by Jeff Edwards
“I want it, Captain.” He turned to the chief. “This one is mine, Chief. You can have the next one.”
Chief McPherson took a step backward and crossed her arms. “Your show, boss.”
Ensign Cooper looked at the chief out of the corner of his eye. “Okay, I know the second rule of USW. What’s the first rule?”
The Sonar Chief smiled. “USW is hard. If you’re stupid, it’s impossible.”
The ensign raised an eyebrow. “You’re making this up as you go along.”
“No, sir, I am not.”
Cooper opened his mouth to speak, but he was interrupted by a burst of warbling tones from the Navy Red secure radio circuit, followed by a voice transmission. “SAU Commander, this is Benfold. Contact report to follow. Time, seventeen fifty-four Zulu. My unit holds passive broadband contact, bearing three-two-five. Initial classification: POSS-SUB, confidence level low. Believe this contact correlates to Towers’ Gremlin Zero One, over.”
Captain Whiley’s reply was as rapid as before. “Roger, Benfold.SAU Commander concurs. Designate your contact Gremlin Zero One, over.”
Ensign Cooper forgot whatever it was he’d been about to say. He was too busy punching keys on the CDRT. A bright blue line popped up, extending from the center of Benfold’s NTDS symbol to the edge of the screen. The blue line crossed the most recent bearing line from Towers. His keyed-in commands instructed the computer to plot a hostile-submarine NTDS symbol (a red V-shape with a dot in the center) directly on top of the intersection of the blue line from Benfold and the red line from Towers. It was called a cross-fix. That’s where the submarine was. “Gotcha, you little bastard.” He keyed his mike. “All Stations—USWE, we’re in business. Break, UB, stand by for range updates from the CDRT.”
“UB, aye.”
Every thirty seconds, the CDRT updated the range and bearing to the contact. After only two updates, the underwater battery fire control computer had a rough estimate of the submarine’s course and speed. Each set of bearing updates refined the solution. The search was about to become the chase.
* * *
Captain Whiley’s voice broke over the Navy Red radio circuit. “All units, this is SAU Commander. I am executing Pouncer Maneuver—now, now, NOW!”
Cooper watched on the CDRT. Sure enough, the symbol for Antietam was increasing speed and heading toward the southern flank of the formation. The symbol representing Antietam’s helo, Samurai Seven-Nine, cut around the northern end of the formation—to approach the sub from an unexpected angle. According to the tactical plan, the helo’s altitude would be above 2,000 feet; high enough so the submarine’s sonar wouldn’t be able to detect the sound of his rotors.
The plan was going perfectly.
Whiley’s voice came over Navy Red right on schedule. “All units, this is SAU Commander. My Anvil is away—now, now, NOW!”
* * *
Anvil (USS Antietam):
A small armored hatch snapped open on the cruiser’s forward missile deck, exposing the weatherproof membrane that covered the upper end of a vertical launch missile cell. A millisecond later, the membrane was shattered as Antietam’s Vertical Launch Anti-Submarine Rocket (ASROC), code-name Anvil, blasted out of its missile cell and roared into the night sky on a silvery-orange pillar of fire.
Although it came out of the launcher like any other missile, the ASROC’s flight profile was like no missile in the world. Instead of diving toward the surface of the ocean to begin a sea-skimming run, or turning toward its target and accelerating to an intercept point, the ASROC heeled itself over at a forty-five–degree angle and began boosting toward the top of a pre-programmed ballistic arc.
Ten thousand feet above the ocean, it hit the top of that arc, and any passing resemblance it had to an ordinary missile vanished. An electronic module inside the weapon sent trigger pulses to a pair of explosive blocks in the airframe. The explosives detonated instantly, shattering the steel restraining bands that held the missile together, and splitting the fiberglass airframe into two pieces. The missile literally came apart in midair, and from the expanding cloud of discarded debris fell the ASROC’s payload: a specially configured Mark-54 torpedo.
The torpedo dropped toward the sea like a stone, completing the downward half of the ballistic arc as it hurtled toward its rendezvous with the waves. As the weapon fell past two thousand feet, a parachute deployed, slowing its rate of descent just enough to prevent damage when it hit the water.
