by Jeff Edwards
“TAO—Air. Ten birds away, no apparent casualties. Targeted two-each on the remaining inbound Vipers.”
On the tactical display, the four SM-3 missiles that had been fired toward the Chinese fighter planes were now reaching their targets. One of the enemy aircraft flashed and vanished from the screen, replaced by a last-known-position marker.
“TAO—Air. Splash one Bogie. The remaining Bogies are turning south.”
The Tactical Action Officer nodded. “The SSN-27 is a heavy weapon. They might not be carrying more than two.”
“Maybe,” Bowie said. “But let’s not count on that.”
The ten outbound interceptor missiles merged with the five incoming Vipers. When the jumble of symbols sorted themselves out, three of the hostile missiles were still closing.
Bowie grimaced. “We’re always hearing about how tough it is to intercept the SSN-27, but Jesus… What does it take to shoot those damned things down? Kryptonite?”
One of the hostile missile symbols veered abruptly to the side, and then vanished.
“TAO—Air. One taker on chaff. No takers on jamming.”
The remaining two Vipers were practically touching the Towers symbol on the screen.
“TAO—Weapons Control. Two of the Vipers got through. They’ve kicked into terminal homing phase, and they’re too close to re-engage with missiles. Forward CIWS mount is engaging.”
The air throbbed with the staccato growl of the Close-In Weapon System as it sprayed a burst of 20mm tungsten rounds toward one of the incoming cruise missiles. There was a deafening boom as the Viper exploded just a few hundred yards away from the ship.
The CIWS mount spun toward the next target and began firing. It was almost in time.
* * *
SSN-27:
A half-second before impact, the nose section of the missile was hammered into fragments by a hail of tungsten penetrator rounds, shattering the radar seeker head and the guidance mechanism. If the weapon had been even fifty meters away from its target, the damage might have been enough to send it spiraling into the sea. But the SSN-27 was moving at more than twice the speed of sound, and the resulting inertia carried the blinded missile the last few meters to its destination.
The SSN-27 struck the port side of the American warship, about four meters below the main deck. All of the weapon’s sophisticated proximity sensors and influence triggers had been pulverized by CIWS, but the brute simplicity of the contact detonator had survived.
In the microsecond of contact, the mechanical force of the impact propagated down the length of the missile, compressing a simple cylindrical rod of nickel ferrite mounted at the core of a short magnetic coil. Through the physical principle of magnetostriction, the deformation of the nickel rod created a tiny but distinct magnetic pulse, which expanded over the windings of the coil, generating an electrical signal. This signal was calibrated to satisfy the triggering threshold of the primer mechanism buried in the missile’s warhead.
Two-hundred kilograms of Cyclotri-methylene Trinitramine flashed into a shaped cone of raw force that punched through the hull of the warship with the power of a runaway locomotive. Steel plating buckled like paper. Reinforced steel beams shrieked and gave way before the unstoppable onslaught of heat and atmospheric overpressure. A flaming torrent of shrapnel and destruction lanced deep into the heart of the ship through the widening hole.
And then there came chaos and death.
CHAPTER 52
USS TOWERS (DDG-103)
BAY OF BENGAL
WEDNESDAY; 03 DECEMBER
0029 hours (12:29 AM)
TIME ZONE +6 ‘FOXTROT’
There was a strangely-eternal moment when everything seemed to be playing out in slow motion. Silva could hear the Officer of the Deck’s voice over the ship’s 1-MC speakers, instructing the crew to brace for shock. Someone was requesting an update on the status of the remaining Viper. On the Aegis display screen, the red shape of a hostile missile symbol could be seen merging with the blue circle that represented USS Towers.
Silva was standing next to Captain Bowie, a few feet behind the Tactical Action Officer’s chair, and there wasn’t much within easy reach to grab on to.
Bowie took a grip on a crossbeam above his head, and Silva turned toward a stanchion to her right: a steel support column that ran from the deck to the overhead. She got her hands wrapped around the pole, lowered her head, and bent her knees slightly—trying to mimic the brace-for-shock posture that every Sailor learns, but few expect to ever actually need.
