On the second pass the pilots came in from behind rather than from the beam. This allowed more time to watch what the Russian craft were going to do, and they had a better chance to follow their own stream of fire up to their target. One of the pilots noted that the craft he was closing was too consistent in weaving from right to left. When he opened fire, he let the boat slew left. When it came back to the right, it fell right in his path. The 20-mm. guns began to rip it apart from the stern, tossing boat parts and men into the air as shells raced toward the small pilothouse. Flames broke out aft as the pilothouse and men in it were shattered. Then the torpedoes were hit and the boat simply blew up. The highly explosive fuel for the gas turbines had gone off at the same time.
“They're not even firing back at those Tomcats,” said Welles.
“I imagine their mission is to get here the quickest way and not to worry about anything that might slow them down. We're the target. Any chance of putting helos up?”
“Not a one. They're either being refueled and rearmed, or they were shot down covering the subs.”
“Look at that,” whistled the lookout between them.
One of the jets was about to bracket a Soviet boat when it whipped around in a tight turn, going right under the Tomcat, then returning to its original course. There were still five of them. At about four thousand yards, two of them opened up with rockets while the others circled toward either end of the carrier, maintaining their distance as they sought to position themselves on the opposite beam. The rockets were like peashooters to the large carrier, yet their effectiveness cleared the deck as they found the range.
At fifteen hundred yards, the closest one fired its first torpedo. The boat did not turn away, but followed its fish directly toward
Nimitz.
The second one also fired a torpedo at the same distance as the first. Of the remaining three, one raced farther past to attack from the other side, while the other two bore in from bow and stern, waiting to see if
Nimitz
would turn to avoid the torpedoes. At one thousand yards, the firing boats put their second fish in the water. Welles had run to the pilothouse door and was vainly giving orders to the helm, knowing she would not begin to turn before they were hit.
The Soviet boat that had swung astern of
Nimitz
was hit in the same way as the first. It was so loaded with ammunition and fuel that it exploded under the concentrated 20-mm. fire.
The first two boats still followed their own fish, firing the rockets as they closed. The first torpedo exploded no more than fifty feet from the earlier one, buckling all the bulkheads that had been depended on to hold back the hullful of water, washing over the damage-control parties that had been working desperately to hold back.the sea. The second one hit just under the bridge. The third exploded near the stern. A fourth miraculously dove under the ship.
“Bridge has lost steering control,” cried the helmsman.
“Switch to after steering,” shouted Welles.
They waited. No response. “No answer from after steering, sir.”
“Call DC Central. Tell them we've lost steering control,”
“The phone is dead, sir. I can't get anyone to answer.”
A torrent of rockets shattered the pilothouse as a Soviet boat sped down the side spraying the upper decks of the island. David Charles, seeing the boat coming, had fallen to the deck. As the shelling stopped, he ducked into the open pilothouse door.
Stillness. No movement. There was smoke. Fire was shooting from exposed cables. His favorite bridge chair was torn and spattered with blood.
Frank Welles was sitting on the deck against the bulkhead, near the door David had just come through. He leaned over, jerking at David's pant leg. His face was pale, setting off the blood that seeped from his scalp. He said nothing, just pointed at the fallen sailor by the helm. David, understanding, grabbed the wheel, spinning it first one way, then the other.
“Nothing,” he said.
Then Welles found his voice. “Ship's speaker. Let DC Central know we've lost control.”
David did as Welles said.
Nimitz'
captain was in shock. A Tomcat streaked over the flight deck in front of the bridge, its guns chattering at a boat attacking on the other beam. The pilot found his target. The boat exploded as it followed its fish close in, but the torpedo also found its target.
David was about to speak into the mike when the torpedo hit. He had been entranced by the shimmering path of the torpedo. It was shallow running, and he couldn't believe it was that large. The explosion, catapulting water high above the ship, was followed by a second detonation of even greater magnitude. Somehow, he determined afterward, the warhead must have been armed with something that penetrated an avgas bunker. The flames from the second, blast surpassed the cone of water in height. The smoke that followed signaled trouble. Burning gas was difficult to fight when a ship was still under attack.
