“That oughta give us plenty of warning.”
“Yeah, but that’s only part of the problem. Once we spot ’em, there’s nothing we can do. We don’t have the resources to keep an airplane on station full time and the flyboys say we’re talking at least forty minutes from a cold start ashore. That’s too long.”
Dave asked, “No way of getting a weapon on the target?”
“You got it, but at least it’ll give us early warning. As soon as the breakwater goes in, we’ve got some Vulcan-Phalanx anti-missile guns to sit atop of it.”
“You figure the Soviets will attack with sub-launched land attack missiles?”
“Wouldn’t we? We’ve learned the hard way they’re not as dumb as we figured. They took great pains to knock out our sub-bases in the first strike. It’s logical they’ll come after any temporaries we set up. Cable will be our biggest problem.”
“Turn Eric’s flyboys loose. If there’s any cable available, they’ll find it and get it here.”
“Good idea, Dave. But we’ve dumped on ’em so much, I hesitate to add to the burden.”
“It appears to me like they thrive on it. Put it to ’em this way. Right now they’re agonizing over how they’re gonna run electric lines on the bottom between the shore and here. And you need a hundred miles of cable for that damn array of yours. Tell ’em if they get your cable, you’ll lay their power lines.”
Dutch smiled. He had already begun to convert an aging tugboat into a cable layer.
Changing the subject, Dave continued. “Ya know, Dutch, we’re really putting together a helluva base for that half-assed boss of yours. When do you figure his nibs will put in an appearance?”
“As soon as you make him a place to sleep and install a telephone.”
Dave’s grin broadened. He nodded toward the breakwater. “Here it is. Would you look at what’s poking its nose around the point?”
“Where the hell did you come up with that … and I don’t want to know how much it cost.”
One hundred and thirty-two feet of the most palatial yacht either of them had ever seen slipped easily into the harbor and proceeded to the barge cluster. COMSUBRON 3 floating headquarters had arrived.
Quartermaster Henri calmly activated five clicks on the 1MC and called the crew to battle stations. He had practiced this enough so the real thing went off smoothly.
Brent followed his captain to the Attack Center.
Bostwick demanded, “What’ve we got, Jack?”
“Diesel boat making high speed on the battery. No bearing change, getting louder.”
Brent considered his predicament for only an instant then jumped in anyway. “Sonar, Conn, we need an ident.”
The captain glared at Brent and Jack Olsen glared back at the captain. The young officer had proven Bostwick wrong, but the situation appeared perilous so he yielded to Brent’s actions.
Gary Hansen’s voice crackled over the 21MC, “Got a make, Conn. Tango.” Hansen used the NATO designation for the Soviet Navy’s top diesel-electric submarine.
Brent exclaimed, “He’s close then! Damn close! No time for a range, Captain, recommend an ADCAP right down the bearing line.”
Bostwick ordered, “Get it ready!”
Taking his station behind the ACC, Brent ordered over the sound powered phones “Make ready tubes one and two in all respects. Quickly!”
The ACC operator repeated the order, followed by “Aye, sir,” and then fumbled with a switch.
“Steady, just like we always practiced.”
Brent figured a junior officer commanded the Tango on minefield patrol. He showed inexperience by racing in for the kill. Destruction of an American submarine would likely net him an Order of Lenin and command of a newer ship, a Victor III, an Alfa or if lucky, an Akula.
Calling for computer-generated torpedo presets on the MK 81 console, Brent read the display, made two adjustments and ordered them entered.
After what seemed an eternity, though only a minute had passed, the torpedo room watch reported, “One and two ready with the doors open.”
“Recommend shoot, Captain,” said Brent, fresh from a dressing down for doing just that.
The captain found his voice. “Gyro angle and range.”
“No time, sir. It’s now or never. He might be inside minimum enable range already.”
Bostwick hesitated.
Brent ordered, “Fire one!”
Denver gave her customary shudder as the torpedo left the launcher. The wailing, high-pitched sound of an accelerating ADCAP could be heard clearly through the ship’s pressure hull.
The captain ordered, “Fire two, Brent.”
“Aye, sir. Fire two in a minute-thirty seconds.”
Brent gritted his teeth at having to correct the Captain, but construed lack of a reply from Bostwick to be his assent.
Bostwick asked, “This course good for the wire?”
Brent thought, Wire’s not a factor with the target this close. He let it pass. “Good heading, Captain,” he responded.
Apprehension shown in Hansen’s voice as he announced, “Conn, Sonar. Torpedo running down the bearing line.”
“Want to check fire on two, Captain. If this guy’s close and we get him with one, number two might not see him and start looking for us. I’ve got Doppler Enable out,” a feature that accommodated attack against a motionless target.
The captain ordered, “Check fire tube two.”
Brent said, “Henri, give me a mark at one-plus-sixty seconds.”
The steady Henri repeated, “Mark at one-plus-sixty in fifteen—”
An ear-splitting explosion obscured the rest of Henri’s sentence.
So much for the eager bastard’s Order of Lenin, Brent thought.
Silence for a second after the explosion then a chorus of cheers resonated throughout Denver. They had finally drawn Soviet blood.
Capitalizing on the moment, Brent turned to the captain and extended his hand. “Congratulations, sir. You got the son of a bitch.”
Bostwick hesitated an instant then with some uncertainty, he took Brent’s hand, shook it and smiled. “Why thank you, Brent.”
The others joined in expressions of congratulations with flurries of handshakes and back pats.
Brent ordered the torpedo room over the 21MC, “Close the outer door on two, drain down and secure.” But being the eternal skeptic, he directed sonar to monitor the target. “He might still be dangerous, Sonar. Report everything. Listen for launcher sounds or running torpedoes.”
Hansen responded, “Aye, sir. There’s too much reverberation from the explosion but not enough to blank a torpedo. We don’t hear any.”
“Let’s hope we don’t.”
Hansen reported, “New noises from the target sir. It’s a groaning sound. Like—” He stopped in mid-sentence deciding not to make the analogy to Utah’s demise. “I think she’s gone, sir.”
An air of sobriety replaced the excitement in the Attack Center. The enemy submarine yielded to the common foe of all submariners, the relentless ocean depths. The ocean crashed in and drove the hapless Tango ever downward. Tremendous pressure crushed the hull like an eggshell and snuffed out the lives of her crew.
The tactical margin between the victor and vanquished is extremely narrow.
Dave Zane relayed the message from Eric Danis that Denver had survived.
Bea threw her arms about her father and began to sob.
He comforted his daughter. “Why ole Brent’s likely conducting patrols in the Pacific and having a fine time.”