And then the long second ended, and the passage of time jumped from its impossibly languorous stupor, to the speed of sheer pandemonium.
The shockwave tore through Combat Information Center like a hurricane, and the air was suddenly filled with flying debris, body parts, and the screams of the injured and the dying. Every loose article in the compartment, every grease pencil, and clipboard, and coffee mug was instantly airborne, and accelerating away from the point of impact with the speed of the expanding wave front.
The SLQ-32 stations in the EW Module and the radar consoles in tracker alley absorbed and deflected some of the force of the blast. Several of the consoles were ripped from their mounts, display screens exploding into showers of glass, the fragments driving deep into the faces and bodies of the human operators.
Silva’s grip was jerked away from the stanchion. She was thrown against a status board hard enough to crack the shatterproof window of Plexiglas. The impact knocked all breath out of her, and the side of her head smacked into the metal frame of the status board. She crumpled to the deck in a senseless heap.
Cooling water sprayed from ruptured pipes, and severed electrical cables arced and shorted, tripping circuit breakers. The overhead lighting went out, and the next half-second of carnage and confusion took place in total darkness.
Then the battle lanterns kicked on, illuminating the devastated compartment in the dim red glow of battery-powered emergency lighting.
The giant Aegis display screens were dark. Red and amber tattletales blinked fitfully on most of the remaining consoles, signaling various degrees of physical and electronic damage.
Silva lay on her back, watching the strange interplay of lights and shadows on the overhead—the glow of the battle lanterns, muted and twisted by tendrils of smoke from the explosion, the pulsing flicker of warning lights, and the dimly-perceived silhouettes of people stumbling around in the semi-darkness. The air was heavy with the acrid odor of burnt chemicals, melted electrical insulation, and scorched flesh.
It seemed likely that fires were burning somewhere nearby, but the possibility didn’t seem very important to Silva’s addled brain. At some point, she realized that the lower left sleeve of her coveralls was smoldering. The fabric was supposed to be flame-retardant, and apparently it was. Otherwise, her sleeve would probably be blazing merrily right now.
It gradually dawned on her that she was supposed to get up off the deck. There were things she needed to be doing. She just couldn’t remember what they were.
Her ears were still ringing from the blast, but she could hear frantic voices coming from the overhead speakers. Reports. Damage inquiries. Requests for orders. No one seemed to be paying attention to any of them.
Her head lolled to the left, and she found herself looking at a man lying on his side, in a spreading pool of blood. His face was familiar. She had seen him somewhere. Maybe she had met him, or something...
No. That wasn’t right. She knew him. It was Bowie. Captain Bowie.
That single coherent thought—that simple and basic act of identification—became the spark that restarted Silva’s conscious mind. She began to take in and process information again. The world slid back into focus, and with it came pain, in her head, her ribs, and her left wrist. More bruises than she could count, and she was bleeding from the area of her left temple, but nothing seemed to be broken.
She tried to lever herself up to a sitting position, and immediately revised her
assessment as a wave of stomach-churning pain radiated from her left arm. Okay, maybe the wrist was broken.
Silva rolled to her right, coming up on her knees and her good right arm. There were fires burning near the port side of CIC, and that area of the compartment was hazy with smoke. As Silva watched, three or four Sailors converged on the flames with CO2 fire extinguishers, smothering the blaze with white clouds of carbon dioxide gas.
Silva was steeling herself to get to her feet when a flicker of motion caught her eye. Bowie was motioning to her, the index finger of his right beckoning feebly.
She got a better look at him. The deck matting around him was slick with dark liquid. His left hand was pulled in tight to his chest, palm pressing flat against a spot near his sternum. The fabric of his coveralls was peppered with small ragged holes, and—judging from the blood that coursed between his fingers—there was a much larger hole under his hand.
His eyes were locked on Silva’s. She could tell that, even under the weak red glow of the battle lanterns.