David's voice boomed throughout the ship, “After steering, this is the bridge. We have no control. Steer course. . . .” He looked for a course indicator, but that too was shattered. “Belay that, left standard rudder. I'll tell you when I want it amidships.”
Smoke and towering flames, so intense that the heat could be felt on the bridge, covered the flight deck. He had to get the wind on the beam so the damage-control parties could see what they were fighting. Slowly, too slowly,
Nimitz
began to turn. The forward part of the flight deck came into view as the smoke blew aft, then the midships section. But he realized nothing would be able to land. The deck was a shambles. The remaining aircraft would have to ditch.
He spoke again into the mike. “This is the bridge. Rudder amidships.” Now the after section of the flight deck came into view. The, port elevator sprawled halfway across, and a great jagged chunk had been ripped out of the angled part of the flight deck. Burning hulks of planes were being pushed over the side by deck trucks. Hoses snaked over every part of its surface. Another explosion ripped upward from the fuel tanks, driving fire-fighting parties back to the safety of the island.
Looking forward, he saw the last of the Russian boats making a run on
Nimitz.
At a thousand yards, it fired a final torpedo at the after quarter of the ship. He knew there was no way to turn her in time. “Mr. Dailey to the bridge on the double,” he shouted into the mike.
The boat followed its own torpedo in, raking the stern with rocket fire. Then, as the torpedo hit, it swerved for a run up the side. Even before they were fired, David knew rockets were coming at the bridge again. He dove through the port-side door as the first round exploded inside, blowing out the forward bulkhead. Incendiary shells ignited the pilothouse. David crawled back on his hands and knees, remembering Frank Welles still inside. He inched his way along the deck plates to the other side. But now Welles was hunched over on his side.
“Frank . . . Frank?” He rolled his friend's lifeless body over, lifted the eyelids for a fraction of a second, then let Welles slide back against the bulkhead.
Looking up, he saw the torn metal of the starboard bridge wing. Then, remembering, he leaped up, tripped over a body in his first frantic lunge, then crawled, choking on the smoke, through the starboard hatch. He was searching for the lookout he had been talking with a few short moments before. Nothing was moving. Then, peering through wafts of dense black smoke that had risen up to the bridge level, he saw Seaman Apprentice Meehan mashed against the bulkhead. He had taken a direct hit from one of the rockets. David closed his eyes tightly for a moment. He had not done very well looking after the sailor who had trusted him. He crawled back into the pilothouse, knowing
Nimitz
was now out of control. There were so many more of his sailors in the same state as his young lookout.
Suddenly he heard a steady banging sound through the crackling of the flames. It came from the door behind him. It was partially open, but twisted metal kept the party on the other side from pushing through.
“Admiral, are you still out there?” It was Bill Dailey.
“Yes, Bill.” He found a fire ax that had fallen from its place on the bulkhead. “Just a second. I'll smash the door open.”
Gradually, he gained a few inches, enough so that Dailey and a sailor with him were able to squeeze through. Then Dailey realized they were the only ones alive on the bridge.
“Frank?” he questioned.
David nodded to the form on the deck plates.
“I'm sorry, Admiral.” He hesitated for a moment, then continued, “I think you should consider shifting your flag, sir.”
It was at that moment that David realized
Nimitz
was heeling badly to starboard. Looking out through the smoke he noticed she was in a continuous turn. He reached for the mike on the ship's speaker.
“It's no use, sir,” Dailey shouted through the noise of the flames. “We have no steering control. The last torpedo jammed the rudder over. There is no after steering.”
“The engines?”
“I'm afraid that would be useless, too, sir. We have only one screw now. And we've lost most of the power to the pumps. They're using portable billies up forward, but the flooding's way ahead of them. DC Central says they've lost pressure to most of the fire hoses.” The rumble of more explosions reached the bridge. “It's pretty much hopeless, Admiral.”
The heat had forced them back to the after door. “All right, Bill. Make arrangements.” The giant ship gave an almost human shudder as it heeled more heavily to starboard. Its steady turn had almost ceased as
Nimitz
lost headway. Now the smoke again covered the deck. It was blowing through the bridge as they left.
