Attack of the Seawolf

“We’re Black Sheep. The Seawolf is Sheepdog.”

“Seawolf came for us? I’m surprised they risked her.” Vaughn spoke into the microphone, his voice bouncing back at him as if coming from the bottom of the sea.

“Sheepdog, this is Black Sheep. Sheepdog, this is Black Sheep, over.” Stupid goddamn call signs he thought.

The console’s speaker sputtered. It was the UWT, the underwater telephone, an amplifier tied into the sonar system’s active transducers, that transmitted human voices in the ocean rather than pulses or beeps.

“BLACK SHEEP, THIS IS SHEEPDOG. GLAD YOU MADE IT, OVER.”

“Skip that,” Vaughn said, trying to speak slowly and distinctly.

“We have a man overboard at our position.

Vents and blow system broken. Need you to rescue.

Do you copy, over?”

“ROGER, BLACK SHEEP. WE HAVE YOUR POSITION CHARTED AND WILL ATTEMPT RECOVER. PROCEED TO POINT GOLF-SUB-ONE. SHEEPDOG OUT.”

“Pacino will handle it if anyone can,” Lennox said.

“Meantime we need to get out of here. Take us deep and head for golf-sub-one.”

“Pacino? Name rings a bell. Who’s he?”

“Seawolf’s captain, new guy, just took command.”

“Okay. Point golf-sub-one, here we go.” Vaughn looked down at the chart table at the chart of the Go Hai Bay. The bay seemed terribly big. At standard speed it would be another twelve, thirteen hours before they reached the Lushun/Penglai Gap, the exit of the bay.

“Helm, all ahead one third, turns for two knots.”

Buffalo acknowledged. Vaughn continued to look at the chart, taking in hand some dividers and a calculator.

After a few minutes Vaughn spoke again, still examining the chart.

“Helm, all ahead standard, steer course one zero two. Maintain depth eight zero.”

“Aye, sir, standard at one zero two, depth eight zero, maneuvering answers ahead standard.”

“Not bad, Buffalo,” Vaughn said, trying to sound positive, but not succeding.

Jack Morris began to wake up from the rain pounding in his face. He blinked the water out of his eyes, realizing he was being pulled by a rope. He tried to think back to what had happened but all he remembered was being sucked underwater by his lanyard. His head hurt, his whole body ached, but he seemed whole.

He saw a bright light in his eyes as the rope pulled him in, a long hook grabbing his coverall collar and hauling him up onto a deck. He remembered he was in Chinese waters and saw that he was being recaptured.

He tried to struggle, but his strength drained.

He felt himself collapse, and several men carried him, bumping him into the sides of the ship’s superstructure.

As the light went out in front of him he went blind, the world swimming in front of him in odd colors.

He felt himself swaying from side to side as he was taken down a ladder.

It wasn’t until the men carrying him stood him up, still holding him by his arms, that he realized he wasn’t in a P.L.A ship but in the control room of the submarine Seawolf, staring into the face of Captain Michael Pacino.

“Morris, what would you do if I weren’t here to save your sad ass? Take him to the doc and get him fixed up.”

Morris, back from the dead, smiled and closed his eyes as the needle of a syringe punctured the skin of his arm.

USS SEAWOLF

“Conn, Sonar, we have aircraft engines bearing three three zero. Probable antisubmarine warfare aircraft confirmed, we have sonobuoy splashes from the north.”

“Depth seven five feet,” Pacino commanded.

“Probably detected us when we surfaced to get Morris,” Tim Turner said, his voice tight.

The periscope came out of the well. Pacino could see the aircraft on the horizon when he selected the infrared, which normally he would not do because it could be detected, but at least theIR would find an aircraft quickly, eliminating the need for a long air search. In the view of theIR, hot objects were colored light, cold objects dark. In the distance he could see the aircraft, or rather, in effect, an X-ray of it. At high power he could see through the wings to the engines, the turbines and compressors standing out in relief.

He could even see consoles inside the plane’s fuselage, and men at the consoles. The plane approached, flying overhead and circling back around.

“Mark on top,” Pacino called.

“Aircraft is a Nimrod ASW aircraft. Looks like he’s in a final approach pattern for a torpedo launch. Arm the Mark 80s, OOD.”

“SLAAM missiles armed, sir,” Turner replied.

“SLAAM 80, SLAAM 80,” Pacino called, hitting the missile key on the periscope grip.

“Two launches,” he said, watching the white splotches of the missile exhausts on theIR. He switched the scope to visual, de-energizing theIR view. A missile explosion would white-out theIR. As soon as he switched to normal visual, the first missile hit the Nimrod and blew off the right wing. The second hit the fuselage aft of the jet exhaust, cutting the aircraft in half. It came down into the water in flaming fragments.

“Aircraft is neutralized. Lowering number-two scope,” Pacino said.