Phoenix Sub Zero

As the watchstanders settled in, information began its flow to put a torpedo on the contact. Three minutes after Daminski’s maneuver to the west, Skinnard dialed in a trial range and speed of the target. His estimate of target course was good, assuming the Destiny was heading through the strait going outbound, making it going northwest.

“XO,” Skinnard called on his boom mike to Kristman, the battle stations firecontrol coordinator, “I have a curve and a fair solution based on narrowband TMA. Range 43,000 yards, target speed eighteen knots.”

Kristman appeared over Skinnard’s shoulder and looked at the dot stack, then turned to Daminski.

“Captain, based on narrowband TMA, we have a firing solution.”

“Sonar, Captain,” Daminski called, “any broadband detects yet?”

“Conn, Sonar, no,” Hillsworth replied.

Daminski turned to Kristman. “I hate to shoot on a narrowband solution.”

“I recommend we shoot a horizontal salvo now, sir. We don’t know what this guy’s detection threshold is. He could counterdetect any second.”

“Yeah, but if we shoot early and he hears the fish or the launch transient, he’ll turn tail and run and we miss our chance. For Early Retirement.”

“If we don’t shoot and he gets off a shot first, we’ll be the ones running.”

Daminski glanced across at the Pos One geographic plot, made a decision. “Attention in the firecontrol team,” he said, his football-huddle voice grabbing the attention of every watchstander in the room. “We have a narrowband solution to Target One and I’m putting out a horizontal salvo of Mark 50s down the strait. The range is distant, so to conserve weapon-fuel usage we’ll use a slow transit speed with a shallow depth run to enable. That will also keep the torpedoes quiet as they do their run. Everybody got that? Be ready for a counterfire if this guy sees us first. Carry on.”

Daminski turned to Kristman again. “Torpedo presets, XO— offset the torpedoes by one degree, run to enable 25,000 yards, low-to-medium active snake. Give me a readback.”

Daminski watched the firing panel until the torpedoes were programmed, then took a last look at Skinnard’s dot stack. The solution was tracking. It was time to shoot.

“Attention in the firecontrol team. Firing point procedures, tubes one and two. Target One, horizontal salvo, one degree offset, one minute firing interval.”

“Ship ready,” officer of the deck Tim Turner reported.

“Weapons ready,” firing panel operator Ron Hackle called.

“Solution ready,” Skinnard said from Pos Two.

Daminski looked around one last time. In another five seconds he would have ordnance in the water aimed at an other submarine. This wasn’t an exercise, this was the real thing. Daminski called out the start of the launching litany.

“Tube one, shoot on generated bearing.”

“Set.” Skinnard on Pos Two, sending the firecontrol computer’s estimate of the target position, course and speed into the torpedo.

“Standby.” Hackle on the firing panel, rotating the trigger to nine o’clock.

“Shoot!” Daminski from the conn.

“Fire.” Hackle, taking the trigger to the three-o’clock position marked fire.

The air in the room seemed to detonate in a reverberating blast, smashing Daminski’s ears as the high-pressure air from the piston ram vented inboard, the air sent to pressurize the water tanks surrounding the torpedo tube, which then flushed the torpedo out of the tube. The watchstanders yawned in unison, clearing their ear passages from the pressure pulse.

“Conn, Sonar,” Hillsworth’s British accent declared on the firecontrol phone circuit, “own-ship’s unit, normal launch.”

“Firing panel lined up for tube two, sir,” Hackle reported.

“Tube two, shoot on generated bearing,” Daminski repeated.

“Set.”

“Standby.”

“Shoot!”

“Fire!”

The deck jumped beneath Daminski’s feet and his ears slammed again.

“Conn, Sonar, second-fired unit, normal launch.”

“Weps, cut the wires on units one and two and shut the outer doors.”

“Aye, sir, wires cut on one and two … outer doors shut on one and two.”

“Open muzzle doors tubes three and four,” Daminski said impatiently, cursing that it was taking so long to get out the salvo, but the tube banks could line up only one tube from each side at a time.

“Three and four open, presets loaded, ready for launch.”

“Firing point procedures, tubes three and four. Target One,” from Daminski.

“Ship ready.”

“Weapons ready.”

“Solution ready.”

“Shoot on generated—”

Hillsworth’s worried voice cut through Daminski’s order: “Conn, Sonar, loss of Target One!”

“Sonar, Captain, say again.”

“Sir, we’ve lost Target One. He’s vanished.”

CNFS HEGIRA

Ahmed walked slowly into the control room, glancing uneasily at Sihoud as he noticed how crowded the room was, almost the entire crew seated at the consoles or standing over the seated men. As crowded as the room was, it was eerily quiet, the only sounds a slight high-pitched whine from the three dozen computer consoles in the room. Something was definitely wrong. Ahmed’s voice was hushed as he addressed Sharef.

“Commodore, what—”