Voyage of the Devilfish

Rapier was overdue for command of his own boat but his replacement was late. He leaned over Lieutenant Stokes’ shoulder.

Stokes sat at the central-fire control console. Position Two, and stared intently at the screen as if willing his dotstack of sonar data to line up. But the sonar sensor was passive — it only listened and gave the bearing or direction of the enemy sub, not its range, course or speed. At the base of the screen were knobs that could dial in trial enemy ranges, speeds and courses — the combination of range/course/speed of the enemy submarine making up the “solution.” It was found by driving the Devilfish back and forth and seeing the effect on the bearing to the target. With the computer to help. Lieutenant Stokes could dial in any number of guesssolutions, but he started from a reasonable one and refined until the bearing dotstack was vertical.

It all worked fine when the target stayed on course. When he zigged, only an expert like Stokes could reach out with his intuition and capture the target’s motion. Finally the dotstack was vertical and Stokes announced his arrival at a solution: “XO, I have a solution.” From Stokes, a fiery ex-football player from western Kentucky, it came out, Eh-yecks Zoh, ah’ve a slooshun.

“Time-bearing, what’s the status?” the XO said.

“XO, gotta curve, bearing-rate right, range… ten thousand yards,” Ensign Fasteen reported from a manual-plot board. The XO immediately reported it to Pacino: “Captain, we have a curve and a firing solution.”

“Firing-point procedures,” Pacino announced again! “horizontal salvo, first fired unit, tube one.” He paused a moment, then said, “C’mon, guys, let’s get these fish out. Target One may detect us at any moment and zig again. Okay, first fired unit, shoot on generated bearing,” Pacino ordered, starting to feel intensely alive, and sweating. This was the point of no return.

“Set,” Stokes said, sending the final solution to the firing panel and to the weapon in tube one.

“Stand by.” Bahnhoff, on the firing panel, taking his trigger lever all the way to the left, the “Standby” position.

“SHOOT,” Pacino commanded.

“Fire,” Bahnhoff said, taking the trigger level all the way to the right, to the “Fire” position.

The whole ship jumped and a booming roar slammed the eardrums of all twenty-one men in the control room. Pacino’s white teeth, upper and lower, were all visible. This was a sweet sound, the crash of a torpedo launch.

“Tube one fired electrically, Captain,” Bahnhoff reported, resetting his panel to address the weapon in tube two.

“Conn, Sonar,” the sonar chief’s voice came into Pacino’s headpiece. “Own ship’s unit, normal launch.”

Pacino looked at the digital chronometer. The thirtysecond interval was coming up quickly. ‘Tube two, shoot on generated bearing.”

“Set.”

“Stand by.”

“SHOOT.”

“FIRE.” Again the explosive pressure slammed the crew’s eardrums.

‘Tube two fired electrically, sir,” Bahnhoff reported.

“Conn, Sonar, second fired unit, normal launch.” In the ocean outside the skin of the Devilfish, two highspeed Hullbuster torpedoes screamed in the direction not of the enemy submarine but toward a point in the sea where the enemy sub was calculated to be six minutes ahead. The control room crew was quiet, waiting for the torpedoes to go active. From this point on the weapons were “units”— friendly weapons launched by “own ship.”

“Torpedo” was a threat launched by the enemy. Pacino watched the third firecontrol console, Pos Three, waiting for the torpedo to report its status. Three minutes later Pos Three’s status indicator blinked that the first fired unit had gone active, pinging a sonar beam forward as it tried to see the enemy a mile ahead, and if it did it would go after it at maximum speed of 50 knots. No matter what the target did, as long as the unit had fuel the target had had it. № 30-knot or 35-knot submarine could outrun a 50-knot Hullbuster. But if the enemy detected the unit and zigged before the unit went active, he might escape.

“Conn, Sonar, Target One’s screw is cavitating… he’s speeding up… definite target zig. Target One. Captain, he’s detected the first fired unit and he’s running. Max speed.”

“Damn,” Pacino muttered. “Helm, right fifteen degrees rudder, steady course north, all ahead standard. XO, you’ve got a one minute lag to get a new curve and steer the weapons. After that it’ll be too late.”

“Working it, Cap’n,” Rapier replied. At least the target hadn’t yet fired a weapon in response. Not yet, anyway.