Barracuda- Final Bearing

by Michael Dimercurio

  Torpedoes know where they are going. They no longer need this unit.

  Signal and power feeds to units now disconnect. All twelve units now independent of this unit. Episode elapsed time minus five seconds.

  Initial torpedo launch will commence with tube one’s gas generator ignition in three point five seconds. Tube two will be next after ten seconds, then three and so forth. Episode elapsed time minus one second.

  Tube one’s gas generator ignition sequence is started. Gas generator lights off, pressure at aft end of tube rises to ten atmospheres, continues to rise, pressure pushes on aft end of torpedo. Fifteen atmospheres in tube, now eighteen. Pressure in tube declines hack to seawater pressure. Torpedo unit one is away.

  VSS Ronald Reagan Pacino found Admiral Donner on the bridge in his customary starboard wing V.I.P chair.

  “Sir, you called.”

  The ship was rigged for night wartime steaming, the nav lights out, the bridge lit only by two weak red lamps.

  It was all Pacino could do to find Donner. The ship was also at full antisubmarine warfare alert, which Pacino found comical, since by itself the carrier was helpless against submarines. Only the ships of the task force could help her, and most of them had gone to the northeast or southwest to patrol the exclusion zone boundary, leaving the Ronald Reagan with a token force—the cruiser Port Royal, an AEGIS-class unit that was excellent at fighting incoming aircraft or missiles and adequate at antisubmarine warfare, the towed array sonar systems and her LAMPS helicopters the main means of defense, and the destroyer John Paul Jones, the Arleigh Burke-class ship that was now refitted to handle its own LAMPS helicopter. Pacino noted that none of the helicopters was now flying. He would take that up with Donner.

  It was also time to think about bringing one of the submarines back in close to act as their escort. In Pacino’s opinion, the carrier position was also too close to the islands.

  “Have you heard about the Cheyennef”

  “Yes sir.”

  “What do you make of it?”

  “Officially, I can’t say until we can vector one other submarine to the area. I think it’s more important that the other sub, the Pasadena, be recalled to protect the carrier, even if it means leaving the Sea of Japan open for now.” “You said officially. What do you think unofficially?”

  “I think the Japanese MSDF subs put the Cheyenne on the bottom.”

  “So the way you see this, you were right all along.

  The Japanese are fighting back.”

  “Admiral, I don’t form opinions so that they will confirm my earlier predictions. I’m calling it the way I see it.”

  “I’m sorry. Patch. I have to say that I agree with you.

  I’m just worried about Warner.”

  “Why? What’s the president going to do?”

  “If word gets out that we lost a submarine? In exchange for a tanker? We’ll be relieved the same uay.”

  “Sir,” a young lieutenant commander said, coming up to the admiral, “we’ve got a detect of a laser off the starboard beam. I’m calling battlestations.”

  Before the admiral could respond, the officer of the deck’s call blared out over the ship’s circuit-one announcing system.

  “MAN BATTLE STATIONS. MAN BATTLE STATIONS.”

  The ship’s general alarm went off while Pacino and Donner moved to the center of the room.

  “I’m laying below to ASW Control,” Donner said.

  Pacino nodded, deciding to remain on the bridge.

  Laser detect, Pacino thought. That meant a submarine was out there. A submarine that was not a friendly.

  SUV-III-987 Curtain Of Flames official deck log of underway mission number 118, commencing 20 december Mission 118 Official Deck Log Entry 28: Current position—thirty kilometers west of island Onahara jima, forty kilometers south of the mouth of Tokyo Bay. This unit is at mast-broach depth observing the American aircraft carrier hull number CVN-76, as it steams southwest on a pace pattern. Episode elapsed time is plus forty-five seconds. Tubes one, two, three, four have been fired. Torpedoes one through four are on their way to the aircraft carrier the target.

  Episode elapsed time plus fifty seconds. Tube five is launched, the torpedo now away. This unit keeps the periscope up.

  VSS Ronald Reagan

  Pacino stood on the bridge feeling helpless. The men in ASWC, the combat-information center for antisubmarine warfare, would fight the ship, fight the task force.

  He stood behind a row of video consoles and watched, the ASW Control scenes of little value to him but the sound being piped in telling him the story. Paully White appeared.

