by Jeff Edwards
The turbines began to spin up, and the ship started to turn.
It was too late.
* * *
The DMA37 torpedo slipped under the hull and detonated directly beneath the destroyer’s after fuel tanks. The shallow, hard-packed sand bottom reflected a great deal of the shock wave back toward the surface—toward Benfold—effectively doubling the destructive power of the warhead. The magnified explosion ripped through the steel hull plates, rupturing the fuel tanks. Sixty thousand gallons of diesel fuel marine erupted into flame, instantly transforming USS Benfold into an inferno.
The blazing steel hulk had barely settled back into the waves before a second torpedo darted in and hammered the ship again.
When the smoke and spray from the base surges of the explosions cleared, all that remained to mark the last position of USS Benfold was a debris field and a burning oil slick.
* * *
USS Towers:
Captain Bowie stood on the forecastle and watched the scattered pieces of Benfold’s debris field slide past the bow wake and drift aft. The desert wind was hot, and it carried enough sand to sting his cheeks. He felt, rather than saw, the executive officer walk up behind him. He spoke without looking over his shoulder. “Any more survivors yet?”
“No, sir,” the XO said. “Just the one man. A kid, really. I just came from Sick Bay. He can’t be more than eighteen or nineteen. Doc says he’s got burns over about 40 percent of his body.”
“He’s not going to make it, then,” the captain said.
“Probably not, sir.”
The captain nodded once, but didn’t say anything. It didn’t make sense. It shouldn’t have happened. Despite the damage to her bridge, Benfold had been operating at near full capacity, with her speed, maneuverability, and firepower undiminished. Her captain, Rachel Vargas, had been a skilled tactician and a master of sea-maneuver warfare. Her USW team had been well trained and well prepared. And now they were all gone.
The thoughts turned slowly over and over in Captain Bowie’s brain, but they refused to become real for him. The U.S. Navy hadn’t lost a warship in combat since World War II. And now a ship under his command was gone, and—except for one burned and dying teenager—every human being on board was dead. All three hundred thirty-seven of them.
Captain Bowie shifted his eyes to the horizon. Gremlin Zero Four—God, what an innocuous sounding designation for such a ruthlessly efficient killer—was still out there.
The captain turned toward the XO. “I’m going to head down to Sick Bay for a few minutes. Get a hold of the Navigator and have him plot a course to the coast of Siraj, using our best speed.”
“Aye-aye, sir.”
Captain Bowie walked down the port side, toward the door that would lead him down to Sick Bay. He knew that he should go to CIC instead. They needed him there. His crew was looking to him for the plan, the stroke of tactical genius, the rabbit out of the hat that would let his crippled ship take on a cunning and deadly enemy and somehow emerge triumphant.
But that could wait, for a few minutes at least. He could spare two minutes for the last surviving member of a United States warship.
* * *
The Chief Hospital Corpsman met him at the door to Sick Bay. “He’s already gone, sir. We did everything we could, but he just slipped away from us. I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault, Doc,” the captain said. “What was his name?”
“His uniform was mostly burned off when they pulled him out of the water. We couldn’t find any ID. We … don’t know his name, sir.”
The captain nodded and walked away. “Thanks, Doc,” he said over his shoulder. Bowie headed for CIC. He shook his head as he walked. They didn’t even know the kid’s name.
CHAPTER 47
WHITE HOUSE SITUATION ROOM
WASHINGTON, DC
MONDAY; 21 MAY
03:14 AM EDT
Admiral Casey looked at the president. “It’s confirmed, sir. USS Benfold is gone. It looks like all hands were lost.”
“I thought Towers picked up a survivor,” Gregory Brenthoven said.
“They did,” the CNO said. “He died shortly after he was pulled out of the water.”
The president shook his head slowly. “Jesus … When was the last time we lost a ship with all hands?”
Admiral Casey thought for a second. “I believe that would have been 1968, sir. A nuclear fast-attack submarine, USS Scorpion, suffered some kind of accident in the mid-Atlantic and went down with all hands. Ninety-nine dead, if my memory serves me.”
