However large the hole is, we know that it’s added four inches to our draft in the aft end of the ship, and it’s given us a five-degree permanent list to port. We considered counter-flooding some compartments on the starboard side, to balance out the list and improve our stability, but we’re already hauling around enough flooding water to slow us down.
“To make matters worse, the hydraulic oil power module for the port shaft has at least a dozen leaks from shrapnel damage. We can’t control the pitch of the port screw, and right now it’s set pretty close to zero. We can spin the port shaft, but, without pitch control, it’ll just thrash the water and make a lot of noise; it won’t actually give us any headway.
“Between the weight of the flooding water and the loss of the port screw, our top speed is reduced to about eighteen and a half knots. Our engineers are working their asses off to restore pitch control to the port screw, but we can’t count on it being ready in time to be of use.”
He glanced at his legal pad again. “Personnel casualties, thank God, have been surprisingly light. Three dead, three reasonably serious injury cases — none of them life-threatening — and a couple of dozen minor injuries … sprained ankles, broken noses, and superficial lacerations, that sort of thing.”
The captain touched the bandage over his left eye and gave a grim smile. “Easy for you to say, XO. They’re only superficial when it’s not your head.”
The XO reddened. “Of course, sir. The point is, we have a few personnel shortages, but we’re not cut so short that we can’t steam or fight.” He checked his legal pad one last time. “That’s about it for now, sir. We’ve taken some lumps, but we’re not out of the fight.”
The captain nodded. “Thanks, XO. Commander Vargas, could you give us a quick rundown on your own status?”
“Of course, Captain,” Commander Vargas said. “I didn’t bring my notes, but I think I can wing it.” She thought for a few seconds. “I’m afraid that our personnel casualties were a bit heavier than yours. The rocket attack killed all six members of my bridge crew. The Helmsman was still alive when our stretcher team got to him, but he died on the way down to Sick Bay.” She paused again before continuing. “Our Ship Control Console is totally wrecked, but we’ve worked out a system of steering from the bridge. The Conning Officer has to relay his course orders to the Secondary Control Console in After Steering, and his speed orders to Propulsion Control Console in CCS. It’s awkward, but it works.
The explosion blew out most of the windows, so the watch team is constantly getting about twenty knots of hot desert wind right in the face. Not pleasant, but they’re dealing with it.
“Let’s see …” she said. “What else?”
“The helo,” Lieutenant (jg) Sherman said softly.
“Right,” said Commander Vargas. “Thanks. Since Ingraham is down for the count, we’ve borrowed their helo, Gunslinger Four-One. We don’t have a helo hangar, but I figure that any aircraft that costs thirty million dollars should be able to survive for a day or two strapped to our flight deck.” She gave a tired smile. “Our flight deck crew wanted the air crew to feel at home, so they went out and painted a welcoming sign on the door to the helo control tower. It’s one of those big blue road signs, like the ones you see near highway off-ramps. It’s got those three symbols on it that mean gas, food, and lodging.” Her voice trailed off. “I think that’s it.”
“Thank you, Commander,” the captain said. “I guess we’re ready for the tactical part of the brief. Ready, Chief?”
Chief McPherson unrolled a navigational chart of the Arabian Gulf and laid it on the table. “Yes, sir.” On the chart, in colored marker, she had drawn a series of lines and symbols describing the current tactical situation. The last known position of Gremlin Zero Four was marked by a red datum symbol. The datum was now two and a half hours old, and a black dashed circle enclosed it at a scaled range of fifty nautical miles.
Based on the submarine’s maximum submerged speed of twenty knots, this dashed line — or farthest-on circle — represented the farthest that it could have possibly traveled in two and a half hours.“This chart is already time-late,” Chief McPherson said. “A contact moving at twenty knots will travel two thousand yards in three minutes. Therefore, every three minutes, the radius of the farthest-on circle increases by two thousand yards, or one nautical mile. The piece of ocean that we have to search grows by a corresponding amount. Our top speed is limited to eighteen and a half knots. So, if the sub is running away at top speed, we’ll never catch him. If he’s headed northwest toward Siraj at a dead run, every three minutes he gets a hundred and fifty yards farther ahead of us. The longer we chase him, the farther ahead he’s going to get.”
Lieutenant (jg) Sherman shook his head. “In theory that’s true, Chief. But your own calculations show that these 212s have only been covering an average distance of 13.5 nautical miles per hour. No doubt this guy can outrun us, but — based on the performance they’ve shown so far — I don’t think he will.”
“We were his last roadblock,” the chief said. “If I were him, I’d forget about sneaking around. I’d be hauling ass toward the Siraji coastline.
There’s nothing between him and Zubayr but open water.”
“Maybe he doesn’t know that,” Ensign Cooper said.
Chief McPherson gave her boss an uncertain look. “German intel on our positioning has been pretty damned good. Which probably means that sub is getting downloads from reconnaissance satellites. If he is, he already knows there aren’t any more ships in his way.”
“That could be,” Captain Bowie said. “But he can’t possibly know whether or not we’re planning to send P-3s after him.”
“That raises an excellent question,” Commander Vargas said. “Why aren’t we trying to get some P-3s? Captain Whiley is out of the game; why are we still trying to fight this thing with one foot in a bucket?”
Around the group, heads nodded in silent agreement.
“I don’t know,” Captain Bowie said. “I asked Admiral Rogers that same question. He told me that the answer was classified at a need-to-know level way above his head. He hinted that the CNO had told him that it was a matter of the highest national security.”
Commander Vargas ran her fingers through her hair. “They won’t give us backup, and the reason why they won’t give it to us is a matter of national security. What kind of sense does that make?”
Captain Bowie’s eyebrows went up. “I don’t know, Rachel. But think about this: Three nations, all of whom are members of NATO and the United Nations, have been in direct military conflict for the past few days.
A lot of political and military alliances are on the chopping block. There’s no telling what kind of bizarre diplomatic maneuvers are going on right now, or what might upset the apple cart.”
Lieutenant (jg) Sherman said, “Maybe the Saudis have clamped down on their airspace until this thing blows over. The French did that when Reagan ordered the bombing of Libya, back in the 1980s.”
“That’s possible,” Captain Bowie said. “But for right now, the brass hats don’t want us to know the reason. So we move on, and we work with what we’ve got.”
Commander Vargas said, “What we’ve got is a big piece of water and damn few assets to search it with. Anybody got any ideas on where to start?”
“I think we should sprint up to the north end of the pond,” Lieutenant (jg) Sherman said with a weak smile, “or maybe I should say ‘hobble’ … and set up a blockade off the coast of Siraj. Then we nail them when they think they’re on the home stretch.”