Crash Dive

by Martin H. Greenberg

  “And now it’s time for us to prove that as well,” Ryan said. “You know what we have to do, so let’s show these tadpoles how Rangers do it. Saddle up, Raiders, and let’s get wet.”

  “Lieutenant Jacobs, I have helm control on channel two,” Melody said.

  “Acknowledged,” Ryan replied.

  “Lieutenant Jacobs, we’re going to offload your suit first, then the rest of your squad in the order you’ve designated,” a calm voice said.

  “Affirmative, we’re ready when you are,” Ryan replied. “Everyone listen up. I’ll be hitting the water first, then the rest of you in squad order. I want this entry smooth and by the numbers. Raiders on-line and ready.”

  Another chorus of affirmatives answered him, followed by a low, “Let’s just get out there and kick some Navy ass.” Ryan knew it was Private Vasnej, but didn’t say anything. His performance today will determine whether he earns a reprimand for breaking radio silence, he thought.

  Stepping over to the side of the boat, Ryan waited for the crane to swing down and grab him. A few seconds later there was a small thud as the electromagnetic grapples contacted his suit.

  “Grapples locked and energized, Lieutenant,” Melody said. “Ready for offload.”

  “Go,” Ryan said. With a barely perceptible movement, Ryan and his suit swung out over the ocean water. Held by the torso of his suit, Ryan couldn’t look down, but he knew the water was below, waiting for him. With a faint whine, the suit dropped toward the water. Feet, legs, waist, arms, torso, shoulders, all disappeared into the drink, with the MICAS suit’s head was the last thing to go under. With another mechanical clank, the grapples released Ryan, and he was on his own.

  “Melody, establish neutral buoyancy. Carson Wainwright, this is Lieutenant Jacobs, off-load was successful. Launch the rest of the squad on my mark,” Ryan ordered.

  “Affirmative,” the computer replied. “Activating propulsion systems.”

  The external audio pickups heard the water chum into a froth as the propellers provided thrust to hold the suit motionless in the water. Normally, a submersible would use the available air in its ballast tanks to achieve this, but the suits were so small they had to rely on their propellers to keep them suspended in the water. Of course, this did not make them the quietest thing there either, which Ryan had already taken into consideration for tactical movement.

  “Neutral buoyancy achieved.”

  “Course heading one hundred eighty degrees, take us down to fifteen meters and then out at five knots,” Ryan said. “Raider One to Carson Wainwright, mark.”

  The suit dropped into the depths, a large cloud of tiny bubbles surrounding it as they descended. The suit came to a stop and began moving forward, although Ryan wouldn’t have known it if he hadn’t seen the suspended sediment moving by his suit visor.

  “Melody, status report.”

  “All systems are functioning normally, Lieutenant.”

  “Raider One, this is Raider Two, I am in the water and am moving toward your position,” Paddy said. “All systems are functioning normally.”

  “Affirmative,” Ryan said. “Paddy, that was damn fast how you followed me in.”

  “Roger that, LT, what can I say, I’m just good, that’s all,” Paddy replied.

  The rest of the squad entered the water one after another, and soon all five of the MICAS suits were clustered around each other like a small school of yellow fish. Ryan moved his arms experimentally, comparing the feeling to how the simulations were. It was about the same, like moving through thin syrup. Even though they had trained this way for several days, Ryan knew that reactions would be off by a fraction of a second in the new environment, which would be a problem. Then there was the knowledge that there wasn’t any land underneath them for about six hundred meters. I’ll never bitch about land missions again, no matter where we’re sent, he thought.

  “All Raiders report in,” Ryan ordered. “Any problems?” Everyone reported that all suits were running perfectly.

  “Excellent start to our morning, folks,” Ryan said. “Captain Masters is heading up this part of the test, so let’s wait for his instructions. I have 0859 hours on my chron, so we shouldn’t have long to wait.”

  About thirty seconds later, Paddy piped up. “Well, LT, we know the sonar works, I’ve got a lot of cavitation from bearing two seven zero and coming our way really fast . . . wait, it’s now altered course to three hundred forty degrees, and looks like it’s going to slip under the Carson Wainright.”