“That was an accident,” the president said. “What about in combat?”
“I’m not sure, sir. Certainly not since the Second World War.”
The president closed his eyes and ran both hands slowly through his hair, fingers combing from front to back. “So much for my total victory, huh? Germany loses everything, and we get away clean as a hound’s tooth. It sounded so goddamned brilliant. What the hell was I thinking, Bob? Did I really think those guys could just sail out there, sink a bunch of cutting-edge killer subs, and sail home in time for lunch?”
No one attempted to answer.
After a few seconds, the president opened his eyes. “All right, I guess that puts us in damage-control mode. What have we got left that can stop that submarine?”
“Towers, sir,” the CNO said.
“I can’t leave it to them anymore,” the president said. “They’re beat to shit. I need to put enough assets out there to guarantee a kill. What have we got in-theater?”
The CNO took a breath and exhaled heavily. “Nothing, sir. What’s left of Kitty Hawk’s strike group is at least twenty hours too far south and west. Even if we turn them around now, that sub will be in Zubayr before they can get through the Straits of Hormuz. My P-3s in Saudi are pinned down by a sand storm. If it clears in the next couple of hours or so, I can get them up into the northern Gulf, but even that will probably be too late.”
The national security advisor asked, “What about that nuclear submarine you wanted to send after them?”
“We had to clear the Topeka out of the Gulf. With four ships up there hurling torpedoes right and left, we couldn’t risk a blue-on-blue engagement with a friendly sub.”
“Those nuke subs are fast,” Brenthoven said. “Get it back up there!”
The CNO shook his head. “They’re not that fast. Topeka is too far out of position.”
“What you’re telling me,” the president said, “is that I made my bed, and now I have to lie in it.”
“I didn’t say that, Mr. President,” the CNO said.
“But it’s true, nevertheless …”
“I’m afraid so.”
CHAPTER 48
USS TOWERS (DDG-103)
NORTHERN ARABIAN GULF
MONDAY; 21 MAY
2318 hours (11:18 PM)
TIME ZONE +3 ‘CHARLIE’
The Chief Engineer dropped heavily into one of the chairs at the wardroom table. His coveralls were streaked with grease and his face and hands were filthy. “My boys have managed to restore pitch control to the port screw, but it’s got a lot of vibration in it. Obviously, we can’t tell for sure without divers, but I think the screw itself is pretty chewed up. It must have taken some direct damage from the torpedo hit. We’re not going to be able to run it at full speed, and frankly, Captain, that screw is going to howl like a dog whenever we run it.”
“How much difference will it make in our speed if we run the damaged screw?” Captain Bowie asked.
The Chief Engineer shrugged. “We won’t have exact figures until we put some power to it, but I’m guessing about five or six knots. We can do eighteen and a half on the starboard screw. With both screws going, I’d expect to see between twenty-three and twenty-five knots.”
“But we’ll be noisy as hell …”
“I’m afraid so, sir.”
“Stealth or speed,” the XO said. “That’s a hell of a choice to have to make when you’re chasin
g a submarine.”
“It’s not really much of a choice, sir,” Chief McPherson said. “If we don’t beat that sub to the Siraji coast, we’re out of the ball game. Stealth or no stealth, I think we’re going to have to sprint like hell to get ahead of the sub.”
“What’s that kind of noise going to do to our sonar ranges?” the captain asked.
“We’ll be blind as a bat, sir,” Chief McPherson said. “At least while we’re sprinting. Sonar will be back to normal as soon as we slow down and drop the port screw off line again.”
“Noisy and blind,” Ensign Cooper said. “What a great way to chase a submarine.”
“I agree, sir,” Chief McPherson said. “It’s certainly not my first choice, but if we try it quiet and slow, that sub is going to be tied to a pier in Zubayr before we even get up to the north end of the gulf.”
The XO whistled through his teeth. “It looks to me like we are damned if we do, and double-dog-damned if we don’t.”
“Anybody got any brilliant suggestions?” the captain asked.
