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  “Maintain current course and speed,” the captain reiterated.

  The whine from the four LM-2500 gas turbines of the USS John Rodgers climbed to a spine-chilling screech as the nose of the warship leapt out of the water on a collision course with the torpedoes. Spangle felt the acceleration as the destroyer knifed through the water, leaving its normal twelve-knots cruising speed behind as the same engines that powered a Boeing 747 surged the USS John Rodgers to a flank speed of twenty-nine knots.

  Spangle grabbed the 1MC. “This is the captain. We have minimum of six torpedoes fired from long range heading toward the Stennis. My intentions are to put the Rodgers between the torpedoes and the Stennis.” He wiped the sweat from his palms on his pants leg.

  “Engineering, give me all the power you can and be prepared to evacuate the spaces if necessary. Damage control parties stand by for action.”

  He replaced the 1MC and moved to the center of the bridge. Fear beat inside him, screaming to be released. He took a couple of deep breaths. This was his first time in combat, and he suddenly realized intellectually — it surprised him to think that he was able to reason at that level — that fear must be a constant companion to warriors. And without arrogance or conceit, Spangle placed himself on the same level as great military leaders of the past, to include Spruance, Halsey, Pat ton, and his favorite, Robert E. Lee. He felt a calm he’d never envisioned possible for him.

  Some would have called it heroic — bravery. But neither of those romantic images resonated in Spangle’s thoughts. It was years of training and acceptance of duty that guided the destroyer’s captain now as, knowingly, he sent Rodgers into harm’s way. In the back of his mind was a forlorn hope, an unreasonable belief, that the ship would survive the torpedoes. He accepted the fact that sailors under his command were going to die as he accepted the fact that he might be one of the dead.

  All he had to do was steer the ship, according to figures provided, and ignore the consequences. Too many near heroes in the past had given in to fear. Failure to conquer fear caused retreat, and with retreat, defeat followed. Retreat was not a word they taught in the United States Navy. It was not something they taught at the Academy. So Captain Spangle stood, looking out over the bow of the destroyer, knowing the ultimate sacrifice for him and his crew was less than a nautical mile ahead. His knees felt weak. He put a hand against the narrow shelf that ran along the front of the bridge. Going knowingly to one’s death shouldn’t be like this. What was it about “not going quietly into the night”? But here he stood doing just that.

  “ASW, this is the skipper. Status of inbound torpedoes?”

  “Captain, our calculations show they’re still heading toward the carrier. No change, sir.”

  The only thing left to do was pass the word to the battle group.

  Captain Spangle lifted the secure phone. His mouth dry, he took a sip of water from a bottle sitting in the cup-holder on his bridge chair.

  The water eased the lump in his throat. “Stennis, this is Rodgers.

  Torpedoes remain on course, inbound your way. Our calculations show your maneuvers ineffective in losing contact. I am steaming into a defensive position between you and them. Recommend you reverse course westward and deploy ASW decoys. Submarine located, Sealances fired.

  NTDS data entered. SH-60s launching even as we speak.”

  There were other things he wanted to say. Tell my wife and kids I love them. Tell them what we did and try to convince them why we had to, even when my soul cried for me to run. But he put the red phone down, vaguely noticing a tingling sensation in his palm. He forgot that no reply came from the Stennis.

  A half minute later the secure speaker came to life.

  “Warren, this is Dick Holman,” the commanding officer of the Stennis transmitted. “May God be with you and your brave crew at this time.

  Our prayers are with you, and regardless of what happens, our weapons will avenge your actions. I am launching helos to your position.” “Thank you, Captain,” Spangle said softly into the handset. He took a deep breath. “I think you know what each crew member here would like to tell their loved ones. Please convey those thoughts, if necessary.”

  The SH-60 helicopter from the USS John Rodgers roared by the starboard side of the bridge.

  “Rodgers, this is USS Hue City. Our 60 airborne at this time, heading your way.”

  “Rodgers, this is USS Ramage. We are four miles to your starboard quarter and closing at flank speed. Request orders.”

