Sea of Shadows

The SENSO’s eyes were locked on his display. “No, sir. This guy is getting stronger all the time.”

The pilot looked over at his copilot. “You wouldn’t happen to have a spare torpedo in your pocket, would you?”

“Afraid not.”

“Damn it!” the pilot said. “Make the call to the SAU Commander.

Tell him we’ve got another sub in our sights, and we are fresh out of torpedoes!”

* * *

USS Towers:

Chief McPherson listened to Firewalker’s contact report and shook her head. Ingraham was the only unit left that was capable of engaging the sub. But the frigate was not equipped with ASROC. Ingraham would have to close the submarine to within a few thousand yards and conduct a torpedo attack using her over-the-side torpedo tubes. An iffy proposition at best. The last place a surface ship wanted to be was within weapons range of a hostile submarine.

The chief stared at the dark screen of the powerless CDRT as if it still had the capacity to show her something. If she’d been in Commander Culkins’ shoes, she would have launched Gunslinger Four- One. Of course, the launch itself would take about five minutes. Add to that another ten minutes for the helo to get into attack position. Fifteen minutes minimum before the helo would be able to engage the submarine.

Fifteen minutes was a long time. The sub could launch more Vipers, or it might disappear again. Commander Culkins wouldn’t want to take that risk. He would go after the submarine himself, despite the risks.

Perhaps thirty seconds later, the SAU Commander responded to Firewalker’s contact report, and all of the chief ’s predictions came true.

“Firewalker Two-Six. All units, this is SAU Commander. Your contact designated Gremlin Zero Four. Maintain track and pass targeting data to all units. Break. All units, this is SAU Commander. Ingraham is detaching from the formation to pursue and engage Gremlin Zero Four.

Wish us luck, over.”

Chief McPherson’s eyes stayed glued to the useless screen of the CDRT. “Come on, baby,” she whispered quietly. “You’ve got the ball.

Now bring it on home to mama.”

CHAPTER 39

USS INGRAHAM (FFG-61)

NORTHERN STRAITS OF HORMUZ

SUNDAY; 20 MAY

2247 hours (10:47 PM)

TIME ZONE +4 ‘DELTA’

Engineman First Class Donald Sebring, the Engineering Officer of the Watch, stared at a cluster of instruments on the Propulsion and Auxiliary Control Console. “Oh, come on, not now …”

He keyed his mike. “Bridge — CCS. We’ve got high vibrations on the output side of the main reduction gears. In accordance with standard EOSS procedures, recommend slowing one major speed while we investigate.”

The reply came almost immediately, but it wasn’t the bridge; it was the commanding officer. “CCS, this is the Captain. Conduct your investigation but do not reduce speed. You are directed to maintain speed at all costs.”

The captain’s words took Sebring by surprise. Maintain speed? The casualty response was clearly outlined in the Engineering Operational Sequencing System. EOSS called for a reduction in speed while investigating out-of- tolerance vibrations. Didn’t the CO realize that he was risking the entire engineering plant?

Petty Officer Sebring switched channels and keyed his mike again.

“Messenger — CCS. We have high vibrations on the output side of the MRGs.”

“CCS — Messenger, high vibrations on the output side of MRGs, aye.”

The voice belonged to Fireman Sandra Cox. “Do you want me to walk the shaft?”

Sebring keyed his mike again. “Messenger — CCS. That’s affirmative. Walk the shaft starting at the MRGs and report ASAP.”

“Messenger, aye.”

Walking the shaft was an engineering term for visually inspecting every inch of the ninety-four-and-a-half — foot propeller shaft — from the Main Engine Room, where it coupled with the output side of the main reduction gears — to Shaft Alley, where it passed through the watertight seals of the stuffing box and out through the bottom of the hull into the ocean. With luck, the Messenger’s inspection would turn up something simple, like a broken pipe or a shifted bracket rubbing against the shaft.

On Sebring’s first ship, a mop bucket had gotten loose during a high-speed turn and had somehow managed to wedge itself under the shaft. The metal sides of the bucket had formed a natural resonating chamber, amplifying the vibrations of the spinning shaft until it sounded like the mating cry of a brontosaurus.

The memory brought a flicker of a smile to Sebring’s lips, but any trace of humor was driven instantly from his mind by the angry buzzing of an alarm on the Damage Control Console.

A half-second later, the DC Console Watch shouted, “Smoke alarm in AMR #3!”

Sebring switched back to the bridge circuit and keyed his mike.

“Bridge — CCS. We’ve got a smoke alarm in Auxiliary Machinery Room #3. Report to follow.”

“CCS — Bridge. Copy your smoke alarm in AMR #3. Call it away.”

Sebring grabbed the flexible microphone stalk for the general announcing circuit and swung it down near his face. There was a brass bell bolted to the bulkhead to the right of his console. He grabbed the lanyard, pressed the microphone button, and rang the bell rapidly eight times, paused for a couple of seconds and then gave three distinct rings of the bell to indicate that the casualty was in the aft portion of the ship. The sound of the bells and his voice blared from 1-MC speakers all over the ship. “Smoke, smoke, smoke. We have a smoke alarm in Auxiliary Machinery Room #3. Away the Flying Squad. Provide from Repair Three.” He rang the bell again and repeated the message. And then he shoved the 1-MC microphone away.

“DC Console Watch, start your plot.”

“Already started, boss.”

Sebring glanced at the clock. Because of the possible presence of smoke, the Flying Squad would have to wear Self-Contained Breathing Apparatuses to enter AMR #3. Of course, at General Quarters, they would already be wearing their SCBAs. But they would still have to light off their breathing gear and conduct seal checks. Figure one minute for that, plus another minute to haul ass to AMR #3, check the door for heat and pressure, and enter the space. It would be at least two minutes before any damage reports started coming in. By that time, the Damage Control Assistant would have shown up and taken control of the investigation and repair efforts.

Sebring keyed his headset mike again. “Messenger — CCS. Continue your walk down of the shaft, but skip over AMR #3. The Flying Squad will handle that space.”

“CCS — Messenger. Continue my walk-down of the shaft, but skip over AMR #3, aye.”

Sebring looked at the readouts from the vibration sensors. The vibrations were getting worse. This didn’t look much like a runaway mop bucket.

He heard it in the distance at first — a low, slow groaning sound that reminded him vaguely of whale songs. But this sound didn’t taper off to silence the way that whale songs did. It grew continually louder until Sebring could feel it resonating through the very deck plates. And then it grew louder still, loud enough to rattle the glass faceplates of the dials on his console. And he began to realize what the sound must mean.

Sebring looked at his watch. Where in the hell was the Damage Control Assistant? The DCA should have been running this show. Where was he?

“CCS — Flying Squad. Four SCBAs lit off, time two-two-one-eight.

Door checks are complete. We are entering the space.”

Sebring nodded unconsciously. “CCS, aye.”