If you fail to turn around and reverse course our nuclear submarines will be forced to fire on you. Do you read me?”

  “This is the captain of the Petersburg. I am within my rights under international law. I am turning off this radio.” Galvin continued to try to radio the Petersburg for several minutes, but finally the supertanker crossed the line of demarcation of the exclusion zone. Galvin switched his radio to the tactical-control frequency. “Uncle Joe, this is Aunt Sue, over.”

  “Go ahead. Sue.”

  “We’re unable to win the game. Over.”

  “Roger, Sue, we’ll clean up. You can leave for backstage now. Out.”

  Galvin dipped his wings and turned to the right, flying his formation away from the supertanker, far enough away to see it clearly as the twilight got darker.

  USS Cheyenne The scrambled satellite UHF secure-voice circuit, the NESTOR, was piped into the conn on a red phone handset.

  Commander Keebes had the red phone on his ear, the conversation playing on the overhead speakers for the crew to hear.

  “Cousin George, this is Uncle Joe, over,” the speakers crackled.

  “This is George, over.”

  “Cousin George, Uncle Joe, authorization bravo six delta reading victor, mike, tango, five, four, mike, I say again, authorization bravo six delta reading victor, mike, tango, five, four, mike. Break. Commands from Grandfather Pete as follows. Immediate execute—Cousin George to clean up the garage, I say again. Cousin George to clean up the garage. Break. Over.”

  Keebes read back the transmission to the phone from the notes taken by Jensen. The transmission ended after the other end confirmed that the message was correct.

  Keebes looked up at Jensen. Two officers walked in with the sealed authenticator packet and opened it on Keebes’s orders. The B6D packet had a piece of paper inside reading VMT54M, the authentication on the radio transmission.

  “It’s valid. Okay, attention in the firecontrol team.

  We’ve just been ordered to shoot the supertanker. We’ll do this wi
th a periscope approach. Horizontal salvo, tubes one and two. Carry on.” Keebes looked around at the crew. “Captain on the periscope.”

  Frank Becker stepped away from the periscope. “Zero nine zero relative, sir, low power on the horizon.”

  Keebes put his eyes on the periscope eyepiece, the rubber of it warm and slick with Becker’s sweat.

  Through the crosshairs and range marks he could see the supertanker. Target One. He rotated the right grip, increasing the power to high. The bridge of the supertanker grew to giant size, the windows shining warm yellow light out, the navigation lights of the tanker still illuminated.

  “Observation, Target One,” Keebes called.

  “Ready.”

  “Bearing, mark!” Keebes called, and punched a button on the periscope grip.

  “Bearing one seven five,” Jensen called.

  “Range mark, six divisions, high power. Angle on the bow port ninety.”

  “Range, two thousand yards.”

  “Firing point procedures. Target One,” Keebes called from the periscope. “Horizontal salvo, tubes one and two, one minute firing interval.”

  “Ship ready,” Frank Becker reported.

  “Solution ready,” Jensen said, bending over the consoles of the attack center.

  “Weapon ready,” the weapons officer reported.

  “Final bearing and shoot,” Keebes ordered, his periscope crosshairs on the supertanker’s midsection.

  “Bearing… mark!”

  “Bearing one seven six,” from Jensen.

  “Range mark, six divisions, high power. Angle on the bow, port ninety five.”

  “Two thousand yards and set,” Jensen called.

  “Standby.” The weapons officer took the torpedo firing trigger to the nine o’clock standby position.

  “Shoot!” Keebes ordered.

  “Fire!” The weapons officer took the trigger to the three o’clock firing position.

  The detonation slammed Keebes’s eardrums, the highpressure air venting inboard from the torpedo firing mechanism two decks below.

  “Tube one fired electrically, sir.”

  “Tube two, final bearing and shoot,” Keebes ordered.

  The crew went through the same routine for the second torpedo, the air pressure pulse slamming Keebes’s ears as the torpedo left the ship.

  “Tube two fired electrically. Captain. Both units are active and homing.”

  “Very well, energizing periscope videotape.”

  Keebes kept the supertanker on the periscope, waiting for the torpedoes to impact.

  SS-810 Winged Serpent

  “Sir, the American submarine just launched a torpedo.”

  “Confirm it’s not aimed at us.” Tanaka said.

  “No, sir, it would appear he’s shooting at the merchant tanker.”

  “Let’s take it up to mast-broach depth.”

  “Sir, we have Nagasaki torpedoes one and two locked onto the American. Should we prepare to fire?”

  “No. We’re not authorized, Mr. First.” Tanaka mounted the steps to the periscope-control stand, seated himself in the periscope-control chair. The assembly looked almost like a motorcycle, the front wheel replaced by the optics module and the pole of the unit.

  “Ship control, mast-broach depth.”

  “Sir.”

  The Winged Serpent came up slowly, the deck inclining, the hull creaking as the ship came up shallow.

  “Second torpedo launch from the American submarine, sir.”

  “Periscope coming up.” Tanaka hit the control-function key and the stainless steel pole came out of the fin, the light piped into the hull by fiber optics and reassembled in the optic module. The actual mast did not penetrate the hull of the ship, yet with the fiber-optic transmission, the view looked good enough, as if he were looking out an old-fashioned optical periscope.