  “What’s Marcus up to?” Ryan asked no one in particular.

  At precisely 0900 hours, Succubus went to work.

  Having already embedded an encrypted copy of itself in the Barracuda’s mainframe for later activation, its subroutines took over every system on the submarine, wrenching control from the surprised crew, and rendering every dial, gauge, and button useless.

  Before they could even react to the loss, the virus changed the submarine’s course and taken it back under the Carson Wainright, identifying it as the primary target.

  To keep the crew distracted, Succubus set off the reactor-core leak alarm, and turned off the life support systems, turning the submarine into an underwater moving tomb.

  It was aware of the crew attempting to regain control, but ignored them. Sonar told the virus that the smaller machines were not pursuing, but there was a ninety-five percent chance that they would as soon as the submarine fired. Succubus assigned threat ratings to the five smaller vehicles. If they got in its way or tried to prevent it from continuing its mission, then they would be destroyed.

  Sensors reported that the sub was at optimum firing range. Having already removed the dampeners on the UEMP system the day before, Succubus ran a firing solution in 0.003 of a second, and unloaded on the ship.

  “Whoa! What the hell was that?” Paddy said over the comm.

  “What the hell was what?” Randy said. “Nothing happened.”

  “Everybody stay cool,” Ryan said. “Randy, Peyton, Nick keep your eyes open. Paddy, report.”

  “I think the Barracuda just fired on the Wainwright,” Paddy said. “I set up a simple electromagnetic sensor program to see if I could track the weapon signature when they fired it.”

  Which was expressly forbidden in the rules of the game, Ryan thought, although once again his mechanic’s rule-bending had come in handy. “And?” he asked.

  “And I just saw a huge burst of EM energy come from the Barracuda and hit the Wainwright. I mean, the reading buried my gauge, LT. If the ship was hit, they’ll be dead in the water.”

  “Paddy, try and raise the Wainwright. I’ll see if I can contact Captain Masters,” Ryan said. “The rest of you keep an eye on that sub.”

  “You mean the sub that seems to be coming around towards us at about twenty knots and accelerating?” Nick said.

  “Yeah, that one. Barracuda, Barracuda, this is Raider One, over,” Ryan said. “Captain Masters, Captain Masters, this is Raider One, do you copy? Is anyone on the comm in there?”

  “Ryan, I can’t raise the Wainwright at all, and my sensors are picking up what looks like another energy surge on the Barracuda,” Paddy said.

  What the hell is he doing? We haven’t even begun test maneuvers yet, Ryan thought. “Everyone maintain a distance of at least fifty meters apart until—”

  “Firing, the Barracuda is firing again!” Paddy yelled. “Evasion plan Zulu! Melody, full power!” Ryan yelled, feeling the sudden acceleration as the suit rocketed toward the surface. Ryan couldn’t see anything coming from the submarine, but if Paddy said they were being fired upon, he’d take his word for it.

  “All Raiders report in, all Raiders report,” Ryan commanded.

  “This is Raider Two, I’m all right,” Paddy said.

  “This is Raider Four, alive and well,” Nick’s voice was awestruck. “What happened to Peyton and Randy?”

  I think they got tagged by the UEMP,” Paddy said.

  The Barracuda is bugging
out of here at about thirty knots on a two one seven heading.”

  “Shit. Melody, designate the Barracuda Target One and keep tracking, and get me a fix on all Raiders—” Ryan began.

  “Working . . . Raiders Two and Three have lost all power, and are sinking at a rate of forty meters per minute.”

  “What’s the maximum depth here?” Ryan asked. “Maximum depth is exactly five hundred twenty-seven point five meters,” Melody said.

  “Ryan, the suits would be okay, but I’m not sure about Peyton and Randy,” Paddy said.

  “Yeah, but we can’t let the Barracuda roam around, especially if something’s gone wrong,” Ryan said. “Paddy, you and Chayns go after Raiders Two and Three. I’m going after the sub.”