No one had any.
The captain stood up. “Okay,” he said. “Bring the port screw on line and head for Zubayr with the best speed we can manage. No matter how noisy the coach is, Cinderella cannot be late for the ball.”
* * *
An hour later, Chief McPherson knocked on the door to the captain’s stateroom.
“Enter.”
The chief opened the door. “Captain? May I have a word with you?”
“Come on in,” the captain said. “What’s on your mind?”
“Sir, I just came from Sonar Control. We are making a lot of noise. The sub is going to see us a hundred miles away.”
The captain said, “No choice, Chief. We’ve got to have the speed.”
The chief nodded. “I realize that, sir. The problem is we sound like a destroyer with a bad screw.”
“I’ve talked to the Chief Engineer, and he tells me there’s nothing we can do to quiet that screw.”
The chief nodded. “I understand, sir. So I think we should take it in the opposite direction. If we can’t make Towers quiet, we should try to make her as noisy as possible.”
The captain frowned. “And then the sub will be able to detect us even farther away.”
“Yes, sir,” Chief McPherson said. “But will it be able to classify us?”
“What do you mean?”
“When I went through Acoustic Analysis, they taught us a simple rule for spotting U.S. subs on a sonar gram: ‘If you look at the gram, and there’s nothing on it, you’re probably looking at a U.S. nuke.’”
“I’m not following you, Chief.”
“When a Sonar Operator looks at a contact that’s generating big fat broadband and lots of narrowband tonals, he’s not thinking U.S. nuke. He’s thinking merchant ship. He’s thinking beat-up old tanker with worn-out engines. He’s thinking anything but U.S. nuke. Ordinarily, he would be correct. If we play it right, I think we can take advantage of that kind of thinking.”
“We make ourselves so noisy that no Sonar Operator in his right mind would even think about classifying us as a stealth destroyer?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Chief, have you ever read Poe?”
“Sir?”
“Edgar Allen Poe. He was one of the early horror writers. Some say that he’s still never been equaled.”
“I read The Telltale Heart in high school. And what was that poem? The Raven, I think …”
“I had in mind a different story,” the captain said. “Your idea smacks of Poe’s Purloined Letter. You should read it, when this is over. It’s a story about how to hide things in plain sight.”
“I’ll do that, sir.”
The captain nodded. “Good. Now, let’s see how obnoxiously noisy we can make ourselves.”
CHAPTER 49
U.S. NAVY CENTRAL COMMAND (USNAVCENT)
BAHRAIN
TUESDAY; 22 MAY
0147 hours (1:47 AM)
TIME ZONE +3 ‘CHARLIE’
“Zubayr is a ghost town,” the off-going Duty Intelligence Officer said. “No surface traffic in or out of the harbor in the past twenty-four hours.”
Caught in mid-yawn, Lieutenant Commander Fisk drew back. “What? That can’t be right. Half of Siraj’s surface traffic goes through Zubayr. It’s always crawling with activity.”
The off-going DIO was a heavyset lieutenant with a bad comb-over. “I know. Weird, isn’t it? Maybe it’s some obscure Islamic holy day.”
“I don’t think so,” Fisk said. “State would have given us a heads-up. Has Siraji air activity slacked off?”
The lieutenant shook his head. “Business as usual, air-wise.”
“Has surface traffic been affected in any other Siraji ports?”
The off-going Duty Intelligence Officer shook his head again. “No. Normal shipping density everywhere except Zubayr.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Fisk said.
“I’m just giving you the skinny. There hasn’t been so much as a kayak in or out of Zubayr harbor all day.” The lieutenant looked at the master tactical plot. “The last movement we show was yesterday morning. Three fishing trawlers pulled in, and then everything got quiet.”
“Three fishing trawlers?” Lieutenant Commander Fisk stared at the master tactical plot. “Oh shit.” He looked up. “Plot Supervisor, get me SPECWAR on the line. Do it now!”
The off-going DIO held his hands up. “Whoa, cowboy! Why are we calling in the Special Warfare Unit?”
