Attack of the Seawolf

Officer of the Deck Turner brought the ship shallow to a keel depth of seventy-nine feet, then reported the depth to Pacino. Pacino rotated the hydraulic control ring for the periscope and waited for it to come out of the well. When it arrived he snapped down the grips and pressed his eye to the cool rubber of the eyepiece. Outside, the sky was dark, the sea choppy, the rain beating against the lens. The remaining light was steadily vanishing.

“Chief of the Watch, rig control for black,” Pacino ordered. The lights were turned out, which made clearer the view out the scope.

To the east he could make out the dark shape of the Chinese carrier in the distance, much of its hull obscured by the curvature of the earth, only its superstructure visible. He turned the scope to the southeast, looking for incoming destroyers, saw nothing. He did a quick surface search and found nothing close, then tried an air search, nearly impossible in the rainy dark.

But at the bearing to Friendly One, the Tampa, he thought he could see the flashing beacons of helicopters.

“Mark 80 status?” Pacino asked.

“Armed and ready, sir.”

“Launching now, one, two, three, four—” Pacino counted to nine, waited, still looking out the periscope toward the position of the Tampa, not concerned about being detected since he had just informed the entire Chinese fleet of his presence with the missiles, and besides, detection fit his tactical plan. The missiles in the sail silently floated out of the water and flew into the sky, heading for the helicopters gathered around the position of the Tampa.

Several missile trails appeared at the top of Pacino’s periscope view, the nine Mark 80 SLAAMs en route to the helicopters flying over the Tampa. One, then two, then a half-dozen fireballs bloomed in the dark at the bearing to Friendly One. Pacino lowered the periscope and fished in his coverall pocket for his eyepatch. As he strapped it on, he called for the Chief of the Watch to rig the room for red. The fluorescent red lights in the overhead flashed on.

“Attention in the firecontrol team,” Pacino announced.

“The Chinese now know we’re here and I’m expecting company any minute. Once the choppers and jets pin us down we won’t have an opportunity to launch the Ow-sow, so even though the carrier is still eight miles to the east and the Tampa is still four miles from international waters I’m going to put up the Ow-sow now. With luck the carrier will be distracted enough so Tampa can slip through and make it over the finish line. That is it, guys. Weps, status of the Ow-sow?”

“Dry loaded in tube one, sir. Power is up, gyro is up, self-checks are go, solution is input to Target thirteen, and read back is sat.” Feyley turned to look at Pacino.

“We’re ready to launch. Captain.”

“Flood, equalize, and open the outer door, Weps.

Firing point procedures, tube one, ASW standoff weapon, Target Thirteen, the carrier.”

“Ship ready,” Turner said.

“Solution ready.” Keebes.

“Tube is flooding now, sir.” Feyley.

Pacino waited, cursing the time. The helicopters would be up on him any minute.

“Conn, Sonar, we have incoming helicopters, from the bearing to Friendly One.”

“Sonar, how many?”

“Hell, Captain, ten, fifteen — so many onscreen it’s hard to say.”

“Tube one ready. Captain,” Feyley said.

“Shoot,” Pacino ordered.

“Fire!”

The tube fired, the noise violent and loud in the room.

CHAPTER 30 MONDAY, 13 MAY 1143 GREENWICH MEAN TIME

BOHAI HAIXIA STRAIT

USS TAMPA

1943 BEIJING TIME

The noise of the explosions was loud, even through two inches of HY-80 high-yield steel hull plating.

Vaughn counted, finally coming up with eight explosions.

He looked over at Lennox.

“Those choppers, they’re gone. Maybe we’ve got our air support from outside the bay.”

Lennox shook his head.

“That was just a few SLAAMs from the Seawolf, the sub-to-air missiles, like they used against the choppers when we were aground on the sandbar.”

“How do you know?”

“Look at the traces on the screen. The choppers still up are all headed west to a single bearing. It has to be the launch position of the Seawolf.”

“So now Seawolf’s in trouble.”

“Looks like it, but her skipper’s a good one.”

“Who is her skipper?” a weak voice asked from the forward control room.

Vaughn stared. There in the doorway to the forward passageway was Captain Sean Murphy, bandaged and in a sling, his throat wrapped in a bloody gauze bandage, his shoulder in so many bandages he looked like a mummy. His eyes appeared to drift, as if he were about to fall asleep on his feet. In fact, as Vaughn hurried over to him, he began to sink to the floor, and passed out. Vaughn was able to keep the captain from hitting the deck, but Murphy was clearly out cold.

“I should take him back to his stateroom,” Vaughn said.

“No, leave him here or he’ll just try to get up and get in here when he comes to. Bartholomay, grab the captain’s mattress and pillow and set him up on the deck by the door to sonar.”

Black Bart hurried forward, returning with the mattress.