Warshot (The Hunter Killer Series Book 6) by Don Keith (dark books to read TXT) 📕

Allison peered into the periscope lens again, just as a fighter jet swooped low and seemed to be racing right at them. He caught just enough of a glimpse to recognize the distinctive F-16 air scoop before the plane suddenly pulled into a vertical climb. The pilot frantically popped flares as fast as he could. Something was chasing him.

Then Allison saw a missile racing along behind the plane, unerringly arrowing upward toward the fleeing jet. And catching it. The jet disappeared in a brutal, blinding explosion. But then an ejection seat burst forth from the smoke. And an orange parachute canopy blossom above it. The pilot had somehow lived through that hellish blast. Or at least long enough to eject.

“Mark this bearing!” Allison called out.

“Bearing zero-four-seven,” Anson sang out.

“Mark the chart at a range of five thousand yards.” Allison kept the scope trained on the pilot’s parachute as it gently descended toward the water. “Nav, do we have good water over there?”

Was there sufficiently deep water below them so they could dive if need be?

“Yes, sir. Depth sixty fathoms there. Shoals up quick a mile beyond that area, though.”

“Okay. Ahead two-thirds, steer zero-four-seven,” Allison ordered. “I just saw a Taiwanese jet get taken out and the pilot ejected. Let’s go see if we can get that guy out of the water.”

“You think that’s a good idea?” Anson replied, frowning. “There’s a bunch of mad people up there flinging around a lot of ordnance. Wouldn’t want us to get caught in the crossfire.”

“Eng, I don’t see anyone else around here to pick him up.” Allison swung the scope around. “Long swim to the beach and he may be hurt. Plus, he can surely tell us what the hell is going on out there.” Allison suddenly stopped swinging the scope. He raised the elevation with his left hand as he shifted to high power with his right. “Damn. There’s another chute coming down. Mark this bearing.”

Anson checked and called out, “Bearing zero-nine-two.”

“Range, call it six thousand. Nav, mark the spot. It’s a white chute this time. I didn’t see the plane.”

“Plotted, Skipper. Good water in that direction.” It was Jeremy Chastain, the navigator, with confirmation.

Allison glanced at the navigation plot on the ECDIS display. At this speed, it would take them fifteen minutes to get to the first pilot. The second one was a couple of miles beyond the first one. They should be able to grab them both.

“Chief of the Watch, on the 1MC, Chief of the Boat and man overboard party muster at the forward escape trunk.”

“Skipper,” Tim Anson said. “Maneuvering is reporting a lot of shaft vibration. They have increased leak-off to a gallon a minute to keep the flax packing cool. Recommend slowing to one-third.”

Not a good time for a problem to crop up.

“Ahead one-third,” Allison reluctantly ordered. “Do they have any idea the cause of the vibration?”

“Nothing yet,” Anson reported. “They’re investigating.”

“Eng, have the Nav relieve you as OOD and get aft. See if you can find out what’s going on and get back to me quick.”

The engineer disappeared out the control room door just as the XO came in through it.

“Skipper, we just got another one of those weird messages,” Foster told him. “Somebody...our guardian angel?...just let us know that we are making a hell of a lot of noise. They say it sounds like it could be shaft related, maybe a dinged screw.”

Allison shook his head. Whoever was out there sure had some good ears. Neither Allison nor Foster had any idea who it could be. Well, at least it appeared they were on the right side. And that bit of knowledge the mysterious friend had shared correlated with the shaft vibration. If the close-call torpedo explosion had damaged the screw, then increased revolutions would cause more vibration. And plenty of noise. It appeared the rest of their time at sea would be very slow.

“Captain,” the chief of the watch announced, “COB reports the man-overboard party is mustered at the escape trunk. Request permission to break rig for dive and open the lower hatch.”

The chief of the boat was reporting that men were waiting to go up a passageway and through a hatch that would put them on the submarine’s deck, ready to rescue the downed pilot.

“Skipper, hold the orange parachute visually,” Lieutenant Chastain chimed in. “Thousand yards dead ahead.”

In rapid fire, Allison ordered, “Chief of the Watch, open the lower escape trunk hatch and send men into the trunk. Open the lower bridge trunk hatch and enter the trunk. All stop. Rig out the outboard and shift to remote.”

“See the pilot,” Chastain reported. “Five hundred yards ahead. Just off the port bow.”

“Chief of the Watch, thirty second blow on all main ballast tanks.”

The diving officer called out, “Depth five-eight feet, coming up. Five-five feet. Five-zero feet. Four-five feet.” Then, finally, “Depth is three-six feet and holding.”

Their deck was out of the water and safe for the rescue party to open the hatch and climb out. Or as safe as it could be with war raging in the distance.

Allison scurried up the vertical ladder to the bridge. A phone talker closely followed him up. As the captain reached the upper hatch, he ordered, “To the chief of the watch, opening the upper bridge hatch. To the COB, open the upper escape trunk hatch and send men topside.”

Allison spun the hatch handwheel and then pulled the latch handle. The hatch popped open, dumping enough seawater on the submarine’s CO to get him thoroughly wet. An occupational hazard. The bridge area smelled of saltwater and the sea faintly fishy, but also of wet iron.

He clambered up into the cockpit and rolled the lock to drop one of the clamshell covers, then stuck his head out into warm, late-afternoon sunshine. The downed pilot was only a hundred yards away, almost dead ahead, but Boise had already slowed to where she was dead-in-the-water, rolling in the gentle sea swell.