In flag plot worried staff officers were quietly stuffing papers into their briefcases as Admiral Charles entered. Battery-" powered battle lanterns lit the room with an eerie glow. Already smoke from burning gas, paint, explosives, humans, and other flammables was adding an offensive scent to the air. Their grimy Admiral shocked them even more. His uniform was soot stained, his hat gone in his lifesaving dive through the bridge door. Welles's blood was smeared on his hands and arms.
David stared blankly at the carnage on the status board. Sunk: cruisers
Mississippi, Sterett, Warden,
destroyers
Farrragut, Semmes, Hoel, Fletcher, Forrest Sherman,
frigate
Meyercord.
That last name brought a momentary flicker of recognition. That ship had been named after an officer in his squadron in Vietnam, a respected hero of the riverboat days.
“Have
California
stand alongside, Bill. I'll transfer my flag to her.”
“I've already arranged to have her stand off, Admiral. But I'm afraid we can't make a direct transfer. It's too dangerous for
California
to move that close.” His face was sad and serious. “We're going to have to go over the side, sir. She'll have her whaleboat nearby to pick us up.”
“Fine, Bill. Thank you.” Again
Nimitz
shifted more heavily to starboard as tons of water continued to pour into her innards. “Where is the XO?”
“He's standing by DC Central. He's waiting for your order to abandon ship. He doesn't want to give it until you're safely off.”
“Then let's get the hell out of here.”
“Do you want anything from your cabin, Admiral?”
“Yes, I guess I do. ... No, forget it. Don't waste any time. The sooner we're gone, the sooner they can abandon ship. Tell the XO I definitely do not want him staying aboard. Give him orders to report to me on
California
as soon as every sailor is off.” He paused for a moment. “I don't want her to have a slow death, and I don't want them to do it. We'll sink her ourselves.”
There should have been joy aboard
Lenin.
They knew they had delivered
Nimitz
to Gorenko, that it was just a matter of time before the great ship went to the bottom. But
Lenin,
too, was hurt, badly hurt.
The concentrated attack on
Nimitz
had left the Soviet carrier more open to the Americans than Kupinsky preferred, but he had known that there was no choice, that they could not achieve their objective as long as
Nimitz
was afloat. A flight of Corsairs had been badly decimated before it came within range of the Soviet carrier, but three of them had gotten through with their missiles. One had actually been able to deliver a five-hundred-pound bomb that knocked out the forward missile launchers.
Of more importance were the American submarines
Omaha
and
Groton.
Earlier in the day they had very quietly maneuvered themselves into the line of advance of Kupinsky's force. They remained below the thermal layer, using the sudden temperature change to camouflage themselves from the aircraft flying protective ASW cover in front of the advancing ships. Their torpedo tubes were loaded with Harpoon missiles, quite capable of accurately hitting a surface target at sixty miles.
The submarines used their on-board computers to analyze the sound signatures of the surface ships. Stealthily, they isolated
Lenin
and the other major ships they wanted as targets. No sound transmissions were ever exchanged. Earlier planning pretty much obviated that, and their CO's realized it really didn't matter if they happened to hit the same target. They would just be doubling the chances of sinking it.
That was exactly what happened to
Marshal Grechko,
the newest guided-missile cruiser in the fleet.
Omaha's
first missile hit amidships, right at the waterline, ripping a huge hole, tons of water instantaneously filling her engine room.
Groton's
Harpoon detonated in a missile storage compartment, the force of the explosion slashing upward to smash the bridge. Fires swept out of control through the forward section as
Grechko
heeled rapidly to port. The flames were blown back along the deck, driving the fire fighters amidships. One of her radiomen had just begun to call for help when an exploding magazine sent shells bursting into the space. He never delivered his message. This explosion also forced the men on the hoses back farther, though they hoped they might gradually control the fires and move forward to help their comrades trapped in the bow. The final blow was delivered by a damaged Corsair about to ditch. Her pilot, as he streaked low over the water, nipped his five-hundred-pound bomb just behind the stack, destroying the engine room. Lucky to survive the blast, the fire fighters now found themselves with flames behind them also. Their only chance for survival was a wall of water between them and the flames advancing from the bow and the stern. And then the water pressure dropped until there was only a trickle. In less than five minutes, what remained of
Grechko's
crew abandoned ship.