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Silence fell in the Tucson’s command center. “Shit,” someone muttered.
“Maybe he’ll be slow. Maybe we’ll get him before he launches them all.”
“Launch two.”
“Fourteen thousand.”
“Not fast enough. Dammit, not fast enough.”
The crew waited, frozen to their stations, for the inevitable countdown of launches. Sonar finally said, “Sounds like eighteen was the last one, all hatches closed and I hear turns for flank speed.”
“They’re running.”
“Three thousand.”
“Conn, Sonar: countermeasures, countermeasures in the water.”
The control room crew let out a collective groan.
“Countermeasures again. Looks like he launched both of them.” Countermeasures were sophisticated torpedo-like drones that mimicked the signature of the submarine itself, hoping to draw away any weapons aimed at the boat.
“Amateurs,” muttered the XO.
“Hardly matters,” Captain Absen replied. “He must have detected the incoming torp. Now I wish I’d launched only a Mark 48 and not a nuke. Then we could be right behind it and ensure we killed the bastard.”
“No way of knowing, sir. We could turn around now.”
“No point. Helm, come to periscope depth.”
“Periscope depth aye.”
“Conn, Sonar: two thousand yards now, probably. I’ve lost the boat itself. We’re too far out of range.” The sonarman took off his headset. “Gentlemen, you might want to grab onto something.”
“Uh, yes sir, special weapon detonation in under one minute,” Ensign Cooper announced nervously.
Everyone took a seat and strapped in. The captain picked up the PA mike. “Now hear this, all hands, special weapon detonation, I say again nuclear detonation at thirty thousand yards in under one minute, crash positions, take crash positions.” He put his hands over his ears and opened his mouth, watching his crew do the same as they waited.
Shockwave.
