Empire Rising (37 page)

“The reactor is critical.“

Christine glanced at Wilson again, wondering if something had gone wrong, but there was still no response from the submarine's Captain. Lieutenant Herndon noticed the concerned look on her face, and spoke softly. “That's normal,” she said. “It means the neutron fission rate in the core is self-sustaining, exactly where we want it. Neither too few fissions, eventually shutting down, nor too many, escalating out of control. Just like Goldilocks.” Herndon smiled, and Christine almost laughed at the unexpected simile.

A few minutes later, another report emanated from the speaker.
“The reactor is in the power range. Commencing reactor plant heat-up
.”

The minutes ticked away as the reactor plant increased temperature until another report came across the 2JV.
“Opening Main Steam One and Two.”

While the Engineering watch section worked quickly to bring up the electrical turbine generators, the emergency battle lanterns in Control continued to fade. Sonar was still down, and the combat control, navigation, and ship control consoles remained deenergized. The only indication of electronic life aboard
Michigan
was the Ballast Control Panel, the red and blue indicating lights casting an eerie glow on the Chief of the Watch's face. Another loud sonar ping penetrated
Michigan
's hull, followed by a report over the 2-JV speaker.

“The port and starboard turbine generators are ready for electrical loading.“

Upon hearing this report, the watchstanders in Control straightened in their seats, turning back toward their dark consoles, and one of the Fire Control Technicians cracked his knuckles in anticipation. A moment later, the bright white fluorescent lighting overhead flickered on and the emergency battle lanterns extinguished.

There was a chirp from the 2-JV circuit, and Lieutenant Herndon picked up the handset. “Conn. Officer of the Deck.”

“Conn, Maneuvering. The electric plant is in a normal full power lineup. Main Engine warm-up in progress.“

Herndon acknowledged, then turned toward Wilson, who ordered, “Secure the rig for reduced electrical.” Herndon passed the order, and moments later, the Control Room sputtered to life, start-up screens appearing on the combat control consoles. The Ship Control Panel illuminated, as well as a plethora of displays and indicators on the Conn, and the ventilation fans began blowing welcome warm air from the vents.

The XO turned to the Captain. “Sonar reports cold start-up in progress. Six minutes remaining.”

Wilson acknowledged, ordering Sonar to resume making reports over the 27-MC.

The combat control consoles completed their start-up before Sonar's, and the Weapons Officer peered over the Fire Control Technician's shoulder at the Weapon Launch Console, monitoring the status of their torpedoes. Weapons appeared in two of the submarine's four torpedo tubes. Tubes One and Two remained empty.

Wilson called out to the Weps, “Report status of Tubes One through Four.”

The Weps turned toward the Captain. “Tubes Three and Four are loaded, flooded down, outer doors open. Weapons powered up. Still reassembling the torpedoes for Tubes One and Two. Estimate twenty minutes before we're ready to load.”

Lieutenant Stewart's response was followed by a report over the 27-MC. “Conn, Sonar. Start-up complete. Hold a new contact, designated Sierra four-nine, bearing two-eight-zero. Analyzing.”

Sonar bearings appeared on three of the combat control consoles, and the two Fire Control Technicians and Lieutenant Cordero began manipulating the trackballs by their keyboards, their hands moving faster than Christine's eyes could follow. The men flipped through various multicolored graphical displays, adjusting the contact's course, speed, and range. Behind them, the submarine's Executive Officer reviewed the three different solutions, eventually tapping one of the Fire Control Technicians on the shoulder.

“Promote to Master.”

The Fire Control Technician complied as the Executive Officer read off the contact's estimated solution. “Sierra four-nine bears two-eight-five, range six thousand yards, course zero-one-zero, speed four.” The XO turned toward Wilson. “But's that's a rough solution. We'll have a better estimate once we can maneuver and drive bearing rate.”

“We'll come off the bottom once the main engines are ready,” Wilson replied.

As the XO acknowledged, the overhead lighting in Control flickered, followed by another announcement from the 2-JV speaker.

