“Well, we're even, neither do I.” They stared through the glasses for a bit longer. “Now what the hell are they doing?”
The ships they were watching had slowed down. Their bow waves, standing out at high speed, had just as quickly disappeared. Then, first one, then another small craft appeared from their sterns. There were six in all, two from each of the large ships. They circled behind each of the parents for i just long enough to get organized. Then David saw them lift out of the water, pointing their bows toward Nimitz. “I'll be a son of a bitch.” Before the sailor could ask what was going on David was into the pilothouse. Welles finally noticed him. “What speed can you make?”
“Well. . . Admiral... I... I imagine we could take her up to fifteen knots if we had too, but we're still shoring bulkheads up forward and I can't fan that fire on the port quarter.” He thought more about the question. “For Christ's sake, why, David . . . Admiral?”
“Because you're about to come under a PT-boat attack, or something like that.”
“Out here?”
But David already had a sound-powered phone in his hand. As he pressed the button for flag plot, he answered Welles, “Yes, out here. Only I don't know what the hell they're going to be like when they get closer.” To the voice that answered on the other end, he said, “I want Dailey.” He looked back at his old friend. “I don't know what they are, Frank. A little while ago we saw some odd-looking ships pulling up ahead of Lenin, and we asked for some pictures. Even then, we couldn't figure out what they were. Kupinsky wants this ship bad, Frank. Sinking Nimitz means everything to Gorenko. This is a symbol of what his navy has to do. If they can sink the most powerful ship in the world, then the world's going to know about it. And this is the damned worst time.”
He turned back to the phone. “Bill, we got any fighters, or anything up there, that still have some ordinance?” He waited. “I don't give a shit if they're pop guns. Tell those pilots that if they want to land they're going to have to get every one of those small craft corning at us from the starboard quarter. . . . Yes, that's right. Those ships were some kind of amphib conversion. Two small craft in each one . . . surface-effect type. . . . They lifted right out of the water when they put the hammer down . . . probably carry torpedoes and rockets.” He slammed the phone back in its cradle, and motioned Welles to follow him.
The sounds of the pilothouse hadn't changed. The reports were still coming in and were being barked out by talkers or written down in grease pencil by listeners. The sailor on the helm had found that the wheel was easier now at low speed. No more water was entering forward, and the reports coming to the bridge even indicated they were having luck with the pumps. The fire aft was under control, though it still appeared a conflagration to the inexperienced eye. In time they would be able to take aboard the helicopters, and perhaps even shortly be able to recover the Tomcats, although somewhat more slowly than usual.
“My God, look at those little mothers.” The lookout, now sandwiched between the Admiral and the captain, was sure he hadn't heard right, but he kept his binoculars to his eyes, watching the high-speed approach.
“Right, high speed, most likely gas turbine, and . . . yup, I can see torpedo tubes, too.”
“And rocket launchers on the decks.”
David looked up at the sky. “Where the hell are those jets?”
“You just called.”
“They were supposed to be circling . . . waiting to land.”
“Hell, they can't have much left in the way of ammo.”
“Just their guns. That's all... expended on the rest of those Rigas.”
“This is when I wish we had guns again, lots of 'em. Twenty mm. forty mm. Three inch.”
“It wouldn't do much good against those torpedoes.”
“Nope, but that's what we've got to hope the jets screw up. I'd like to have guns to keep them from firing those damn rockets.”
“Yeah, you're right.”
The lookout hadn't said a word. But, he'd been listening and he was getting scared. His voice trembled. “What can we do about them?”
“Nothing.” They both said the one word simultaneously.
“We just have to hope those Tomcats get here double quick,” added Welles.
“Hard to tell their speed at this distance, Frank, but I'll bet they must be upwards of seventy knots.”
“You're probably right, Admiral, but without a bow wave it sure is deceptive as hell.” They had both dropped their binoculars to talk. “Give them three or four minutes at the most if they want a good shot, less if they try to keep their distance.”
