"Hammer, we have nothing anywhere near you. Be advised Bravo and Hatchet are working a contact. Two torps have been launched with no hits."
Nobody ever said it was easy, the pilot thought. He moved three thousand yards and dipped the sonar again.
"Contact, this one's for real. Type-two engine plant bearing one-eight-three."
O'Malley checked his fuel. Forty minutes. He had to get this one in a hurry. He ordered the dome up again and went another three thousand yards south. His shoulders flexed against the seat straps. It seemed to take forever for the sonar dome to get down to search depth.
"There it is again, sir, north of us, bearing zero-one-three. Bearing is changing. Zero-one-five now."
"Set it up!" Thirty minutes' fuel. Time was their enemy now. Ralston punched up the Master Arm and Select buttons.
"Willy: hammer!" The sonar sent out five ranging pings.
"Zero-one-nine, range nine hundred!"
Ralston set search depth and pattern. O'Malley brought his thumb across the stick and dropped the torpedo.
The submarine went to full power and turned left away from the helicopter while the torpedo plunged to eight hundred feet before beginning its search. O'Malley growled to himself that he'd launched from a bad angle, but it would have taken too long to reel in and reacquire. He held the aircraft in hover and listened over his headset as the whine of the torpedo screws chased after the deeper thrum of the Charlie's powerful twin screws. The nuclear sub maneuvered frantically, trying to turn inside the pursuing torpedo.
"They're on the same bearing now," Willy reported. "I think the fish has him-hit!"
But the Charlie didn't die. They heard the sound of blowing air, then it stopped. A wild cacophony of mechanical noise followed as the contact moved off to the north, then faded as the submarine slowed. O'Malley didn't have enough fuel to pursue. He came around west and headed for Reuben James.
"Hammer, Romeo, what happened?"
"We hit him, but he's still alive. Stand by, Romeo, we're coming in skosh fuel. Five minutes out."
"Roger that, we'll be ready for you. We're vectoring another helo onto the Charlie. I want you to join Hatchet."
"How come we didn't kill him?" Ralston asked.
"Almost all Russian subs have double hulls, and that dinky hundred pound warhead on the Mark-46 isn't gutsy enough to give you a kill every time. You try to attack from the stem if you can, but this time we couldn't. If you get a stem hit, you pop the shaft seals and flood his engine room. That'll kill anybody. They didn't tell you to go for a stem shot in school, did they?"
"Not especially."
"Figures," O'Malley growled.
It was good to see the Reuben James after four hours. It would have been even better to visit the officers' head, O'Malley thought bleakly. He brought the Seahawk over the port comer of the frigate's stern and paced the ship. Aft, Willy opened the sliding door and tossed down a messenger line. The frigate's deck crew attached a refueling hose to the line and Willy hauled it in, plugging the hose into the fuel tank. The procedure was called HIFR, for helicopter in-flight refueling. While O'Malley fought his helo through the roiled air behind the ship, fuel was pumped into his tanks, giving him another four hours' endurance. Ralston kept his eyes on the fuel indicators while O'Malley flew the aircraft.
"We're full up, Willy. Secure."
The petty officer lowered the fuel hose and retrieved his line. He was glad to close the door and strap himself back into his chair. Officers, he told himself, were too smart to do what he just did.
"Bravo, this is Hammer, where do you want us, over?"
"Hammer, Bravo, come right to one-three-zero and rendezvous with Hatchet eight miles from Bravo."
"On the way." O'Malley curved around Reuben James and headed southeast.
"Hammer, Romeo, be advised Sea Sprite from Sims just finished off that Charlie for you. We got a 'well done' from the screen commander for that prosecution, over."
"Tell the Commodore 'you're welcome.' Bravo, Hammer, what is it we're after, over?"
"We thought it was a twin-screw submarine. We're not quite so sure now, Hammer," Perrin replied. "We've fired three torpedoes at this target now for zero hits. He got one off at us, but it prematured in our wake."
"How close was it?"
"Fifty yards."
Ouch! the pilot thought.
"Okay, I have Hatchet in sight. Bravo, it's your ball game. Where do you want me now?"
Morris had allowed himself to fall far behind in the hunt for the now dead Charlie. On his command the frigate went to full speed, closing on Battleaxe at twenty-five knots. In response to the multiple submarine contacts, the convoy was turning slightly south.
O'Malley's Seahawk hovered seven miles from Battleaxe while Hatchet ran back home for fuel and sonobuoys. Again the process of dipping and moving began.
"Nothing," Willy reported.
"Bravo, Hammer, can you give me a rundown of what this target's been doing?"
"We've nearly gotten him twice atop the layer. His course is generally south."
"Sounds like a missile boat."
