Piranha: Firing Point

He had to switch his display to the ship-centered virtual reality, to see the relative positions of the contacts as the onboard Cyclops computer analyzed the data rolling in. He allowed himself a smile as he looked at the sea and the contacts around them, even the land modeled in three-dimensional relief. He counted, not believing his eyes — four, five, six. They were all present and accounted for. He wanted to jump out and give Patton and White a high-five, but then he cautioned himself.

The Cyclops system could cease functioning at any moment. Colleen had called it corrupt, ready to crash.

Also, was it possible that it was misinterpreting the data?

Did the computer see six when it should see only one?

He left the eggshell canopy and climbed to the elevated periscope platform. A look at the computerized chart display, which was linked to the Cyclops, displayed their position, the 688s’ positions, and the position of the Piranha. There was good news here — they had in fact detected all six Rising Suns.

But there was bad news too. The six Rising Suns were outside weapons range. Attacking with aircraft was impossible with the P-5s shot down, and the Blackbeard squadrons and Seahawk helicopters were too far away onboard the carriers and destroyers of the backup Rapid Deployment Force. His sub force would have to take them down, but they were outside his Vortex Mod Charlie’s range and outside of Piranha’s Mod Bravo’s range.

They were also outside the Mark 52 range of the 688s’ weapons as well. Everyone would need to close range, which would bring them into range of the Rising Suns.

He dictated a message to the 688s and the Piranha and gave it to Patton to transmit. He’d given the subs the grid coordinates of the locations of the Rising Suns.

The force would go in. Piranha and the 688s deep at moderate speeds. Piranha at seventeen knots, the 688s at ten, fast enough that they could make speed over ground, slow enough that their sonars would be able to strain for the enemy’s noise over their own noise, and slow enough that they wouldn’t rumble through the ocean like rattling old cars.

It seemed too easy, Pacino thought. What was he missing?

The answer came to him when the officer of the deck cursed.

“Loss of battle control,” he called, picking up a microphone to the circuit one shipwide announcing system, shouting into it — despite it being a loudspeaker PA circuit — his voice mirroring the frustration of everyone aboard, “Loss of battle control.”

The chart display table winked out, the surface black and featureless. The five eggshell screens at the positions of the battlecontrol system rolled up, their officers emerging like disoriented movie patrons coming out into bright sunshine. The door to sonar opened, and Senior Chief Byron Demeers came in. The men gathered forlornly in the open space on the port side of the periscope stand.

Pacino debated with himself, then made a decision.

He hurried forward down the centerline passageway to the computer room, punched the buttons to get inside.

There at the console sat Colleen O’Shaughnessy, the executive vice president of Cyclops Computer Systems, subsidiary of mighty Dynacorp Defense International, the chief architect of the Cyclops Mark 72 NSSN Battlecontrol System, with her head in her hands, tears silently running down her cheeks.

SS-403 ARCTIC STORM

Admiral Chu Hua-Feng stared at the sonar display in confusion and suspicion.

Twelve submarine contacts.

Twelve 688 submarines.

Sailing right into the Naze-Yakushima Gap as if he weren’t there.

But that wasn’t so odd, was it? They didn’t know his position — he was being positively paranoid.

Still, twelve subs, all 688s, all clustered together at the entrance? What was going on?

“Sir,” the navigator, Xhiu Liu, said from the sensor panel, urgency lacing his voice, “ten of the 688s are or have already opened bowcap torpedo-tube doors.

Eleven, now twelve. Now we’re getting second bowcap door noises from each ship.”

What the hell was going on? He wondered. All twelve coming in at once, directly toward him, all opening bowcap doors. Did they sense him here or not? They had to know he was here; he was the easternmost submarine.

Could this be some kind of deception? After all, didn’t he have false periscopes being towed right now behind the sterns of his fleet of fishing trawlers? And weren’t two dozen of those trawlers, to the west and southwest, pulling behind them noisemakers that attempted to simulate a nuclear submarine noise? Deception was an ancient Chinese tool of war.

But if it was an illusion, what was the purpose? To draw his fire? There was simply no way to know.

He made a decision. If they wanted to draw fire, by the heavens he would give them fire, and he’d do it decisively.

“Open bowcap doors to tubes 13 to 24. Ann gas generators 13 to 24. Set torpedoes in tubes 13 to 24 to highspeed transit, shallow trajectory.”

“Aye, sir,” Chen Zhu, the weapons officer said.

It took no time at all for the weapons to warm up.