The control room crew heard the frantic pounding of the others on the hatch, and, in an act of superhuman courage, one of them stayed behind and popped open the telltale. When he saw no water, he opened the hatch and helped drag the rest of the crew through it. After the last one was in, as he saw water seeping into the compartment they’d just vacated, he slammed the hatch shut and twisted the wheel. Except for the captain, he was the last man to leave the dying submarine.
“Come on, Jeff,” Coyote said softly. He wasn’t sure if it was an order or a prayer.
Beneath his feet, the deck was now tilted as hard over as he’d ever felt it. He had to give her credit, the old girl was strong, but she just couldn’t maneuver like the smaller boys could.
On the screen in front of him, the torpedo symbols inched closer and closer, their positions reported by the Lake Champlain from the cruiser’s sonar detections.
No time, no time. We’re not even all buttoned up — if it hits directly under the keel, we’re in serious trouble.
Outside the compartment, Coyote could hear feet pounding down passageways as sailors scrambled for their general quarter stations. The damage control crews were the most critical part of the entire evolution, since they would be the ones who determined whether or not Jeff stayed afloat.
If it hits. Just turning now — we may be able to confuse it.
Evasive maneuvers worked — at least in theory. How well depended on what type of torpedoes had been fired. The acoustic homers would have no difficulty tracking her, although a straight wake homer might be confused by a sudden change of course.
Suddenly, Lake Champlain skipper’s voice came over the circuit, ferocious joy in his voice. “Jeff, Champlain—they’re gone! My sonarmen said they simply slowed down then stopped. Massive explosions under the water, too, sir, immediately before. They were probably still on wire guidance, the Seawolf took out the submarine, and the torpedoes went stupid.”
Cheers broke out in TFCC, and Coyote drew in a deep, shuddering breath. So, the Seawolf was on the job — and just how had she accomplished this? Everything Coyote had read said that the Seawolf was tasked only as an intelligent asset pending relief on station.
The details spelled out in the P4 had been far more alarming. Coyote had whistled softly as he read it, unable to believe that the submarine’s watch section had gotten her underway without the captain or the XO on board. In fact, the senior line officer present on board was a lieutenant commander.
Coyote folded up the message and tucked it into his shirt pocket. “Good on you, Seawolf,” he said. He shuddered at the thought of being shorthanded so far below the surface of the ocean, while marveling at the man who had managed to pull it off. No, they weren’t aviators — but, for the first time in his career, he was awed by someone whose max speed was just over thirty knots.
Forsythe stood stunned, watching the silent death unfold on the sonar screen in front of him. All around him, the sonarman and the sailors mouthed quiet cheers, arms pumping vigorously in the air, pounding each other lightly on the back. Even in the midst of their exhilaration over a successful war shot, they remembered the first rule of life below the surface: Silence is safety.
The sonar chief jabbed Forsythe in the ribs. “Get with it, sir.” The chief stared at him with a silent intensity, as though willing Forsythe to read his mind. He let Forsythe see him glance around room, taking in the sailors and their silent celebrations, and then returned his gaze to Forsythe’s face, eyes narrowed, shoulders back.
Suddenly, Forsythe understood. The chief was doing the job that all chief petty officers do in the Navy, although under somewhat different circumstances. He was training a junior officer — the officer commanding the Seawolf, true, though only by a quirk fate, but a junior officer nonetheless.
The crew needed him, Forsythe realized. He had to show he approved of what they’d done to make the killing of the other submarine something that they could live with. Because, at some level, each of them knew what happened was not just pixels on a sonar screen. It was the death of the ship and her men, men very much like themselves. Russian, yes. Diesel-propelled instead of nuclear. But within the double-hull construction there were men with families who would miss them, sons and husbands who would never go home. And that, Forsythe realized, his own men must not be allowed to think about. Not now. Not yet.
Maybe someday, when they left the depths and were back on the surface, when they could look at what happened again in the sunlight, consider it without thinking immediately that it could have been them.
But, how to do that? Forsythe’s mind raced furiously, and he saw the chief’s face relaxed as he realized he’d made his point. How would Lieutenant Commander Cowlings have handled it?
Forsythe stood a little straighter, feeling the weight of command on his shoulders. He lifted his chin, braced slightly, and said, “Good job. Now let’s nail those other bastards.”
Otter and Pencehaven nodded in unison. “We’ll get them, sir,” Otter promised. “We’ll get them or I’ll volunteer to hot rack with him the rest of the cruise.”
Laughter broke out among the crew, although quiet, still so quiet. There would be no hot racking on this mission, Forsythe realized. That there would be little rack time at all didn’t seem to occur to them.
“All right — let’s make it three for three, shall we?” Forsythe asked. He turned to the sonar chief. “Chief, I need a recommended course and depth to intercept the next contact.”
“Due north, Captain,” the chief said, nodding in approval. “I recommend we make our approach below the layer — that seems to be working for us pretty well, I’d say.”
“Very well. Make it so.” What else? What am I forgetting? An after-action report, certainly, but there wasn’t time to stop and transmit it just yet. Maybe on ELF — were there appropriate codes for it?
A sudden, gut-wrenching thought occurred to him. He drew the chief off slightly to the side, and said, “Good job. You know what I mean.” The chief nodded. “But there’s something else. There could have been survivors, Chief.” He held up one hand to forestall comment. “I know, I’m not about to surface and take a look for them. But we need to alert somebody, just in case…” He couldn’t finish to sentence.
“They were shallow when it hit, Captain,” the chief said, emphasizing the last word ever so slightly as if to remind Forsythe who he was right now. “Real shallow. Plenty of time for most of them to make it out.” The chief considered the matter for moment, and said, “A message buoy, delayed transmission. I’ll set it for six hours. That will give us time to clear the area before it starts transmitting.” He shot a glance at his very junior captain. “I’m assuming you don’t want it screaming bloody murder directly overhead.”
“To whom?” Forsythe asked.
“Second Fleet. They’ll get the message to the appropriate civilian and military vessels in the area. I’m not sure whether Bermuda’s Coast Guard is going to be in any shape to respond, but there’s plenty of surface traffic in the area. And the water’s warm — they can wait it out if they’re smart.”
No hypothermia — just sharks. Forsythe remembered the briefings on the waters around Bermuda. The profusion of fishing and passenger vessels resulted in lots of garbage, which attracted sharks. That, and the warm-water fishing.