The Passage (64 page)

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Authors: David Poyer

BOOK: The Passage
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“Gotcha, sir.”
“And get that goddamned weapons-control module loaded. Right now.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
He turned from their hostile eyes, satisfied now they'd obey. It shouldn't take that long to write the routine. With ACDADS running, they could face a wave of missiles with some hope of surviving, protecting the carrier, then striking back.
Then the 1MC speaker on the bulkhead hissed and popped, snapping their heads around. Only emergency word was passed after taps, and it was almost midnight. For a second, they heard nothing but frenzied cries. Then the clang of the alarm, followed by BM1 Casworth's voice, strangely high-pitched, as Dan had never heard it before.
“Now general quarters, general quarters. All hands, man your battle stations. This is
not
a drill.”
A
S he reached Combat, he expected the sound level to be high. And true, every radio circuit was crackling, every Teletype clattering. But it wasn't noise. Data was coming in, being processed, going out. There was a continual rapid murmur from the console operators, the tapping of keys, but no shouting, no running, no confusion. Thanks, Gitmo, Dan thought. Whatever was happening, they were ready.
He reached Shuffert at the same moment Vysotsky did. “What's happening?” the XO snapped.
“Trying to find out, sir, but I think
Dahlgren's
been hit.”
“Hit!” Dan instinctively marked the time: 2343.
“That's a guess, sir. I'm trying to confirm.” Shuffert reached for the 21MC. “Bridge, Combat: Anything from
Dahlgren
yet?”
“No answer on the tactical net. Ditto fleet common.”
“Have the signal bridge try them flashing light.”
“We're supposed to be running dimmed, Shoe.”
“Use the infrared filter. And keep the lookouts alert; we could be next duck up at the shooting range.”
“Bridge aye.” The intercom clicked off.
“Who sounded GQ? Why?” Vysotsky demanded.
Shuffert blinked rapidly. “I did, sir. We were night steaming, everything same as when you were here, Dan. Then suddenly we got a voice report.
Canisteo
saw a streak of fire go past them. Off to the north at first, then it moved south, across the formation, they said. Then our lookout reported a flash from the direction of
Dahlgren.”
“Combat, Bridge: No answer from
Dahlgren
to flashing-light query. Also, we can't pick up running lights on them anymore.”
Dan hit the key twice, acknowledging, as the tactical circuit
speaker said in a deliberate bass, “Foxtrot Uniform, this is Whiskey Foxtrot. Over.”
Clicking his eyes to the call-sign board, Dan confirmed that “Whiskey Foxtrot” was CTF 142, the task force commander, and that he was calling
Dahlgren.
Could even be Admiral Larson on the circuit. But whoever it was, the other destroyer didn't answer.
“NTDS?” Vysotsky grated.
“Sir,
Dahlgren'
s dropped out. She's not responding to the network query.”
“Do we still have radar video?”
“Yes, sir, she's still there, but she's not transmitting.”
Dan swung on Hiltz. “EW, what you got?”
“No threat signatures, no seekers, sir. I've been going up and down the spectrum.”
Leighty came in as the 21MC said, “Combat, Bridge: All stations report manned and ready.” He snapped, “Hiltz! Any rackets?”
“None, sir. Mr. Lenson just asked me that.”
“Anything on the long-range plot?”
“Air plot, negative contacts, sir.”
“And no one's reported any submarine contacts.”
“No, sir,” said Dan. Just then, the tactical circuit intoned, “All stations Alfa X-ray, this is Whiskey Foxtrot. Message follows; execute to follow.”
“Copy it; copy it,” Leighty said.
“Echo November One tack two. Foxtrot corpen nuco juliet alfa, juliet sierra, bravo victor. Tack. Zulu X-ray two tack three. Over.”
Lauderdale, from the darkness: “Captain, I break that: Prepare for enemy attack. Coming to flight course one-three-zero. Formation course one-three-zero, speed twenty-seven. Preparing to launch aircraft.”
“She's getting her strike off.”
