sound better at ten thousand feet.”
A chorus of groans greeted the all-too-familiar beginning of his plans for his future career. “As long as I don’t have to fly with you,” the TACCO muttered.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing, I didn’t say-“
“No, down there.” Rabies waved over toward the left side of the cockpit. “I saw a flash.”
“Nothing on FLIR,” muttered Harness. The forward-looking infrared sensor was one of the many potent avionics carried on board the S3B Viking ASW hunter-killer.
“I saw something,” Rabies insisted. “Let’s go take a look.”
“I’ll lose contact on the more distant buoys if you get too low,” the TACCO warned. “Any of those bastards have the little missile launcher on top of them that we saw in the South China Sea?”
“Not to my knowledge,” the copilot said promptly. Of the four, he was the one who stayed most current on intelligence threat estimates. The crew’s interest in submarine-launched anti-air missiles had become almost an obsession after their first encounter with the first operational platform carrying the weapons in the South China Sea. “But it doesn’t hurt to be careful.”
“Careful, hell,” Rabies snorted. “This here’s a jet, fellas. Any of you limp dicks want to bail out, you know where the panic button is.”
Rabies tipped the sturdy aircraft over into a deep dive. Of all the aircraft carried on board Jefferson, the S3 Viking was arguably the most airworthy and stable of any platform. It was designed to cruise at patrol speeds for long periods of time, carrying a comprehensive set of sensors.
Foremost in its arsenal were the sonobuoys tucked into its gut, each one spat out on command by a tiny explosive charge in the end. Depending on the water conditions below, a single line of sonobuoys could provide comprehensive undersea surveillance for the entire battle group.
“Rabies, take it easy. You’re passing four hundred knots.” The copilot’s voice was annoyed.
“Ain’t seen nothing yet, asshole. Max speed on this baby is four hundred and forty knots, and I figure that’s going downhill.” Rabies grinned insanely. “About time somebody set a new speed record in this aircraft, don’t you think?”
“I’ve got it,” Harness said suddenly. “Buoy Four?it’s barely there, but I have contact on some electrical sources. Flow tones as well. I make her doing about six knots.”
“Six knots? That’s moving along for a submarine running off battery.”
The TACCO looked puzzled. “She probably heard our sonobuoys hitting the water and wants to clear the area at all possible speed,” Harness countered. “I don’t know that that makes much sense?it just makes her more detectable, and it’s a long time until sunset when she can snorkel in relative safety.”
“Any indication of depth change?” Rabies asked, suddenly all business.
“Negative. She’s headed due west, and I’ve got no indications of a depth change.”
“How deep?” the TACCO asked.
“Deep enough?she’s not shallow, if that’s what you mean.”
“That’s what I mean,” the TACCO confirmed. “As long as she stays at depth, even if she’s got that Codeye installed,” he said, referring to the surface-to-air-missile assembly they’d seen before, “she can’t launch. Isn’t that right?”
“As far as we know.” The copilot sounded dubious. “I don’t know that I want to bet on our intelligence estimates.”
“This is the Med,” Rabies chimed in. “No weird shit here?just straight-forward find’em and kill’em.”
“Sir, she’s headed directly for the carrier.” The TACCO’s voice took on a formal note as his training took over. “Recommend that we set up for deliberate attack. We’ve got time.”
“And torpedoes,” Rabies responded. “You give me a fly-to point, and I’ll take us there. But no weapons free until I talk to Homeplate.”
“Roger.” The TACCO’s fingers flew over the keyboard, entering the tactical fly-points that would appear on Rabies’ screen. “You’ve got it.”
“Got it, aye.”
The S3 tipped over into a steep port turn. “You want a six-buoy pattern in front of them, right?” Rabies confirmed.
“That’ll do it.”
The TACCO switched his radio to the tactical circuit. “Homeplate, this is Hunter 701. We hold contact on an unidentified diesel submarine,” he said, continuing with range, frequency, and bearing information.
“Request weapons free.”
There was a long pause over the circuit, just as he’d expected.
Requesting weapons free on an unidentified submarine was particularly dangerous. Of all bodies of water in the world, the Mediterranean was most crowded with allied submarines. Most littoral nations built their own or bought some variant from any one of the number of other nations exploiting submarines. Without positive identification, the submarine they were tracking could just as easily be Russian, Ukrainian, or even Israeli.
Still, to hold contact and not request weapons free would label one as a bit of a pussy.
“Negative, Hunter 701. Launching two SH60 helos in five mikes. Coordinate transfer of prosecution to Sea Lord 601. After turnover, continue to monitor forward ASW barrier as briefed.”
“Well, ain’t that the shits,” Rabies remarked. The transfer of responsibility for the prosecution was hardly a surprise. Two dipping helos working in tandem against a submarine contact were every submariner’s worst nightmare. In addition to a smaller load of sonobuoys, the SH60 carrier variant had a dipping sonar capable of being deployed to a considerable depth. While the submarine might try to hide by shifting between the various thermal layers found in the warm, salty Mediterranean, it would be difficult to escape two determined and proficient helo crews.
The turnover went quickly, and the Sea Hawks eagerly took up prosecution of the contact. Twenty minutes later, Hunter 701 was headed back on station.
Rabies sighed. “So that’s all we get for being the best around?always the bridesmaid, never the bride.”
“You’re forgetting about the Aleutians,” Harness said. He shuddered. “A submarine with anti-air missiles?it’s damned unnatural if you ask me.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Rabies agreed readily. “Still, this is the Med, not some weird-ass corner of the world.”
The Mediterranean. He gazed down at the clear blue waters, always looking for that unexpected flash of light that indicated a protruding snorkel tube, an amorphous shape just below the surface of the ocean that would reveal a submarine running submerged and shallow. The Mediterranean was a submarine hunter’s worst nightmare for water, and Rabies loved it for that.
The enclosed sea was divided into two distinct thermal layers, in one of the oddest arrangements of any ocean in the world. The top layer was warm and salty, and flowed toward the mouth of the Mediterranean. Deep beneath it, a second layer replenished the Med, cold, less salty ocean water rushing in to replace that lost through evaporation and outflow. The difference between the two vertical currents could produce odd acoustic effects, and an inexperienced crew could easily lose their prey in the shifting sound channels.
“Just another hour on station,” Rabies said cheerfully. “Our reliefs are probably taking a last piss call as we speak.”
“Don’t talk about that,” Harness groaned. “I hate those damned piddle packs.”
The rest of the crew chimed in in agreement. Of all the hardships of flying a long-endurance ASW aircraft, the lack of an adequate relief tube was among the most significant. While some tactical aircraft had a tube built directly into the airframe venting to the outside, the S-3 aviators had to be content with a device that most resembled a hot-water bottle.
The “piddle packs” had been banned by Rabies based on an entirely understandable accident two missions earlier involving a too-exuberant change of altitude by the pilot that was not coordinated with Petty Officer Harness’s more personalized maneuvers in the backseat.
“I’d even take the pack right now.” Harness’s voice sounded strained. He heard Rabies rooting around in the forward part of the aircraft, and moments later the dreaded clear plastic pack was passed back to him.
“Don’t say I never gave you anything.”
