Like, the American Mark-48 torpedo, the Stingray didn't use conventional propellers, which made it hard to locate on sonar both for O'Malley and the submarine. Suddenly they heard the sound of propeller cavitation as the submarine went to full power and turned. Then came hullpopping noises as she changed depth abruptly to throw the fish off. It didn't work. Next came the metallic crash of the exploding warhead.
"Hit!" Hatchet called.
"Down dome!"
Willy lowered the sonar transducer one last time. The submarine was coming up.
"Again!" Ralston wondered. "That's two in a row."
"Set it up! Willy, hammer him."
"Range four hundred, bearing one-six-three, I have an up-doppler."
"Circular search, initial search depth one hundred."
"Set," Ralston replied.
O'Malley dropped his torpedo at once. "Up dome! Bravo, the hit did not kill the target, we just dropped another one on him."
"He might be trying to surface to get his crew off," Ralston said.
"He might want to fire his missiles, too. He should have run when he had the chance. I would have."
The second hit finished the submarine. O'Malley flew straight back to Reuben James. He let Ralston land the Seahawk. As soon as its wheels were chocked and chained down, he got out and walked forward. Morris met him in the passageway between the helo hangars.
"Great job, Jerry."
"Thanks, skipper." O'Malley had left his helmet in the aircraft. His hair was matted to his head with perspiration and his eyes stung from hours of it.
"I want to talk over a few things."
"Can we do it while I shower and change, Cap'n?" O'Malley went through the wardroom and into his stateroom. He stripped out of his clothing in under a minute and headed for the officers' shower.
"How many pounds you sweat off on a day like this?" Morris said.
"A lot." The pilot pushed the shower button, closing his eyes as the cold water sprayed over him. "You know, I've been saying for ten years that the -46 needed a bigger warhead. I hope to hell those bastards in ordnance will listen to me now!"
"The second one. What was it?"
"If I had to bet, I'd say it was Papa. Great job from the sonar guys. Those steers you gave us were beautiful." He pushed the button again for more cold water. O'Malley emerged a minute later, looking and feeling human again.
"The Commodore is writing you up for something. Your third DFC, I guess."
O'Malley thought about that briefly. His first two were for rescues, not for killing other men.
"How soon will you be ready to go up again?"
"How does next week grab you?"
"Get dressed. We'll talk in the wardroom."
The pilot raked his hair into place and changed into fresh clothing. He remembered the last time his wife had told him to use baby powder to protect his skin from the abuse of sweaty, tight clothes, and how stupid he'd been to reject the suggestion as not in keeping with aviator machismo. Despite the shower, there were a few patches of skin that would continue to itch and chafe. When he went to the wardroom, he found Morris waiting for him with a pitcher of iced bug juice.
"You got a diesel boat and two missile boats. How were they operating? Anything unusual?"
"Awfully aggressive. That Papa should have backed off. The Charlie took a smart route, but he was boring in pretty hard, too." O'Malley thought it over as he drained his first glass. "You're right. They are pushing awful hard."
"Harder than I expected. They're taking chances they ordinarily wouldn't take. What's that tell us?"
"It tells us we got two more busy days ahead, I guess. Sorry, Captain, I'm a little too wasted for deep thinking at the moment."
"Get some rest."
STENDAL, GERMAN DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC
Two o'clock in the morning. The attack would begin in four hours despite all his efforts to change it. Alekseyev stared at the map with its symbols of friendly units and intelligence estimates of enemies.
"Cheer up, Pasha!" Commander-in-Chief West said. "I know that you think we use up too much fuel. It will also destroy their remaining stocks of war supplies."
"They can resupply, too."
"Nonsense. Their convoys have suffered heavily, as our own intelligence reports have told us. They are sending one massive shipment across now, but the Navy tells me they are sending everything they have against it. And in any case it will arrive too late."
Alekseyev told himself that his boss was probably right. After all, he had made his rank on the basis of a distinguished career. But still...
"Where do you want me?"
"With the OMG command post. No closer to the front than that."
