was a move calculated to attract the admiration of the Americans, and some-
thing of a surprise in the close space between the two carriers. In a matter of
seconds, the Japanese destroyers had smartly reversed course, now heading
west at thirty knots, and overtaking the carriers they had only a moment
before approached from the other direction. A few people on the bridge crew
whistled approval at the ship-handling skills. Already the rails on all four of
the Aegis destroyers were cleared.
“Well, that was pretty sharp,” Sanchez commented, looking down at his
documents again.
USS John Stennis was steaming normally, all four of her propellers turn-
ing at vorpm, with Condition-Three set. That meant that all spaces were
manned with the exception of the embarked air wing, which had stood down
after several days on higher activity. There were lookouts arrayed around the
island structure, for the most part looking in their assigned areas of responsi-
bility, though all had sneaked at least one long look at the Japanese ships,
because they were, after all, different from the U.S. ships. Some used hand-
held 7 x 50 marine binoculars, many of Japanese manufacture. Others
leaned on far more massive 20 x 120 “Big Eyes,” spotting binoculars,
which were mounted on pedestals all around the bridge.
Admiral Sato was not sitting down in his command chair, though he was
holding his binoculars up. It was a pity, really. They were such proud, beau-
tiful ships. Then he remembered that the one to port was Enterprise, an an-
cient name in the United States Navy, and that a ship that had borne the
name before this one had tormented his country, escorting Jimmy Doolittle
to the Japanese coast, fighting at Midway, Eastern Solomons, Santa Cruz,
and every other major fleet engagement, many times hit, but never severely.
The name of an honored enemy, but an enemy. That was the one he’d watch.
He had no idea who John Stennis had been.
Mutsu had passed well beyond the carriers, almost reaching the trailing
plane-guard destroyers’before turning, and the overtake now seemed dread-
fully slow. The Admiral wore his white gloves, and held his binoculars just
below the rail, watching the angle to the carrier change.
“Bearing to Target One is three-five-zero. Target Two bearing now zero-
one-zero. Solution light,” the petty officer reported. The Isso wondered
what was going on and why, most of all wondered how he might live to tell
this tale someday, and thought that probably he would not.
“I’ll take it now,” the ops officer said, sliding into the seat. He’d taken
the time to acquaint himself with the torpedo director. The order had already
been given, and all he’d needed was the light. The officer turned the key in
the enable-switch lock, flipped the cover off the button for the portside array,
and pressed. Then he did the same for the starboard side.
The three-tube mounts on both sides of the ship snapped violently out-
board to an angle of about forty degrees off the centerline. The hemispheri-
cal weather covers on all six tubes popped off. Then the “fish” were
launched by compressed air, diving into the water, left and right, about ten
seconds apart. The propellers were already turning when they were ejected
into the sea, and each trailed control wires that connected them to Mutsu’s
Combat Information Center. The tubes, now empty, rotated back to their
standby position.
“Fuck me!” a lookout said on Johnnie Reb.
“What was that, Cindy?”
“They just launched a tuckin’ fish!” she said. She was ,\ |x-ti(e seaman
(thai term hadn’t changed yet) apprentice, only eighteen years old, on her
first ship, and was learning profanity to fit in with the saltier members of the
crew. Her arm shot out straight. “I saw him launch-there!”
“You sure?” the other nearby lookout asked, swinging his Big Lyes
around. Cindy had only hand-helds.
The young woman hesitated. She’d never done anything like this before,
and wondered what her chief might do if she were wrong.” Bridge, Lookout
Six, the last ship in the Jap line just launched a torpedo!” The way things
were set up on the carrier, her announcement was carried over the bridge
speakers.
One level down, Bud Sanchez looked up. “What was that?”
“Say again, Look-Six!” the OOD ordered.
“I said I saw that Jap destroyer launch a torpedo off her starboard
side!”
“This is Look-Five. I didn’t see it, sir,” a male voice said.
