“Whatever this is, it’s about fifty feet to the north of where the
“You sure he would get that close?” Rabies asked.
“He could, if he’s got a good skipper. And all indications are that this is a smaller submersible. Sure, that would be too close for comfort for any of the big boomers, or even one of the larger attack submarines. But for a little fella like this, no problem. So do I get my sonobuoys or what?”
With a sigh, the copilot punched out the first of a series of barrier and localization sonobuoys. The TACCO recommended positions for them or in front of them on his own tactical display console, and indeed the aircraft could have ejected the sonobuoys completely on its own at the appropriate locations without any human intervention.
“Okay, I’ll call it in,” the TACCO said, sheer satisfaction in his voice. “I got you, you little bastard. I got you now.”
Petty Officer Pencehaven arched his back and pressed his shoulder blades hard against the plastic chair. Even ergonomically built, even padded in thick plastic and cotton batting, there was no way the chair was anything but a device of torture after a couple of hours. Especially when it was so deadly quiet outside. If he’d had some more contacts to track, had the possibility of a hostile submarine contact on his screen, or anything even remotely resembling something interesting to do instead of listening to the soft hiss of biological noises and water in his earphones, staring at the green waterfall display until his eyes ached, anything at all, the chair wouldn’t be quite so uncomfortable.
It wasn’t particularly fair, either. Pencehaven glanced up at the clock and swore quietly. Another two hours until Renny Jacobs came down to relieve him. And that asshole was always early, thank God. Sliding his way into Sonar, smirking like somebody was going to give him a gold star for showing up fifteen minutes early. Well, if he wanted to be a suckup like that, let him. Watches were scheduled for a four-hour stretch, and you didn’t gain any brownie points by being early every night.
Still, even a random visit from Jacobs would be good for a distraction about now. Oh, sure, there were plenty of possibilities. They all knew that there was a submarine in the area, and they all knew that it would be one that wouldn’t look like anything else on the sonar screen. That alone was enough to keep Pencehaven from settling into a complete stupor, the possibility that he might miss first contact on a new class of boat. Still, after the first hour, even that possibility wore thin.
He shifted from side to side, trying to loosen a stiff muscle that ran along his spine. Overdid it in the gym last night, working out on the weight bench. You had to make an effort to stay in shape on board a submarine, and Pencehaven made it a point to be the most buffed out submariner on the boat. Jacobs might have a sharp set of ears on him, there was no doubt about that, but Pencehaven was absolutely certain that he could kick the skinny young man’s ass anytime he wanted.
He spent a few minutes musing over the possibilities of beating the crap out of Jacobs just for the hell of it, and then became aware of a faint… well, it wasn’t exactly a sound, it was too soft for that. It was more like a rub, the sound of silk gliding over rough skin, just the way it had been when he’d last been on liberty — wait, there it was again. He shut his eyes, suddenly oblivious to the ache in his back, the uncomfortable chair, and the possible outcomes of his long-standing feud with Jacobs.
There it was again.
He tapped the screen with his pencil. There. Maybe just — yes, that was it. But the spikes of green signal were barely sticking out of the surrounding noise. He watched, correlating the rising signal amplitude with what he was hearing through his headphones.
Suddenly, irrevocably, he knew for certain that he had it. There was no way to exactly quantify what it was that convinced him that it was so, but he was certain nonetheless. Without hesitating, he toggled his microphone on. “Conn, Sonar, submarine contact, bearing one-three-five, range — well, around five thousand to ten thousand. I need you to maneuver to clarify the bearing for me.”
“Sonar, are you certain?” Pencehaven recognized the voice of the commanding officer.
“Yes, sir,” he replied confidently. “I’m certain.”
“Because the bearing you’re indicating along with the range latitude you’re giving me correlates very closely to the
Pencehaven swore silently. Yes, now that he thought about it, it did correlate to the
“Yes, sir, I know that. But it… it…” Suddenly, Pencehaven wasn’t exactly sure as to how to explain it. “It sounds weird, sir. Not like anything else we’ve heard down here.”
There was a long pause on the circuit, then, “Okay, we’ll slip on over there and take a look. What’s the source of the signal?”
“It’s mechanical and hydraulic, sir. I’m not exactly certain what. Intermittent. And I can’t put a name to the exact equipment.” Pencehaven was aware that a note of desperation was creeping into his voice.
Why didn’t the skipper believe him? They knew that there was a submarine in the area, one that wasn’t in the acoustic library. This was just the sort of thing that you would expect to hear.
“Maybe a bilge pump of some sort, sir,” he said, grasping at straws. “All I know is it doesn’t belong there.”
“Okay. Like I said, we’ll get a little closer.” Pencehaven could hear the doubt in the commanding officer’s voice.
He stared in frustration at the screen, resisting the urge to tap his fingers on the console. Why wouldn’t it give up one sharp, clear transient, some electrical signal that he could clearly peg as being foreign. Was that so much to ask? Who the hell could run so silent except for a U.S. submarine? But it wasn’t one of theirs, of that he was certain. He knew the acoustic signature of every piece of equipment on every U.S. boat. No, this was something different, his earlier certainty returned.
The question was, how was he going to convince the captain? Acid flooded into his stomach as he realized what the answer had to be. He turned to the junior sonarman sitting next to him. “Send a messenger down to wake up Petty Officer Jacobs. Tell him I need him up here.”
“That’s got to be it, Admiral!” Lab Rat shouted. “By God, we’ve got him now!”
Batman studied the interlocking areas of probability generated by the S-3 Viking and the submarine. Not a lot to go on, but it was all they had at this point.
“It’s only one submarine,” Batman said. He pounded on the plotting table with frustration. “And a little one, at that. Why the hell is one submarine driving the whole course of this battle?”
Lieutenant Green spoke up. “Submarines always have, sir. Ever since their widespread use in naval warfare. A recent example, in the battle of the Falklands, the mere rumor of a British Swiftsure class attack submarine was enough to force the Argentineans into some rather desperate ploys. And when the Brits thought that an Argentinean diesel was deployed, they expended darn near half of the world’s sonobuoy resources trying to find it. Killed a lot of whales along the way, too.”
Batman shook his head in frustration. “I know that. It’s just not fair, dammit! I’m sitting here on the most powerful aircraft carrier in the world, and there’s a little bit of metal cobbled together in the water, keeping me out of the action.” He looked up at the two of them, rage in his eyes. “How certain are you of this?”
Lab Rat fielded the ball. “I won’t say it’s a certainty, Admiral,” he said slowly, tracing the two areas of