“They need to see this plot,” Fisk said.
“Why? What in the hell is going on?”
“I hope like hell I’m wrong,” Fisk said. “But I think the Sirajis have just laid a minefield across the approach to Zubayr.”
CHAPTER 50
USS TOWERS (DDG-103)
NORTHERN ARABIAN GULF
TUESDAY; 22 MAY
0328 hours (3:28 AM)
TIME ZONE +3 ‘CHARLIE’
The noise was incredible. Steaming at her maximum (damaged) speed of twenty-three knots, the Towers was generating an unholy racket. True to the Chief Engineer’s prediction, the port screw was howling like a banshee, but the damaged propeller wasn’t the only voice singing in the choir. Every pump, every fan unit, and every piece of engineering equipment was running at maximum speed. And (where possible) the acoustic suppression systems had been disabled. On the bottom of the hull, the masker belts, which were designed to inject low-pressure air into the sea to acoustically decouple the ship’s engine noise from the water, had been turned off. The prairie air system, which performed a similar function for the ship’s propeller signature by injecting air through tiny capillaries in the propeller blades, had also been turned off. In the galley, the garbage disposal was running continuously, as were the paper shredders in Radio Central. The decibel level was so high that the Chief Hospital Corpsman had asked the captain to issue an order requiring all crew members to wear earplugs.
The noise levels in CIC were slightly lower, but only slightly.
“So much for that stealth bit,” the TAO said.
The captain cupped a hand to an ear and shouted, “What?”
The TAO opened his mouth to repeat himself, but the captain held up a hand. “Just kidding. I heard you.”
“Do you think this is working?” the TAO asked.
The captain shrugged. “Hard to say. We haven’t gotten our asses blown off, so I guess that’s a good sign.”
“That’s what I keep telling myself, sir,” the TAO said. “And then I catch myself straining to hear the sound of high-speed screws. Sometimes I think I can hear a torpedo approaching, but it always turns out to be my ears playing tricks on me. Maybe it’s caused by the same portion of the brain that makes you think you hear the phone ringing every time you climb into the shower.”
“It won’t be much longer now,” the captain said. “We’re almost close enough to the Siraji coast to start our search.”
“It
can’t come a second too soon,” the TAO said. “I never appreciated how wonderful silence could sound.”
Navy Red began to warble with an incoming message. The captain reached up and cranked the volume to maximum so that he could hear the radio over the noise.
“Towers, this is COM Fifth Fleet. Have your Charlie Oscar stand by for the president, over.”
Navy Red was patched into the overhead speakers, so everyone in Combat Information Center heard COM Fifth Fleet’s voice. Eyebrows went up all over CIC. President? The president? And he wanted to talk to their CO?
The captain turned to the TAO. “Slow the ship down and try to cut down on some of the racket. I’d hate for my first and probably only conversation with the commander in chief to be a shouting contest.”
The TAO nodded. “Aye-aye, sir.” He keyed his own mike and began issuing orders.
But the noise level was still largely unabated when the captain keyed up Navy Red. He spoke a little louder than usual, in the hopes that his raised voice would carry over the clamor. “COM Fifth Fleet, this is the Charlie Oscar of Towers. I am standing by for the president, over.”
The noise began to ease off as crew members rushed to silence the offending pieces of equipment.
After a few seconds, the president’s trademark baritone came over Navy Red. “Am I speaking to Captain Samuel H. Bowie?” Even through the modulations of the encryption software, the voice was instantly recognizable.
“Yes, sir, this is Captain Bowie, over.”
“Let’s dispense with the radio jargon, shall we, Captain? I don’t know much about it, and this is hardly the time to learn.”
“Yes, sir,” Captain Bowie said. “By all means.”
“Good,” the president said. “Now, may I call you Sam?”
“Um … I don’t really answer to that, sir. Most people call me Jim.”
The president’s chuckle came over the line. “Was Colonel Bowie a relation of yours?”
“Not as far as I know, sir. But I grew up in San Antonio, so the nickname was pretty much inevitable.”