On the tactical display, the red line of bearing was sweeping rapidly to the left. The contact was hauling ass. It was the same guy alright, moving like an underwater missile.
Heller saw a new line of bearing appear: sonar tracking data from USS Mahan. The two red lines intersected to the northwest of the Mahan.
The cross-fix would give both ships vital range information about the strange submerged contact, allowing them to calculate course and speed to build firing solutions if the POSS-SUB turned out to be hostile. Unfortunately, the destroyers had been expecting surface action, not antisubmarine warfare. Neither ship had manned up a full ASW team, and it would take at least a couple of minutes to get the proper watch stations covered. Given the speed of the contact, they might not have a couple of minutes.
The appearance of this new threat was not a coincidence. It couldn’t be; the timing was too precise. Somebody had planned this.
Bridge-to-bridge channel 16 came to life again as USS Mahan issued the third warning to the MV Lecticula.
Heller ignored the call. The freighter wasn’t the problem here. If the unidentified sonar contact turned out to be a hostile submarine, the tactical situation could turn into a shit sandwich in about two nanoseconds.
He keyed his mike and began issuing orders without waiting for acknowledgements. “Bridge — Captain. Stand by to crack the whip on my command. Break. TAO — Captain. Call away Condition One-AS. Prepare for immediate ASW action. Break. Sonar — Captain. Is Chief Scott in Sonar Control?”
“Captain — Sonar. Affirmative, sir. He’s standing right beside me.”
Heller nodded to himself. “Captain, aye.”
As soon as Heller was finished speaking, the Tactical Action Officer punched the button to jumper his own headset into the 1MC General Announcing Circuit. When he keyed the mike, his voice came out of speakers all over the ship.
“This is the TAO. Now set Condition One-AS. Man all antisubmarine warfare stations, and prepare for immediate ASW action! Now set Condition One-AS.”
Hot on the heels of this announcement came the Sonar Supervisor’s next report over the 29MC. “All Stations — Sonar has hydrophone effects off the starboard bow! Bearing two-seven-six, correlated to the current bearing of POSS-SUB contact. Initial classification: submerged missile launch!”
Heller’s eyes automatically scanned the tactical display screens for hostile missile symbols. There were none.
The Tactical Action Officer keyed his mike and spoke into the net. “Air — TAO. Can you confirm missile emergence?”
The Air Supervisor’s report was three or four seconds in coming. “TAO — Air. That’s a negative. SPY shows no air contacts within ninety degrees of bearing two-seven-six. We have no tracks consistent with missile trajectories.”
The “SPY” he referred to was the AN/SPY-1D(V)4 phased-array radar: the nucleus of the Aegis integrated sensor and weapons suite. With a peak power output of nearly six million watts and a high data-rate computer control system, SPY was the ship’s all-seeing eye, capable of detecting and tracking more than two hundred simultaneous air and surface contacts. But for all of that power and capacity, the radar wasn’t seeing any signs of the (supposed) missile launch detected by sonar.
The door to CIC clanged open and the Undersea Warfare Officer, Ensign Moore, hustled in, followed by an enlisted Sonar Technician. The sailor dogged the watertight door behind himself and both men practically ran to their respective consoles.
Ensign Moore — whose watch station at Condition One-AS was Undersea Warfare Evaluator — made a bee-line for the Computerized Dead-Reckoning Tracer, jacking his headset into the communications panel and configuring the unit for operation.
The Sonar Technician moved just as quickly to the Underwater Battery Fire Control System and began prepping his station for a combat engagement.
Even as they were readying their equipment, another update broke over the 29MC. “All Stations — Sonar. Hydrophone effects now reclassified as supercavitating torpedo. Possible Shkval class. Be advised, torpedo is not incoming. I say again, hostile torpedo is not incoming. Broadband shows extremely rapid left bearing drift. Torpedo appears to be locked on the Mahan!”
Heller checked the tactical displays again. A red hostile-torpedo symbol had appeared, and it was gobbling up the distance separating it from USS Mahan.
The Mahan was increasing speed and changing course. Following doctrine, her captain was executing the crack-the-whip maneuver: a rapid sequence of tight turns, designed to confuse enemy torpedoes by creating multiple propeller wakes at close intervals.
But the flashing red symbol wasn’t moving at fifty knots, or even sixty. If it really was a Shkval, its speed would be upwards of two-hundred knots. Crazy fast. Like the crazy-assed submarine contact that had launched it.
Heller keyed into the tactical net. “USWE — Captain. Unidentified sonar contact is now designated as Gremlin Zero-One. You have batteries released. Engage and kill as soon as you have a valid fire control solution!”
Ensign Moore’s fingers darted over the soft-keys of the CDRT’s touch control window. “USWE, aye. Break. UB — USWE. I’ve got good bearing cross-fixes from Mahan. Stand by for range updates directly from the CDRT.”
“UB, aye.”
This was a reversal of the usual information flow. For passive broadband contacts, range was normally calculated by the Underwater Battery Fire Control System, and then forwarded to the CDRT for display and tactical decision-making. But in this case, the USW Evaluator already had the range information on his screen, from the bearing cross-fixes. There was no need to wait for the UB computer to work through its target motion analysis algorithms.
The fire control operator examined the incoming data and keyed his mike. “USWE — UB. Contact is well outside the range envelope for over-the-side torpedoes.”
“USWE, aye. Target Gremlin Zero-One with Anvil, and inform me as soon as you have a firing solution.”
“UB, aye.”
Heller’s gaze was locked on the tactical displays. The crack-the-whip maneuver had never been intended to evade supercavitating torpedoes, and it wasn’t working now. On the screen, the red hostile-torpedo symbol was closing inexorably on the blue friendly-ship symbol that represented the Mahan. The speed differential was simply too drastic to overcome. It was like watching a butterfly try to outrun a bullet.
Suddenly, a circular blue icon appeared on the screen close to the latest cross-fix for Gremlin Zero-One. It was a water entry point symbol. Mahan had launched an Anvil. Getting in a last-second shot at the enemy submarine.
But the hostile sub was also moving at supercav speed. By the time the Mahan’s weapon acquired contact, it was chasing a target with a speed advantage of more than a hundred-fifty knots. Falling farther behind with every second, it had no chance at all of catching the unknown submarine.
Sadly, the enemy’s weapon was on the opposite side of the speed advantage problem.
Heller was watching when USS Mahan lost her race against the supercavitating torpedo.
Seen from the tactical displays, it was nothing more than the silent merging of two colored icons. The story captured by the topside cameras was altogether different.
It played out on video screen #4 in flawless high-resolution monochrome. The unlit form of the warship — a shadow against dark waves — was suddenly caught in a flare of brilliant illumination. A monstrous geyser of spray erupted amidships as the seawater under the destroyer’s keel was instantly flashed to steam.