Larry Bond - Shattered Trident

“Activate the sonar, sector search centered on bearing one one five! Signalmen, tell that tanker to alter course to starboard! Inform fleet headquarters we are attacking! Provide our location!” barked Ma.

“Captain! Sonar contact bearing one one six degrees, range four point three kilometers,” shouted the OOD.

“Very well. Stay on this course. Helmsman, ring up ahead full. Prepare anti-submarine rocket launchers for firing.”

Ma watched as the wake faded and then disappeared. “She’s going deep!” he cried.

Fear for the tanker gripped the frigate captain. They were still too far away to attack with the rockets; they’d need at least another three minutes before they were close enough. The submarine would certainly shoot long before then. He needed to do something now, or that tanker was doomed, but what? Sanming wasn’t equipped with ASW torpedoes, and her helicopter would never be able to take off in time.

“Fire ASW rockets!” Ma shouted in desperation.

The OOD looked up, surprised. “But sir, we aren’t in range yet.”

“I know that, damn it! Fire anyway!” roared Ma. He could only hope that the submarine’s inexperienced captain was a little gun-shy and would choose to evade rather than press home the attack.

From the ship’s bow, the two six-tubed launchers started spewing rockets at regular intervals. Arcing gracefully in the air, they pitched over and struck the water in a preset oval pattern a little over a kilometer ahead. Acrid smoke billowed around the bridge until the wind of the ship’s passage swept it away. Seconds later, the water boiled as the twelve depth bombs exploded. As the smoke cleared, Ma could see his crew busily reloading the launchers.

“Captain,” sang out the bridge phone talker, “sonar reports they are being jammed. Last good bearing to the submarine was one one nine, range two point five kilometers.”

Ma swore but nodded. The submarine had dropped a noisemaker. He’d expected this, but it still made his job considerably harder. Running back into the bridge, he stopped at the plotting table and looked at the sub’s reported positions. She had been drawing right, it was reasonable for a submarine to change course after deploying countermeasures, but her commander would also want to disengage. After a moment of assessing, he acted. “Helmsman, come right to course one two five.”

“Captain!” shouted the phone talker. “Sonar reports multiple passive contacts clearing the jamming zone! Moving at high speed, drawing left, bearing zero nine eight!”

Ma hung his head in despair—torpedoes! He bolted for the port bridge wing, and raised his binoculars. He didn’t have to wait long. Less than a minute later, a huge column of water formed under the tanker’s bow. A second weapon detonated just a little aft of the first. The bow, torn free from the rest of the ship, was pushed under by the force of the tanker’s momentum. Giant geysers of black oil erupted from ruptured tanks. A third blast jumped out of the water farther aft, under the bridge. The damaged hull buckled from the explosive shock and the heavier aft section was literally wrenched free. Flames ignited around the stern of the tanker, sending a huge column of pitch-black smoke skyward. Lian Xing Hu was dead, murdered by the underwater assassin.

Seething, Ma screamed into the bridge, “Where is the submarine!? Find that bastard!”

“Sir, sonar reports an active contact bearing one two eight, range one point one kilometers,” announced the phone talker.

Ma smiled. The enemy was right where he thought she’d be. And this time she was within range. “Fire ASW rockets!” he bellowed.

The bow of Sanming was once again covered with fire and smoke as the two launchers disgorged their contents. Ma watched with satisfaction as the bombs exploded, heaving the water up in a neat chain of white circles. He had just turned to head back into the bridge when he felt his body being lifted from the deck. Confused, he struggled to find his feet, but before they touched back down, the ship lunged again and Ma was slammed into one of the bridge wing frames. Dazed, his head wracked in pain, Ma attempted to stand, but his left hand slipped off the railing. He stopped to look at his hands, and after straining to get his eyes to focus, he saw they were covered in blood.

In the distance, he could hear someone shouting, “Mayday, Mayday…” Ma thought it sounded like the officer of the deck, but he wasn’t sure. Finally fighting to his feet, the captain found it difficult to stand. The ship had a pronounced port list. Still confused, Ma looked aft. What he saw left him quivering. The ship had been torn in two, just forward of the stack. The aft portion was taking on water fast, as he could see huge bubbles of air around its shattered hull. With an almost perverse fixation, Ma stared as the aft section first went vertical, then plunged beneath the waves. He was still watching the swirls when the rest of the ship jerked to port. Between the dizziness and his slippery hands, Ma lost his grip and was thrown over the railing. He hit the water flat on his back, knocking the air out of him. The pain in his head was excruciating.

Ma fought his way back to the surface; his body in agony with each stroke. It seemed like an eternity before he finally cleared the water. Coughing and gasping, he grabbed a life preserver that was floating nearby. Safe for the moment, he struggled to turn in the water and see what was going on. As Ma turned around, he was just in time to see his beloved frigate roll over and come crashing down upon him.

3 September 2016

0225 Local Time

By Water

Halifax, Nova Scotia

Mac had fallen asleep at his desk for the third day in a row. He was barely semiconscious when he heard the electronic ding signifying the arrival of a new e-mail. Groaning, he began searching for his glasses with his right hand. They had to be somewhere on this desk. After failing to find them, he patted his head and discovered his glasses hanging precariously from his ears. Pulling them down over his eyes, Mac sat up straight to look at his screen. The sharp pains accompanying the crunches and pops were an unpleasant reminder that he was too old for this kind of thing.

As his eyes came into focus, he saw that he had received over two dozen e-mails since he had dozed off. But it was the subject line from a colleague at the Keelung Port Authority in Taiwan that grabbed his attention.

From: ShipKeeper

To: Mac

Subj: URGENT—More East China Sea Attacks

Things are heating up in the East China Sea, Mac. Another tanker was attacked, Lian Xing Hu ’s EPIRB went active at 1412 Hotel time. The ship was en route to the port of Shanghai with a cargo of crude oil. No voice communications could be established. Ship data as follows:

GRT: 43,153 tons

DWT: 75,500 tons

Length: 229 meters

Beam: 33 meters

Max Speed: 14.8 knots

Call Sign: BOGK

But it gets worse. At 1414 Hotel time the PLAN Jiangwei II class frigate Sanming (FF 524) issued a Mayday over Channel 16. The individual on the Chinese frigate was near panic and said the ship had been torpedoed while prosecuting a submarine that had just attacked a tanker. The posits for the two vessels put them very close to each other. Whoever is behind these attacks, they’ve just upped the ante. Nothing good will come of this.

Mac had to read the e-mail twice, just to make sure it said what he thought it said. He then looked at his watch. The attacks were not even fifteen minutes old! The fact that the Chinese frigate used the international distress channel meant everyone and their brother would know about this attack soon. An attack on a warship was big, big news. He typed out a quick acknowledgement of the e-mail and promised to get back to him later. Fumbling for his cell phone, Mac chuckled with sadistic delight; he was going to wake Ms. Laird up this time. As he pulled up his speed-dial list, his eyes caught an earlier e-mail from a friend in the Philippines. He was a fisherman by trade, but he also had great sources of information that kept him clued in on anything going on in the Spratlys. Mac put the phone down and clicked on the e-mail.