by Tom Kratman
Glancing over his chart, the tender's captain gave the order, "Turn on the clicker simulator. Set course for Point Bravo. Speed, six knots." He smiled, thinking, Just exactly as if we were still following the sub around.
* * *
It took about three minutes for the small electric motor to bring the buoy back to its station atop the sail, which also closed the tiny doors above it as the buoy settled. The motor, itself, was contained in and shielded by the sail. It was essentially a silent process.
"Tender's taking off, skipper," sonar announced. "Heading generally to Point Bravo at . . . call it six knots. She's engaged her clicker."
Chu gave the order, "Ensure the clicker's off. Sailing stations. Boys, let's go link up with Orca at the rendezvous point."
Fort Muddville, Balboa, Terra Nova
Surcouf stood in front of a wall-mounted map on which the course of the Charlemagne battle group was plotted. There was another plot, too, on the map. This was the plot of the second Balboan submarine which had sortied the night prior. The second plot was on an intercept course with the first. Still a third plot showed the course of the Gallic Navy frigate, the Michael Ney. Ney was shadowing the sub at a considerable distance. Then again, because of the sub's apparently appalling internal workings, shadowing at a distance was easy.
"Why did you sortie the frigate for this?" de Villepin asked. "I thought you said . . ."
"Yes, sir," Surcouf interrupted. "I did. But this one"—he tapped the map—"this one is heading for the battle group. I figured that sending the frigate out now would not be suspicious, since we would want to escort the Charlemagne in, anyway. But I am suspicious. I think they intend to try to get through the screen."
"If they try and we intercept, won't that alert them that they're noisy."
Surcouf looked worried. "Yes, sir, it would. I'm still thinking about how to warn them off without letting them know they're so easy to track."
De Villepin thought about that briefly, then asked, "How common would it be for the submarine escorting Charlemagne to separate itself from the battle group and then try to penetrate the screen?"
Surcouf rocked his head a bit from side to side, thinking. He finally answered, "Not uncommon. Though the submarine with a battle group usually takes point by as much as fifty kilometers, they do—situation permitting—sometimes test their own defenses. Good practice for the submariners, too."
"How hard to vector that escort sub close enough to the Balboan that active sonar would pick both up?"
"Only a little more difficult. A submarine would almost never use active sonar. Surface ships do . . . at least for some purposes and under some circumstances. Diamant is Charlemagne's escort. If they're hunting her, they might well use active . . ."
De Villepin caught Surcouf's hesitation. "Yes?"
"We also sometimes go to active targeting sonar in the wake of an attack."
De Villepin looked appalled. "I didn't mean we should have the escort sub actually fire on the carrier."
"No, no, sir. We do simulated firings, basically we shoot a blast of water and air out the torpedo tubes."
"Let's try that, then."
"There is a problem, though, sir," Surcouf mentioned.
"What's that?"
"Well, sir, pinging a submarine with sonar on firing mode, rather than a general search, is rarely done except by prior arrangement. It's almost an act of war. It's certainly considered a threat. Submariners start filling torpedo tubes and calculating firing solutions when they get pinged by targeting sonar from a ship or another submarine. They've been known to open fire, even in times of peace, though that is never officially admitted to by the parties concerned. Never."
SdL Megalodon, Shimmering Sea, Terra Nova
Sonar heard it even though no one else did. He pressed a button and waited for the computer to do the analysis. When that was done, a matter of a few seconds, he announced in a soft voice, "Captain, Orca's passing two hundred meters above us and twelve hundred meters off of our starboard bow."
"Put it on screen," Chu ordered. Immediately the large plasma screen that was mounted a half dozen meters in front of Chu's command chair lit up with generated images of the Meg, centered, and the Orca, some distance off. Numbers arrayed around the images gave information on depth, course and speed. The whole effect of the screen was keystoned, as if to display the ocean not from above but from an angle.
"Helm, follow her once she's eight thousand meters ahead. Maintain this depth."
Chapter Twenty-four
What, then, would be a proper test of civic virtue? Perhaps better said, what range of tests would be proper?
At a bare minimum, such a set of tests must be undertaken voluntarily, at least in practice. It would, presumably, be appropriate to inform the people that there is such a battery of tests. This could be in the form of a draft notice, provided that it is only form and there are no other legal or social costs—not even so much as implied—to failure to report.
The tests, themselves, should have the following characteristics, if we are to deny the voting franchise to those who lack civic virtue:
They must be dangerous, difficult, and dirty; enough so, at least, to dissuade enough of those who lack civic virtue from undertaking them. They should be useful to society. Lastly, they must train those who have demonstrated sufficient civic virtue to sufficient skill in violence to be able to maintain their rule, for the good of all.
"Sufficient skill" is, of course, a relative matter. A solid basic combat training is adequate for this, when those who lack the vote (because lacking in civic virtue) have no such training. Beyond that, whatever jobs are required by society should suffice. If what society needs for the foreseeable future is a mass of infantry, armor, artillery, and combat engineers, then that is where the prospective citizen should go, and those the branches into which he or she should train. If building roads in the hot sun is more valuable, that is where they should go, consistent with the need for roads. Work of any kind, done primarily in a comfortable building, without danger, stress, and hardship, should not qualify. Nor should they be given any real choice in the matter.
