Show of Force

by Charles D. Taylor

  “Right. I just hope it works.” He pushed another button on his console. After studying the screen for a moment, he added, “I don't know, Admiral. We caught it but it delayed our firing time. We're shooting at those missiles on a new solution now.” As they watched, a couple of the missiles fired from the Rigas winked out, but others got past the antimissile fire.

  David looked at the screen. Two missiles seemed headed for the same ship. “Who's that?” He pointed at the apparently bracketed ship on the display board.

  “Halsey,” Dailey responded instantly.

  “Oh, shit, no!”

  On board the guided-missile cruiser Halsey, her captain had already put the ship into a tight turn to present as little target as possible, but the missiles were closing at a tremendous speed.

  Men on the deck were deafened by the loud chatter of the 20-mm. close-in weapon system (CIWS), Halsey's last-ditch effort to bring down the attackers. Bursts of several hundred rounds were streaking out at the incoming missiles, the radar desperately tracking both the stream of uranium bullets and the targets to correct the aim. But it was too late.

  One of the missiles might have been hit just before it came in contact with Halsey, for the explosion blew off both the fire-control radars on the stern, rather than going off inside the hull. The second missile exploded behind the bridge, after it had penetrated the ship's CIC, destroying the nerve center of the vessel and blowing the forward mack over the side. Her captain rushed to the starboard wing of the bridge to assess the damage visually. For a moment, he saw the aft section of the ship in flames, the damage-control party motionless on the deck. Then the smoke from the forward mack covered the ship as the fires in the forward boilers burned out of control. As it toppled from the superstructure, the forward exhaust stack had forced a rush of air down to the fireroom.

  Halsey was immediately ineffective, the forward fireroom useless, the after missile system inoperative, and the control center of the ship, the combat information center, destroyed. She could neither receive information nor fire a weapon, and she was already at half speed.

  Julius A. Purer was a much smaller ship than Halsey, smaller by 150 feet and over four thousand tons. Her captain briefly saw the missile before it hit, possibly because he was horrified watching the bullet stream from his own CIWS system sweep forward as he unfortunately presented his port beam to the attack. The explosion of the missile coupled with that of the forward magazine were simultaneous as far as the men in the aft section were concerned. Those up forward were unaware of the bow breaking off about where the magazine had been. The captain and his GQ team disappeared in a flash of white, along with most of the crew in the forward section of the ship. Purer veered to starboard, already beginning to settle in the water, along with more than one hundred of her crew.

  When GQ sounded on Blandy, Quartermaster Third Class Charles Goddard relieved at the wheel of the old destroyer. It was not as if a junior man were taking such a great responsibility, since Goddard had been in the Navy for more than ten years. He was one of the finest helmsmen in the fleet and a good quartermaster when he was sober. But his liberty hours were always spent finding trouble where others had already looked.

  His escapades were legend on the ships he had ridden. Even though he could talk his way out of trouble with the civilian authorities, he too often found himself reduced in rank by an unsympathetic commanding officer.

  No matter how many times he appeared at captain's mast, his lovable grin seemed to save him from courts-martial he deserved. Only days before, the captain had threatened to send him to the brig for his latest stunt and again he found himself a third class for the fifth time. Now he was where he belonged, at the helm of Blandy, as she steamed toward the enemy.

  One missile was Hearing Blandy when her 20-mm. shells contacted it. It exploded a good fifty yards from the ship, but the explosion and shrapnel showered the forward part of the vessel, killing most of those in the bridge area. Charlie Goddard, the only one left uninjured, was left in command of Blandy as she continued cutting through the ocean at high speed. The flying metal had torn through the pilothouse, cutting down every man but Goddard. The captain lay at his feet, a gaping hole in his chest. Those still alive were moaning or crying for help, but none were left standing. Goddard jammed the wheel in place just for a second and turned to the ship's PA on the bulkhead behind him. His voice boomed out over the ship as he asked the XO to call the bridge. He returned to the helm, a phone tucked under his chin. In a moment, the executive officer called him, learning of the loss on the bridge. Before the man arrived to take over, Goddard had already begun a zigzag course of his own, the headphones to main control lopsided on his head as he called for more speed. As the XO came through the pilothouse door, he found Quartermaster Third Class Goddard in control of the Blandy amidst the carnage of the bridge, grinning like a depraved elf as he often did when describing his exploits ashore.