  “USS Ramage,” Captain Holman broadcast before Rodgers could reply. The Ramage was an Arleigh Burke-class destroyer capable of waging an anti air anti surface and antisubmarine battle simultaneously, much like the DD-21 class.

  “Aye, Stennis, this is Ramage. Go ahead.”

  “Request you assume OTC ASW and go sink the bastard.”

  “Roger, sir, but Rodgers had initial contact and in better position to control the attack.”

  “I know that, Ramagel But Rodgers is defending Stennis. Just do it!” Holman shouted, and then in a softer voice added, “And sink the son of a bitch.”

  “Roger, sir. Ramage going in for the kill.”

  “Captain, this is ASW,” the sonar technician on USS John Rodgers said into his mouthpiece. “The torpedoes are on a constant bearing, decreasing range, sir. They’re heading into us, Captain! Recommend a course change at this time.”

  “ASW, this is Captain Spangle. You’ve done a good job, son. How soon to impact if we maintain this course?”

  “Captain, I would give us less than a minute. At this range, Captain, even if we turned now, they could lock on our props. Sir, we really need to do something,” the petty officer replied, his voice shaking.

  “TAG, this is the Captain. Is NIXIE activated?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s activated and transmitting, but Captain, at this course and speed, the torpedoes would have to go through us to get to it. I recommend come left to course”—the TAO drew out the word “course” as he did a quick calculation—“zero five zero. That would open up the NIXIE to the torpedoes.”

  “If I do that, Commander, what are the chances that all six will lock up on the decoy?” He knew the answer, but wanted confirmation.

  “Captain, if we turn now, at least two to three of them may be decoyed to our NIXIE and even miss us. If we don’t turn immediately, we’re going to be hit by all six.”

  “Captain, this is ASW. Time to impact forty seconds! We need to do something, sir,” the sonar technician cried.

  “Thank you, sonar.” Captain Spangle reached in his back pocket, pulled out his wallet, and flipped open the photo section. He took a quick look at his wife, who had stopped her own career in marketing to support him in his, raising their two daughters and one son, while he spent the years at sea defending the nation. He smiled. His son was so proud of batting over.300 in this year’s Little League. One daughter was a cheerleader at Norfolk Catholic High School, and the other was the star point guard on the school’s basketball team. The next time he saw them he was going to make sure they understood how proud he was of them and how much he loved them. He folded the wallet and put it back in his pocket — yes, the next time. He had missed too many “next times” because of the sea. He hoped the Navy got to his family before the press did.

  “Thirty seconds to impact!” “Boats,” he said as he looked at the bridge chronometer. “Broadcast torpedoes starboard side, impact thirty seconds.”

  The boatswain mate of the watch lifted the 1MC and passed the word.

  Tears leaked down Captain Warren Lee Spangle’s cheeks in the final seconds of his life. Standing silently in the center of the bridge, he faced the bow so the bridge team wouldn’t see the tears. It wasn’t fear that caused his emotion. A great sadness descended and enveloped him. He thought about so many of life’s future moments that he’d planned and wanted to enjoy and share and now would never see.

  * * *

  Captain Holman hurried onto the bridge wing of the ca
rrier, his helmet straps swung unfastened alongside his huge neck. He lifted his binoculars and focused them on the USS John Rodgers, now less than two thousand yards, one nautical mile, from the giant carrier and closing USS Stennis at an oblique angle.

  “XO, are the helicopters ready?” Holman asked.

  “Yes, sir. We have two Sea Kings airborne astern of us. Two more are launching, and we are prepping a fifth SH-3. We should have liftoff of the next two any second and overhead Rodgers within a minute.”

  “Okay, but not before the …” His voice faded before he finished the sentence. He was going to say not before the hits. He and everyone, in unnatural silence on the bridge and in Combat, recognized the imminent sacrifice of the USS John Rodgers. The carrier would survive, but at a cost that civilians would never understand, in an act they could never appreciate or comprehend — an act of honor and courage.

  Holman jumped as the first explosion hit the bow of the Rodgers, followed quickly by a second. The bull-nose portion of the Rodgers disappeared in a cloud of smoke and debris as the forty-kilogram warhead exploded. Three more explosions followed one after the other along the length of the destroyer. An explosion far to the stern of the destroyer sent ocean waters racing a hundred feet into the air.