“Roger it, somebody.”
Dan grabbed the handset, but just then Van Cleef's voice said from the bridge, “This is Delta Tango; roger, out.”
The deliberate voice came over the air again, repeated the message, then said, “Standby, execute.”
Dan touched Shuffert's arm. “Okay, I've got it. Go take the AAWC.” The black officer nodded, tapped Chief Alaska's back, slid into his seat in front of the antiair-weapons-coordinator console. Dan swung himself into the TAO chair as Leighty hit the 21MC. “Bridge, this is the captain. Get moving; get around to the new course. Keep a sharp eye on the carrier. Use left rudder to come around—that is,
left
rudder.”
“Bridge aye, sir. Left rudder, coming to one-three-zero.”
Leighty, standing in the middle of the compartment, was speaking
rapidly in a low voice, almost as if to himself. “All right. First things first. Dan, get on the HF command net—”
The HICOM was a high-frequency channel that went direct to the fleet commander. But even as Leighty spoke, it crackled into life. “Flash, flash, flash,” said the same deliberate voice that had just put out the message on the tactical circuit. “All stations this net, this is Alfa X-ray, Station Papa in the Gulf of Mexico. Radiant. I say again, Radiant; time twenty-three fifty-one Romeo.” It repeated the message and authenticated it. Two stations confirmed receipt, the single-sideband transmissions making them sound as if they were talking through a flute.
“Dan, are our Phalanxes in automatic? All weapons stations manned? As soon as we have a clue where that missile came from, I want a Harpoon out there.”
“Aye, aye, sir. CIWS is in automatic mode. Sir, based on the fact that we have no air or surface contacts in range, I call that as a submarine-launched missile. Victors aren't supposed to have them, but our intel could be wrong. I recommend all screen units go to active search.”
“Okay, do it.”
He put the word out through Kessler, at the ASW console. A moment later, the outgoing sonar pulse sang through the nowvibrating fabric of the leaning ship. He glanced at the rudder-angle indicator above his head, to find it at left full.
“Combat, Bridge:
Lexington
is launching aircraft.”
It's started, he thought. There was no time to think it, but the knowledge filtered between the race of precautions, reactions, orders he had to give. A knowledge that obliterated everything else, that condensed a numb dread into his bones.
Radiant
was the proword for “I am under surprise attack.” The equivalent of “Air raid, Pearl Harbor.” Now the bombers and escort fighters were catapulting off
Lexington'
s decks toward the Soviet battle group.
They were at war.
Yet something was missing. The screens were blank, where there should, by all rights, be a coordinated wave of missiles overwhelming and obliterating their defenses. All the tactical references and briefings, the discussions and drills agreed. The Soviets didn't have the command and control to feint and maneuver. They'd open battle with a single crushing mass assault. The first blow had descended; surprise had been complete—but where were the other missiles? He stared at the plot, thoughts skittering across its surface as across ice, seeking a purchase but finding none. A one-shot attack made no tactical sense.
“Sir,” said Mallon from the big SSWC scope.
“Dahlgren'
s turning.”
“Say what?”
The petty officer put his finger on the pip. “Coming around to the new course. Lagging behind, but they're not dead in the water.”
“They've still got power, steering control, then.”
“But something hit them. That flash. Then they dropped all their comms.”
The beep and squeal of the scrambled circuit caught his ear. He reached up to adjust the volume as a breathless voice said, “CTF One forty-two, this is
Voge,
over.”
“CTF, over, make your transmission short.”
“This is
Voge,
reporting accidental launch. Over.”
“CTF One forty-two, say again, over.”
“This is
Voge,
reporting accidental launch of one of our Sparrow missiles. It is … possible that the missile impacted USS
Dahlgren.”
“Oh Christ,” Dan heard somebody whisper. He couldn't see who. “Christ,” the voice said louder. It was Vysotsky.
“This is CTF One forty-two.” A pause, then the same voice again, but gone hard: “Investigate and report back as soon as possible. Out.”