  The Rigas had dropped down almost to the surface to escape, and David could see them streaking through the formation. They were helpless, no longer armed, and maneuvering wildly to evade attack.

  “For Christ's sake, isn't anyone going to fire?” David called out.

  Silence for a moment. Then, “I can't yet, Admiral.” The voice was Bill Dailey's. “They're still too close to other ships in the formation. They're using them to hide behind. We'll get them when they get out to the perimeter.”

  “Right. . . very logical. . . it's your baby, Bill. Sorry again.”

  “That's all right, Admiral. But that's not my biggest problem. Look at that.” He was pointing at the ASW board. “Those leftover Forgers are going after the helos, trying to free those submarines.” He turned to a man behind him speaking quietly into a headset. “Vector some of those Tomcats to help those helos. Goddamn, they're sitting ducks.”

  “Admiral, request permission to release Valdez to pick up Purer survivors. She's sinking fast.”

  Without looking up, Charles answered, “Granted. Bill, send some of those frigates out where the helos are going down. Tell 'em to use anything they've got to fill the water with high explosives. They're the ones who are going to be firing at us.”

  “Yes, sir. Perimeter ships have identified Soviet surface-ship radar. They're getting into range, too.”

  “We've got longer ranges. We should be attacking now.”

  “We are, sir. We've already had some hits, but the group commander reports that Russians are using something to explode our warheads before impact.”

  “Sub-launched missiles in the air!” The report cracked out over the enforced silence sharply. “Nimitz is the target!” As the report was coming in, an American Tomcat jet was diving on one of the firing submarines, from the stern. Before it could escape below the surface, the sail of Virona was hit by two rockets. Fires in the sub's control room had incapacitated its hydraulics and the crew was unable to keep their craft from making a last furious, uncontrolled dive.

  The Samson missile, an advanced version of the older Soviet Shaddock, travels at speeds in excess of Mach 2 and carries a warhead containing a thousand pounds of TNT. This was how Kupinsky intended to soften up Nimitz. One of the sub-fired missiles was misdirected to the wrong target and managed to blow off the hanger and flight deck of the destroyer Moosbrugger. The ship's LAMPS helos had just loaded torpedoes and their detonation left her after section in flames.

  The two missiles that hit Nimitz created as much damage, but it wasn't as incapacitating for the great ship. One hit near the waterline up forward, blowing a tremendous hole in the hull, but this damage, which would likely have sunk a frigate, barely managed to impede Nimitz' speed. The damage-control parties easily isolated the flooding by sealing off the affected compartments. The second hit aft of the bridge, just below the main deck.

  The staff damage-control officer soon reported, “No fires forward. Flooding isolated.”

  The second blast had been felt in flag plot. It had been much closer. “What about the hit aft,�
� questioned Dailey, but he halted as he saw the man's hand in the air for silence.

  He listened for a second. “Missile penetrated hanger deck just below and abaft the island. . . .” his hand still in the air, listening, “. . . radar tower hanging over the edge ... no aircraft in the area at the time . . . small fires.”

  “That's what you call lucky,” added Bill Dailey, but the DC officer's hand was still in the air as more damage was reported.

  “After starboard elevator is buckled. Damage Control Central reports it inoperative.”

  “Not so lucky,” Admiral Charles added.

  “No, sir, but it could have been a hell of a lot worse if we'd been fueling or loading weapons in the area.”

  “You're right, of course, Bill.” He grimaced. “But that's only the beginning, I'm afraid.” He gestured at the status board directly in front of them. It was becoming more confused. The forward surface ships had been exchanging missiles since they had been within fifty miles of each other. The first ones were relatively easy to counter. As the ranges drew closer, there was less time to act individually if computer-controlled antimissile systems failed to do their job. The screen was a melange of blinking dots that would occasionally stop on the solid color of a surface ship.