  Holman figured a torpedo had been decoyed into the NIXIE.

  The concussion from the blasts knocked Holman and the XO off their feet. The gigantic black master chief, standing behind Holman, reached out and stopped the heavy bridge door from slamming shut and crushing Captain Holman’s midsection. Then the master chief reached down, grabbed Holman by the arm, and with one tug, pulled the overweight captain to his feet as effortlessly as he would pick up a suitcase.

  The taller XO, gasping, pulled himself up hand-overhand to the bridge wing.

  A huge pall of smoke boiled upon itself where the USS John Rodgers had been. It was already stretching hundreds of feet into the air when a burst of flame broke through the spreading black cloud. Secondary explosions erupted along the length of the John Rodgers, causing the three men to involuntarily duck below the bulkhead.

  When they stood, Holman stared at the conflagration. “Hold the helicopters until the smoke clears,” Holman said with awe in his voice. He had never seen anything like this-never — in twenty-eight years of service.

  The wind blew the smoke northward, rolling toward the Stennis.

  “Increase speed, port ten-degree rudder, steady up on course two seven zero,” Holman shouted through the open hatch.

  The carrier lurched to port, the deck tilted slightly as the high-value unit eased out of the smoke.

  Pieces of ship and debris rained down on the ocean surface and the USS Stennis flight deck. Where the USS John Rodgers had been, it was as if nothing had existed. No ship, just a vacant expanse of ocean littered with debris where less than a minute ago 330 officers and sailors had manned a 563foot warship. Sucked into the storm of war, vanquished with honor, but gone, as if they never existed, to become a footnote in Naval history.

  Holman looked at the XO and pulled his handkerchief out of his back pocket. He wiped his eyes and then handed it to the XO. “Get the smoke out of your eyes, XO. We’ve got a calling card to deliver. When this is over, I think you know what medal I am going to recommend Captain Warren Lee Spangle for.” “Captain,” the OOD said, sticking his head out onto the bridge wing.

  “Ramage has the submarine pinpointed. Hue City has joined Ramage, and the two are running abreast, using active sonars to herd the submarine into the Strait of Gibraltar. SH-60s are being vectored onto the location. Ramage reports she expects to commence attack within one minute.”

  “Thanks, Commander,” he said to the young lieutenant commander who was the officer of the deck. “Keep me appraised.”

  He turned to his executive officer. “XO, it appears that we will be attacking the submarine within the Strait of Gibraltar. Radio the Spanish and British garrisons at Gibraltar and Al geciras and tell them what has happened and our intentions. Ask them to clear the strait of all shipping as we are engaged in battle. Ensure the HMS Invincible battle group behind us is aware of what is happening.”

  “Sir, Admiral Sir Ledderman-Thompson has been monitoring our communications. He is aware and has dispatched forces toward our area.”

  Overhead above the USS Stennis, the gigantic battle flag of the United States whipped in the westerly winds as sailors hurriedly cleared debris of the USS John Rodgers from the flight deck.

  The phone on the bridge wing rang. The executive officer picked it up, and after several exchanges put his hand over the mouthpiece. “Captain, the ASW S-3 Vikings are ready for launch, sir, but we need to turn east again to bring the wind across the bow.”

  “Go ahead, XO. Make it so.” Not many of the S-3 aircraft remained in the Navy inventory, and all of them belonged to the reserves.

  The executive officer lifted the phone and gave the go ahead. After hanging up, he stuck his head into the bridge and gave the necessary orders to reverse the course of the Stennis. The OOD looked at the captain, who nodded in approval of the XO’s orders.

  The XO lifted the bridge phone and relayed instructions to Combat concerning the warnings to the British and Spanish authorities ashore.

  Simultaneously, on secure communications, Combat updated the British admiral and the Royal Navy battle group, forty-five nautical miles behind them and closing. The United States Navy in the twentieth century had never gone into conflict without being able to look over its shoulder and find the Royal Navy steaming proudly beside it. When fighting together, the two Navies had never been defeated. It gave Holman a warm feeling to know the twenty first century had started no different.

