"I'm passing them to Combat Systems now, sir," Sessions said, "but that thing's hard to model. It's still accelerating, now two hundred knots!"
Wilson grabbed the 7MC. "Maneuvering, Conn. Stand by for severe control surface movements. Lock down the hydraulic ram relief valves." Wilson paused for the acknowledgment. "Expect a sudden back flank engine order. When it comes, give me everything you've got, but for God's sake don't trigger a reactor scram." He paused again. "Yeah, that's good, take it to a hundred eight percent." Wilson hung up the mike. "Helm, hard right rudder, make your course zero two zero. Make your depth three thousand feet smartly."
Challenger pitched up and banked into the turn, trading velocity for altitude. Ilse was pressed into her seat. Her console showed their speed was dropping fast, as their heading swung through 180 degrees. The visceral rumbling from aft got louder. The rumbling over the speakers got louder too, as did the awful dings. A relentless robot's coming for us, Ilse told herself. Those men we killed are reaching from beyond the grave.
"How many?" she said out loud.
"What?" Sessions said.
"How many did we kill?"
"Two dozen on each boat."
"XO," Wilson said, "when should we fire?"
"The sooner the better, Captain," Jeffrey said. "The Mark 88s are rated to our test depth."
"We can't risk a failure," Wilson said.
"Six thousand feet, then, sir?"
"Four thousand," Wilson said. "Let's make really sure." Wilson glanced at a depth gauge.
"Chief of the Watch, pump negative. Pump variable ballast to bring the boat up faster." Ilse felt a repetitive labored clunking from below. Their rate of climb increased but only slightly.
"Sir," Jeffrey said, "recommend retract the foreplanes — they might snap off or jam from shock."
"Helm," Wilson said, "retract the foreplanes."
"Recommend we level off at three thousand feet before our weapon detonates," Jeffrey said. "It's best to take the blast bows-on, show a minimum profile, protect our side arrays and pump-jet."
"Concur," Wilson said.
"Three thousand's the depth of minimum danger this close in," Jeffrey said, "the tight part of the hourglass. Higher up the blast cone spreads as it lifts the surface; deeper down the counterpressure widens as it hammers toward the bottom."
"Concur," Wilson said.
"Depth six thousand feet," Meltzer said. Ilse looked at a pressure gauge: a metric ton for each square inch of hull.
"Range to the incoming torpedo?" Jeffrey said.
"Five thousand yards," Sessions said. "Too close," Ilse heard him mumble.
"If it's got a proximity fuze," Jeffrey said, "it's set real tight."
"Back full," Wilson said.
"Back full, aye," Meltzer said. "Maneuvering acknowledges back full."
"Watch the trim as we slow down!" Wilson said. "The blast catches us from off the level, we'll be knocked out of control."
"Adjusting the trim, aye," COB said. Ilse heard pumps gently whirring.
"Back flank," Wilson said.
"Back flank, aye," Meltzer said. "Maneuvering acknowledges back flank." Ilse watched their speed mount up again as they fled in reverse from the enemy torpedo. Meltzer was sweating in concentration, his fingers bloodless white as he worked the control wheel.
"Make tube eight ready in all respects," Wilson said, "including valve lineup for a punchout with a water slug. Tube eight, firing point procedures on the incoming torpedo."
"Solution ready," Jeffrey said. "Ship ready. Weapon ready."
"Chief of the Watch," Wilson said. "On the 1 MC, rig for depth charge."
"Rig for depth charge, aye."
Ilse saw Jeffrey glance at Commodore Morse. The Brit winked back and gripped a handle on the overhead. "Depth four four zero zero feet," Meltzer said.
"Very well," Wilson said, "match sonar bearings and shoot."
"Unit from tube eight fired electrically!" Jeffrey said.
Sessions tried to clear his throat. "Unit is running normally, sir."
Jeffrey looked up from his console and again met Ilse's eyes. "Thirty seconds to intercept! Incoming torpedo should exhaust its fuel and blow any moment!" Jeffrey turned to Captain Wilson. "Unit from tube eight has―"
With a deafening wham, pile drivers slammed the bottom of Jeffrey's feet and spine. His entire skeleton rattled. Challenger — still moving in reverse — lurched sternward violently. Jeffrey was thrown against his seat belt, his skull bouncing off the headrest. Commodore Morse went flying.
Red shadows shifted wildly as the CACC's spring-loaded fluorescents jiggled crazily in their mounts. But the lights and shockproof monitors didn't flicker once. Then Jeffrey's ears registered a painfully loud sssss and the air began to fog. He ran his tongue along his lips and blinked. Good, it wasn't the blinding salt spray of ambientpressure seawater. Instead a compressed air leak, cold as it expanded through some failed pipe joint or valve, was condensing the moisture in the CACC atmosphere. The force of the leak blew dust and papers everywhere. Jeffrey saw COB work his panel, bypassing the fault.
"Nav gyros have tumbled," the assistant navigator called. "Reinitializing now" Another shock wave hit as the giant gas bubble of the fireball fell in upon itself and then rebounded hard, trading kinetic and potential energy back and forth. Jeffrey eyed a depth meter. The boat was falling slowly, rocking badly in the disturbed water all around.
"Chief of the Watch and Helmsman," Wilson said, "watch our buoyancy but do not let her broach. If we can play dead now convincingly, it'll make our next job easier." Wilson grabbed the red handset for Damage Control, located back in Engineering.
"Fire, fire, fire in the ESM room," a sound-powered phone talker said. Probably a short in one of the electronic support measures consoles, Jeffrey told himself, or maybe one of the multiband receivers kept warmed up on standby. That might impair Challenger's intelligence-gathering ability later, and her detection of enemy radar. As fire fighters hustled along the after passageway, someone opened the ESM door from inside. "It's out, it's nothing," the technician said, holding up a CO, extinguisher. Thin smoke drifted out of the small compartment and was sucked into the overhead vents. Jeffrey, now standing, was doubly relieved: the air-conditioning meant the boat couldn't be in such bad shape. The Enj wouldn't run the fans on batteries, he wouldn't waste the power. So the reactor and heat exchangers had to be okay, along with at least one shipservice turbogenerator. The speed log on Jeffrey's digital display told him both steam sides survived and Challenger's propulsor jet still worked.
Then Sessions shouted, "Flooding sounds! We're taking water somewhere!"
"Localize it," Jeffrey ordered.
"I'm getting flooding forward!"
"Phone Talker," Jeffrey said, "have all compartments near the bow check in."
"Sir," the phone talker said a moment later, "torpedo room does not respond."
"No feeds from the torpedo room," Jeffrey stated, studying his screens.
"We're taking water forward," COB confirmed.
A messenger arrived. "Sir," he said to Jeffrey, "Weps reports torpedo room is taking water. We looked through the hatch port. It's impossible in there." COB stopped juggling the variable ballast and safety tanks, reaching instead for the fore and aft emergency blow handles. He flipped up the protective plastic covers and looked meaningfully at the captain.
Wilson nodded. "Chief of the Watch, emergency blow on high-pressure air, do not use the backup chemical gas generators." There was a great roaring sound. "Start to vent again at four hundred feet. I don't want us surfacing a leaky boat right under a pair of mushroom clouds."
"Vent at four hundred, aye," COB said.
"How bad's the flooding?" Jeffrey said. The enlisted talker relayed the question on his big chest-carried mouthpiece, then listened on his headphones as the damage control party reported back.