Attack of the Seawolf

Two minutes later Chu’s Yak was over the sea from where the missile had come and he flew a tight circle around the spot, the magnetic anomaly detector picking out the position of the submarine contact.

“Depth charge armed and ready,” Lo reported.

“We have contact on a submerged vessel on MAD.

Contact is definite and shallow.”

Chu cut in the lift and idled the cruise engines. The aircraft hovered over the exact position of the submarine.

In a few seconds the people who had dared launch the destructive rocket at the Shaoguan would be dead. Only then could he fly back to what was left of his father’s ship.

USS TAMPA

“All ahead flank!” Lennox ordered as the sounds of a hull breaking up came through. The sonar screen showed the bright angry trace at bearing zero six seven, now northeast instead of due east as the ship made progress and got closer to the “finish line.” Now that the carrier was hit by whatever it was the Seawolf had fired, Lennox wanted to get beyond her and to international waters as soon as he could. He was no longer concerned with leaving a wake on the surface that would pinpoint their position. It was clear that the aircraft and surface ships were intent on attacking Seawolf. And since Tampa was useless in a fight, the only thing he could do was get the ship and her crew out of the bay and into the safety of international waters.

Still, even as the ship’s deck vibrated with power, he couldn’t help feeling guilty and frustrated at not being able to help. For a moment he wondered how he could live with himself if Tampa survived and Seawolf went to the bottom. Seawolf had seemed so invincible that he had always assumed it would be Tampa that would never make it. Abruptly he heard Murphy’s voice:

“XO,” Murphy’s voice rattled, “we can’t leave Seawolf. We’ve got to help.”

Lennox and Vaughn looked over at Murphy, who had been lifted from his mattress and was now sitting in front of Pos Two.

“Sir,” Vaughn said, “three of our tubes leak, not one of the torpedoes is whole and the firecontrol computer is blown to pieces. The torpedo room console is shattered. There’s nothing we can do to help—” “The Javelins, we have to launch the Javelins.”

“Sir,” Vaughn said, looking at Lennox, “the computer is gone and we can’t target them manually. The Javelins are inert.”

“No,” Murphy said.

“Get one of the firecontrol techs. Get a signal simulator and”—Murphy coughed, a rattling hacking sputter—“open up the signal cable, input a signal to open the door and launch the weapon.”

“But there will be no target,” Lennox told him.

“Just launch them. The liftoffs will … confuse the Chinese.”

“Sir,” Lennox said, “we don’t have a missile tech, they’re all in shock, unconscious or dead. And we don’t have a signal simulator. And who knows where the cable connectors are? I’m very sorry. Captain, somewhere in Korea Bay there’s a carrier air group that’s supposed to take over now … Seawolf, with whatever help she can get from the air group, will have to get out of this without us. Our cards have been played.”

Murphy stared up at Lennox, then lowered his head, and for a moment Lennox thought he’d lost consciousness again. He hadn’t. He was trembling slightly, from anger and frustration, Lennox guessed.

“Eng, mark our ETA at the finish line,” Lennox ordered, the bite in his’ voice showing some of his own frustration.

Vaughn went to the chart table, glanced at the sonar display one last time, took out his dividers, checked the ESGN position a second time, then said to Lennox:

“The ETA is negative, XO. We’re here. We crossed the finish line two minutes ago. We’re now 1.1 nautical miles into international water. We made it!”

Lennox looked at the sonar display, his face still grim. The Tampa had indeed made it out of the bay.

But now there was no way Seawolf would.

KOREA BAY USS RONALD REAGAN

Commander Jim Collins taxied the F-14 to the number one catapult while latching his oxygen mask to his flight helmet, the word MUGSY printed in block letters above the visor of the helmet. Collins commanded VF-69, the Reagan’s F-14 squadron. He was on his last sea tour as a pilot, and hated the idea of leaving the flying fleet for nuclear power school, where he was assigned to learn how to command a nuclear aircraft carrier. The thought of spending a year with a bunch of green submarine-bound ensigns at nuke school was an unhappy one, as was the notion of spending two years as XO of a carrier before he could spend four years in command. He wasn’t a fool and realized he should take some satisfaction in having been chosen for higher command, but he would still find it hard to give up flying supersonic fighters. It was what he did. Watching the action from the bridge of the carrier didn’t exactly compare to seeing it from the cockpit.

The thought of this operation being the last for him made the adrenaline flow. The cockpit was an extension of his body, the sky waited for him, as did the Chinese fleet. He would not need to wait much longer.