“Sir,” the sailor declared, “they're spreading out.”
“They sure are. Makes tougher shooting for us.” David paused and turned to the young sailor. “What's your name, son?”
“Meehan, sir, Edward L., Seaman Apprentice, sir.”
“That's all right, Meehan, relax. You're doing a fine job. Like the Navy?”
Without a moment's hesitation: “No, sir. Not now!”
“Good for you. Neither do I right now. It could be bad for your health. But don't worry. I've been in worse scrapes before, and I still look pretty good, don't I?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, I'm glad you're in agreement. My wife would be upset if you didn't. Keep a close eye out for the enemy up here. I want to stay healthy too. You and I got to keep an eye out for each other. Right?”
“Certainly, sir.”
“Good. We all have to do that. Why don't you just pass the word over that phone set of yours. Make sure the people on the other end get it on the other circuits too.”
Meehan was staring back at him, binoculars in both hands at about chest level, mouth slightly open, questioningly, the phone strapped around his neck with the speaker jutting out under his chin.
“Go ahead, Meehan. You tell 'em that. I'll handle your sector here for a moment.” And David brought his own binoculars to his eyes, scanning the area where the attacking boats were crossing. The amazed lookout had finally let his binoculars swing free on his chest and was now speaking rapidly into the phone, convincing others of his conversation with the Admiral. David saw the newfound trust in the young eyes.
As wise seamen would, the captains of each of the small boats were opening the distance between themselves. Their orders had been to provide as little opportunity as possible for surface ships or aircraft to get more than one of them at a time. They were all volunteers. Before the force had left the Maldives, Admiral Kupinsky had called a meeting of the entire squadron. He explained their mission and the chances of survival. It was a suicide mission, and he wanted to make that quite clear. When he asked for volunteers, the entire squadron had stood as one, as their fathers had at Stalingrad when their backs were to the Volga, or at Leningrad, Moscow, Kursk, Odessa, Sevastopol, Tallinn or any number of places where Russians had casually accepted death in battle for the Motherland.
Four Tomcats screamed out of the sky overhead, diving on the small craft, Gatling-type guns chattering. There were no missiles or rockets left, only 20-mm. shells. But their guns spewed a curtain of large bullets that would tear apart any small vessel. The pilots found that the trick was to hit these water bugs.
A surface-effect ship rides on air. It lifts out of the water. There is no drag. This allows it tremendous speed over water and it can turn on a dime. The first pass by the jets was totally unsuccessful. The Soviet craft easily evaded them, refusing to stay in one place.
On the second pass the pilots came in from behind rather than from the beam. This allowed more time to watch what the Russian craft were going to do, and they had a better chance to follow their own stream of fire up to their target. One of the pilots noted that the craft he was closing was too consistent in weaving from right to left. When he opened fire, he let the boat slew left. When it came back to the right, it fell right in his path. The 20-mm. guns began to rip it apart from the stern, tossing boat parts and men into the air as shells raced toward the small
pilothouse. Flames broke out aft as the pilothouse and men in it were shattered. Then the torpedoes were hit and the boat simply blew up. The highly explosive fuel for the gas turbines had gone off at the same time.
“They're not even firing back at those Tomcats,” said Welles.
“I imagine their mission is to get here the quickest way and not to worry about anything that might slow them down. We're the target. Any chance of putting helos up?”
“Not a one. They're either being refueled and rearmed, or they were shot down covering the subs.”
“Look at that,” whistled the lookout between them.
One of the jets was about to bracket a Soviet boat when it whipped around in a tight turn, going right under the Tomcat, then returning to its original course. There were still five of them. At about four thousand yards, two of them opened up with rockets while the others circled toward either end of the carrier, maintaining their distance as they sought to position themselves on the opposite beam. The rockets were like peashooters to the large carrier, yet their effectiveness cleared the deck as they found the range.
