By Dawn's Early Light (27 page)

2344 GMT
SEAWOLF

“Conn, sonar, we're under attack. I have two high-speed screws incoming. Time to impact just under six minutes. Evaluate the weapons as the Swedish four-three-X-ohs.”

“What is our friend doing now?” Dillon asked.

“No changes in her aspect, Cap'n. She's still heading to the surface, same rate of ascent, making two knots.”

“Let me know if anything changes, would you, Ski?”

“Ah, yes, sir,” Zimenski said.

Brown, who was running the paper plot, looked away in embarrassment. He had warned the captain to come in behind sierra three's baffles.

“Looks as if our Kilo captain is a confident man,” Dillon told his crew.

“Captain, we have less than six minutes to do something,” Bateman suggested as diplomatically as he could. “Should we flood tubes one and two?”

“We have plenty of time,” Dillon said lightly. “Mr. Alvarez, come to all stop. Chief, zero our rise.”

His crew gave him a double take, but gave the orders. The multi-function display showed their speed and rate of ascent coming to zero.

“I wonder where they got the Swedish torpedoes,” Dillon mused. “They're not very fast, but they're sophisticated.” He shrugged. “We'll have to let Pearl figure that one out. Might even bounce it to the Pentagon. It'll end up being a political issue.”

By bringing
Seawolf
to a halt they were no longer heading toward the incoming torpedoes, which would give them a few extra seconds before impact. But dead in the water made it next to impossible for the incoming weapons to miss. And the window for Dillon to do something that would work was rapidly narrowing.

The one aspect that bothered him was what sierra three
wasn't
doing. The usual tactic was for the attacking CO to put the pedal to the metal after he launched and dive for the nearest thermocline in anticipation of a counterattack.

But then the Kilo's captain had to be wondering why the submarine that he'd fired on wasn't taking any evasive action of its own, or firing back.

This would probably go down as the most nonchalant attack in the history of the modern warfare, Dillon thought. At least the opening minutes were playing out that way.

“Charlie, flood tubes one and two, and open the outer doors, if you please,” he said.

“All right, sir,” a much-relieved Bateman said. He passed the order to the torpedo room.

“I want our shots offset, Mr. Jablonski. Two degrees right for the starboard torp, and one degree left for the port weapon.”

Jablonski looked up from his console, startled. “Excuse me, skipper, but our starboard torpedo will be a clear miss past sierra three's bows. The port fish will just miss her stern.”

“That's the idea,” Dillon said. “The bow shot is going to be a dud, and the stern shot will go off just aft of and a bit beyond her prop. I want to damage her, not kill her.”

Jablonski turned back to his console and adjusted a series of controls. “The presets are entered, skipper. Tubes one and two are ready to fire in all respects.”

Bateman was talking to sonar. “Two minutes to impact,” he said.

“Firing point procedures,” Dillon ordered.

“Completed,” Jablonski reported a moment later.

“Match bearings and shoot one and two.”

Jablonski scanned his indicators, then pressed the firing buttons on his console. Within seconds hydraulic rams ejected two Mark 48s into the water. The moment they cleared the bow, they went active and headed for the target.

“ECMs, this is the captain. Deploy the bubble makers and standby the Masker on my order.”

“Aye, aye, skipper.”

Canisters were ejected from amidships that made huge clouds of bubbles meant to confuse an incoming torpedo. In this case, since
Seawolf
was stationary, the rising bubbles would fool the incoming torpedoes' guidance systems into believing that their target was making a desperate dash for the surface.

“This will be close,” Bateman said. He reached up and grabbed a handhold.

Everyone else in the control room not strapped down did the same.

Dillon got on the 1MC. “Attention all hands, this is the captain. Brace yourself for two near-miss warshots.”

The first torpedo exploded somewhere aft and slightly above the fairweather, hammering the
Seawolf
so hard that she heeled ten degrees to starboard.

The second five-hundred-pound-high explosive warhead exploded directly forward of amidships in the area of the control room, but fifty feet above. This time the
Seawolf
was skidded sideways on her keel, The lights flickered, shut off, then came back on.

“ECMs, this is the captain. Release the Masker now,” he ordered. He turned to Bateman. “Damage reports, please.”

2351 GMT
KILO 2606

The Kilo was hard over on her port side, accelerating as she turned and headed for the thermocline two hundred meters below. Zahedi had given the order to bug out when
Seawolf
launched her two fish.

“Our first weapon was a miss, but the second appears to be a solid hit,” an excited Samsong reported.

“Give me verification,” Zahedi ordered patiently.

“Sir, I am hearing damage noises,” the chief sonar operator said. “Some compartments are flooding, and I can hear machinery sounds that mean whatever it is was knocked off its noise suppression mountings. And I think that I'm hearing fire alarms. Maybe even someone shouting.”

“Is the boat sinking?” Zahedi demanded.

“No, but she is dead in the water.”

“How long before the incoming weapons impact?”

“Two minutes,” Samsong replied, his voice rising in pitch.

Zahedi turned to his electronic countermeasures officer. “Release noisemakers.”

“Wait, Captain,” Samsong came back. “The first torpedo is starting to veer left. He'll pass well in front of our bow. Maybe their weapons console sent a faulty signal after our torpedo hit. But it will be a miss.”

“What about the other one?” Zahedi asked. His blood was rising. He'd never been fired at in anger.