  “Lieutenant, how are you even hoping to catch—”

  “Corporal, that’s an order! Get down there now before they suffocate! When you’ve got them on the surface, radio Ingleside for assistance. Tell them the Barracuda has gone rogue and I am in pursuit,” Ryan said. Without waiting to see what his second in command was doing, Ryan dove back under the surface and kicked his propellers up to full, speeding after the submarine.

  “Melody, do I even have a chance of catching the target?”

  “Target is traveling sevenpoint five knots faster than Raider One,” Melody replied.

  “Damn. Time to try out these torpedoes,” Ryan said. “This should look good at my court-martial. Melody, get me a firing solution and ready tube one.”

  “Tube one open and ready,” Melody said. “Firing solution locked.”

  “Fire!” Ryan said. The suit shuddered as the small missile launched. Immediately Ryan’s suit dropped to fifty meters below the surface and altered course by fifteen degrees, in case the Barracuda’s crew decided to fire back along the torpedo’s path.

  “Two hundred meters to target . . .” Melody reported. “Torpedo has acquired and is closing . . . one hundred fifty meters to target . . . target is releasing countermeasures . . . torpedo has acquired countermeasures . . . torpedo has lost target . . . torpedo has detonated.”

  “Figured it wouldn’t be that easy,” Ryan said.

  “Target is slowing . . . target is turning . . . target is accelerating towards us.”

  “What? Why is he coming back? Take evasive action!” Ryan said.

  Succubus reacted with something akin to surprise when it found itself followed by one of the smaller vessels. The possibility that one of the humans would undertake such illogical behavior had been so small as to be practically nil. Its sensors indicated that the surface vessel was disabled, and unable to give chase. The pursuing vessel was smaller and slower and, according to the program’s calculations, could not stop the larger submarine.

  The virus knew it had also caught two of the smaller vessels in its surprise attack, and had calculated that the others would assist, leaving it free to escape. That one of the vessels would give chase threw it off for 0.006 of a second.

  Succubus felt the vibrations of the crew beating a pattern of Morse code on the hull, and calculated that they had air for another 20.5 minutes. Realizing the SOS might be picked up by any other ships in the area, the virus began bleeding the air from the submarine’s command room.

  Despite its vessel’s superior speed, Succubus did not want any other machines following it. Anyone tracking it could bring others to them, and that could not happen. When the smaller craft launched a torpedo at the Barracuda, that decided it.

  Succubus released countermeasures and began turning to destroy this last impediment.

  “Belay that last order! Scan all comm channels and head right for it!” Ryan said. The computer, programmed to obey all pilot commands as long as they were not obviously self-destructive, plotted a course directly toward the submarine.

  “Scan for energy buildup on target and make ready all torpedo tubes,” Ryan said.

  “Weapon system powering up . . . estimated time to fire six seconds,” Melody said.

  “Fire all tubes on my mark,” Ryan said. “Track all torpedoes after launch.”

  “Affirmative. Estimated time to firing four seconds . . . three—”

  “Fire all tubes and change depth to seventy meters now!” The MICAS suit shuddered again and Ryan saw trails of bubbles erupt around him as the torpedoes shot toward the Barracuda. Suddenly the submarine, which had been growing larger in his visor, disappeared from view.

  “Forty meters . . . fifty meters . . .” Melody counted off the depth in the same calm measured tone. “Target holding course . . . target has fired weapon . . . torpedoes have lost target.”

  Thank God the UEMP is a fairly tight beam, and whoever’s on the Barracuda thinks I’m launching live torpedoes at it. Which would imply that Captain Masters

  doesn’t have control of the ship, he thought.

  “All right, bring me up underneath the target,” Ryan said. Power increased to his right fan, spinning him around so he was facing the underside of the submarine.

  “Match speed and course,” Ryan said. He watched the Barracuda pass overhead, its streamlined black form blocking out everything else.

  “Wait for it. . . .” Ryan muttered. The stem of the submarine was coming closer, and then it was over him, the blurred, spinning propeller, surrounded by a streamlined ceramplast fairing that channeled water through it. Above it was what Ryan was looking for, a knife blade of metal that extended up from the propeller housing.

