Voyage of the Devilfish

“Fire!” the Weapons Officer called, punching the fixedfunction key. For the second time that morning the ship shuddered, and for the second time Captain Krakov’s eardrums popped. Before Krakov could ask if the weapon was away, the pressure pulse of seawater had started the ejection of the waterproof canister holding the SSN-X-27 nuclear-tipped cruise missile. As the missile travelled the length of Vladivostok’s number-four torpedo tube, the missile’s accelerometers tied into the central processors reported the launch acceleration.

Two g’s. Twenty meters per second squared. The missile’s onboard computer compared the two g’s with the setting engraved in its read-only-memory software. The setting was 1.8 g’s. The onboard computer recorded its satisfaction. And armed the rocket-motor igniter. Destination: Norfolk.

USS BILLFISH

Toth’s “snapshot” order was an automatic-action command, a quick reaction torpedo shot usually used only when fired on by a hostile submarine. It had been worked out for times when battle stations were not manned and only the OOD and firecontrol technician were on hand. Ironically, the snapshot tactic had been derived from several detailed studies of Russian submarine tactics. Without further orders. Lieutenant Culverson switched Pos One to line-of-sight mode and twisted the solution knobs to match the bearing and rate to Target One, then moved two steps aft to Pos Three and keyed the weapon in tube one to accept the solution. Set! Culverson said to himself. The Chief of the Watch had picked up the P.A. Circuit One system mike and shouted into it, distorting the announcement.

“SNAPSHOT TUBE THREE!”

The P.A. Circuit One order was for the torpedomen so they would know why one of their tubes was being remotely fired. It notified sonar, so the sonar technicians could prepare to track the weapon. And it automatically manned battle stations. Culverson reached for the trigger and rotated it to nine o’clock — the STANDBY position.

“Stand by!” he said, talking more to himself than to anyone in the control room. He pulled the trigger on the firing panel, set flush between the Pos Two and Pos Three consoles, past twelve o’clock to three o’clock — the FIRE position.

“Fire!” he called out. The deck jumped, the pressure-pulse of the torpedo room’s air-ram piston slammed the crew’s ears. With seeming detachment Toth checked the chronometer. Not bad. Culverson had pooped out the weapon in fourteen seconds. That had to be a COMSUBLANT record. The control room was already starting to fill with the battle stations watchstanders. Some looked haunted and grimly nervous, some simply drugged with sleep; the latter woke up quickly when they realized this was no drill.

“Conn, Sonar, own ship unit… normal launch,” Toth’s earpiece intoned. With the same odd detachment, Toth gave the next order, wondering briefly about his peculiar feelings, or lack of them, as if he were watching the scene from far away.

“Snapshot, tube four. Target One.” The same sequence happened, looking so similar it could have been an instant replay. Culverson hunched over the Pos Three console, still standing up, ready to steer the weapons.

“Conn, Sonar, own ship’s second fired unit, normal launch. First fired unit active, now homing. Second fired unit active.”

“Detect on one! Acquisition, unit one, sir!” Culverson was flushed. “Detect on two… detect… detect… acquisition, unit two, sir! Loss of wire-guide continuity on both, Skipper!” The first explosion rocked the ship, heeling the deck over to a 15-degree angle to starboard. The second explosion came as the ship was righting herself, preventing her from heeling over to port. Toth allowed himself the beginning of a smile. Until sonar came over his headset.

“Conn, Sonar, explosions from Target One and hull breakup… wait… Conn, we have… oh God, a rocket motor ignition from bearing to Target One!” Tom’s half-smile drooped into slack-mouthed shock. His snapshot had been too late to stop the AKULA’s missile-launch.

USS DEVILFISH

The impact of Devilfish’s collision with the OMEGA had thrown all twenty-one controlroom watchstanders into the overhead, Pacino included. A nasty cut showed on the Diving Officer’s forehead from flying up into the inboard induction manifold. Supply Officer Alan Crane was barely conscious, lying in an uncoordinated heap under the Time Bearing Plot table. Pacino was only bruised, he had grabbed a handhold on the Conn’s sonar console. The ship had rolled into an odd port-list with a severe aft-trim, canting the deck 20 degrees to port and 15 degrees aft, leaving the forward starboard corner of the room at least ten feet higher than the afterport corner. The room was eerily silent, except for a slight hiss from a leaking emergency air-manifold fitting. Pacino recovered first.

“Helm, all ahead full and cavitate,” he ordered. “Diving Officer, give me max down angle on the ship with fairwater and sternplanes.”