“Rhino, fire tube four.” Alex gripped the table edge. “Lucky last, people. Let’s hope it also shuts the door behind us.”
“Last fish away,” Rhino said over the speaker. “Cupboards now empty.”
This time the explosion was felt and heard through the skin of the vessel, followed by rocks bouncing against the hull. The screens whited out.
Eric Carmack, commander of the Seawolf class submarine, USS Texas, and leading the American fleet in the Southern Ocean, was in the conning tower, watching his rivals jockey into place. He paused and turned as his officer handed him the microphone.
“Carmack, go ahead.”
“Commander, we have a sea shelf detonation. Medium-sized torpex impact at 210 fathoms. The blast signature was consistent with a heavy sea-borne torpedo strike.” The seaman paused, and Carmack knew he was reading new data as it came in. “Got something coming up, sir. Depth now 810 feet, and speed at 25 knots — metallic signature.” His voice took on a sense of urgency. “Computer can’t identify it from our libraries, but it’s got to be a medium sized submarine.”
“What the hell are they playing at now?” Carmack swung to his chief of boat, Alan Hensen. “Signal the fleet and sound battle stations.” He was handed a life jacket which he waved away. “Not yet. But I want batteries ready to engage, and all torpedo tubes locked and loaded.”
Hensen relayed orders, and then held the microphone away from his mouth. “We dive, sir?”
“No, but full astern. Let’s give ’em some room.” He lifted his glasses and scanned the semi-circle of Chinese ships. Combined with his own vessels, the ring of steel over the clear patch of ocean water was like an iron coliseum, the ships were the seating stands and the half mile wide patch of water, the battle arena.
“Too many… on both sides.” He lowered his glasses. They’re too close, and so are we, he thought. At this proximity, there would be no winners.
“Okay, let’s see what we’ve got.” He turned. “Soundings.” He waited.
Hensen relayed the information as it came in. “200 fathoms, and still coming fast. 150, 100, 80, 45 — breach imminent — relative bearing 310 degrees port bow.” He pointed.
The entire crew watched and waited. Then, like a salmon jumping from a pond, two thirds of the submarine’s steel body lifted from the water. It fell back, creating a massive wave, and was carried back beneath the surface for a moment, before then powering up to sit silently at all stop.
“Jesus Christ, the Sea Shadow.” Carmack grinned through his whispered words. “Put it on hailing frequency.” He lifted his field glasses again, training them on the hatch. “Come on.” He knew what the stakes were now. If the first voice that came from the speakers was Chinese, then they would know they had lost control of the submarine.
“Alan, get the admiralty on the line, ASAP.” Carmack blew air through puffed cheeks. The stakes had just gone up. In seconds they would know which way the chips had fallen. And as his missiles, heavy guns, torpedoes, and circling planes all had their targeting systems locked in on Chinese strategic targets, everything would hinge on the call from HQ, and the one from inside that damned vessel. He looked at his floating opponents; he had no doubt the Chinese had their weapons primed and pointed right down his throat as well.
Carmack could feel the heart beating in his chest. He was once again handed a life jacket, which this time, he donned over his uniform, and then put on a helmet. He knew that the waters in this part of the world were down around zero degrees. Five minutes in the drink, and you didn’t need to worry about going home anymore.
He lifted the glasses again, watching, waiting, and praying.
Jack Hammerson sat in the darkened office of James Carter, the secretary of defense. Spread around Carter’s desk were five-star General Marcus Chilton, Jim Harker, his staff sergeant, and various assembled generals and other senior military brass. They all stared hard at a huge screen and watched the events unfold real-time from one of their Southern Hemisphere satellites.
On Carter’s desk there were two speakers arranged; one was a direct line through to the Commander in Chief, President Paul Banning. On the other was Fleet Commander Eric Carmack.
Chilton’s eyes went from Carter back to the screen, where circling planes, multiple boats, and submarines formed a one mile halo of clear water. At its center was a single vessel — the Sea Shadow.
“Damned crowded down there, Eric.” Chilton looked relaxed, but Hammerson bet inside the big man was as on edge as the rest of them.
“That it is, Marcus. Like a goldfish bowl. Problem is, we’re all in the same bowl.” Carmack still sounded good humored.
Chilton half smiled, but then sat forward. “Eric, could you share with us your assessment of first round, send and receive?”
Hammerson knew what Chilton was asking. If the firing started in the first few seconds, how many would he sink and how many would he lose.
“Marcus, we’re all too close. At this proximity, it will not be a tactical fight; more a metal storm. We estimate a one hundred percent sinkage on their side, and perhaps seventy-five percent on ours. Of the twenty-five percent still afloat, there will be significant structural damage to all. Remaining aerial assets would have to land at McMurdo… if that base somehow avoided being caught up in the firefight. Personnel losses and injuries in the high hundreds — lot of sick people in the water.”
Chilton’s lips momentarily compressed, but then he slowly nodded. “Expected.” He glanced at Carter. “Acceptable.”
Carter swiveled in his chair, turning side-on to the room. He steepled his fingers. “Other option progress, gentlemen?”
Chilton’s eyes slid to Hammerson. His brows went up, but Hammerson knew he had nothing concrete to give his superior. He shook his head. Chilton tilted his head back slightly, and then faced the secretary of defense.
“No known progress, sir.” He turned back to the screen and the lonely looking submarine ringed by the wall of aggressive steel. He then leaned in towards the president’s comm. link. “Mr. President, if that hatch opens, and our people do not emerge, then we need to be ready for what that means.”
John Carter turned back to face the room and the president’s speaker. “Further instructions, sir?”
The president’s voice sounded tired. “Nothing has changed. Bottom line is, that vessel cannot fall into foreign power hands. Are we in agreement?”
Chilton nodded. “I agree, sir.” The room all voiced their agreement.
The president softly grunted his acknowledgment. “Then do what you have to, General Chilton.”
Chilton drew in a deep breath, his jaw set. “Commander Carmack, that vessel is the sovereign property of the United States of America. We take it home, or we blow it to atoms. Anyone or anything that interferes with your order, or fires upon an American vessel or individual, will be taken to be committing a hostile act against our country. Full use of force is therefore authorized.” He sat back, but his gaze was now hawk-like.
“Yes sir, understood, sir. God bless America.” Carmack’s voice was clipped.
“Good luck. And God’s strength to you and your forces, Eric.”
Hammerson gritted his teeth. This was what was called the sharp edge. Everyone in the room knew just what they had committed their country to; in fact, what they had just committed the entire world to. For some reason, the only thing Hammerson could think of was how he was going to tell Joshua his mother wasn’t coming home.