Terminal Run

“Captain, Cyclops,” the computer said. “Incoming battle group at range six four nautical miles from own ship, bearing zero zero six, course one eight five, speed thirty-five knots.”

The previously pulsing diamond became a solid bloodred color, no longer flashing.

“Sonar, Captain, any detection at bearing zero zero six?”

“Conn, Sonar, no.”

“Torpedo Room, Captain,” Dixon said. “Report status.”

“Tubes one through four selected to auto for turnover to Cyclops, Captain,” the torpedo chief reported. “Rack loading system selected to auto, all systems nominal.”

“Conn, Sonar, new broadband and narrowband sonar contact, multiple surface contacts merged to a single bearing, designated Sierra nine five, bearing zero zero four, probable surface convoy,” Chief Herndon’s raspy voice reported in Dixon’s ear. He looked over at the window where Herndon’s bony face was pictured, the chief’s expression a frowning mask of concentration.

“Very well, Sonar,” Dixon said. “Designate Sierra nine five as Master One, Red Chinese Battlegroup One.”

“Master One, Conn, Sonar, aye.”

“Coordinator,” Dixon said to XO Donna Phillips, whose battle station was the firecontrol coordinator, “we’re on a launch hold until you can classify the high-value targets and achieve torpedo bearing separation.”

“Coordinator, aye, Captain, we’re correlating Predator and sonar data now.”

Dixon waited impatiently. He couldn’t just put out a baker’s dozen of Mark 58 torpedoes down the bearing line to the convoy — he could, but they would all make their way to the loudest or biggest target. He’d end up putting thirteen plasma warheads on one aircraft carrier, and all the antisubmarine warfare destroyers would survive and hunt the shooter down. The only way Dixon could launch his salvo would be to discriminate between the targets, to determine the location of each ship not just now, but thirty minutes in the future, with respect to the other ships of the convoy. The Predator data and sonar data would be fed into Cyclops, and the computer would determine the location of each of the target heavies, and relay that data to the firecontrol virtual display and to the memory of each of the torpedoes. Once that was done, the torpedoes would not interfere with each other or gang up on a single target, which was a beautiful thing, but took valuable time. Dixon tapped his Academy ring on the stainless-steel handrail surrounding the conn, until finally Phillips had the answer.

“Captain, Coordinator, target discrimination and assignment complete. The nineteen priority heavies are loaded into the battle space We have a firing solution.”

The display suddenly changed. Instead of a single pulsating diamond, a multitude of diamonds appeared, each with a different symbol. There was the aircraft carrier, the ASW destroyers, the missile cruisers, the heavy battle cruiser the frigates, and the fleet oilers. There had to be two dozen combatants, but the most dangerous nineteen had been identified in bright red, the untargeted stragglers becoming a dull rust color. Hopefully, those ships would turn north to assemble with Battlegroup Two, or lose heart and head home. If they were foolish enough to try to search for the shooting submarine, they would not succeed, and would soon grow discouraged. There were more torpedoes in case one of the untargeted carried a dipping sonar, but odds were the survivors would be far out matched, and they carried no cruise missiles to endanger India in any case.

“Firing point procedures,” Dixon announced. “High value heavies one through nineteen, time-on-target attack, torpedo salvo with tubes one through four with reloads to fire units one through thirteen, Vortex battery firing missiles one through four, and Javelin ship killer cruise missiles last, units one and two.”

“Ship ready,” Kingman reported.

“Weapons ready,” Lieutenant Commander Jay Taussig, the weapons officer, reported.

“Solution ready,” Phillips snapped.

“Cyclops ready,” the computer said in its calm voice.

“Cyclops, take charge of the torpedo room, all tubes and all weapons, and shoot on programmed bearing,” Dixon barked. He had never given this order other than in exercises, and inside the firecontrol gloves, his hands shook. “Take charge of the torpedo room, all tubes and all weapons, and shoot on programmed bearing, Cyclops, aye,” the computer replied, the system’s cadence now faster, sounding almost excited — a recent improvement to the software since the computer’s calmness during a casualty or a battle situation was out of context and irritating. “All systems nominal at launch minus sixty seconds.”

There was nothing to do but wait, Dixon thought.

“Launch minus thirty seconds, Captain,” Cyclops said rapidly. “Water round torpedo tank air ram bottle pressurizing. Air ram bottle fully pressurized. Units one and two on internal power. Units one and two, firecontrol solution locked in. Launch minus ten seconds.”

Dixon bit his lip. This was the point of no return.