"Take that, fuckers!"
Santisima Trinidad
The air was still heavily weighted with smoke from the shoreline fires. Pedraz scanned through it, as best he could, with the binoculars he carried as a matter of habit now. Sweeping his vision along the shoreline, Pedraz whispered, "Nada. Just fucking nada."
Even though the PTF was a few miles away from the Dos Lindas, the battle stations klaxon sounded clearly across the water. Then came the message from CIC to all escorts to expect attack by surface boats, probably suicide boats, and to close in on the flagship. Pedraz pulled on a set of headphones and then reached for the klaxon.
Before Pedraz could give the signal for battle stations a half dozen speedboats swarmed out from the banks of the strait. Clavell and Guptillo, manning the forward forty, engaged even without orders. Their first several shots missed, but then they were rewarded by a major blast as one of the speedboats simply disintegrated when a shell found what must have been a huge charge of explosive.
Cheering was cut short as, just off the port side, a flaming streak shot past, followed by another to starboard. The machine gunners, moving as quickly as their legs would carry them from wherever the call to battle stations had found them, were mostly too late to bring fire on the cruise missiles. Only one gun actually engaged, and it missed.
No time for orders, Pedraz took the con, himself, elbowing Francés out of the way. Pushing the throttle to maximum, he twisted the wheel to point the boat away from the shore and towards the threatened carrier. Clavell and Guptillo swung the forty around to engage another of the small boats but the Trinidad turned faster than they could traverse the gun.
No matter, by the time the Trinidad was headed toward the carrier, the rear machine gun crews were fighting desperately, causing the speedboats to have to maneuver to avoid being hit.
Pedraz thought, If nothing else, it buys time. Now if only . . .
He saw a massive explosion between the Trinidad and the flagship. He was about to cheer when he saw another explosion, above the carrier, and then another near the stern. He wasn't sure it was the flagship being hit until he spotted the Yakamov helicopter being launched strait up, riding a column of fire and disintegrating as it flew.
"Oh, fuck."
In his headphones, Pedraz heard, "Skipper? Dorado. Sonar's got two fish in the water, running shallow."
Bridge, Dos Lindas
The ship lurched, tossing to the deck everyone on the bridge not already seated and strapped in. None of the thick windows quite shattered, but every portside window there was cracked, along with most of those a-starboard. Even through the blurring of the cracks, even from flat on his ass, Fosa saw the abruptly launched Yakamov, streaking upward like a comet.
"Near miss . . . ah, Hell, call it a hit. Hit Alpha, island structure, zero-four level. Hit Bravo, hangar deck, starboard side aft. Fire on the hangar deck! Damage control parties away."
A smoke-choked and shock-strained voice from somewhere below came over the speaker. "There are no . . . damage control . . . parties near the . . . hit."
"My Shshshiiippp!"
"Captain-san," Kurita said, groggily, "stay here and fight your ship. I will see to damage control." With that, the nonagenarian struggled to his feet and left, seeking the epicenter of the damage.
"Fight my ship . . . fight my ship . . . FIGHT MY FUCKING SHIP!"
In those few seconds, Fosa understood a part of what Kurita had been trying to tell him before, about ships having spirits and souls, about them being alive. At least he understood this much, that his ship was more valuable to him than his own life and must be preserved, at all costs consistent with its own honor.
Can something with honor be without a soul?
Hands gripping a plotting table, Fosa pulled himself to his feet. He heard machine gun and light cannon fire from all around as the gun crews finally got to their battle stations and began engaging the speedboats. Range was long but it couldn't hurt to try. He'd expended something over a million rounds of ammunition in training. If they couldn't get some stinking jury-rigged speedboats, no one could. He'd counted the number of explosions from cruise missiles. There had been six launches and six explosions. If the enemy had had more missiles, they'd have launched more, he thought. What else threatens my ship?
"Report!"
"That one above us took out the radar, Captain. Before that I had no hostile aircraft, captain," Radar said.
"Ours are still trying to organize out of cluster fuck mode, sir," said the air boss.
Sonar announced, "Skipper, I've still got two fish in the water, one each, port and starboard. Countermeasures are not, I repeat not, effective. First impact expected in seven minutes."
Seven minutes . . . seven minutes . . . a whole lifetime can pass in seven minutes.
Fosa reached for the microphone. "Escorts, this is Fosa."
"Trinidad, here, sir . . . Agustin, sir."
"The flagship's been hit but I think we can save her," Fosa said. "What we can't do anything about from here are the torpedoes—you see them on sonar?"
"Aye" . . . "Aye."
Fosa gulped; this was a hard order to give. "I need you to try to bait the torpedoes away . . . and if that doesn't work . . . "
No arguments, no questions. "It's better they hit us than hit the Dos Lindas. Understood. This is Agustin, we'll try" . . . "Trinidad, Pedraz speaking. I'll give it a shot."
Unseen, Fosa nodded. "Good lads," he said into the microphone. Looking up at the operations board he ordered, "Warn the Hoogaboom off. Tell them we're under attack. And, air boss, get the planes onto those goddamned speedboats."
"Hoogaboom acknowledges, sir."
Santisima Trinidad
"Nav, give me a plot for the torpedo on our side, an intercept plot."
"You're shitting me, right, Chief?"
"Just give me the fucking intercept, Dorado," Pedraz said to the navigator.
"Be a minute," Dorado answered.
"You've got fifteen seconds, Pedro, I want to pass about four hundred meters in front of the thing."
It didn't even take fifteen seconds. In half that time Dorado came back, answering, "Fuck . . . can't do it, Chief. We're not fast enough."
Pedraz picked up the radio microphone and, keying it, said, "Dos Lindas, this is Trinidad. No chance to intercept on our side. Sorry."
BdL Dos Lindas
"Captain, Agustin reports that they've caught the torpedo's attention and it's following them. They can stay ahead of it and lead it off. Trinidad says we're fucked. Impact, astern . . . two minutes."