  “Admiral,” he said in his high-pitched voice, “I couldn’t find you. You weren’t in ASW Control or flag plots—”

  “This is as good as ASW Control. We can get the audio feed.”

  “They’d better launch the Vikings and the helos or we’re in deep shit,” Paully said.

  “I think they’re setting up to do that now. Looks like we’re turning to the south so we can launch aircraft.

  And check out the Port Royal and the Jones. Their helos are taking off now.”

  “All I can say is that those choppers should have been up a long time ago.”

  “Ditto.”

  “They don’t listen to me. Admiral. They just tell me where to put my submarines, your submarines, and ever since they sent Pasadena and Cheyenne to the other side of the world, I’m pretty much irrelevant. I told the captain he’d better get one of the subs back but he didn’t want to hear it. Same story you got from Donuts up here.”

  “Careful, Paully. Admiral Donner isn’t fond of that moniker.”

  White pulled out a cigarette. “Ah, he’s a sweetheart, he just don’t know dick about submarines.”

  “I’d say that’s why—”

  The audio feed from ASW Control grabbed Pacino’s attention.

  “Did you hear that?”

  “No, sir, what?”

  “They called torpedo in the water.”

  SUV-m-987 Curtain Of Flames official deck log of underway mission number 118, commencing 20 december Mission 118 Official Deck Log Entry 29: Current position—thirty kilometers west of island Onaharajima, forty kilometers south of the mouth of Tokyo Bay. This unit is at mast-broach depth observing the American aircraft carrier hull number CVN-76, as it steams southwest on a pace pattern. Episode elapsed time is plus three minutes. All torpedoes are away. This unit is watching to see what the target will do. It looks as if target is turning toward the south, which would correlate with target understanding it is under attack since torpedoes are chasing it that way. But carrier steadies up on what looks like a course of due south, and if it knew the torpedoes were coming it would run to the southeast. Sonar bearings to the torpedoes indicate they are tracking the target in passive mode, following the carrier as it maneuvers based on the noise it is putting out into the water. Episode elapsed time four minutes. First of twelve Nagasaki torpedoes detonates under carrier’s stern. The explosion, viewed at night, is spectacular, the ball of flame rises in large mushroom cloud above deck of the ship.

  Second torpedo hits twelve seconds later impact on starboard forward quarter. This explosion darker cloud, more water flying up. Third torpedo hits under ship’s control island on port side. Destroyer steaming with carrier erupts into flames, one of other unit’s torpedoes hitting it, or this unit’s with a torpedo drawn off course. This unit will count to confirm all twelve torpedoes hit carrier.

  USS Ronald Reagan Pacino and White could only grab handholds after the first explosion rocked the ship, tossing White to the deck and Pacino into the radar console. After that they stayed away from the windows and held onto the handhold near the helmsman’s console.

  “Have you still got power?” Pacino asked the officer of the deck.

  “We’re slowing down.” He reached for a phone. Before it got to his ear the second torpedo exploded, forward and starboard. The ship lurched to starboard and rolled back to port. One of t
he bridge wing windows shattered, glass scattering onto the deck.

  “We need to get to radio and see if we can get a message out to Warner—”

  “Sir, it’s being taken care of,” the officer of the deck said.

  The next torpedo exploded much closer, this detonation right under Pacino’s feet. He saw the aft bulkhead of the bridge coming at him in slow motion, tried to lift his hands to shield his face but wasn’t fast enough. The wall hit him in the nose, the room got dark, the sounds faded. For a fraction of a second, as Pacino sank into a dark place, he could hear alarms and shouting and glass shattering and the next explosion, but then he was slipping deeper down into a place of liquid warmth. It was almost peaceful and pleasant as the world vanished.

  arctic ocean, under THE polar icecap USS Piranha The ship was now under the icepack, the groaning and creaking of the ice above, the knowledge that if they needed to come up in an emergency it would be impossible, the possibility of getting stuck between a shallow ocean bottom below and a deep raft of ice above. Navigation under the ice got steadily worse. The inertial nav systems had bugs that crept into the electronics, the system getting progressively more corrupt the longer it went without a fix from the navigation positioning satellite overhead. But there was no way to come to the surface to get the nav fix; the ice overhead was almost 200 feet thick. The charts here were spotty; only a few submarines had ever tried to make the passage from Atlantic to Pacific during the winter, and those that did were not in a hurry. From what Bruce Phillips had been able to read, the four ships that had made the passage all the way had had to turn around for several dead ends. The passage would consume time, and Phillips did not have time.

