Shari nodded. “Good. It’s just about time to start this party.”
Andy furrowed his eyebrows in mock concentration. “I think Nav had his fingers crossed,” he said. “So he could have been blowing smoke up my butt.”
Shari looked out her side window at the brilliant blue waters of the southern Med scrolling by fifteen thousand feet below. “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times,” she said. “If you don’t put your butt where Nav can get to it, he can’t blow smoke where you don’t want it.”
Andy grinned. “Roger that, boss.”
Shari rotated her neck to relieve a crick. “How are we looking for Electronic Support?”
“The ALR-66 is still out of commission,” Andy said. “Chief Lanier is back there breathing down the tech’s neck, trying to get it fixed.
Apparently, we need a break-while-stepping relay, whatever the hell
Shari sighed. “Have we ever flown a mission where everything on board actually worked for the entire flight?”
“Not that I know of, boss. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever even heard of such a thing.”
“So we’re hitting the Op-Area blind?”
“Not exactly. We just got an ES cross-fix from
“Better than nothing,” Shari said. “Is it good news or bad?”
“Good news. There are at least two Kelvin Hughes Type 1007 I-band radars transmitting right-smack-dab in the middle of our Op-Area. Definitely consistent with German Type 212 subs.”
Shari’s eyebrows went up. “Two? What about the other two? Did they split off from the rest of the pack?”
Andy shook his head. “George doesn’t think so.”
George was Ensign George Freely, the plane’s Tactical Coordinator, or TACO (pronounced to rhyme with “whacko”).
“He says it’s not unusual for subs in a rotating diesel barrier to alternate their depths according to a predetermined schedule. That way, not all the subs are at periscope depth at the same time.”
“This isn’t exactly a rotating diesel barrier,” Shari said.
“True,” said Andy. “But that’s the closest tactical example that anyone can think of. Nobody’s had to deal with a roving diesel wolfpack since the Second World War.”
“I understand that,” Shari said. “But we still don’t know for a fact that the subs are sticking together. What if we get all our eggs in one basket, and some of those subs slip by us to the north?”
“They’re going to have to refuel somewhere,” Andy said. “The intel weenies think they’ll head for Tobruk, Libya. That’s the nearest port that’s seriously hostile to the good old U.S. of A.”
Shari glanced at her own fuel gauges. “Sounds like a pretty big gamble to me,” she said. “How much time will we have on station before the carrier gets there and steals our thunder?”
Andy took a swallow of coffee. “Those guys are making tracks. We’ll probably have the Op-Area to ourselves for an hour before AEW gets there.” He shrugged. “The carrier will be, what? An hour behind that?
An hour and a half, maybe?”
Shari pursed her lips and nodded once. “Let’s make the most of it. I want to have those subs filleted and on a plate before the big boys even stick their toes in our Op-Area.” She pulled her headphones from around her neck and positioned the left earpiece over her ear. The other earpiece she put over her right temple, leaving her ear uncovered so that she could hear her copilot. She keyed her mike. “George, let’s get FLIR warmed up and ready to play.”
The TACO’s voice cracked in her left ear. “You got it, Lieutenant.”
Down in the belly of the plane, the Forward-Looking Infrared cameras came to life and began scanning the water below and in front of the aircraft for thermal signatures. The temperature contrast between a periscope and the surrounding water was sometimes drastic enough to make it detectable to IR. But FLIR really worked best against snorkeling submarines. A snorkel was a specially designed ventilation pipe that a submerged submarine could extend above the surface of the water to allow its diesel engines to suck in fresh air and expel exhaust gasses. In the infrared spectrum, the heat plume from a snorkeling engine was like a giant arrow pointing directly back to the submarine.
A few minutes out from the Op-Area, Shari began a slow descent that would take them down to their patrol altitude of 1,500 feet. Based on the recommendations of the TACO, they didn’t drop any sonobuoys on the first pass, giving the FLIR cameras and the APS-137 radar a chance to sweep the area for periscopes or snorkels.
When she reached the far edge of the search grid, Shari eased the yoke over into a slow turn that would bring them back around for another pass.
She keyed her mike. “Did we get anything, George?”
“No joy. Just a merchant ship and a couple of yachts.”
“So much for beginner’s luck,” Shari said. “Let’s start planting the
“Roger that,” her TACO said. “Stand by for waypoints.”
A series of coordinates popped up on Shari’s Tactical Data Display.
She punched the
The TDD beeped to tell her that her approach vector was within acceptable limits. She keyed her mike. “I’ll do the flying, Andy. You cover the numbers.”
Andy said, “Roger that, boss.” He paused, watching the numbers on the TDD for a moment, and then he keyed his mike. “All stations—
waypoint Alpha coming up in
On cue, one of the two Acoustic Sensor Operators sitting at display consoles near the center of the plane pushed a button.
An electrical signal triggered a small explosive charge, not much more powerful than a shotgun shell, propelling the first sonobuoy out of its launch tube. As soon as the metal and plastic cylinder was clear of the aircraft, a propeller-like set of spring-loaded fins popped open on the rear end of the buoy. Known in Undersea Warfare circles as a roto-chute, the fins caused the sonobuoy to spin like a helicopter, slowing the buoy’s rate of fall and keeping its nose pointed down toward the water.
On splashdown, the sonobuoy performed a series of automatic operations in rapid sequence. First a flotation collar inflated, keeping the buoy floating upright with four-fifths of its length extending down into the water. Next a latch snapped open in the lower end of the device, releasing a small array of sensitive underwater microphones to dangle at the end of a cable beneath the buoy. Relays clicked; a lithium battery powered up an acoustic processor and a radio transmitter, transforming the buoy into a small disposable sonar system. Almost simultaneously, an antenna popped out of the top of the buoy and began transmitting coded signals back to the aircraft.
The P-3 continued launching sonobuoys at precisely measured intervals, turning occasionally to begin another row. Buoy after buoy shot from the launch tubes, each spinning down toward a pre-selected spot in the ocean, until they formed an integrated field of sonar sensors: a Briar Patch.
In Shari’s left ear, the TACO’s voice said. “Buoy 12 won’t tune up.
All other buoys are up and operational.”
“Copy,” said Shari. “How big a hole does that make in our coverage?”
“Negligible,” George said in her ear.
Andy keyed his mike. “Do you want to swing back around and re-seed buoy 12?”
“It’s a tight pattern with a lot of coverage overlap,” George said. “We can reseed, if it’ll give you a warm- fuzzy, but it’s not really necessary.”
“You’re the USW guru,” Shari said. “I’m just the bus driver.”
“Copilot concurs,” Andy said. “If you’re happy, we’re happy.”
“Roger,” said George. “Looks like we’re getting some LOFAR data now.”
