SUV–III-987 Curtain Of Flames official deck log of underway mission number 118, commencing 20 december Mission 118 Official Deck Log Entry 29: Current position — thirty kilometers west of island Onaharajima, forty kilometers south of the mouth of Tokyo Bay. This unit is at mast-broach depth observing the American aircraft carrier hull number CVN-76, as it steams southwest on a pace pattern. Episode elapsed time is plus three minutes. All torpedoes are away. This unit is watching to see what the target will do. It looks as if target is turning toward the south, which would correlate with target understanding it is under attack since torpedoes are chasing it that way. But carrier steadies up on what looks like a course of due south, and if it knew the torpedoes were coming it would run to the southeast. Sonar bearings to the torpedoes indicate they are tracking the target in passive mode, following the carrier as it maneuvers based on the noise it is putting out into the water. Episode elapsed time four minutes. First of twelve Nagasaki torpedoes detonates under carrier’s stern. The explosion, viewed at night, is spectacular, the ball of flame rises in large mushroom cloud above deck of the ship.
Second torpedo hits twelve seconds later impact on starboard forward quarter. This explosion darker cloud, more water flying up. Third torpedo hits under ship’s control island on port side. Destroyer steaming with carrier erupts into flames, one of other unit’s torpedoes hitting it, or this unit’s with a torpedo drawn off course. This unit will count to confirm all twelve torpedoes hit carrier.
Pacino and White could only grab handholds after the first explosion rocked the ship, tossing White to the deck and Pacino into the radar console. After that they stayed away from the windows and held onto the handhold near the helmsman’s console.
“Have you still got power?” Pacino asked the officer of the deck.
“We’re slowing down.” He reached for a phone. Before it got to his ear the second torpedo exploded, forward and starboard. The ship lurched to starboard and rolled back to port. One of the bridge wing windows shattered, glass scattering onto the deck.
“We need to get to radio and see if we can get a message out to Warner—”
“Sir, it’s being taken care of,” the officer of the deck said.
The next torpedo exploded much closer, this detonation right under Pacino’s feet. He saw the aft bulkhead of the bridge coming at him in slow motion, tried to lift his hands to shield his face but wasn’t fast enough. The wall hit him in the nose, the room got dark, the sounds faded. For a fraction of a second, as Pacino sank into a dark place, he could hear alarms and shouting and glass shattering and the next explosion, but then he was slipping deeper down into a place of liquid warmth. It was almost peaceful and pleasant as the world vanished.
The ship was now under the icepack, the groaning and creaking of the ice above, the knowledge that if they needed to come up in an emergency it would be impossible, the possibility of getting stuck between a shallow ocean bottom below and a deep raft of ice above. Navigation under the ice got steadily worse. The inertial nav systems had bugs that crept into the electronics, the system getting progressively more corrupt the longer it went without a fix from the navigation positioning satellite overhead. But there was no way to come to the surface to get the nav fix; the ice overhead was almost 200 feet thick. The charts here were spotty; only a few submarines had ever tried to make the passage from Atlantic to Pacific during the winter, and those that did were not in a hurry. From what Bruce Phillips had been able to read, the four ships that had made the passage all the way had had to turn around for several dead ends. The passage would consume time, and Phillips did not have time.
The BSY-2’s SHARKTOOTH under-ice sonar bleeped eerily in the corner of the room, the forward and upward-looking unit augmented by a sail-mounted camera to scan the icepack ahead in addition to a bow-mounted video unit. The ice was close here, within forty feet of the top of the sail. And the bottom was a mere fifteen fathoms under the keel. It would only take a small inverted ridge to catch the ship.
And without the ability to go to the surface above, Phillips had no idea what was going on with Operation Enlightened Curtain. For all he knew the operation was over. Or maybe Pacino needed him now, right now, and that thought sent a pulse of adrenaline into him.
“Offsa’deck, increase speed to standard.”
Joe Katoris, the main propulsion assistant, looked up from the forward-looking under-ice sonar, a scared look on his skinny face.
“But sir, we could overrun our sonar and visual. We can’t—”
“You’ll do fine, Katoris, now just increase speed.
There are no state troopers down here.”
