Piranha: Firing Point

The thirty torpedoes had taken down the carriers, the two rows of cruisers, perhaps half of the destroyers and frigates, even some of the support ships. Chu had advanced slowly on the convoy, and initially the ships had continued westward toward him. He had underestimated the power of the torpedoes. He’d known from his reading that they were plasma weapons, but he was not prepared for their destructive power. He could have saved three weapons had he not double-targeted the aircraft carriers, since one weapon alone would have been more than enough to put a carrier down. As the carriers exploded and sank, the cruiser row had taken their hits, exposing the destroyer ranks. By then the destroyers and frigates were under attack by the Lighting Bolt to the north and the Thundercloud to the south, as were the amphibious assault ships and the troop carriers.

In Chu’s periscope view there were no longer any visible contacts, just some smoking wreckage and an oil-slick fire in the west southwest, one of the oilers’ load now burning on the surface of the sea.

“Navigator, any contacts on sonar?”

“No, sir,” Xhiu Liu said from the sensor console. “It is possible there are a few surviving surface ships, maybe even dozens, that are masked by the noise of the sinkings, though. Admiral. We have a broadband sonar blueout all across the eastern bearings, and it’s so loud it’s blocking most tonal-frequency intervals. We’re deaf, sir.”

“Well, if there are any survivors, you can bet they’re heading east. We’ll let the Volcano take care of them.”

“I agree, Captain. I’ll keep watching.”

“Second Captain, lower the periscope,” he said into his boom microphone. He stood, his back cracking, and stretched. The long hour of leaning over, peering into the eyepiece, had made his muscles ache. But it was a good ache, like the kind he’d had playing sports on the fields of the aviation academy so long ago.

“Ship Control Officer, take her down to three hundred meters, steep angle, increase speed to twenty-five clicks, and take us west. We should be encountering the 6881’s fairly soon. Even as deaf as they are, the noise we put up killing the task force will wake them up. I expect them to arrive around bearing two six five to two seven five. Navigator, I know we’ve been up here shooting for a while and everyone is tired, but I want your maximum attention to the submarine threat. They’ll be coming soon.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Mr. First, I’ll take the command console.”

Chu strapped back in, reconfigured his panels, and shut his eyes for a moment. They had eighteen torpedoes left. Once the 6881s were on the bottom, he would probably have fifteen or sixteen. That would be enough to hold off part of a second landing force, but then he would be powerless. It wouldn’t be good enough to call out a second force’s position to coordinate an air strike — the American battle formation was too expert at fighting off air attacks. They had to be attacked from the sea, and without torpedoes and a delivery platform they would own the East China Sea.

So it was a matter of time. Eventually his six ships would run out of weapons, and there was no resupply.

He had put down the initial force, and a second landing convoy would need to come out of Hawaii or California, which would be at least seven to fourteen days’ travel time even at fast transit speed.

He had bought his generals a week, maybe two. How close could they come in a week? he asked himself. They would need to overrun the Whites in a week or risk being pushed back.

While he waited for the 6881s to return in search of him, he dictated several messages into the Second Captain, one a report to the Admiralty, one a message of congratulation to his ship commanders, one a warning about the 6881s, and one a redeployment plan for a force coming out of Hawaii, the East China Sea entrance to be more to the south. Once the messages were edited, he settled back to wait.

USS JOHN GLENN, DDG-85

“Rudder to left full, throttling up to ahead flank. There are burning ships ahead and aft. I’m steering around the wreck of the John Paul Jones, the cruisers are gone, and the other destroyers ahead are burning and sinking.”

The babbling voice of the navigator. Who was he talking to? Captain Eddie Maddox wondered.

“Navigator,” Maddox’s voice called. “What are you—”

His strength had seemed to sink away from him.

“Sir, are you okay?”

“What happened? I can’t see.”

“Hold on. Captain. The fleet’s been attacked. I’m steering us out of the column, I’m breaking formation.” “Get the hell away from it,” Maddox said. “Break to the south if you can, get away from the formation, and head east. Get us back to the Pacific if you can, but be alert for survivors, I want to get anyone we can see. Find some lookouts. And see if you can get Robinson up in the Seahawk”

“Aye, sir, but I’m by myself up here, and the battle circuits aren’t working.”

“Just do what you can. You don’t have to do it in ten seconds.” Maddox groaned. “Was it an air attack? There was no warning.”