  What David Charles was pointing out to Dailey was the acceleration of missiles aimed at Nimitz. She was surrounded by ships whose sole duty was to protect the great carrier from just such an attack. The computer's target-designation system was doing a superb job, not to mention the unseen electronic war silently protecting Nimitz. The first missile from a surface ship to hit the carrier landed on the forward part of the flight deck, penetrating into the chief's quarters. No one was there while the ship was at GQ. The second missile was not to be confused, nor was it ever intended to land on Nimitz. Instead, it settled, rather than fell, in the water less than a mile to starboard.

  Nimitz' commanding officer wasn't fooled. Frank Welles was standing on the starboard wing while his OOD conned the ship. The lookout next to him saw it, too. “'For pedo to starboard, Captain.”

  “I see it,” he answered shrilly. “Emergency port,” he bellowed into the pilothouse. “Emergency port, aye,” came the instant answer.

  But the giant ship was never designed to turn as quickly as they all hoped. It takes a long time for ninety-three thousand tons and almost eleven hundred feet of ship to turn, even in an emer gency. A mile at sea is only two thousand yards and a high-speed homing torpedo travels that distance quickly. To Frank Welles it took an eternity for Nimitz to respond and an instant for the torpedo to arrive just forward of the bridge. It would have made little difference anyway, since it was a homing torpedo, set to explode at a depth of fifteen feet. Captain Welles's last impression before impact was the reaction on the lookout's face when he finally realized they would be hit. His eyes were like saucers, his mouth wide in an “O,” his binoculars swinging from his neck as he dropped them to look down to the water's surface.

  The detonation was felt by the whole ship's crew, and it was as if she had just passed over a reef. Those above it, especially on the bridge, felt their knees buckle. Then a column of water leaped "well above the flight deck. As the geyser reached its maximum height, the noise rolled over them, again shaking the ship. It was the largest warhead the Russians could put on a torpedo and still fire it as a missile. The inward explosion was unlike anything anyone had ever read about, for there had never been one like it before. It had to be a new type of explosive. The hole torn in the side was forty feet across and half as high, completely underwater. The ocean poured in, causing the great ship to veer to starboard. Bulkheads weakened by the explosion fell under the rush of the ocean. There was no fire.

  In flag plot, David Charles felt the impact, not knowing where the hit had been taken. Then the power went off, followed by an ominous silence.-Battle lanterns instantly lighted the room and familiar sounds returned. “Engineering spaces . . .torpedo.” He looked at the ship's indicators on the panel to his left. “Bad hit, Bill.” He pointed at the panel. “We've already dropped five knots, and we're going all over the goddamn ocean.”

  In the pilothouse a white-faced sailor at the helm was struggling to get his ship back on course. Captain Welles was standing behind him, hand on the man's shoulder, “Just relax. Tell me what she's doing.”

  “Pulling to the right, Captain. Whenever she starts to come around, and I let up a bit on the wheel, she starts shuddering and dragging to the right again. I can't hold her, sir.”

  “Sure you can, son. We're still slowing down. It'll come easier as we decrease speed.” He had given the order as he felt Nimitz veer to starboard, but it took a long time to slow ninety-three thousand tons from the thirty-five knots she had been doing. It was the only way to lower the pressure on the bulkheads far enough from the explosion to hold back the water. “Just keep fighting it, but sound off just as soon as you feel anything different.”

  Reports were coming in from damage-control parties in other sections of the ship with casualty reports, calls for men and equipment, and reports of sections sealed off. Many men had already died from the four hits Nimitz had taken, yet they were a miniscule part of the entire crew. To a casual observer, it might even seem there was little damage to the ship, but the torpedo had impaired her seakeeping ability for the time being. It was impossible, at least now, to take evasive action from further attack.