  The USS Stennis turned starboard toward the Spanish coastline, leaving the destruction of USS John Rodgers behind. Six Sea King helicopters methodically searched the explosion area for signs of survivors — even a lone survivor. The ocean was carpeted with pieces of the Spruance-class destroyer, but the human body is a frail instrument. The crew had vaporized along with the second United States warship to be sunk in battle in a week.

  “How long until the S-3s can launch?” Holman asked.

  The master chief released the sound-powered phone but ton. “Sir, Flight Deck says as soon as we steady up, we can launch the two S-3s.

  The Vikings are idling on the catapult, waiting for the signal to launch.”

  “Captain,” the officer of deck relayed. “Admiral Leddermanthompson sends his respects and offers the services of the Royal Navy. He has detached the HMS Boxer, at flank speed, to join us, and has launched three ASW Sea King helicopters our way. He says they are yours and he requests you assume control at your convenience.”

  Captain Holman stepped into the hatchway. “Give me the phone.” He took the phone connecting the bridge with Combat. “Combat, this is Holman. Tell Admiral Leddermanthompson I accept his offer of assistance. Have His Majesty’s Ship Boxer contact Ramage for instructions. Ensure Ramage has positive control over those Royal Navy bubbas before sending them forward.” He handed the phone back to the OOD.

  Holman turned to his XO. “I knew the Royal Navy couldn’t stay out of the fight long; too near Trafalgar.”

  The Battle of Trafalgar was the greatest sea battle in Royal Navy history. Off the coast of Morocco in the late 1790s Lord Nelson outnumbered, attacked, and defeated a combined French and Spanish fleet, ensuring British dominance of the seas for another hundred years. In the course of the battle Lord Nelson was shot and killed.

  Holman moved to the far side of the bridge wing and stared at the fading area behind them where the Rodgers had disappeared into history.

  Two minutes later, the turn of the carrier hid the site. No matter how much someone is dedicated to the Navy, they never expect to make the ultimate sacrifice. He had wondered about that in his early years in the Navy. It wasn’t until he hit his forties before he began to believe in his own mortality. Even now, when he was so sure they were heading to war, he doubted that he
himself would suffer the ultimate sacrifice. But then, he thought, so did Warren Lee Spangle.

  “Sir,” the master chief said, glaring fiercely in the same direction the captain stared. “Ramage says the submarine has submerged beneath the layer and they’ve lost him on sonar.

  Last course was a direct path to the strait.” He pushed his button on the sound-powered circuit. “Wait one, Captain.”

  Holman waited as the master chief acknowledged the speaker on the other end. The tall, black master chief looked up. “Captain, Ramage has ordered the Rodgers Mark III to launch its torpedo. The Hue C/fy’s SH-60 is launching one mile ahead of last reported course. Ramage’s SH-60 is laying a below-layer sonobuoy pattern between the attacking helicopters. Ramage further reports positive control of three British Sea King helicopters, in the area in five minutes. British helicopters are outfitted with one torpedo each. After the two U.S. SH-60s make their attack, the British will move forward and replace them.”

  He had forgotten about the Rodgers SH-60 helicopter out there. There was a possibility that the helicopter did not know about its mother ship. He looked at the master chief, who like most master chiefs read minds also.

  The master chief nodded. “Yes, sir. They know.”

  “XO, tell Ramage that Rodgers’ helicopter will bingo to Stennis once this is over,” Holman replied.

  “Yes, sir. Will do.” He picked up the phone and passed the information to Combat for further relay to USS Ramage. A minute passed as he traded conversation with Combat.

  “Captain,” the XO said as he hung up the phone. “Ramage and Hue City request the status of Rodgers. They are seventeen miles ahead and saw the explosion. They have no radar return on the Rodgers, and NTDS shows her symbol DIW. They want to know the situation. What should we tell them, sir?” He paused for a moment as he weighed the pros and cons before reaching a decision. “Tell them Rodgers has suffered torpedo hits and we are assessing the damage.”