“It's veering right, but not so much,” Samsong said. “It will be very close, Captain.”

“Are the noisemakers deployed?” Zahedi demanded.

“Yes, Captain. They are in the water and functioning normally,” his ECMs officer responded.

Zahedi did the geometry in his head. Torpedo two was coming in at an angle aft of 2606's starboard beam. It would either just miss them aft, or just hit in the area of their stern, which could destroy their means of steering and propulsion.

“Come right ninety degrees,” he shouted at his XO.

Ki issued the order and they slowly came back to an even keel and then started to list to starboard.

“The first torpedo is past our bows,” Samsong called out. “The second…this will be close…impact now!”

They heard the high-pitched whine of the American torpedo's screw passing to their stern.

Zahedi was about to breathe a sigh of relief when the Mark 48 exploded directly behind them. He was knocked to his knees. His head smashed into the under section of the attack periscope's case. He saw stars. When he reached up to touch his head, his fingers came away bloody.

Ki came over and helped him to his feet.

“Get back to your post,” Zahedi snarled. He was embarrassed. He snatched the growler phone. “Engineering, this is the captain. What's your situation?”

“We're taking water around the stuffing box, but it's nothing we can't handle,” Stalnov shouted. There was a lot of machinery noise back there. “Our biggest problem is the prop. At least two of the blades are bent. I can't guarantee anything over three or four knots. And even at that we might throw a shaft bearing that will shut us down totally.”

“What about some good news?” Zahedi asked.

“Our rudder is intact, but she's going to be a bastard to steer. The rudder shaft is also bent. On top of that I'd guess that the laser's mirror alignments are way out. I suggest that you get us home, Cap'n. If you can.”

“Is there no way of fixing the laser?” It was impossible to believe that he had failed.

“Not out here,” the chief engineer said.

“Try!” Zahedi screamed.

“No, Captain. It is impossible, I tell you. Get us home, or kill us.”

Zahedi closed his eyes for a moment. He was still seeing stars. He switched to sonar. “This is the captain. What's sierra six doing now? Is she sinking?”

“No, sir. She's lying dead in the water. But, Cap'n, it sounds like they're trying to load another torpedo.”

“I thought you said that we hit their control room,” Zahedi shouted.

“Yes, sir. But maybe they can fire their weapons from the torpedo room. I don't know, sir. All I know is that I'm picking up what sounds like loading noises.”

Zahedi hung up the phone. He looked at his XO and shook his head. If he'd had his own crew none of this would have happened. “We're done for now,” he said. “We have crippled the American submarine. She's dead in the water, so she can't follow us. But her torpedo crew is trying to launch another attack on us. And our laser is no longer functional.” He shook his head in an effort to keep on track, not to go wild. He wanted to hit something. “Mr. Ki, take us home, best possible speed and course.”

“But, Captain, shouldn't we stay and fight?” Ki asked. His tone was insinuating. “The American submarine, as you say, is damaged. We still have weapons.”

“You don't understand, you idiot! The fact that we hit them, and they missed us, was one chance in a million. Our propeller and rudder are damaged. As it is we will be very lucky to get away with our lives, and only if we leave immediately.” He wanted to smash Ki in the face. “Get us out of here. Now!”

“Aye, Captain,” Lieutenant Commander Ki said, an expression of contempt on his round features.

2358 GMT
SEAWOLF

“Sounds like he's got a damaged prop,” Dillon said, holding the earphones close.

“Definitely an asymetrical flow,” Zimenski concurred. “She'll be lucky to make three knots.”

“Is she bugging out?”

“Yes, sir. Range is eleven thousand yards and opening. Course is—” Zimenski adjusted his equipment, then looked up in surprise. “One-five-zero, Cap'n. She's not going to Pakistan or Iran. She's heading south, for the Andaman Sea.”

“We're going to follow them, Ski. How far back can I put us and still make it close enough for you to maintain a solid contact?”

“With the noise she's making, forty thousand yards, Cap'n.”

“We'll stay here for one hour before we head out,” Dillon said. “But once we're in the groove, you
will
take the next two watches off. And that's an order, sailor.”

Zimenski was grinning ear to ear. “Aye, aye, skipper.”

At the door, Dillon turned back. “Damned fine job, Ski. Even Jonesy couldn't have done it better.”

There couldn't have been a greater compliment.

Dillon went back to the control room. “Good job, gentlemen. Sierra three is damaged and presumably heading home. To the southeast.”

He let that sink in.

Brown was plotting the Kilo's new course and speed.

“Secure from battle stations, torpedo,” Dillon told his XO. “We'll stay right here for the next hour, and then we're going to follow her.”

He called ECMs. “Secure from Masker. Good job back there.” Masker was a specialized noisemaking program emitted from the bow sonar dome that simulated a submarine in trouble.

“Thank you, skipper.”

“They were in the Kilo's baffles so she would be deaf to anything aft. That was made doubly so by all the noise her damaged propeller was making. She would have trouble detecting a freight train roaring in on top of her.”

“I want my officers in the wardroom in ten minutes,” Dillon told his XO. He got on the 1MC. “All hands, this is the captain. We're in the clear for now. Well done, gentlemen. Tonight is steak night.”

He turned back to his XO. “Have Lieutenant Jackson join us in the wardroom.”

“Will do,” Bateman said.