  And then the report came from Combat. “Aircraft, port quarter.” The planes that Frank Welles whirled to find through his binoculars were already on top of Nimitz as far as he was concerned. They were miles away, but distance is of little value when missiles are being used. But the planes closed without firing. He couldn't understand why.

  In flag plot, Bill Dailey reported, “Those are stragglers. Don't know where they came from. They got through our Tomcats:” The screen they both observed showed three Russian aircraft closing Nimitz with what were probably four Tomcats in pursuit. The American planes obviously had no missiles left and were probably firing machine guns at the wildly maneuvering Rigas. The latter were trying to evade both the weapons fired from the surface ships and the pursuing planes. As they closed Nimitz, one was hit. Yet it kept coming. Finally, as its maneuverability decreased, one of the Tomcats concentrated its fire on the damaged craft. Beginning to lose altitude, it vainly tried to lift its nose, then violently exploded into tiny pieces.

  When Frank Welles saw that, he knew the Soviets were carrying very heavy bombs. Now the two remaining were in a screaming dive, growing larger and larger to the naked eye by the split second. A second one was hit by gunfire from a Tomcat. Its tail began to flake apart. The pilot was losing control but he fought his craft, trying to will it toward the carrier. As it became obvious to him that he would fall to the side, he yanked back his stick, forcing the plane's nose upward just enough to flip his bomb toward Nimitz. Then one of his wings broke off.

  As Welles watched, fascinated, the bomb glided lazily toward the stern, too far away to hit the flight deck, but he knew it might be close enough to cause damage as it exploded. Suddenly his attention was riveted on the surviving Riga, the one making a picture-perfect attack and releasing its bomb. The Russian had been low enough and close enough, and the flight deck made a perfect target. Welles could not maneuver his ship.

  The bomb penetrated just forward of the single elevator on the port side. Experts would likely say it penetrated at least two decks before it went off. When it did, in a missile storage area, the combined explosion was enough to blow the elevator straight up.

  Frank Welles's initial impression was of a giant Roman candle. When the elevator reached its peak, flames shot past it hundreds of feet into the air. As the elevator descended, it was enveloped in fire. Then Frank Welles felt the impact as it tore more of the vital flight deck away. Only those deck personnel on the starboard side, awaiting the return of the first flight of aircraft, escaped the cascading flames.

  Admiral Charles felt the main explosion i
n plot. This time the lights stayed on. The explosion had occurred above the water-line. But the impact, following so closely on the torpedo hit, told him that Nimitz was hurt. “I'm going to the bridge, Bill.” Very little time had passed since the shooting began, maybe eight to ten minutes, yet hundreds of missiles had been fired by both sides, more than either of their computers could possibly defend against.

  When David pushed through the door to the pilothouse, he was assaulted by a cacaphony of sounds, unlike the quiet, orderly flag plot. This is where the men were directing the fight to save their ship. Secondary explosions still came from the fire on the port quarter. Reports were too fast for Welles to assimilate. The ones he picked out that were more important received an answer. The remaining helos were low on fuel and desperately needed -to land. A Tomcat squadron was circling, hoping they would soon be able to see their landing field through the smoke. Then the smell hit David for the first time, a variety of odors of objects being consumed by the fire. He hung back, watching the ordered mayhem of a ship fighting for its life. No one recognized him, even though he was the only one without a life jacket or helmet.

  David Charles inched his way out onto the starboard wing, picking up a pair of binoculars as he passed the chart table. Most of the damage was forward or on the port side, and the rear of the bridge was unoccupied except for a lookout, scanning the skies. David tapped him on the shoulder, “There's something I'm looking for over there.” He pointed off the starboard quarter. “How about giving me a hand, see if we can find them together.”

  It was the same sailor who had watched the torpedo with Frank Welles, his eyes still like saucers. He simply nodded, too dumbfounded by the brass and terror around him.

  “They should be about ten degrees abaft the beam . . . probably two or three of them . . . and they're pretty big. . . . See anything?”

  “No, sir,” then, “yes, sir. They look big all right, like tenders. . . . But those are the funniest looking ass ends on them, sir. I don't know what they are, sir.”