“I fucking saw it!” shouted a very excited young female voice, loudly
enough that Sanchez heard this exclamation over the air, rather than on the
bridge speakers. He dropped his papers, jumped to his feet, and sprinted out
the door to the lookout gallery. The Captain tripped on the steel ladder, rip-
ping his pants and bloodying one knee, and was swearing when he got to the
lookouts.
“Talk to me, honey!”
“I saw it, sir, I really did!” She didn’t even know who Sanchez was, and
the silver eagles on his collar made him important enough to frighten her
even worse than the idea of inbound weapons, but she had seen it and she
was standing her ground.
“I didn’t see it, sir,” the senior seaman announced.
Sanchez trained his binoculars on the destroyer, now only about two thou-
sand yards away. What . . . ? He next shoved the older seaman off the Big
Eyes and trained them in on the quarterdeck of the Japanese flagship. There
was the triple-tube launcher, trained in as it should be …
… but the fronts of the tubes were black, not gray. The weather covers
were off… Without looking, Captain Rafael Sanchez ripped the phones off
the senior lookout.
“Bridge, this is CAG. Torpedoes in the water! Torpedoes inbound from
port quarter!” He trained the glasses aft, looking for trails on the surface but
seeing none. Not that it mattered. He swore violently and stood back up to
look at Seaman-Apprentice Cynthia Smithers. “Right or wrong, sailor, you
did just fine,” he told her as alarms started sounding all over the ship. Only a
second later, a blinker light started flashing at Johnnie Reb from the Japa-
nese flagship.
“Warning, warning, we just had a malfunction, we have launched several
torpedoes,” Mutsu’s CO said into the TBS microphone, shamed by the lie as
he listened to the open talk-between-ships FM circuit.
“Enterprise, this is Fife, there are torpedoes in the water,” another loud
voice proclaimed even more loudly.
‘ ‘Torpedoes-where?”
“They’re ours. We have a flash fire in CIC,” Mutsu announced next.
“They may be armed.” Stennis, he saw, was turning already, the water boil-
ing at her stern with increased power. It wouldn’t matter, though with luck
nobody would be killed.
“What do we do now, sir?” Smithers asked.
“A couple of Hail Marys, maybe,” Sanchez replied darkly. They were
ASW torpedoes, weren’t they? Little warheads. They couldn’t really hurt
something as big as Johnnie Reb, could they? Looking down at the deck,
people were up and running now, mainly carrying their sunbathing towels as
they raced to their duty stations.
“Sir, I’m supposed to report to Damage Control Party Nine on the hangar
deck.”
“No, stay right here,” Sanchez ordered. “You can leave,” he told the
other one.
John Stennis was heeling hard to port now. The radical turn to starboard
was taking hold and the deck rumbled with the sudden increase of power to
her engines. One nice thing about the nuclear-powered carriers. They had
horses to burn, but the ship weighed over ninety thousand tons and took her
time accelerating. Enterprise, less than two miles away, was slower on the
trigger, just starting to show turn now. Oh, shit. . .
“Now hear this, now hear this, stream the Nixie!” the OOD’s voice
called over the speakers.
The three Mark 50 antisubmarine torpedoes heading toward Stennis were
small, smart instruments of destruction designed to punch small, fatal holes
into submarine hulls. Their ability to harm a ship of ninety thousand tons
was small indeed, but it was possible to choose which sort of damage they
would inflict. They were spaced about a hundred meters apart, racing for-
ward at sixty knots, each guided by a thin insulated wire. Their speed advan-
tage over the target and the short range almost guaranteed a hit, and the
turn-away maneuver undertaken by the American carrier merely offered the
ideal overtake angle because they were all targeted on the screws. After trav-
eling a thousand yards, the seeker head on the first “fish” went active. The
sonar picture it generated was reported back to Mutsu’s CIC as a violently
bright target of yellow on black, and the officer on the director steered it
straight in, with the other two following automatically. The larnct area grew
closer. Eight hundred meters, seven, six …
“I have you both,” the officer said. A moment later the sonar picture
showed the confused jamming from the American Nixie decoy, which mim-