“Take her down, Mr. Kyle,” Wolfe ordered. “Helm, come to
three-five-five. Engine room, crank up the revs as far as they’ll go. Let
off some more countermeasures as she turns. Go!”
It was as if he could feel Bangor twisting and turning in the water
trying to escape the deadly torpedo. Wolfe grabbed a stanchion as the sub
angled down and tilted sharply to port. He thought he heard Guzman saying a
prayer under his breath, and wanted to add one of his own.
The sound of the torpedo’s screw as it raced past the Bangor was loud,
louder even than the continued sonar pinging from the Soviet ships above.
“Yes!” someone shouted as the torp passed them by, the propeller noise fading
away.
“Change in aspect,” Wells reported over the tannoy. “It’s turning …
turning … I think it’s locking onto the noisemakers …”
The sub was leveling now, and Wolfe thought about breathing a sigh of
relief. But it was too soon for that.
Shock waves slammed into the stern of the boat, shocking Bangor. Wolfe
gripped the stanchion for balance, but Guzman wasn’t so lucky. The Exec
staggered sideways and barely stayed upright. “One torp down,” he said,
looking pale. Before he could go on he was interrupted.
“Torp in the water! Torp! Bearing zero-one-three!” the control room
sonarman said breathlessly. There was a pause. “Two … three … Three
torps, same bearing! Goddamn! These bastards mean business!”
Jason Wolfe closed his eyes. This time he did pray.
“Twenty meters,” the diving officer announced. “And eighteen … fifteen
…”
“More torps! More torps! Bearing two-one-six! Closing!”
This time the torpedoes did not miss.
The first one smashed squarely into the submarine’s bow, shattering the
radar and sonar housings and flooding the forward torpedo room. Emergency
klaxons blared warning, sailors scrambled for safety behind watertight doors,
and the sub’s Diving Officer struggled to maintain trim.
In the midst of the desperate fight for survival the second torpedo
struck home amidships, just below the sail. Water flooded the control room,
sweeping Lieutenant Commander Tomas Guzman against a bulkhead with enough
force to cave in his skull. Somehow Wolfe managed to stay on his feet through
the torrent, but in the end it didn’t matter.
By the time the third torp hit, Bangor was already on her way to the
bottom. Her shattered hulk settled in the cold, shallow waters.
2338 hours Zulu (2338 hours Zone)
Tomcat 204, Odin Flight
Five miles south of U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson
Batman Wayne checked his instruments anxiously for what must have been
the tenth time since his Tomcat had topped off its tanks from an orbiting
Texaco. This was the part of an Alpha Strike that always frayed most at his
nerves. It wasn’t the battle, or even the approach to battle, that got to
him, but the long wait for the diverse elements of the attacking forces to get
aloft and assemble.
He was eager to get on with it, but at that same time he recognized that
this time out they were facing a top-of-the-line opponent. Viper Squadron had
been mauled by the Russians last time, and any desire to even the score was
counterbalanced by the knowledge that none of them might be as lucky the
second time around as they’d been the day CAG bought it.
“Two-oh-four, Two-oh-three,” Coyote’s voice said over the radio. Grant
was flying Tomcat 203, since his regular plane was now at the bottom of the
Atlantic. “Double-check your Phoenixes, Batman.”
“Roger,” he acknowledged. Coyote was obviously worried. The Phoenix
missiles would be critical to Viper Squadron’s mission, but it wouldn’t help
to check them again now. They weren’t in a position to ask a red shirt to
take care of a problem.
Then he chuckled. Grant’s request wasn’t that much different from
Batman’s constant double-checking of his own instruments.
He hadn’t really expected Coyote to fly this one. He should have stayed
in Sick Bay. But Batman was glad he’d decided to fly. Thanks to Coyote the
Vipers weren’t going to be relegated to BARCAP after all. Instead they had a
key role to play in the attack. And anyway, Wayne told himself, it was bad