—Jorge y Marqueli Mendoza,
Historia y Filosofia Moral,
Legionary Press, Balboa,
Terra Nova, Copyright AC 468
Anno Condita 472 SdL Megalodon, Shimmering Sea, Terra Nova
You could cut the stress with a knife, and the Tauran—really the Gallic—battle group was still nearly twenty miles away.
From his command chair, mounted on a low dais overlooking the stations of the crew, to either side of the sub's bridge and forward, under the main screen, Chu followed the Orca's progress on an electronic sea chart. The other sub moved at a speed of twenty-one knots, so said the display, which speed the Meg matched. This was slow enough for the Orca to have no practically detectable sound of its own, through the thermal layer that separated the two. Only the clicker on the sub sounded, as it sailed two hundred meters up and about eight thousand forward.
Though much progress had been made, over the last few decades, in stealthing surface warships, they were still much noisier than submarines. Even here, below the thermal layer, the noise of the battle group and the frigate moving to meet it were detectable enough for the sonar man, aided by computer, to mark their positions on the screen with a considerable degree of certainty.
"But I still haven't heard shit out of the sub that's escorting that battle group, skipper," sonar announced softly through the boom mike that connected him to the rest of the on-duty crew. The sonar man, Antonio Auletti, thought, And if that doesn't worry you, it sure as shit worries me. Not that I expect to be able to do much about it. Though it's not, I suppose, as if we were sailing unarmed.
"Okay," said Chu, "Orca's on her own. Set intercept course for the carrier."
SdL Orca, Shimmering Sea, Terra Nova
The torpedo man didn't expect to be used, this cruise, and so sat back in his very comfortable chair—comforta
ble enough to allow sleeping at battle stations if one cared to put it into its reclined position—with his fingers intertwined behind his head. His control board, in any case, showed nothing but green, fourteen lights for fourteen torpedoes carried external to the pressure hull, just inside the oil-smooth outer fairing.
Seated behind the weapons station, Miguel Yermo, Orca's chief of sonar could hear the Gallic flotilla much more clearly than could Auletti on the Meg. This was to be expected, as the Orca was considerably closer to the surface and, more importantly, above the thermal layer under which Meg sailed. Sadly for Yermo, he, too, hadn't the first, faintest clue as to the location of the submarine presumed to be escorting Charlemagne. He didn't like that lack of knowledge any better than did Auletti, presumptively still trailing his own boat by about eight kilometers.
And I have to guess at that, because a) my bloody sonar is primarily oriented forward, b) the towed array is just that, towed behind us, and c) the Orca is not using its clicker and is as quiet as . . . well . . . as quiet as if it wasn't even there.
And . . . what the hell's that? Yermo wrapped one hand over his headphones and pressed, listening intently.
"Skipper I've got sonar contact . . . faint . . . about . . . a thousand feet down, under the layer . . . bearing . . . one-seven-seven . . . three to three and a half kilometers range." Yermo's finger requested the sonar computer to match the sounds coming off the contact. "She's moving fast to pass underneath us. I make it an Amethyst Class, skipper."
"That assumes the recordings the Volgans sold us are accurate," answered the Orca's captain, a young man named Quijana with a very fatalistic outlook on life. Truth be told, Quijana was quite certain he should have been dead years ago, along with the entire crew—minus himself, of course—of his first boat, the Santisima Trinidad. Only luck and a commander who wanted to save what could be saved had spared him.
"I believe the Volgans, skipper," Yermo replied. "And anyway, what other class would it be with a Gallic fleet? The Pike Class isn't due to launch for another two years."
"Fair enough," Quijana agreed. "What's she doing away from her carrier, though?"
The XO of the boat, Dario Garcia, ventured a guess. "Training, skipper. The Amethyst Class is going to try to break through the cordon to get in a position for a shot at the Charlemagne. Hell, we're slated to do the same thing next year with Dos Lindas."
"Yeah . . . or maybe they're looking for us."
Garcia thought not. "Skipper, with the clicker going nobody has to look for us. They already know where we are."
The Exec thought about that for a moment, then said, "But, you know, since we are that noisy, when we want to be, they really shouldn't be ignoring us like they are. It's odd."
Quijana nodded. "Mark the sub as target seven," he ordered. In a few seconds the screen updated with the designation.
"Skipper," Yermo said, "the frigate that was going to meet the battle group and two of its own escorts are heading toward the sub."
Quijana looked again at the screen and saw the targets designated as "two," "five," and "six," changing course to intercept the submarine labeled as "seven."
"And I'm picking up some noise that suggests one or more helicopters enroute, too," Yermo added. "Ummm . . . skipper?"
"Yeah, I know. If they're heading toward the Gallic sub they're also heading toward us. Lemme think, for a bit."
S806 Diamant (Amethyst Class), Shimmering Sea, Terra Nova
The control room, though crowded and cramped, was also calm and fully collected. They were a professional crew, with what every man aboard would have agreed was a first rate captain in command.
"Any sign that the target sub is moving away?" asked the captain of a fresh faced, young deck officer.