At fifteen hundred yards, the closest one fired its first torpedo. The boat did not turn away, but followed its fish directly toward Nimitz. The second one also fired a torpedo at the same distance as the first. Of the remaining three, one raced farther past to attack from the other side, while the other two bore in from bow and stern, waiting to see if Nimitz would turn to avoid the torpedoes. At one thousand yards, the firing boats put their second fish in the water. Welles had run to the pilothouse door and was vainly giving orders to the helm, knowing she would not begin to turn before they were hit.
The Soviet boat that had swung astern of Nimitz was hit in the same way as the first. It was so loaded with ammunition and fuel that it exploded under the concentrated 20-mm. fire.
The first two boats still followed their own fish, firing the rockets as they closed. The first torpedo exploded no more than fifty feet from the earlier one, buckling all the bulkheads that had been depended on to hold back the hullful of water, washing over the damage-control parties that had been working desperately to hold back.the sea. The second one hit just under the bridge. The third exploded near the stern. A fourth miraculously dove under the ship.
“Bridge has lost steering control,” cried the helmsman.
“Switch to after steering,” shouted Welles.
They waited. No response. “No answer from after steering, sir.”
“Call DC Central. Tell them we've lost steering control,”
“The phone is dead, sir. I can't get anyone to answer.”
A torrent of rockets shattered the pilothouse as a Soviet boat sped down the side spraying the upper decks of the island. David Charles, seeing the boat coming, had fallen to the deck. As the shelling stopped, he ducked into the open pilothouse door.
Stillness. No movement. There was smoke. Fire was shooting from exposed cables. His favorite bridge chair was torn and spattered with blood.
Frank Welles was sitting on the deck against the bulkhead, near the door David had just come through. He leaned over, jerking at David's pant leg. His face was pale, setting off the blood that seeped from his scalp. He said nothing, just pointed at the fallen sailor by the helm. David, understanding, grabbed the wheel, spinning it first one way, then the other.
“Nothing,” he said.
Then Welles found his voice. “Ship's speaker. Let DC Central know we've lost control.”
David did as Welles said. Nimitz' captain was in shock. A Tomcat streaked over the flight deck in front of the bridge, its guns chattering at a boat attacking on the other beam. The pilot found his target. The boat exploded as it followed its fish close in, but the torpedo also found its target.
David was about to speak into the mike when the torpedo hit. He had been entranced by the shimmering path of the torpedo. It was shallow running, and he couldn't believe it was that large. The explosion, catapulting water high above the ship, was followed by a second detonation of even greater magnitude. Somehow, he determined afterward, the warhead must have been armed with something that penetrated an avgas bunker. The flames from the second, blast surpassed the cone of water in height. The smoke that followed signaled trouble. Burning gas was difficult to fight when a ship was still under attack.
David's voice boomed throughout the ship, “After steering, this is the bridge. We have no control. Steer course. . . .” He looked for a course indicator, but that too was shattered. “Belay that, left standard rudder. I'll tell you when I want it amidships.”
Smoke and towering flames, so intense that the heat could be felt on the bridge, covered the flight deck. He had to get the wind on the beam so the damage-control parties could see what they were fighting. Slowly, too slowly, Nimitz began to turn. The forward part of the flight deck came into view as the smoke blew aft, then the midships section. But he realized nothing would be able to land. The deck was a shambles. The remaining aircraft would have to ditch.
He spoke again into the mike. “This is the bridge. Rudder amidships.” Now the after section of the flight deck came into view. The, port elevator sprawled halfway across, and a great jagged chunk had been ripped out of the angled part of the flight deck. Burning hulks of planes were being pushed over the side by deck trucks. Hoses snaked over every part of its surface. Another explosion ripped upward from the fuel tanks, driving fire-fighting parties back to the safety of the island.
Looking forward, he saw the last of the Russian boats making a run on Nimitz. At a thousand yards, it fired a final torpedo at the after quarter of the ship. He knew there was no way to turn her in time. “Mr. Dailey to the bridge on the double,” he shouted into the mike.
