Chapter 375 Hulk Smashed
The crew of the USS Carl Vinson was like a kicked beehive as they scrambled around the massive Nimitz class aircraft carrier. Damage control teams rushed here and there, putting out fires and carrying injured crew to the sickbays, while the bridge crew continued attempting to contact the flag bridge, but to no avail. The powerful impact of the three Type VI Hulk Fist rounds fired by the EV Heidrek had sent enough of a shock through the carrier that it had even caused breaks in the electrical wiring running through the bulkheads and decks of the American vessel.
Type VI Hulk Fist rounds were considered something of an inside joke by the researchers in Lab City that had come up with them. Indeed, they were shaped like a muscular forearm that ended in a gigantic fist, and the electrical steel that coated them was even covered in a layer of green conductive paint. They were crude, brutal, and designed for one thing and one thing only: delivering the greatest blunt impact force possible to any target they hit.
And indeed, they had proved their mettle today, practically paralyzing an entire carrier group with a single round from a single “small” naval battery.
......
Aboard the EV Heidrek, the captain looked at the damage his initial shots had caused with satisfaction. The HUD in his glasses showed three destroyed flight elevators and billowing, black smoke rising from the hangars as well as a conveniently cleared flight deck. n)/o./v)-e-/l(/b(-1.-n
“Guns, split fire. Target the remaining flight elevator, engine room, and flight deck tower,” he ordered.
{Targets confirmed... ammunition printed,} the ship’s AI reported.
“Fire.”
Three more rounds were sent downrange at Mach 10, two hulk fists and one Type III Penetrator. The two hulk fists hit the undamaged flight elevator and the tower on the Carl Vinson’s flight deck, respectively, while the penetrator round dug into the side of the massive target and deep into its guts, where it discharged its kinetic energy directly into the nuclear reactor.
“Contact bearing two zero degrees relative. It’s jets, sir, twenty of them. Radar signature reads F/A-18 Super Hornets,” the radar operator reported.
“Range?” the captain asked.
“Twenty kilometers and closing, sir.”
“Guns, activate the metalstorms and give our guests a warm welcome.”
“Metalstorm, aye, sir,” the weapons officer repeated, then initiated the automated air defense system and let the ship’s AI take control of it.
“What’s the rest of the carrier group doing?” the captain asked.
“Looks like they’re frozen, sir. We might have knocked out comms on the Vinson, so it’ll take a bit for them to clarify and reestablish a chain of command,” the radar operator answered.
“Comms, send a demand to surrender.”
“Aye, sir. Demand sent.”
“Heidrek, signal intercept available?”
{Negative, captain. They’re not on any frequency I can monitor.}
“Odd.... Guns, prepare fire pattern delta. If we don’t get a white flag in the next two minutes, let’s clear those ships off of my ocean.”
“Aye sir, preparing fire pattern delta.”
......
USS Carl Vinson flag bridge.
Every aircraft carrier in the US Navy had three bridges: the Combat Information Center, where the ship’s executive officer was stationed during combat and flight operations; the bridge in the tower above the flight deck, where the captain was stationed during combat and flight operations; and the flag bridge, where the admiral was stationed. The flag bridge was located one deck below the ship’s bridge, and the flag bridge on the Carl Vinson was now like a convertible with its top down, open to the air.
Thanks to the relative fragility of the “island”—the tower that rose above the flight deck—the ship’s bridge had taken a direct hit from a hulk fist and been ripped completely away from its location and sent to the bottom of the ocean. The flag bridge, coincidentally, had been completely missed and was relatively undamaged... save for lacking a ceiling and the missing windows. The deafening commotion caused by the ship’s bridge being ripped away and violently transported somewhere else had actually awoken the unconscious admiral.
“Louie, what happened?” He was still confused and shaking off the cobwebs. “Louie?”
The admiral crawled toward his flag lieutenant, intermittently calling out to him. Once he reached his destination, he noticed that the young lieutenant’s eyes were glazed and staring at nothing, his neck twisted to the side at an awkward angle; the admiral’s aide-de-camp was dead.
He staggered to his feet, blood still streaming down his face, and stumbled to the communications station. He fiddled with the dial until he found the damage control internal channel, then broke into it. “This is Admiral McConnel. Give me a sitrep,” he commanded in a hoarse voice.
“Admiral, this is DC O’Connel. Sitrep is that we’re fucked, sir. Power plant is down from a direct hit and unrecoverable, fires are still uncontrolled in the hangar and from decks 14 through 18, all four flight elevators took direct hits and are unrecoverable, and the ship’s bridge is just... gone, sir. We’re operating on spit and shoestrings and the charge in our capacitors while we get the backup diesel engines online, but... I don’t hold out much hope, sir. We’re dead in the water.”
“Understood. Continue damage control until further notice.”
“Aye, sir. DC out.”
Admiral McConnel switched to the fleet command channel. “Fleet, this is Admiral McConnel. Remove that frigate from its mortal coil, and do it yesterday!” he yelled into the microphone. “The Vinson is dead in the water. Lake Champlain, prepare to receive the flag.”
“This is the Champlain. We’re prepared to receive you, admiral, but the marching band is out to lunch I’m afraid,” the captain of the USS Lake Champlain, a Ticonderoga class guided missile cruiser replied.
“I don’t need a band, I just need that fucking frigate gone. Make that happen and I’ll be pleased as punch,” the admiral barked. “Vinson out.” He staggered toward the stairs that would take him to the flight deck, where he would board the captain’s gig and head toward the USS Lake Champlain and resume control of the strike group... or what was left of it, anyway.
As for the rest of the crew on the Carl Vinson, he didn’t give a shit about them. They would serve to mask his escape and they could go down with the damned ship, for all he cared.
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