  Now. Ryan reached out and locked his mechanical hand tightly around the rudder. The roaring of the bubbles as the propeller cavitated furiously echoed through the cocoon of the suit until Melody dampened the audio pickups. The Barracuda kept going, Masters obviously still searching for a target.

  “Melody, give me our heading,” Ryan said.

  “Currently we are on a heading of thirty degrees.”

  Great, right back where we started, Ryan thought. Not if I can help it. He worked his way up the lower guard until he reached the rudder, mounted above the propeller housing. Gripping the mount for the rudder with one hand, he took hold of the rudder blade and bent it toward him.

  “Melody, count off until we’ve achieved a heading of one hundred eighty degrees,” Ryan said. He felt the submarine shudder a bit as the hydraulics tried to return the vessel to its previous course. Choke on that, you bastards.

  Succubus reacted instantly when it found its vessel suddenly making a turn it hadn’t been told to execute. A quick scan of the helm controls told it that the rudder was being jammed to starboard.

  The crew was now trying to bypass circuits on the radio console in hopes of jury-rigging some kind of communication signal. Succubus energized the outer casing of the panel while protecting the circuitry it would need to Send itself off the vessel if necessary. Seconds later it was rewarded with a surge of power arcing through the instrument panel. Problem solved.

  Succubus turned its attention to the rudder problem. A quick scan of the hull through the submarine’s external cameras revealed the missing pursuit vehicle, now clinging to the stem of the craft like an errant barnacle. The vims immediately took steps to remove its unwanted passenger.

  “One hundred seventy degrees . . . one hundred eighty degrees . . . Lieutenant?”

  “Yes, Melody?” Ryan asked as he slowly released the rudder. As he expected, it remained straight, keeping the submarine on their current heading.

  “I’m detecting vibrations in the hull.”

  “Yeah, the crew’s banging out Morse code,” he replied.

  “No sir, this sounds like human speech.”

  “What? Can you pipe that in here and amplify it?” Ryan asked.

  “Working . . .” Ryan felt his suit move on its own as Melody positioned the MICAS suit more securely against the hull. A few seconds later, Ryan was rewarded by the tinny sound of voices.

  “. . . sir, Johnston’s hands are burned, but he’ll be all right. Mostly suffering from shock.”

  “Damn it, if we can’t raise anyone we’re as go
od as dead anyway,” said a voice Ryan recognized. I knew Masters wouldn’t give up. “Keep trying, but go easy now. I can’t have anyone else out of commission. All decks report in.”

  “Sonar here, I have no working scopes.”

  “Helm, we are now on a course of one hundred eighty degrees and running due south.”

  “Reactor room, we are still running at ninety percent, but are locked out of all consoles . . .”

  Ryan tuned out the officers talking and thought a moment. Okay, I can hear them, but they can’t hear me. There are other ways.

  “Melody, can you tap out Morse code back to them on the hull?”

  “Of course, Lieutenant.”

  “Don’t get sassy with me,” Ryan said. “All right, transmit the following message: SOS received. This is Raider One on your aft hull. Repeat, this is Raider One. Can hear you. Do not code through hull anymore.” Let’s leave it at that for now.

  Melody began hitting the hull with her foot, tapping out the message, which began reverberating through the Barracuda’s hull.

  Ryan heard immediate results. “Sir, I’ve got a signal on the hull!”

  Everyone else fell silent as the yeoman began translating the message. “This . . . is . . . Raider One . . . on . . . your . . . aft . . . hull.” For a second Ryan couldn’t hear anything for the deafening cheers that erupted in the command room.

  “Everyone quiet down!” Master’s voice cut over the din and everyone fell silent. “Yeoman, continue.”

  “Yes, sir.” The sailor continued to broadcast Ryan’s message. When he was finished, Captain Masters spoke up.

  “Lieutenant Jacobs, can you hear me right now?”

  “Yes,” Ryan replied.

  “All right, here’s the situation. At approximately 0900 hours every system on the Barracuda was taken over by an unknown intruder. All attempts to regain control have failed. Estimated air supply stands at about ten minutes. We know that the primary weapon system has fired at least twice. Currently we are on a heading of one hundred eighty degrees, and are running at an estimated depth of fifty meters. Are there any more of you?”