Falling somewhat slower now, the weapon slammed into the ocean with enough force to shatter its nose cone along a series of pre-stressed structural points—absorbing a little more of the shock and protecting the delicate sonar transducer in the nose of the weapon.
As it sank through the ocean, seawater rushed in through small vents, completing the electrical circuit for the weapon’s salt-water batteries. The batteries transmitted power to the weapon’s computer, and the computer (in turn) sent signals to other systems, lighting off the sonar sensors, pre-arming the warhead, and taking control of the fins and stabilizers.
All of this happened very quickly. Less than six seconds after its launch from USS Antietam, the torpedo’s turbine engine spun to life. The weapon calculated its depth and position, and then accelerated toward the start point for its search pattern.
* * *
USS Towers:
“USWE—Sonar, we have weapon startup. It’s Antietam’s ASROC, sir, and it looks like they got it right in the pocket.”
A friendly-weapon symbol appeared in blue on the CDRT. Ensign Cooper kissed the tip of his finger and touched it to the glass screen directly over the symbol. “Come on, baby, acquire … acquire …”
A half-minute later, the Sonar Supervisor’s voice came over the net. “USWE—Sonar, Antietam’s weapon has acquired the target. Looks like it’s starting its attack run now.”
Ensign Cooper clapped his hands. “All right!”
Chief McPherson stared at the CDRT without saying anything.
Captain Bowie watched her for a few seconds. “What is it, Chief?”
The chief shook her head. “Something’s not right here, Captain.”
Ensign Cooper looked at her. “What?”
“The sub isn’t doing anything,” Chief McPherson said. “He’s got a torpedo screaming up his ass, and he’s not doing anything about it. No evasion, no flank speed, no nothing …”
“It’s a decoy!” Ensign Cooper shouted. He nearly broke a finger jabbing the button for Navy Red. “SAU Commander—Towers, it’s a decoy! I say again, your target is a mobile decoy! Recommend you take immediate evasive action!”
From across CIC, a Radar Operator yelled, “TAO, I’ve got two, no … make that three missile pop-ups! Bearing two-two-zero!”
The TAO yelled, “Use the goddamned net!” Into his own comm-set mike he half-shouted, “All Stations—TAO, we have in-bound Vipers! I say again, we have missiles in-bound! This is not a drill! Weapons Control, shift to Aegis ready-auto. Set CIWS to auto-engage. Break. EW, I need your best course for minimized radar cross-section, and stand by to launch chaff!”
The Electronics Warfare Technician’s response came a half-second later. “TAO—EW, standing by on chaff. I have active H-band seekers on all three missiles. Looks like Exocet SM-39s, ‘November Variants.’ EW recommends we avoid jamming, sir. I say again, recommend we do not jam. The November birds have home-on-jam capability.”
The captain sprinted for his chair at the center of CIC, between the giant Aegis display screens. Three missile symbols were rapidly closing on the ships. It was still too early to determine which ships had been targeted. He pulled a comm-set over his head and keyed up. “Give me a plot on the pop-up point for those missiles.”
A hostile-submarine symbol appeared on the screen in flashing red.
“What’s the range? Can we hit that bastard with ASROC?”
Ensign Cooper keyed up. “Captain—USWE. Range to missiles’ point of origin is fifty-five thousand yards, sir. No way we
can hit it with ASROC.”
“Damn it!” the captain shouted. “TAO, what’s the estimated time-on-top? When are those bastards going to hit us?”
Before the TAO could answer, the captain punched the button to jumper his comm-set into the 1-MC General Announcing Circuit. When he keyed the mike, his voice came out of speakers all over the ship. “This is the Captain speaking. We have three in-bound Vipers off the port bow. All hands rig for impact. This is not a drill.”
The ship heeled over as the bridge began to maneuver to minimize the ship’s radar cross-section.
The TAO said, “Vipers are not targeted for Towers, Captain. All three are locked on Antietam. Estimated time-on-top is ninety seconds.”
As the words left his lips, a second set of hostile-missile symbols popped up on the screen. Three more Exocet missiles—all bound for Antietam.
