Phoenix Sub Zero

The Destiny-class submarine designers had known she would someday be outnumbered, and expected if the sub ever got into combat that several weapons would be vectored in at her from other submarines, from aircraft, from surface ships. The Destiny was conceived as a one-ship fleet, and as such was required to have the computer systems made capable of fighting multiple threats from multiple bearings.

The standard operating procedure in the case of multiple inbound torpedoes from around the compass was simple. But Sharef still did not like it. The procedure called for turning his ship over to the Second Captain, which would do course target range analysis by driving the ship through a rapid wiggle, perhaps an S-curve, then, having a feel for the torpedo ranges, calculate the ship’s best course to evade, even if it meant driving almost head-on into the most distant weapon.

It required an act of faith, the one quality Commodore Sharef had a severe shortage of, cynicism setting in on the day of the Sahand sinking. But Sharef was no fool, and valued his ship and his crew and his mission, and he gave the order. He shared a momentary look at his first officer, Captain al-Kunis, who had remained silent through the entire day’s combat as his function required — he could not participate by UIF regulations and Islamic tradition — the second-in-command’s lot in life was to stand beside the commanding officer, remain silent and be ready to take over if the captain fell. Until that moment he would not involve himself, only observe. But it was clear that al-Kunis felt Sharef’s thoughts about total trust in the Second Captain system, the doubt in the first’s eyes a dark shade.

“Deck officer, engage the Second Captain in ship-control mode.”

“Ship control, engage the second,” Tawkidi ordered the ship-control console operators. Sharef watched as the operators keyed in the system, their training anticipating the order and the functional menu screen already called up on their displays, the ship a single keystroke from computer control.

Sharef grabbed a handhold set into the side of the plot table just as the Second Captain took command and put the rudder over. The deck inclined rapidly to the left as the computer threw the ship into a violent maneuver. The ship shuddered.

From below came the sound of dishes falling out of a cabinet and shattered on the galley deck. As suddenly as the first maneuver, the Second Captain shifted the rudder, the deck rolling back to starboard, one man at the reactor-control consoles thudding to the deck, sheepishly crawling back into his control seat. The deck then leveled and steadied, the ship’s S-curve complete. Sharef looked at the ship-control console and saw that the ship was driving up northwest, heading 262 degrees true, almost exactly between the torpedo at 194 and the one at 330. Those fish must be roughly at equal ranges, Sharef thought, which made sense, because the range at which a torpedo could detect them should be a constant. Then again, the chart also told a story, the land too close to allow the Second Captain to drive them back east, which was also part of the computer’s evasion routine.

Now under Second Captain control, there was little to do but wait and monitor the system for gross failure. The Second Captain would continue to monitor the weapons, perhaps even sending the ship suddenly into another maneuver to test for range or to check on a weapon coming in from astern in the main sonar’s blind spot. As yet there had been no torpedo sonar pulses showing up on the sensor displays, but then evading three torpedoes was not like running in a tail chase from one. The SCM ventriloquist was again enabled in automatic, but it would be useless trying to fool three torpedoes at once. And the system would not do well against a weapon closing in on them from an angle.

Sharef became aware of the officers looking at him, searching his face for signs of confidence or despair, trying to see if their captain saw hope or defeat. Sharef knew the psychology of his men, the same as any crew. A crew with out hope could not function. But his face had made him a liar, because just as before he had felt it was not yet time to die, he had a sensation that perhaps now it was.

Chapter 19 Sunday, 29 December

WESTERN ATLANTIC USS PHOENIX