  The view was dark, only a faint glow coming from the waves far above. Tanaka hit the fixed function key to rotate the control seat and the view above began to rotate just as his seat rotated on a circular track on the platform. The shimmering glow on the waves grew nearer, the moonlight coming down from above, until finally the glow got closer, individual waves now clear in the view. Tanaka rotated more quickly, needing to see the surface as soon as the periscope cleared.

  The periscope suddenly broke through, the horizon showing up, if still blurry, from the rotation of the platform.

  Tanaka slowed the rotation and looked out for close contacts. There were none, only the supertanker in the distance, heading away to the southeast as it made its way to Japan.

  Satisfied that there were no other ships on the surface, Tanaka studied the supertanker.

  “Sonar shows the torpedoes pinging on their target, sir.”

  Tanaka saw the supertanker explode before sonar heard it. The white mushroom cloud blossomed into an orange-and-black flame cloud as the oil hold detonated.

  Tanaka could feel the blast shaking the ship as the shock wave traveled through the water.

  Then the second torpedo hit.

  “Mr. First, you should see this,” Tanaka said, not wanting to watch anymore.

  Mazdai looked out the periscope, watching the supertanker on fire. The Second Captain displays showed the view out of the periscope, the flames rising miles into the sky, the supertanker sinking, breaking in half, the bow vanishing from view, the aft section going down by the forward section, the superstructure, when it was visible, tilting upward as the ship drove into the sea. More of the hull vanished underwater, until all that was visible was a part of the superstructure and the stern, the huge screw and rudder pointing to the sky, the structure lit by the light of the fires from the oil. Soon that was gone too, the ship sinking and taking with it most of the flames, the remaining oil slick still naming but at a fraction of the brightness of the supertanker.

  It had taken ten minutes for the supertanker to explode and disappear.

  “It’s over for us,” Mazdai said as the ship went deep again, the order given to avoid fouling the periscope optics on the oil slick. “They sank a supertanker—”

  “Don’t panic, Mr. First,” Tanaka said, his voice flat.

  “There are still the Russian airlifts to resupply us. It may not be enough to keep us prosperous, but with the airlifts Japan will survive.”

  narita airport tokyo, japan The first missile hit the Firestar fighter escorting the Russian Ilyushin transport on final approach to Narita International Airport. The transport was the first of the planes to be flown from Russian Republic airfields in support of the Japanese. The pilot of the transport. Col. Ushi Valenka, saw the runway ahead by only a halfmile, the lights of it guiding him down. He saw the missile from the Americans hit the Firestar escort. The moron flying that fighter had taken Valenka’s missile.

  Valenka looked over at the port wing, where the second Firestar fighter was escorting the flight into Narita Airport.

  As he watched, a flame trail slammed into the FireStar, which exploded in a spectacular fireball a single wingspan away, pieces of the Firestar falling into the fields below.

  Valenka concentrated on the runway ahead. He was almost there. If he could get the airplane on the ground, could he fly out, or would the Americans try to blow up the airplane when it was empty and leaving Japan? The lights of the runway threshold came toward him. He throttled up, his altitude too low, trying to keep his mind on the landing gear that would soon hit the runway, trying to keep the airplane in the center of the concrete strip.

  The missile hit the Ilyushin below the tail, blowing it off. The airplane dived for the deck, the runway coming up swiftly and smashing into the windshield. The cockpit blew apart, and Valenka’s brief luck gave out as well.

  The fuel in the wings exploded in a fireball that rained down on the runway, the missile explosion still spending itself. Nothing was left of the Iluyshin or of Valenka but smoking metal parts lying in flames on the runway.

  JDA headquarters tokyo, japan

  “So ma
y I assume we are in agreement?” Prime Minister Hosaka Kurita asked.

  Adm. Akagi Tanaka sadly realized he had no real argument to offer Kurita. History and destiny had once again led Japan to this threshold of war. Tragic, but how could he suggest they not fight? The die had been cast.

  All he could do was fight honorably and pray that his son, Toshumi, survived.

  sea OF japan SS-810 Winged Serpent Tanaka had kept the American submarine under surveillance since the sinking of the supertanker. He had been called to mast-broach depth by an emergency transmission on the extremely low-frequency radio, the set able to receive radio signals even though the antenna was deep, the radio waves generated by a powerful set of huge antennae on Japan’s northern coastline. The ELF radio waves, since they were such low frequency, took a long time to send a signal, one alphanumeric symbol taking three minutes to be received. The two-number signal was received into the Second Captain, which called Tanaka in his stateroom.

  Tanaka walked into the control room and ordered Mazdai to bring the ship to mast-broach depth. He waited until the ship’s UHF antenna in the periscope received the emergency transmission from the director of the JDA.

  Unrestricted warfare against the Americans. Tanaka would start with the sub that sank the supertanker.

  “Battlestations, Mr. First.”

  sea OF japan USS Cheyenne

  “Secure battlestations, XO. Station normal underway watches. I want a section-tracking team stationed in control at all times, though, for the rest of the time we’re in the Oparea.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Keebes returned to his stateroom, shut the door behind him and dropped the portable sink behind the door.

  He ran water in the basin and splashed it on his face.

  He thought he would throw up.

  How many men had he just killed? The images of the sinking supertanker would not fade. He shut his eyes for a moment, never aware that if he had opened them, if he had been able to see through the bulkhead of his stateroom, through the hull of the ship and through seven miles of ocean, he would be staring at an incoming Nagasaki torpedo bearing down on him.