“Loss of vacuum, starboard main condenser.”

The report from the Engine Room was followed by the chirp of the 2-JV. Wilson retrieved the handset, and Christine listened to the conversation over the speaker.

“Conn. This is the Captain.”

“Captain, Engineer. The starboard main condenser is fouling and we've shifted to a half-power lineup on the port turbine generator. We need to come off the bottom so we can restore vacuum and bring up the starboard side of the Engine Room.”

“Understand,” Wilson replied. He replaced the handset, turning to Lieutenant Herndon. “Hover at seven-six-zero feet.”

Herndon gave the order. “Dive, engage Hovering. Set depth at seven-six-zero feet.”

The Dive relayed Herndon's order to the Chief of the Watch seated beside him, manning the Ballast Control Panel. The Chief dialed in 760 feet and energized the submarine's Hovering system. Blue circles illuminated on the Ballast Control Panel, indicating valves in the hull were opening. The Chief of the Watch called out periodically as the submarine's hovering pumps pushed water from
Michigan
's variable ballast tanks, increasing the submarine's buoyancy.

“Ten thousand pounds out.”

The Chief of the Watch reported every ten thousand pounds out, and at the forty-thousand mark,
Michigan
began tilting to port, righting itself from its starboard list as it lifted off the ocean floor. A sonar ping echoed through Control just as
Michigan
began drifting upward, a stark reminder that at least one Chinese submarine was still searching for them. Christine shivered involuntarily from the combined cold and nervousness. She didn't know how sophisticated the Chinese sonar systems were and whether they could detect a submarine hovering forty feet off the ocean floor, or whether
Michigan
would still look like a rock on the ocean bottom.

“On ordered depth, seven-six-zero feet,” the Dive announced.

Wilson removed the 2-JV handset from its holder. “Maneuvering, this is the Captain. We're forty feet off the bottom. Recover the starboard side of the Engine Room.”

The Engineering Officer of the Watch repeated back the Captain's order, and as Wilson slipped the handset into its holder, another sonar ping echoed through Control. Sonar followed up a few seconds later, the Sonar Supervisor's voice emanating from the speaker. “Active pings bearing two-nine-zero. Correlates to Sierra four-nine. Classified Yuan class submarine.”

The Executive Officer monitored the three men at their combat control consoles as they continued adjusting the contact's course, speed, and range. The contact solution was updated, followed by an announcement from the XO. “Hold Sierra four-nine on a course of zero-three-zero, speed three, range five thousand yards.”

Before Wilson could acknowledge, the Sonar Supervisor's voice echoed from the 27-MC speakers again. “Upshift in frequency, Sierra four-nine. Contact has zigged toward.”

Hands began moving again at the three combat control consoles as the operators updated their solution.

The Executive Officer called out, “Confirm target zig. Contact has maneuvered to a new course of one-one-zero.” The XO stopped behind Lieutenant Cordero, directing him to shift to the geographic display. After a quick glance at the target solution, the XO looked up at the Captain. The Yuan class submarine had turned directly toward them.

Wilson picked up the 7-MC microphone. “Maneuvering, Captain. How much longer before the starboard side of the Engine Room is recovered?”

“Captain, Engineer. Estimate five minutes.”

Another ping echoed through the Control Room, this one stronger than the previous ones. Wilson replaced the handset, his eyes scanning the combat control displays. Christine could feel the tension in the air, but the conversations in Control remained subdued. Lieutenant Cordero and the two Fire Control Technicians continued their target motion analysis, adjusting parameters, refining the target's new course, speed, and range.

After a moment, Wilson called out, “Designate Sierra four-nine as Master One. Firing Point Procedures, Master One, Tube Three. However,” Wilson added, “we will not shoot unless fired upon. We will continue hovering near the bottom and hope we look enough like a rock outcropping that Master One won't expend a torpedo to find out.”

As Wilson fell silent, the watchstanders began preparing to fire the torpedo in Tube Three. The Executive Officer stopped briefly behind each of the combat control consoles, examining the target solution on each one, finally tapping the middle Fire Control Technician. The Technician pressed a button on his console and the XO called out, “Solution Ready.”

