The captain sighed heavily. “You heard the man. Conning officer, make your depth eighty feet. Prepare for communications with the battle group.”
As the submarine rose smoothly through the water, the captain thought sour thoughts about the Navy, about surface ships, and about one admiral aviator in particular.
Five minutes later, his worst fears about aviators were confirmed. “You want us to do what?” he almost howled, but then caught himself at the last moment. “I’m not sure I understand, admiral,” he said in a voice more suited to the close confines of the submarine. Silence was a reflex with most submariners, and the skipper was no exception. “What you’re proposing is… shall we say… not without its risks?”
“I understand that, Captain.” The admiral briefly outlined his concerns about a torpedo attack, then concluded with, “Besides, I think you’d agree it’s time the old girl had a chance to fight back. She didn’t. Not the first time, not against the attack that put her on the bottom of the ocean, there.”
The captain sighed, and considered the physics of the problem. Sure, the bow of the submarine was particularly strengthened with measures designed to prevent her from flooding in the event that she did run into something. But still, Murphy’s Law prevailed. If something could go wrong, it would. “She wasn’t built as a battering ram, Admiral.”
“I’m not asking for a battering ram, Captain, just a gentle shove. We’ve got an expert up here who thinks that will be all that it will take. A couple of nudges, then you back on out of there at best speed.”
Backing out at best speed. Yeah, sure. The captain refrained from pointing out just how unwieldy a submarine going astern was, the difficulties of maneuvering, and just how much noise she herself would kick up. “The southeast corner, you say?” he asked delicately.
“Affirmative. One nudge, the southeast corner.”
“Aye-aye, Admiral — we’re on it.” The captain clicked off the circuit and gazed around the control room with a sense of unreality. Finally, he said, “Okay, you all heard the admiral. Conning officer, take us to the southeast corner of the
“Incoming!” General Haynes clamped down on the edge of the table and ducked involuntarily. The two Navy officers on either side of him shot him a surprised look, while the Air Force officer grinned enigmatically.
Sheepishly, the Army officer straightened up. “What is it with you people?” he asked good-naturedly. “You ever get used to that?”
Batman shrugged. “Around here, we call it the sound of freedom.”
The Army officer breathed deeply. “Where I’m from, we call it the sound of artillery,” he grumbled quietly, but returned to the task at hand.
Tombstone pointed to a small TV screen located in one corner of the room. “Watch — what you’re hearing will make more sense then.”
The plat camera showed an overview of the flight deck, and now the Army officer could see the source of the noise. A Tomcat on the bow catapult was in full military power, trembling on the catapult with the JBDs, or jet blast deflectors, at right angles to the deck behind her. As he watched, he saw a small, blurred figure on the deck to the left of the aircraft whip off a sharp salute, then another figure dropped to the deck and held up one hand.
The Tomcat moved almost imperceptibly at first, but after the first few microseconds, it picked up speed at an astounding rate. It shot down the catapult, trailing steam and fire in its wake, and blasted off the bow of the aircraft carrier. It disappeared from view for a few moments, then he saw it struggling back up into the air. “I thought he was a goner,” the Army officer said softly, his voice hushed with awe.
Batman shook his head. “All in a day’s work for those fellows,” he said. He pointed at Admiral Magruder. “For me and him, too. Years ago.”
“Not so long as you’d think,” Tombstone shot back.
The plat camera showed two more F-14s already taxiing into position, the jet blast deflectors now flat on the deck to avoid impeding their progress, to allow them easy access to the catapult, the flight deck crew in their specially choreographed dance around the waiting aircraft. Seven seconds later, the roar thundered through TFCC again.
“This goes on all day and all night?” the Army officer asked, doubt in his voice.
“The Tomcats are the worst,” Tombstone said. “Or the best — depending on how you look at it. The other guys, you can hear them launch, too, but after a while you can tell what’s launching by how bad your compartment rattles.”
“Or whether your computer reboots,” Batman put in.
“And in just a few minutes, they’ll be within each others’ engagement envelopes,” Tombstone said, turning away from the plat camera to study the tactical display located at the forward part of the compartment. “It’ll be all over but the shouting. Do you think this is going to work?”
Batman said, “It has to. We don’t have any other choices.”
“Admiral, it’s the S-3,” the TAO shouted, not even turning around to look at them, his gaze fixed on the screen in front of him. “He’s reporting audibles, audibles from his submarine contact — looks like she’s going to make a break for it!”
Both Batman and Tombstone swore softly. Then Batman said, “Okay, everyone. You know the game plan. Let’s get started.”
“What about the submarine?” the Coast Guard officer asked.
“Our sub is on him. And if he misses, we’ll have him clear the area and turn the S-3 loose on him. Put a couple more ASW helicopters airborne, then forget about it.”
The sudden barrage of green lines dancing across his screen and the hard thrum of mechanical noise in his headset sent a huge wave of relief flowing through Petty Officer Pencehaven, followed immediately by a rush of adrenaline. If he’d had any doubts at all — and he’d had a few, he admitted to himself — they were now evaporated like the early morning dew.
The acoustic signals tracing across his display, as well as the churning noise of the propeller completely resolved the question of whether or not there was a submarine hiding behind the
Jacobs shook his head. “Guess
“Sonar, Conn. I need that targeting solution now!” the captain’s voice said.
“Updating now, sir. Done,” Pencehaven said. “Request weapons free.”
“Weapons free. Fire at will. Flooding tubes three and five — it’s all yours, boys. Good work.”
Pencehaven double-checked the solution, his finger poised over the fire button. Then he glanced over at Jacobs, took the other man’s hand, and pressed it firmly down on the button. “First kill is yours, buddy,” he said. “And thanks.”
A low rumble shot through the submarine as the torpedo left its tube. It appeared immediately on his acoustic display, just after the noise saturated his headset. The automatic gain control cut in, reducing the noise to a tolerable level.
“Looking good, looking good,” Jacobs chanted softly, watching the contact on Pencehaven’s screen. “You can run, but you can’t hide.”
And indeed that was true with the Mark 38 ADCAP torpedo. It had both acoustic and wake homing capabilities built in, as well as a logic discriminator that kept it away from its own submarine. Once it caught the first sniff of a contact, it was virtually impossible to avoid.
Pencehaven and Jacobs watched as the torpedo fell into a lazy circle, then broke the arc to zero in on the contact now streaking across their screen as a bright green lozenge. “Recommend we go active, sir,” Pencehaven said. There was no longer any advantage in maintaining strictly passive and acoustic contact. The other submarine knew that they were there. With a torpedo, it could reach no other conclusion than that it was not alone in the ocean.