"So far nothing, sir," the deck officer replied. "They can't be so ignorant as to believe we don't hear them, can they?"
The captain, medium height and graying at the temples, raised one hand to his jaw and commenced tapping his fingers lightly across thin lips.
"Is it possible they don't hear us—or the escorts or the helicopters—all heading this way?" the captain asked.
The deck officer frowned. "After that burst of speed we put on," he said, "they've got to know we're here. And Intel has said the Balboans brought Volgan and maybe improved that through their Yamatan or Zioni contacts. Volgan may not be of the best but it's plenty good enough to hear everything but"—the deck officer put out one hand and waggled his fingers—"maybe the helicopters off of Charlemagne."
"Is it possible they don't know how good our sensors are?" the captain asked.
"Why do you ask, sir?"
"Because Intel also said that every member of a Balboan submarine crew is a graduate of something like our own commando course. That means they're a very determined bunch. And if a very determined bunch is pressing in to engagement range after having been made, that worries me a great deal.
"And then, too, when you think about the rogue nature of the whole Balboan state, an army that owns a country . . . renting themselves out as mercenaries . . . their long standing policy of enmity with everything decent and liberal . . . uncontrollable . . . willful . . . and war is coming, where Charlemagne will be a critical asset."
The captain made a sudden decision. "Ready four torpedoes," he said. "Rig for extreme silent running. Bring us back above the thermal. And then bring us into a three hundred and sixty degree turn."
"Sir?"
"I want to come up on their tail again."
"Sir, they don't carry torpedoes."
"You know, son," the captain said, putting an affectionate hand on his officer's shoulder, "I could believe one research or drug interdiction sub might be built with no weapons. But nobody builds what amounts to a factory to make a class of submarines with no arms. No market for it, you see."
"But Intel—"
"Fuck Intel. They've been wrong before. And they're just the sort to be right about the quasi commando training—that can be seen—but utterly wrong about whether that sub is armed, since that's harder to see."
"They could intend for the subs to be commando carriers," the deck officer said, not unreasonably.
"Do you want to bet your life on that?" the captain countered. "The life of the Charlemagne?"
"Put that way, sir, no." The deck officer turned from the captain and began to give the orders.
SdL Megalodon, Shimmering Sea, Terra Nova
Auletti turned his head over one should and twisted to look directly at Chu. "The frog sub's disappeared, skipper. No trace."
"Well find it."
Auletti gave his captain one of those looks that as much as said, Don't be an ass. Sir.
Chu nodded. "Yeah, right. Belay that."
Aleman suggested, "We might be able to pick them up again if we come up above the thermal, assuming they went above it."
Shaking his head, Chu answered, "Sure, and they might hear us. We're quiet, but you never know. No, we'll maintain course to intercept Charlemagne."
SdL Orca, Shimmering Sea, Terra Nova
"Lost 'em, captain," Yermo told Quijana. "I think maybe they went under the layer."
Quijana nodded while thinking, Man, ever since Pedraz booted me off the Trinidad I've felt like a fugitive from the law of averages. And my instructions didn't cover this. What's that frog sub doing? What would I be doing in his shoes?
"I've got a better signature on that surface disturbance, sir," Yermo said. "It's definitely at least one helicopter . . . and I've got a plonk from a sonar buoy. Active sonar pinging now."
"Don't sweat the buoy," Quijana said. "I doubt they need it for us, with the clicker going. If I had to make a guess, I'd say they're looking for that sub we lost track of." Of course, that assumes the frog sub is still playing a game with her own battle group. I'm really getting uncomfortable with all this.
Then again, my mission is to provide cover for the Meg to get under the fleet. Have I already done that? I could use the underwater phone to find
out but if I do the frogs will know there's another sub out here. One they hadn't a clue to. That might panic them. Hell, it would panic me. This is . . .
Yermo interrupted Quijana's train of thought. "Captain, I've got another plonk. High frequency noise but not sonar. One of the helicopters, if there is more than one up there, is talking to the frog sub. And . . . there goes another plonk. Skipper, I'm sure there's more than one helicopter up there."
S806 Diamant, Shimmering Sea, Terra Nova
"What the fuck do you mean, 'there's only one sub down there'?" Diamant's captain demanded on the helicopter that had dropped the sonobuoy. "I can hear the bastard . . . Oh, you see us doing a three-sixty under the layer, but you can't see them cruising straight above the layer. Oh, you can hear the clicking from the defective water jet? But no active return signal? That's bizarre."
"Could be the material," the deck officer ventured. "The plastic we know makes up the hull might give a poor return signal."
"But that poor?" the captain questioned.
"Maybe the sonobuoy's defective," the deck officer offered, reasonably.
"No . . . no, they see us well enough." The captain went back to tapping his lips. He ceased his tapping and put the underwater telephone transceiver back to his head. "Relay to Charlemagne," he said. "I want a line of passive sonobuoys dropped in front of that sub. If he doesn't turn back from those it will establish a pretty good case that he intends to intercept the battle group with hostile intent. I also need permission from the admiral to fire if they do pass that line. Tell the admiral I am loading tubes."
