The problem, though, was that the torpedoes had a range of eight nautical miles, and could travel for twelve minutes.
They would reach Ohio a good seven to eight minutes before they ran out of fuel.
"Captain! One enemy torpedo is running! It has not yet acquired us!"
"Cut the wires," Jalali ordered. All three of Tareq's torpedoes had locks on the American vessel. They no longer needed to be guided by wire. "Helm! Come right to zero-one-zero degrees! Maneuvering! Ahead flank!"
The Tareq began picking up speed, turning away from the oncoming American torpedo.
"Control Room, Sonar. Range to nearest torpedo… seven hundred yards."
Stewart did a fast calculation in his head. Seven hundred yards with a closing rate of ten knots meant a minute and forty-eight seconds.
"Tell me when the range is five hundred yards," he said.
"Aye aye, sir."
Stewart looked at the chart showing Ohio's current position. There was Abu Musa, just five miles to the south.
When you looked at the bottom topography, however, Abu Musa was revealed as the top of a mountain, with a large plateau — the shallows along the Saudi Arabian landmass — extending off to the south. On the north side, directly ahead, the side of that mountain plunged from the highest peak on Abu Musa — a rocky crest called Jabal Halwa, a hundred feet above sea level — to the sea floor some 250 feet below. The slope was fairly steep, more cliffside in places than hill.
And the Ohio was racing directly toward that cliff now at 25 knots. At that speed, they would reach the flank of the underwater mountain at just about the same time the torpedoes caught up with them.
It was going to be damned tight….
The next minute crawled past at an agonizing pace.
The sea floor, as revealed by Ohio's BQR 19 navigation sonar, was rising rapidly to meet the fast-moving submarine's keel. The sub was at a terrible handicap. The shoaling water now was less than 120 feet deep, but the Ohio herself was almost eighty feet tall, from keel to the top of her fair-water.
"Captain!" the dive officer shouted. "We're breaching!"
"Can't be helped," he shouted back. If he could make them fly to escape those fish, he would. "Control Room, Sonar! Range five hundred yards!"
"Release countermeasures!"
It might buy them another few precious moments….
A pair of cylinders fired from launch tubes in Ohio's flanks slowed, then exploded into clouds of bubbles. In seconds the torpedoes' sonar locks were broken as, from their perspective, their target vanished behind a large and fuzzy wall of sonar returns.
Moments later the first torpedo punched through the bubble wall. Ohio was already turning, swinging sharply to the right and pulling clear of the torpedo's cone acquisition zone — the cone-shaped space in front of it in which the torpedo could "see." Lock broken, the torpedo continued chirping, seeking a new target.
Seconds later it found one, closed the range at forty knots, and struck….
The thunderous roar of the explosion rang through the hull. A second later the submarine rolled hard to the right, tipping farther… farther… until notebooks, pencils, coffee mugs, and unsecured gear crashed to the deck… and still farther as men grabbed hold of chairs or consoles or anything else anchored down to keep from falling into the starboard bulkhead.
And then Ohio rolled back, righting herself. Several men gave brief, heartfelt cheers, but quieted immediately. One torpedo was down — detonating against an underwater cliff. But there were two more still coming.
Stewart felt the telltale shift and lurch of a submarine moving at speed on the surface. Submerged, submarines felt nothing of the wave action on the roof unless they were very close to surfacing. Once surfaced, they felt the effects of wind and wave the same as any other ship.
"Helm! Keep us in the turn," Stewart ordered. "Bring us around to… make it zero-three-zero!"
"Make course zero-three-zero, aye aye!"
"Diving Officer! We're naked! Get us back where we belong!"
"Yes, sir!"
"Make depth one hundred feet!"
"Make depth one-zero-zero feet, aye aye!" Stewart locked glances with Shea. "We're violating our first order."
" 'Remain undetected.' I kind of got that, sir."
"Sonar! Where's that next torpedo!"
"The second torpedo has not reacquired, Captain. It's hunting…. "
It would have been programmed to begin turning in circles, looking for the target it had lost. The question of the moment was which way it would turn. If it swung right, it might very well reacquire the Ohio on its first pass. If it swung left, toward the island…
A second massive thud sounded through sea and hull metal, this one more distant.
"Captain, Sonar! Second torpedo has detonated."
"Acknowledged!"
"What about the third?" Shea asked.
"It was trailing the other two," Stewart replied. "It might not have lost us in the decoy."
"Captain, Sonar! Third torpedo is still locked! Range four hundred!"
"Release countermeasures!"
"Countermeasures deployed, sir!"
Ohio had now completed a full half-circle, and was moving to the north-northeast, away from the island and toward the Iranian Kilo.
"Come right to zero-eight-five!"
"Come right to course zero-eight-five, aye aye, sir."
Shea looked at Stewart. "You're trying to get inside his turn."
"Might work."
"Control, Sonar! Range two hundred!"
"Then again," Stewart said.
They could hear the shrill hum of the torpedo as it closed the gap.
"Countermeasures!" Jalali yelled. "Now!"
"Countermeasures released, Captain!"
"Hard left helm! Bring her around!"
Sweat dripped down Jalali's face and drenched his uniform. It's just the wet air, he told himself. These Russian diesel subs were cramped, hot, and wet. There was always condensation everywhere, and the humidity on board often was so high it was impossible not to sweat as badly as the pipes, metal surfaces, and bulkheads themselves.
But he looked at the tight, pale faces around him, the wide eyes staring at the aft bulkhead.
No, this time it wasn't just the humidity.
Moments before, the entire crew had erupted in cheers as the rumble of an explosion reached them. A hit! Perhaps a kill!
But then the sonar officer had reported transient noises. It sounded as though the American was surfacing. He was damaged, perhaps, damaged and surfacing to put off the crew.
But the sonar picture was murky, and it was hard to make any sense out of what they were hearing.
But then they heard something they understood only too well — the high-pitched chirp of an enemy torpedo acquiring them and bearing in for the kill.
"What are you doing, Captain?" It was Bavafa, the cleric, a painfully thin, oily man with the look of an ascetic… or a fanatic.