The captain keyed his comm-set. “Weapons Control, this is the Captain. Can we get some birds up there to help Antietam out?”
The response was a few seconds in coming. “Captain—Weapons Control. Negative, sir. Antietam is fouling our range. As low as those Vipers are to the water, we’d have to shoot through Antietam to get to them.”
The Air Supervisor spoke up. “Antietam is firing, sir. Two salvos of surface-to-air missiles, looks like six and six.”
The captain nodded.
Antietam was following shoot-shoot-look-shoot-shoot doctrine for incoming Vipers: fire two missiles at each Viper, take a peek with radar to see if they’ve been destroyed, and then fire two more missiles at each Viper that survived the initial salvo.
Captain Bowie nodded at the Aegis display screen and said quietly, “Whiley, you stubborn bastard, still playing it by the book. And look what it’s got you.”
The battle seemed to unfold in slow motion on the big display screens. Six friendly-missile symbols and three hostile-missile symbols vanished as Antietam’s first salvo took out three of the incoming Vipers. Ten seconds later, the scenario repeated itself as Antietam’s second salvo of six destroyed the remaining three in-bound Vipers.
The Towers CIC team began to cheer.
“I’ll say this for Whiley,” the captain said, “that son of a bitch can shoot!”
The cheers were suddenly chopped off by a voice over the 29-MC speakers. “All Stations—Sonar has multiple hydrophone effects off the port bow! Bearings three-one-five, and three-one-seven. Initial classification: hostile torpedoes!”
“Crack the whip!” Ensign Cooper said into his comm-set. “Bridge—USWE. We have in-bound hostile torpedoes. I say again—crack the whip!”
“Bridge, aye!”
In the background came the muffled wail of the gas turbine engines as they spun up to flank speed.
The Officer of the Deck’s voice broke over the 1-MC. “All hands stand by for heavy rolls while performing high-speed evasive maneuvers.”
The deck began to heel to starboard as the big destroyer whipped into the first in a series of tight, high-speed turns. The crack-the-whip anti-torpedo maneuver would take the ship through a rapid succession of near-hairpin turns, designed to create multiple propeller wakes at very close intervals. A torpedo attempting to follow a ship through the aftermath of a crack-the-whip maneuver would find itself faced with a confusion of wakes to choose from, not to mention a wall of acoustic interference as the millions of bubbles churned up by the ship’s screws collided, collapsed, and popped. Coupled with the towed acoustic decoy system called Nixie, the maneuver was highly effective. Some tactical analysts rated its probability of success at nearly seventy percent. And in the world of torpedoes, it didn’t get any better than that.
Ensign Cooper gripped the edge of the CDRT to maintain his footing as the deck surged first one way, and then the other. The symbols on the screen had devolved into a mad little dance as every ship in the formation executed its own torpedo evasion maneuvers.
“Antietam is outside the screen,” he said quietly. He braced one hip against the side of the CDRT and let go with his right hand so that he could key his mike. “Captain—USWE. Both of the enemy torpedoes are locked on Antietam, and Antietam is outside of our defensive screen.”
He stared at the CDRT’s tactical display, and then looked over his shoulder at the big Aegis display screens. They all told the same story. From the wild movement of her tactical symbol, it was obvious that Antietam was running her own crack-the-whip maneuver. It was just as obvious that the maneuver was going to fail. The hostile torpedoes had been fired from too short a range. They had far too good a sniff of the cruiser’s real acoustic signature to be distracted by decoys and tricky maneuvers.
Ensign Cooper watched helplessly as the flashing red hostile-torpedo symbols began to merge with the symbol that represented Antietam.
* * *
DMA37 Torpedo:
Powered by a four-stage axial-flow turbine and a sophisticated planetary gear drive train, the German torpedo was capable of slightly over fifty knots. And at the moment, it was using every scrap of that power to close the range to its target.
The target was fast, but not fast enough. And it was tricky, but not tricky enough.
Inside the torpedo’s acoustic seeker head, an array of 152 miniature sonar transducers were bombarded by a powerful source of white noise. Under other circumstances, the interference might have been enough to mask the target entirely, but the target was close, and the acoustic seeker could still detect it clearly through the cacophonous barrier of sound energy.
