“I’m afraid so, Skipper.”
“And that submarine could be directly underneath us at this very second?”
“That would be a hell of a coincidence, but yes, ma’am. It’s certainly possible.”
“There’s a case of our tax dollars hardly at work. Can we call him up on the underwater telephone and invite him to come out and play?”
Lieutenant (jg) Sherman’s eyebrows went up. “That’s not a bad idea…”
“Great,” the captain said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Now all we have to do is find someone who speaks German.”
Sherman smiled. “Actually, Skipper, what we need is someone who speaks Submarine.” He keyed his mike. “Sonar — USWE. Does your On-Board Trainer’s sample library contain a recording of a Mark-54 torpedo?”
“USWE — Sonar. Yes, sir. It does.”
“Sonar — USWE. Can you patch an audio signal from the OBT into the underwater telephone?”
The reply took several seconds. “Uh … yes, sir. I guess so. Is that what you want me to do?”
“Affirmative, Sonar. Go ahead and rig the patch and load the Mark-54 recording, but do not transmit until I give the word.”
“Sonar, aye.”
The captain nodded slowly. “You’re going to broadcast a fake torpedo signal and scare the sub off the bottom?”
“That’s the idea, ma’am. When the sub hears that torpedo start up, he’s going to assume that we’ve detected him somehow, and that he’s about to get a high-explosive enema. He’ll be off the bottom, running his torpedo evasion maneuvers in nothing flat.”
“He’s going to launch a counter-battery attack as soon as he detects our weapon.”
“Yes, ma’am. That’s how we’re going to locate him. As soon as he shoots, we’ll put a torpedo down his firing bearing.”
“So we have to draw fire from his torpedo to get a firing solution for our own torpedo?”
“I know it’s a risky plan, Captain. I just can’t think of a better one.”
Captain Vargas didn’t speak for over a minute. Finally, she said,
“Neither can I. Looks like we do it your way, Alex.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Lieutenant (jg) Sherman keyed his mike. “Sonar — USWE. Commence transmitting your recorded torpedo signal and keep it up until I tell you to stop.”
“Sonar, aye. Transmitting now.”
The next two reports came back-to-back, less than thirty seconds later.
“USWE — Sonar has active 53 Delta contact off the starboard quarter, bearing one-five-five. Initial classification: POSS-SUB, confidence level high!” Before the USWE could acknowledge, the Sonar Supervisor started in on his second report. “All Stations — Sonar has multiple hydrophone effects off the starboard quarter! Bearings one-five-five and one-five-seven. Initial classification: hostile torpedoes!”
“Holy Christ!” the USWE shouted. “This guy is right up our ass.” He keyed the net. “Bridge — USWE. Crack the whip! I say again, crack the whip!”
“Bridge, aye!”
The Sonar Supervisor’s voice came over the 29-MC. “The first torpedo has acquired! Torpedo is close aboard!”
The turbines began to spin up, and the ship started to turn.
It was too late.
The DMA37 torpedo slipped under the hull and detonated directly beneath the destroyer’s after fuel tanks. The shallow, hard-packed sand bottom reflected a great deal of the shock wave back toward the surface — toward Benfold—effectively doubling the destructive power of the warhead. The magnified explosion ripped through the steel hull plates, rupturing the fuel tanks. Sixty thousand gallons of diesel fuel marine erupted into flame, instantly transforming USS Benfold into an inferno.
The blazing steel hulk had barely settled back into the waves before a second torpedo darted in and hammered the ship again.
When the smoke and spray from the base surges of the explosions cleared, all that remained to mark the last position of USS Benfold was a debris field and a burning oil slick.
Captain Bowie stood on the forecastle and watched the scattered pieces of Benfold’s debris field slide past the bow wake and drift aft. The desert wind was hot, and it carried enough sand to sting his cheeks. He felt, rather than saw, the executive officer walk up behind him. He spoke without looking over his shoulder. “Any more survivors yet?”
“No, sir,” the XO said. “Just the one man. A kid, really. I just came from Sick Bay. He can’t be more than eighteen or nineteen. Doc says he’s got burns over about 40 percent of his body.”
“He’s not going to make it, then,” the captain said.
“Probably not, sir.”
The captain nodded once, but didn’t say anything. It didn’t make sense. It shouldn’t have happened. Despite the damage to her bridge, Benfold had been operating at near full capacity, with her speed, maneuverability, and firepower undiminished. Her captain, Rachel Vargas, had been a skilled tactician and a master of sea-maneuver warfare.
Her USW team had been well trained and well prepared. And now they were all gone.
The thoughts turned slowly over and over in Captain Bowie’s brain, but they refused to become real for him. The U.S. Navy hadn’t lost a warship in combat since World War II. And now a ship under his command was gone, and — except for one burned and dying teenager — every human being on board was dead. All three hundred thirty-seven of them.
Captain Bowie shifted his eyes to the horizon. Gremlin Zero Four — God, what an innocuous sounding designation for such a ruthlessly efficient killer—was still out there.
The captain turned toward the XO. “I’m going to head down to Sick Bay for a few minutes. Get a hold of the Navigator and have him plot a course to the coast of Siraj, using our best speed.”
“Aye-aye, sir.”
Captain Bowie walked down the port side, toward the door that would lead him down to Sick Bay. He knew that he should go to CIC instead.
They needed him there. His crew was looking to him for the plan, the stroke of tactical genius, the rabbit out of the hat that would let his crippled ship take on a cunning and deadly enemy and somehow emerge triumphant.
But that could wait, for a few minutes at least. He could spare two minutes for the last surviving member of a United States warship.
The Chief Hospital Corpsman met him at the door to Sick Bay. “He’s already gone, sir. We did everything we could, but he just slipped away from us. I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault, Doc,” the captain said. “What was his name?”
“His uniform was mostly burned off when they pulled him out of the water. We couldn’t find any ID. We … don’t know his name, sir.”
The captain nodded and walked away. “Thanks, Doc,” he said over his shoulder. Bowie headed for CIC. He shook his head as he walked. They didn’t even know the kid’s name.
CHAPTER 47
Admiral Casey looked at the president. “It’s confirmed, sir. USS Benfold is gone. It looks like all hands were lost.”
“I thought Towers picked up a survivor,” Gregory Brenthoven said.
“They did,” the CNO said. “He died shortly after he was pulled out of the water.”
The president shook his head slowly. “Jesus … When was the last time we lost a ship with all hands?”