  The BSY-2’s SHARKTOOTH under-ice sonar bleeped eerily in the corner of the room, the forward and upward-looking unit augmented by a sail-mounted camera to scan the icepack ahead in addition to a bow-mounted video unit. The ice was close here, within forty feet of the top of the sail. And the bottom was a mere fifteen fathoms under the keel. It would only take a small inverted ridge to catch the ship.

  And without the ability to go to the surface above, Phillips had no idea what was going on with Operation Enlightened Curtain. For all he knew the operation was over. Or maybe Pacino needed him now, right now, and that thought sent a pulse of adrenaline into him.

  “Offsa’deck, increase speed to standard.”

  Joe Katoris, the main propulsion assistant, looked up from the forward-looking under-ice sonar, a scared look on his skinny face.

  “But sir, we could overrun our sonar and visual. We can’t—”

  “You’ll do fine, Katoris, now just increase speed.

  There are no state troopers down here.”

  “Aye, aye, sir. Helm, all ahead standard.”

  Phillips stood at the console behind Katoris, staring over his shoulder at the video displays, scanning the SHARKTOOTH sonar for ice rafts ahead.

  The ridge that came down ahead blocked the way.

  The sonar showed it just before the bow-mounted video camera picked it up. Katoris’s eyes were wide as he froze.

  “Helm, back full!” Phillips shouted, feeling the deck tremble beneath his feet, the ridge ahead still looming in the sonar and video screens.

  SUV-in-987 Curtain of Flames official deck log of underway mission number 118, commencing 20 december Mission 118 Official Deck Log Entry 39: Current position—thirty kilometers west of island Onaharajima, forty kilometers south of the mouth of Tokyo Bay. This unit is at mast-broach depth observing the American aircraft carrier, hull number CVN-76, as it takes the last of the twelve torpedoes launched against it. Ship is taking on water, continues to settle, torpedoes pounding into it. Carrier was a survivable ship, this unit thinks, because it took hit after hit and remained afloat. For a moment this unit thinks even with twelve Nagasakis hitting it carrier will remain afloat. But hull starts listing more, center settling further into the sea. Helicopters lift off deck.

  Large boats lowered into water. This unit trains periscope to bearings to destroyer and cruiser to see if sinking from their hits. Cruiser is bow down, sunk to the aft superstructure, screw pointing up to sky, ship sinking lower. Only tip of destroyer’s bow above water. Periscope trained back on carrier. More helicopters leave, then return. This unit not certain regarding reason for this action. They are hovering over deck of carrier, listing now to forty-five degrees. Picking up survivors? Carrier capsizes, forward and aft hulls roll to port, only keel sticking up, bow and stern sinking into water. This unit turns periscope to find destroyer. It is gone. This unit sees cruiser sink.

  Periscope trained back to carrier. It is almost gone. A man stands on hull near fracture. Jagged line traverses keel, cuts ship in half. Man stands on hull shaking fist. He must not know that the suction of a hundred and five thousand tons of ship sinking will drag him to the depths with the vessel. Hull goes under water, man going with ship. In ultrahigh optic power, no sign of man shaking fist. Surface of ocean quiet, oil fires going out, sounds from under water violent. This unit listens to sounds on sonar, finally single crash as hulk of carrier hits rocky sea bottom two kilometers deep. Even now, some compartments must have stayed intact, air trapped aboard, men inside trapped. Could explain banging noises that continued for next four hours, banging growing faint, less frequent. Sun rises over Pacific, sea quiet again. arctic ocean, under THE polar icecap USS Piranha The ship had been able to pull back from the ridge, but now there was no place to go but back. It was like finding a way through a cave, Phillips thought. When one path didn’t work he had to backtrack to a common branch and go another way. It could take forever. A claustrophobia seized him, a driving urge to get the hell out of the Arctic and back to open water. He knew what he needed. He looked over at Katoris.

