Warshot (The Hunter Killer Series Book 6) by Don Keith (top ten ebook reader TXT) 📗

bring us right back to where Oscar is impatiently treading water. Got it?”

Walters nodded that he understood. Edwards was not entirely sure that was the case.

“All ahead full.” Walters’s voice wavered slightly as he ordered the bell. The young officer was obviously working out his next order in his mind.

“Coming to ahead full,” Chief Schmidt’s voice boomed over the speaker. “Passing two-four-zero. No ordered course.”

“Lost sight of Oscar,” the lookout yelled. “I can’t see him anymore.”

The wheels were turning in the ensign’s head as he quickly tried to do the mental calculations and give commands before they skated right past their “man” in distress. He had been on a course of three-one-zero when Oscar fell overboard. Skipper said to shift the rudder when they had swung sixty degrees, but that was two-five-zero, and they had already missed that. Better do something now, before it got even worse.

“Shift your rudder to right full,” Walters ordered. “Steady, uh…uh. Steady one-three-zero.”

Edwards nodded and encouraged the trainee. “Good. You swung past, but you can fix that. Just finetune it when you steady up. The navigator can help you with that when we come around.”

“Oscar bears one-one-four, range seven hundred,” the speaker blared. “Losing visual intermittently in the wave troughs.”

The sub’s executive officer in the control room below could still see the dummy using the photonics mast. But probably not for much longer. Oscar would soon disappear in the swelling waves.

The George Mason picked up speed as the propulsor bit into the waves. She swung around in response to the right full rudder. White water shot high up on the submarine’s sail before washing back over the main deck.

“Lost Oscar visually,” the XO reported. “Plotted bearing one-three-zero, range one thousand.” Old Oscar was in real danger of becoming chum.

The wind coming off the island was picking up. Whitecaps now crowned the wavetops.

“Oscar estimated position bears one-two-two, range one-one-hundred,” came another update.

“Steady course one-three-zero, making ahead full,” Chief Schmidt reported.

“Bridge, Navigator, hold you one hundred yards to the right of track.” LCDR Jim Shupert, George Mason’s navigator, was plotting their track on the sub’s electronic navigation system, the ECDIS. “Recommend you steer one-two-two to regain track.”

Edwards leaned forward and quietly spoke to Walters. “See what Nav is doing? He’s easing you over to the old track so you get on line before you get to where we think Oscar is waiting for us.”

“Oscar estimated position bears one-two-five, range nine hundred.”

“We don’t want to go flying past our guy at a full bell,” Edwards whispered into Walters’s ear. “And you need to get the man-overboard party topside. At a full bell, you would certainly get the COB wet.”

Walters nodded and ordered, “Ahead one-third.”

The large bow wave dropped to little more than a ripple climbing up the sub’s rounded nose. The main deck was now high out of the water and would soon be dry.

“Bridge, XO, man-overboard party is mustered. Recommend sending the man-overboard party topside.”

Walters looked questioningly at Edwards, who nodded. The ensign ordered, “Control, Bridge, open the lockout trunk upper hatch. Have the man-overboard party lay topside.”

“Bridge, XO, regained Oscar visual. Bearing one-one-nine, range seven hundred, ten degrees off the port bow.”

The lookout swung his binoculars in that direction. “I see him!” the young seaman shouted, pointing toward the floating trash bag as it was lifted up on a wavetop.

“Probably a good time to rig out the outboard,” Edwards coached, “and come to all stop.”

The outboard was a small electric-driven outboard motor that could be lowered from the after ballast tanks and then trained to push the stern around when the sub was moving at slow speed.

“All stop,” Walters ordered, this time with a bit more confidence. “Lower the outboard.”

The submarine’s propulsor quit driving the boat through the water as the throttle valves on the main turbines shut. The big boat glided forward under its massive momentum. Back in number-five ballast tank, the outboard slipped down out of its housing and into the boat’s slipstream.

“Answering all stop,” Chief Schmidt reported. “Outboard is deployed, trained to zero-zero-zero relative.”

Oscar was now clearly visible, only a hundred yards ahead and just off the port bow, and so far, none the worse for wear.

“Give her a few seconds of back-one-third to stop her,” Edwards suggested, “and then come to all stop.”

“Back one-third,” Walters ordered, applying the “brakes.” George Mason shuddered mildly as the backing bell forced the big boat to slow its forward movement through the water. Just before the boat came to a halt, he ordered, “All stop.”

Oscar floated serenely a mere ten yards off George Mason’s port beam.

“Mr. Walters, get Oscar back aboard,” Edwards directed. “Now that we’ve saved the guy’s life, we need to get moving toward Papa Hotel. The commodore’s waiting for us over there and he’s a busy man.”

Edwards moved down into the cockpit and, in a voice that only Ensign Walters could hear, said, “Nicely done for your first one. Now, the key is to just pretend like you had complete control and knew exactly what was happening all the time.” The skipper smiled. “My watchword is ‘it’s always better to be lucky than good.’”

With that bit of advice, Edwards disappeared down the ladder.

2

The gray ship sailed serenely through a spectacular early-morning twilight. A gentle breeze played across the vessel’s bridge, bringing a faint earthy smell that mingled with the familiar tang of saltwater. Only her large battle ensign, snapping briskly in the breeze, belied the tranquility of the scene.

The USS Tarbox, the Navy’s newest fast frigate—so new that her paint still smelled fresh—cut smoothly through the gentle swell. The bow wave curved up almost to where her hull number, 72, was painted on her bow. Her SPY-6(V)3 radar searched out to find every contact for hundreds of miles around the warship, but Commander Malcom Fritz, Tarbox’s skipper, was much more concerned about one particular return. That one marked the bit of land just appearing on the horizon off his ship’s port bow. He could barely make