The transducers detected another sonar contact, with acoustic characteristics that closely resembled the target. For a few milliseconds, this confused the targeting algorithm running through the torpedo’s digital processors. Two targets to choose from, both displaying acoustic characteristics within acceptable parameters, both easily within the weapon’s attack envelope. It could strike either target in a matter of seconds.
With no compelling criteria to use for target selection, the torpedo’s computer did exactly what its programmers had intended: it locked on to the closer of the two potential targets and started the final arming sequence on its warhead.
Slightly less than ten seconds later, the weapon’s acoustic sensors determined that it was nearing optimum range for detonation. The torpedo dove to twelve meters, a depth calculated to place it beneath the hull of the target. The algorithm’s calculations were precise; the torpedo reached the twelve-meter mark at the exact instant that the target’s acoustic signal strength reached its peak. The torpedo was under the target.
The warhead contained 250 kilograms of plasticized-hexite high-explosive. It detonated with a destructive force equivalent to nearly 500 kilos of TNT.
The target was vaporized.
* * *
USS Towers:
“Holy shit!” the Sonar Supervisor shouted over the net. “They just blew up the Antietam’s Nixie! The torpedo fell for the decoy! Yeah! Fuckin’-A!” The sonar team was cheering in the background.
Ensign Cooper jabbed his comm button. “Sonar—USWE. Can it! Maintain net discipline! This is no time to get excited anyway. There’s still another torpedo out there, and there’s no way Antietam can get her backup Nixie fish deployed in time.”
* * *
USS Antietam:
About five seconds later, the second of the DMA37 torpedoes proved Ensign Cooper right. With the other distracting target out of the way, it dove to an optimum depth of twelve meters, slid neatly under Antietam’s hull, and detonated.
The explosion flash-vaporized a huge volume of water directly beneath the cruiser’s keel, simultaneously ripping and burning an enormous hole through the steel hull plates of the ship’s bottom. The keel, the structural backbone of the ship, fractured like bone under a sledgehammer. With its spine shattered and nearly all support snatched out from under its hull by the still-expanding bubble of vaporized water, the cruiser bent near the middle, and then broke. The sound was unbelievable, an ear-rending cacophony of tearing metal and roaring water, punctua
ted by the screams of the injured and dying. The overburdened steel hull plates separated completely, ripping the old ship in half.
The aft section of the ship rolled over on to its starboard side and began to sink immediately.
The forward half of the ship remained afloat somehow, without power, as the generators had been destroyed along with the engineering spaces. Fires raged through the powerless steel hulk that—ten seconds ago—had been a United States warship.
* * *
Samurai Seven-Nine:
“Jesus Christ,” the copilot whispered. “Oh Jesus …”
The pilot stared down at the flaming remains of their ship. “SENSO, did you get a fix on the spot where those Vipers left the water?”
In the rear of the helo, the Sensor Operator stared blankly into space, too stunned to even answer.
The pilot keyed the mike of his inter-phone and shouted, “Goddamn it, Perkins! Snap out of it! We don’t have time for this shit!”
The Sensor Operator jerked as though he’d been slapped. “What? What? I’m sorry, what did you say, sir?”
“Did you get a fix on the spot where those Vipers left the water?”
The Sensor Operator scanned his console. “Um, I think so. Ah … yes, sir. I’ve got a fix.”
“Good,” the pilot said. “Shoot me a fly-to point.”
The SENSO nodded. “Yes, sir.” He used his trackball to roll a cursor to the screen coordinates that corresponded to the point where the missiles had popped up on radar. He punched a button. “Fly-to point coming up now, sir.”
“Got it,” the pilot snapped. He tweaked the cyclic and the collective, swinging the helo around until his instruments showed that they were pointing toward the appropriate spot in the ocean. “Start your weapons check-off list,” he said. “Cut corners if you have to, but get that weapon ready now! The longer we wait, the farther that sub’s going to be from the spot where he launched those missiles. We’re only going to make one pass. We’re going to make it low, and we’re going to shove a torpedo up that bastard’s ass.”