The boat followed its own torpedo in, raking the stern with rocket fire. Then, as the torpedo hit, it swerved for a run up the side. Even before they were fired, David knew rockets were coming at the bridge again. He dove through the port-side door as the first round exploded inside, blowing out the forward bulkhead. Incendiary shells ignited the pilothouse. David crawled back on his hands and knees, remembering Frank Welles still inside. He inched his way along the deck plates to the other side. But now Welles was hunched over on his side.
“Frank . . . Frank?” He rolled his friend's lifeless body over, lifted the eyelids for a fraction of a second, then let Welles slide back against the bulkhead.
Looking up, he saw the torn metal of the starboard bridge wing. Then, remembering, he leaped up, tripped over a body in his first frantic lunge, then crawled, choking on the smoke, through the starboard hatch. He was searching for the lookout he had been talking with a few short moments before. Nothing was moving. Then, peering through wafts of dense black smoke that had risen up to the bridge level, he saw Seaman Apprentice Meehan mashed against the bulkhead. He had taken a direct hit from one of the rockets. David closed his eyes tightly for a moment. He had not done very well looking after the sailor who had trusted him. He crawled back into the pilothouse, knowing Nimitz was now out of control. There were so many more of his sailors in the same state as his young lookout.
Suddenly he heard a steady banging sound through the crackling of the flames. It came from the door behind him. It was partially open, but twisted metal kept the party on the other side from pushing through.
“Admiral, are you still out there?” It was Bill Dailey.
“Yes, Bill.” He found a fire ax that had fallen from its place on the bulkhead. “Just a second. I'll smash the door open.”
Gradually, he gained a few inches, enough so that Dailey and a sailor with him were able to squeeze through. Then Dailey realized they were the only ones alive on the bridge.
“Frank?” he questioned.
David nodded to the form on the deck plates.
“I'm sorry, Admiral.” He hesitated for a moment, then continued, “I think you should consider shifting your flag, sir.”
It was at that moment that David realized Nimitz was heeling badly to starboard. Looking out throu
gh the smoke he noticed she was in a continuous turn. He reached for the mike on the ship's speaker.
“It's no use, sir,” Dailey shouted through the noise of the flames. “We have no steering control. The last torpedo jammed the rudder over. There is no after steering.”
“The engines?”
“I'm afraid that would be useless, too, sir. We have only one screw now. And we've lost most of the power to the pumps. They're using portable billies up forward, but the flooding's way ahead of them. DC Central says they've lost pressure to most of the fire hoses.” The rumble of more explosions reached the bridge. “It's pretty much hopeless, Admiral.”
The heat had forced them back to the after door. “All right, Bill. Make arrangements.” The giant ship gave an almost human shudder as it heeled more heavily to starboard. Its steady turn had almost ceased as Nimitz lost headway. Now the smoke again covered the deck. It was blowing through the bridge as they left.
In flag plot worried staff officers were quietly stuffing papers into their briefcases as Admiral Charles entered. Battery-" powered battle lanterns lit the room with an eerie glow. Already smoke from burning gas, paint, explosives, humans, and other flammables was adding an offensive scent to the air. Their grimy Admiral shocked them even more. His uniform was soot stained, his hat gone in his lifesaving dive through the bridge door. Welles's blood was smeared on his hands and arms.
David stared blankly at the carnage on the status board. Sunk: cruisers Mississippi, Sterett, Warden, destroyers Farrragut, Semmes, Hoel, Fletcher, Forrest Sherman, frigate Meyercord. That last name brought a momentary flicker of recognition. That ship had been named after an officer in his squadron in Vietnam, a respected hero of the riverboat days.
“Have California stand alongside, Bill. I'll transfer my flag to her.”
“I've already arranged to have her stand off, Admiral. But I'm afraid we can't make a direct transfer. It's too dangerous for California to move that close.” His face was sad and serious. “We're going to have to go over the side, sir. She'll have her whaleboat nearby to pick us up.”
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