  “Hover here and wait for me.”

  He went to his stateroom. Deep in his locker he found the bag that he’d packed when he’d thought about this situation two weeks ago. Then, it was just brought along for good luck. Now he’d have to execute his wild scheme. He withdrew the bag and found the dirty jeans.

  He pulled them on. They were loose over his butt. He took off his sleeved T-shirt and put on the dingy sleeveless one, stuffing his pillow underneath the generous cut of the material so it looked like he had a beer gut. Next came the work boots, the tool belt and the worn leather gloves. Philips looked at himself in the mirror. Not quite right yet. He took some soap and a razor and cut the soap into dust, smeared it over his face, took some dirt from behind the door hinges and smeared that on his face. Better. The week’s growth of beard helped too.

  Finally he put on the old yellow hardhat, the outfit complete.

  He opened the door to the control room and strutted in.

  All eyes were on him as he walked up and stood on the conn. Even Whatney, who had lived with Phillips for the last two years and thought he’d grown used to his stunts, stared at him.

  “Gentlemen,” Phillips said, “the Bruce Phillips construction company is here. Let me amend that. The Bruce Phillips demolition company. Did I ever tell you guys I worked during summer leave with a wrecking ball in center city Philly? No. Well, you know it now. XO, do you have any idea what I’m going to do now?”

  “I’m afraid, sir, that I do.”

  “Officer of the Deck, do you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “How about you. Dive?” Phillips asked the diving officer.

  “Yes, Captain. You’re going to do some demolition work on the ridge ahead.”

  “That’s exactly right. We’re here to do some demolition work. Since you got that answer right. Dive, how am I going to do it?”

  “Torpedo, sir?”

  “Dive, do I look like a wimp to you?” Phillips puffed out his fake beer gut.

  “Sir, I’m not sure what you look like.”

  “I look like a real man. And do real men use wimpy torpedoes?” “No, sir,” Whatney said.

  “That’s right.” Phillips reached for the microphone for the circuit-one. “at
tention all hands. this is the PRESIDENT OF THE BRUCE PHILLIPS DEMOLITION COMPANY.

  WE’VE ENCOUNTERED A WALL DOWN HERE THAT WE’RE GOING TO BLOW THROUGH. WE’RE GOING TO USE A VORTEX MISSILE TO BLOW A PIRANHA-SIZED HOLE TO DRIVE THROUGH. WHEN WE’RE DONE YOU MAY ALL COME TO THE CONTROL ROOM ONE BY ONE TO THANK ME. UNTIL THEN, FASTEN YOUR SEATBELTS.”

  Phillips put the microphone in the holder and squinted at the crew. “Get the weapons officer in here—ah, here he is now. Weps, I didn’t think you would hold out long after that.”

  The weapons officer, a lieutenant named Tom McKilley, worked for Scott Court. McKilley was a redhead, although his hair was trimmed too close to his round head to see that. The Irishman was fond of Ray Ban sunglasses, cigars and a new BMW sport coupe.

  Just before Phillips had arrived, McKilley had married a beautiful blonde woman, a marketing executive who worked in D.C., the two commuting between D.C. and Norfolk, seeing each other when they could. As far as Phillips was concerned, McKilley was too shy, but any man who smoked cigars—and could prove he did it before Phillips arrived aboard—was okay with him.

  “Weps, the show is all yours. I want you to put a Vortex right into that ice bank ahead.”

  McKilley didn’t say a word, he just plopped down in the weapons-control console. The console powered up, the displays rotated through as McKilley powered up one of the forward Vortex missiles.

  “Bow cap is opening, okay, the missile is clear forward.

  Aft breech door is jettisoned. The missile tube is clear.”

  “Status of the missile?” Phillips asked, still wearing his hardhat and construction worker outfit.

  “Power is go, missile is armed. Distance to ridge ahead?”

  “Range is…” Phillips stepped to the SHARKTOOTH console. “Two hundred yards.” “Too close, sir,” McKilley said. “I need at least a mile standoff, preferably two.”

  “Come on, Weps, I can’t do that. It’ll take forever.

  And there’s no room to turn around, so I’d have to back up for a mile. Just override the interlock and shoot the bastard.”