Several minutes later, just past midnight,
Voge
came back up. She confirmed that one of her RIM-7E Sea Sparrow missiles had been fired accidentally on an approximate bearing of 215. They were investigating to determine the cause. Glancing at the maneuvering-board sketch of the formation taped by the TAO's chair, Dan said, “That could put it on
Dahlgren
all right.”
“Oh my God.”
They stood and sat frozen in place around the slanting, vibrating space. Dan knew they could still be under attack, the word from Voge could be wrong. But presently, Larson—it had to be him—came back on the HICOM and canceled his Radiant message. He added a code group that Dan didn't recognize but that must mean “equipment failure, accidental firing.” Dan didn't envy whoever had to account for this.
Canisteo
reported flames off her starboard quarter.
Not long after, Larson ordered
Barrett
alongside
Dahlgren
to investigate and report, rendering assistance as necessary.
 
 
HE was on the bridge when
Barrett
drew alongside, the helmsman warned to be ready to sheer away instantly if the other ship started to come around.
Dahlgren
had way on, but she was only making about ten knots. Calling in speed adjustments, micrometering the rudder a degree or two right or left, Leighty conned slowly up on her until the two ships rolled along together, side by side, less than a hundred yards apart.
The other destroyer was a long black mass lighted only by flame and the firefly searching of battle lanterns. The fire was centered in the high, slightly out-thrust bridge area. Then the wind blew the flames back, and he saw the sickening writhe of buckled plates, the gape of holes punched through the thin superstructure plating. There didn't seem to be any forward director.
“Flashing light from aft.”
He shifted his attention back along the dark length of the ship, to see a lamp blinking from abaft the after stack. He caught the last few letters:
A-T-I-O-N.
The signalman shouted down, “Signal from
Dahlgren.
‘I am still on station.'”
“That's after conn.”
“Their radios must be out.”
Dan had an idea. He went back inside and found the bridge-to-bridge walkie-talkie in the chart room. Sure enough, someone was calling them on Channel 13. “This is
Barrett,”
he said, turning the volume up so the others could hear, too.
“Ah, this is Lieutenant Abbott.” Dan remembered a huge soft hand gripping his, an indignant voice: “I resent comparin' me to some faggot. It's natural bein' black.” “I have control from emergency conn. I don't get any response from the bridge.”
“What happened, Lieutenant?”
“Ah, I don't know. I was down in Combat, getting ready to take over the watch. All at once, there's a hell of a blast. Guys go down, fragments come through the overhead. Power, lights, everything dies. I don't think there's anybody left on the bridge. They're fighting the fire up there now. I came back here to try to keep us in formation, fight the ship. We don't have any radars up, but if you can pass us oral designations, we can fire in local control.”
Dan thought about how to tell him, but to his relief Leighty took the radio out of his hands. “Lieutenant, formation course is now one-two-zero true. I believe that will be about one-two-four by your magnetic compass. Speed is twenty-seven, but I don't think we'll be at that much longer. You can secure your men from battle stations and turn everyone to, to fight the fire. We are not being attacked. You were struck by a missile from
Voge.
An accidental launch.”
“A what? Accidental—”
“Voge's
missing one of her Sparrows.
Canisteo
saw it crossing the formation in your direction. The guidance must have enabled and it guided into you.”
“Oh Christ.” The transmission clicked off and on. “All those guys blown away up there. You saying it was a screwup? Jake and Larry and Ming—all the guys, the lookouts—”
“Take it easy; we'll stay with you. If you need help, we'll put
people aboard. We will close in and get water on the fire from here. Go ahead and check, then call us back.
Barrett
out.”
A deep howl, a thundering rumble, and they looked up, to see five double cones of flame pass slowly between them and the stars. Then, spaced seconds apart, three more groups. The strike was orbiting while Larson decided whether to call it back aboard. Dan felt both sick and grateful. At least planes were recallable. If it had been missile-to-missile, their own salvo might already be on its way now, beyond recall. And the result … war by accident, wanted and intended by neither side.

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