The Fire Control Technician at the Weapon Launch Console sent the course, speed, and range of their target to their MK 48 torpedo in Tube Three, along with applicable search presets, and a few seconds later, the Weapons Officer announced, “Weapon Ready.”

Lieutenant Herndon followed up, reporting, “Ship Ready with the exception of full propulsion. Ready to answer bells on the port main engine only.”

Michigan
was cocked and ready, a single button push away from firing its torpedo.

*   *   *

Another sonar ping echoed through the Control Room, increased again in intensity. A report from Sonar followed shortly thereafter. “Sonar ping received at plus ten D-E. Corresponds to a depth of four hundred feet.”

There was bright white trace on
Michigan
's port beam, growing stronger by the minute. The XO cast frequent glances in Wilson's direction, waiting for the order to shoot. Christine knew what the XO was thinking. If they shot first, maybe they could surprise their target.

But that was risky. At this range, the Chinese submarine would detect
Michigan
's torpedo launch. Walsh's modified torpedoes weren't ready yet, and the Chinese submarine might have enough time to dud their unmodified torpedo, then return fire. Wilson's alternatives were to either shoot first and almost guarantee their own destruction, or sit tight and play the odds their target would pass by without firing. Neither option seemed to offer a high probability of survival.

Another sonar ping penetrated
Michigan
's hull, but this one was followed by two more pings in rapid succession. There was no visible reaction from Wilson, even though
Michigan
had apparently been detected and the Chinese submarine was refining its firing solution. A moment later, Wilson glanced at the clock above the Quartermaster's stand. It had been exactly five minutes since the Engineer's last update on the Engine Room start-up.

As if in response to Wilson's glance, the Engineer's voice emanated from the Conn speaker. “Conn, Maneuvering. Ready to answer all bells.” But before Wilson could respond to the Engineer's report, the Sonar Supervision's voice blared across the 27-MC.

“Torpedo launch transients from Master One, bearing two-nine-zero!”

Wilson shouted out, “Helm, ahead flank! Launch countermeasure!”

The Helm twisted the Engine Order Telegraph fully clockwise, and Christine felt the submarine's engines spring to life, sending tremors through the deck. A few seconds later, a Fire Control Technician manning one of the combat control consoles called out, “Countermeasure away!” The torpedo decoy was launched none too soon, because Sonar followed up with a second announcement.

“Torpedo in the water, bearing two-nine-zero!”

The XO turned in Wilson's direction, awaiting the order to counter-fire. However, Wilson simply stood there, evaluating the sonar display on the Conn. After a moment of silence, interrupted only by Sonar's updated bearing to the torpedo over the 27-MC, the Executive Officer spoke. “Sir, recommend counter-fire.”

“No,” Wilson replied. “It'll be a wasted shot unless we can get close enough so they don't have time to dud the torpedo.”

Wilson stepped off the Conn, stopping next to the Navigation table, examining the display. A bright white dot representing
Michigan
marched away from a scalloped circle annotating their torpedo decoy. A half-dozen red lines were drawn out from the submarine's track, recording the torpedo bearings called out by Sonar every ten seconds. Wilson attempted to determine whether the torpedo was headed toward
Michigan
or their decoy. It was difficult to assess because
Michigan
was still close to their countermeasure.

“Torpedo range, one thousand yards. Impact in one minute.”

Christine's stomach tightened, realizing their fate would be determined by the effectiveness of their decoy. She felt helpless, sitting on the Conn as they counted down what might be the last minute of their lives. After the next announcement, her stomach settled low and cold in her gut.

“Torpedo is range-gating! Torpedo's homing!”

The torpedo had increased the rate of its sonar pings to more accurately determine the range to its target, so a refined intercept course could be calculated. The important question was whether the torpedo was about to intercept
Michigan
or their decoy behind them.

“Thirty seconds to impact!”

Michigan
was approaching ahead flank and was a decent distance away from their decoy now.

“Fifteen seconds to impact!”