Phoenix Sub Zero

“But if we launch at search speed, seventy clicks, and are lucky, the weapon will approach close to the 688 sub before it is detected. The best case is perhaps twenty kilometers range before the 688 hears the torpedo. The 688 runs, the torpedo locks on and speeds up to attack speed and runs at 130 clicks toward the target. If the target runs at his maxi mum speed of seventy clicks the torpedo intercepts and kills the target twenty minutes later, with a total run of 115 kilo meters, well under the 140 limit. I agree that’s the best case.

Now, if detection range is poor at, say, thirty-five kilometers, the torpedo intercepts and kills the target with a run of 135 kilometers, still well below the 140. And that assumes he detects the torpedo and starts a high-speed run away from the weapon. If he is not good enough to hear our unit, the relative intercept speed is even higher. It is a good risk.”

“And if he counterfires?”

“After the launch we’ll drive off the track by five kilometers, then delouse. Once we’re shut down, an incoming torpedo will not detect us.”

“A delouse without a Dash Five? I don’t think those tactics will—”

“At this long range it will do. And if it does not we will have time to restart.”

Tawkidi scribbled on the pad. “Sir, torpedo-run time to the target is about an hour and twenty minutes. We can’t stay shut down that long. We only had forty minutes last time.”

“The battery did not have a full charge. It will last longer, perhaps an hour, now that it has had a deep discharge and the full-current recharge. We’ll wait twenty-five minutes prior to the delouse and restart before we fully drain. Is that satisfactory?”

“Aye, sir. We’re ready to shoot.” Tawkidi knew when to say yes.

Sharef’s voice grew loud in the tight room. “All watchstanders, a moment please. We have classified the submerged contact as another 688class American. To avoid an attack I intend to fire a single weapon now at long range, move off the track, and shut down propulsion with a delouse maneuver. When the 688 is on the bottom we will proceed into the Atlantic. We will warm up a second weapon and keep it standing by in case. Questions? Very well. Weapons officer, open tubes nine and eight to sea and warm up the weapons, report when ready to fire. Deck officer, maneuver the ship to the south. I don’t want to approach the target any closer than we are now.”

“Aye, Captain. Ship control, one degree right rudder, steer course south.”

For what seemed a long time to Ahmed nothing happened but the flashing of displays on the weapon-control screens.

The room’s only noise was the humming of the computers and the low growl of the air handlers. After several minutes the torpedoes were warm.

“Range to the target?” Sharef requested.

“Ninety-one kilometers,” Lieutenant Commander Mamun, the weapons officer, reported from the weapons panel.

“Shoot tube nine.”

The deck shook as the heavy Nagasaki torpedo left the ship for its distant target.

“Ship control, right five degrees rudder, steer course north. Reactor control, prepare to insert a delouse.”

Sharef walked to the sensor-console area and looked at the two banks of console displays devoted to the target submarine.

Nothing had changed — they apparently had not heard the launch. The next two displays on the neighboring console were monitoring the torpedo on its slow-speed approach to the submarine far over the horizon. Now there was nothing to do but wait the forty-five minutes or hour until the two machines detected each other. One would run, the other speed up and chase. When the hunter had killed the prey, the passage to the Atlantic would be wide open and then it would be time to think about how they would assemble the Scorpion warheads in the Hiroshima missiles. And once that problem was solved, all that remained was to get within range of Washington and fire the missiles. Sharef briefly wondered whether he would ever get Hegira back to base after the missiles had done their job. Better not to think of that, he told himself.

Meanwhile, ten kilometers to the west, the Nagasaki torpedo drove on toward its target.

USS PHOENIX

Edwin Sanderson was a big man, frequently asked how he stood being confined in a submarine. He wasn’t exactly flabby but was well on his way to developing a gut, standard issue for chiefs in the submarine force. Too many second helpings of bacon and eggs, too few exercise sessions in the torpedo room. His hair was now more gray than black. His gray penetrating eyes tended to show red after hours of staring at the sonar consoles. When he was angry many a senior officer had backed down to him. When off-duty or drunk or amused he could crack a grin that made the face radiate goodwill around him. His wife joked that it was his infectious smile that had charmed her into his orbit, but that if she had seen his anger when they were courting she would never have married him.