She scuttled over to him as quickly as she could, knees slipping on the slick deck matting. When she was close enough, she reached out with her good hand, and tried to help him maintain pressure on the chest wound.
She tried to call out, but her voice seemed to stick in her throat. She swallowed, and tried again. “Corpsman! I need a corpsman over here!”
She didn’t look up from Bowie’s chest wound, trying to help him slow the bleeding.
She shouted again, and her voice was startlingly loud. “The captain is down! Somebody get a corpsman over here, right fucking NOW!”
She began glancing around, trying to spot something she could use as an emergency dressing. Anything to staunch the wound until real medical help arrived.
Something touched her shoulder. She looked down in time to see Bowie’s right hand slide off her arm and fall to the deck. His lips were moving.
Silva gave him what she hoped was a reassuring look. “Don’t talk now, Jim. Just rest a minute. The corpsman will be here any second.”
Bowie grunted, and a rivulet of blood ran from the corner of his mouth. His voice was barely above a whisper. “Closer…”
Silva leaned in until her face was just a few inches from his.
Bowies eyelids slid shut. When they reopened, they moved slowly, as though even the act of opening his eyes took a supreme effort of will.
“She’s yours now…” he said. “She’s…”
Then someone was kneeling on Bowie’s other side. Fast, competent hands searching the captain’s body for other injuries.
“Keep the pressure on, ma’am,” a voice said. “I’ll have a dressing ready in a second.”
Silva kept her eyes on Bowie’s, so she didn’t see the face of the corpsman.
The man yelled, “I need a litter over here, and two bearers! Stat!”
His hands were rummaging through a green canvas zipper bag, fishing out packets of bandages, wrapped in brown sterile paper pouches. “Almost ready,” he said. “Just another couple of seconds.”
Bowie groaned and then blinked slowly. “She’s yours, Kat,” he whispered. “You’re…”
He coughed wetly, and took a painful breath. “You’re the captain, now…”
Silva shook her head. “No, Jim. You’re going to be fine. “You’re going to…”
“No!” Bowie snapped. His voice was something between a moan and a growl. His eyes blazed with a ferocity that Silva had never seen in him.
The corpsman’s fingers were pulling Silva’s hand away, working quickly to slide a thick stack of gauze onto the wet hole in the captain’s chest.
“This is… my… last… order…” Bowie rasped. “Take command! Take…”
His words trailed off into silence, and he let out a long slow breath. He didn’t draw another one.
The corpsman shouted, “Litter bearer! Over here! I need some help!”
And then someone else was kneeling, squeezing in next to Silva on the blood-slick deck.
The corpsman made eye contact with Silva. “Captain? We need a little room here, okay, ma’am?”
Silva nodded, and backed away, shuffling on her knees until she had enough clear deck space to stumble to her feet.
Her head throbbed with the too-rapid motion, and she staggered for a second or two before she found her footing. Her vision was blurry, partly from the rush of pain, and partly from the tears that were suddenly running down her cheeks.
She blinked them away, and took a half dozen unsteady steps to the TAO’s station. “Are your comms working?”
The TAO nodded dumbly.
Silva reached for his headset. “Patch me into the 1-MC.”
The Tactical Action Officer looked at her, glanced down at the spot where the corpsmen were working feverishly over their downed captain. Then, he looked back to Silva. He punched three keys in succession, and handed over the comm set.
Silva didn’t bother with the ear pieces. She raised the microphone to her mouth, and keyed the circuit. When she spoke, her voice came from public address speakers all over the ship.
“All hands, this is Commander Katherine Elizabeth Silva. It is my sad duty to inform you that Captain Bowie is down. He…” She stopped for a second, trying to figure out how to phrase her next words.
She keyed the mike again. “In accordance with my formal written orders from Commander Chief of Naval Personnel, and in accordance with my verbal orders from Captain Bowie, I have now assumed command of this vessel.”
She took a breath and continued. “This battle is not over yet, and we are not out of the action. I have every confidence in this ship, and in every man and woman of her crew. Now… Let’s get back on our feet and get back into the fight!”
