“Thank you.” Commander Don Strachan, captain of the Hopkins, kept his
voice level, conscious of the effect it would have on the men. He was a tall,
gangly man of thirty-nine, a native of Baltimore who’d begun his career as an
enlisted man because he’d not yet acquired the college credits necessary for
graduation. Strachan had gone on to get his degree, and an appointment to
OCS.
Now he stood on the bridge of his first command. His mouth twitched as
he remembered the wardroom discussions he’d had with some of his officers over
the merits of Perry FFGs. He didn’t like them, didn’t like the nasty tendency
they had to burn when hit by even one ship-killer. Well, now they were about
to find out just how the little ship could stand up to modern combat.
“Maneuvering, come left four-five. Make revolutions for thirty knots. Weps
Control. Stand by with chaff, starboard battery. Crank up R2, automatic
mode.” Unnecessarily, he added, “This one’s for real, people.”
Hopkins’s Close-in Weapons System–CIWS for short, commonly pronounced
“sea-whiz”–housed its own tracking radar, six-barreled Phalanx Gatling gun,
magazine, and control electronics inside a prominent, white-painted silo
fifteen feet high. Hence its other popular nickname, “R2D2.” The weapon was
mounted aft on Perry-class frigates, atop their helicopter hangars and
overlooking the fantail helo pad. By turning left slightly, Strachan was
giving the CIWS a clear view of the targets.
The only problem was, Phalanx had been designed as a last-ditch,
close-defense weapon, its effective range limited to about 2100 meters, less
than a mile and a half.
A cruise missile could cover that distance in a handful of seconds.
Modern warfare, Strachan reflected, was less and less a matter of men
fighting men, and more of machines versus machines. A battle consisted of
preparation and endless waiting … followed by a few stark and terrifying
seconds of activity, speeds, and responses too fast for human minds to
comprehend.
There was a flash to the east, and a streak of white smoke arrowed into
the sky.
“Winslow reports Sea Sparrow away,” DuPont reported from CIC.
“Damn! Too soon!” The John A. Winslow was another member of CBG-14, a
guided-missile destroyer cruising parallel to the Hopkins, some fifteen miles
to the east. Sea Sparrow was a surface-to-air missile with a range of only
about ten nautical miles. Winslow had just wasted an anti-air missile.
“Hold it a minute. Wait one.” There was a moment’s pause. “Captain,
Winslow reports a failure with their Mark 29. Accidental launch and the
launcher’s down. They’re out of it.”
Worse and worse, Sea Sparrow did not always work as advertised. More
than once during his naval career, Strachan had joined in with the hoots and
laughter when the bridge would announce a test launch, followed by a puff of
smoke and an embarrassed silence.
There was no laughter now. The tension grew palpably.
The minutes dragged by, punctuated by reports from Lieutenant Commander
DuPont, the TO in Hopkins’s Combat Information Center. During that time,
Hopkins clawed her way northward at top speed, interposing herself between the
missiles and their presumed target–the Jefferson.
“Lead missiles closing at one-eight miles,” DuPont’s voice announced.
There was a pause. “Jefferson reports Sea Sparrows ready for launch. They’re
tracking, range two-three miles.”
“Do we have a Standard lock yet?”
“Negative, sir. We … belay that! We’ve got it! Standard lock!”
“Sound the alarm.” The missile alert bell clanged for ten seconds, a
final warning to those on the forward deck to clear the area.
“Fire!”
Hopkins’s bridge lit up as the missile mounted on her forward deck
immediately below streaked into the sky on a column of flame and white smoke.
“Missile away,” CIC reported. “Reloading …”
Seconds dragged past, the wait drawing on with agonizing suspense.
“Standard missed.”
“Damn! Keep firing!”
Seconds later, another launch shooshed skyward from the forward deck,
streaking toward the eastern horizon. Strachan found himself holding his
breath.
“One-two miles.” There was a far-off flash at the horizon, like the
silent popping of a camera’s flashbulb. “Hit!” someone on the bridge yelled.
“We nailed the bastard!” Someone else cheered and was joined by two or three
others.
“Belay that!” Strachan called. “As you were!”