She released the mike button, and scanned the compartment. Every face in CIC was turned in her direction.
She spotted the face she was looking for, and nodded in OS2 Kenfield’s direction. “Hey, Big Country… Give us a song.”
The big Sailor’s face was bruised and bloodied, but his lips parted slowly, in a hesitant grin. “Is that an order, ma’am?”
“You bet your ass it is,” Silva said.
The Sailor stood up straighter, and squared his shoulders. “Aye-aye, Captain!” He cleared his throat, sucked a deep lungful of air, and cut loose with his customary rebel yell.
The ship was wounded. Many of the people in CIC were dead or injured. Small sporadic fires were burning in various places around the compartment, and the beloved and heroic Captain Bowie was being carried out the door on a stretcher. But every able person within earshot joined in Big Country’s song. The rebel yell seemed to shake the very air, becoming the vocal personification of determination, courage, and defiance.
It was unprofessional. It was silly. It was magnificent.
Captain Silva wiped the last of the tears from her eyes with her uninjured right hand. “Alright people,” she said. “Let’s go kick some ass!”
CHAPTER 53
USS CALIFORNIA (SSN-781)
BAY OF BENGAL
WEDNESDAY; 03 DECEMBER
0048 hours (12:48 AM)
TIME ZONE +6 ‘FOXTROT’
The Sonar Supervisor’s voice came over the net, “Conn—Sonar. Sierra One Seven is flooding his tubes! Looks like he’s going in for the kill, sir!”
Captain Patke scanned the unfolding geometry on the tactical display screen. Contact Sierra One Seven, the Shang, was setting up for a torpedo attack against one of the American warships. If the surface plot was accurate, the target would be the destroyer, USS Towers. But it didn’t really matter which of the ships had fallen into the crosshairs of the Shang. What mattered was that a Chinese nuclear attack submarine was about to sink a U.S. Navy vessel. That—in spite of Patke’s personal opinions about the shortcomings of the skimmer navy—was not a satisfactory arrangement.
He keyed his headset. “Conn, aye. Any sign that Sierra One Seven is alerted to our presence?”
“Conn—Sonar.
Negative, sir. Sierra One Seven has shown no reaction to us at all.”
Patke checked the bearing to the Chinese submarine, and thought about coming a few degrees to port, to improve his firing angle on the enemy boat. He decided against the maneuver. No sense in polishing the cannonball.
He glanced over toward the combat control module. “Weapons Control, how’s your plot?”
The Fire Control Technician of the Watch looked over his shoulder and gave a thumbs-up gesture. “In the groove, Captain. I have a firm firing solution on contact Sierra One Seven.”
Patke nodded. “Very well. Flood tubes one and three. Assign presets, and spin up the weapons.”
The Fire Control Tech turned back to his console and began punching soft-keys. “Aye-aye, sir. Flooding tubes one and three. Prepping both weapons for launch.”
Patke pulled off his wire rimmed spectacles and polished them with a fold of his dark blue coveralls. His outward demeanor was calm and his voice was even, but he could feel the adrenaline burning at the back of his throat.
This was not a drill. In a few seconds, he was going to give an order that would kill other human beings. Not empty target ships. Not blips on a screen. Not computer simulations. Real living, breathing people, who would neither be living nor breathing after his order had been carried out.
With his eyeglasses off, Patke’s vision beyond arm’s-length was a blur of indistinct shapes. But he didn’t need his eyes to know what was going on. The men and women of his control room crew were moving quickly and proficiently, performing their assigned duties with quiet competence.
They were trained. They were skilled. They were ready. Or, as ready as anyone could ever be for this sort of thing.
He gave the lenses of his glasses a final polish, and returned them to their customary spot on the bridge of his nose. “Open outer doors on tubes one and three. Firing point procedures.”
As the orders were being acknowledged and carried out, someone to his left muttered something nearly inaudible.
Patke turned to see the Officer of the Deck. “Say again. I didn’t catch that.”