Deep Sound Channel (01)

by Joe Buff

  Clayton nodded. "Except now it's low probability of intercept and frequency agile, encrypted, just like our radio."

  Ilse donned her diving mask and turned it on. "Wow! It's a head-up display!"

  "See everything you get there?" Clayton said.

  "Left side's time and depth, water pressure, and compass heading," Ilse said. "Plus other stuff. I'm not sure how to read it."

  Jeffrey held his to his face and smiled. "It's a swim board."

  "Yup," Clayton said. "Except it keeps your hands free, and it has inertial nav with programmable way points and a steering bug. Senses water temperature and currents too, and gives you swimmer speed over the bottom. And," Clayton added, holding up a palm-sized

  object, "watch this. Ultrasonic sonar simulator. Your skipper gave permission, it won't get through the hull." He switched on the handheld transducer. An indicator began to pulse on Jeffrey's mask display, showing the bearing to Clayton's hand.

  "Jeez," Jeffrey said, "you've got built-in acoustic intercept!"

  "Uh-huh," Clayton said. "The hydrophones react to any loud noise too. Figure of merit's pretty poor, the directivity could be better. But it does give back your sense of undersea direction."

  "This could come in handy," Jeffrey said.

  "Amen, bro," Clayton said. "Like if some patrol boat screw starts up, or someone's dropping antiswimmer charges, you need to know which way they are before they know where you are."

  "What's this other stuff ?" Ilse said. "The numbers on the right?"

  "Diver data," Clayton said. "Monitors your physiology objectively—which is kinda hard to do yourself when someone's shooting at you. Pulse and respiration, remaining air supply, 02 partial pressure and consumption rate."

  "How does that part work?" Jeffrey said.

  "You have to put the chest pack on. It picks up from your body, like a lie detector, and from the regulator valves."

  "That's clever," Ilse said. She modeled the chest pack, which was broad and flat. "You forgot a lady's model," she said deadpan. The thing squashed her breasts. "It's heavy."

  "Not when you're swimming," Clayton said. "Same density as seawater, won't affect your buoyancy, like the flak vests we'll wear over it, underneath the Draegers."

  "Great," Ilse said.

  "It also shows your rate of rise or dive," Clayton said. "It sets off an alarm—the transducers vibrate at your

  temples—if you go too deep or start coming up without exhaling, like if you're wounded or you just go stupid. That feature can be switched off in tactical situations. It's loud enough for your swim buddy to hear. I'll be yours, by the way."

  "You really thought of everything," Ilse said.

  "You bet," Clayton said. "Remember, when in doubt while going up or down, thirty feet per minute always works."

  "Right," Ilse said. "I have a scuba Openwater Two certificate."

  "I've kept at it myself," Jeffrey said. "I'm a qualified safety diver. Hull inspections mostly, for maintenance or damage, and for any sabotage when we leave port."

  Clayton nodded. He held up a little keypad, also with a wire. "Dive computer, standard navy tables and the classified aggressive ones. This goes on your wrist, plugs into the pack. The output shows up on your mask. Keys are big enough for frozen fingers or some hard corner of your gear."

  Ilse laughed, obviously impressed. Two more crewmen came into the mess, grabbed coffee and donuts, stared at the group with all their weapons, and left quickly.

  "How long do these batteries last?" Jeffrey said. "Long enough," Clayton said.

  "What's the mean time between failures? I've a sneaky feeling these were rushed into production."

  "Like so many other things." Clayton shrugged. "Long enough. As long as some still work, and we stick together, we're okay. We're taking backup gauges, analog mechanical, for the basic data."

  Jeffrey nodded.

  "We'll have practice sessions," Clayton said, "in a partly flooded lockout trunk. That's how we'll calibrate your weight belts. COB can provide warm seawater—you know it's icy at our present depth."

  "Super," Jeffrey said. "I just wish we'd started this two months ago."

  "You heard the briefing," Clayton said. "We don't got two months. . . . Don't worry, it'll come together." Jeffrey looked at Ilse and she shrugged.

  "Next," Clayton said. He unlocked a case and took out a pair of pistols.

  Jeffrey lifted one by the butt, keeping his fingers well away from the trigger. A big orange safety plug rested inside the bottom of the butt, where the magazine would go. A thick sound suppressor formed an integral part of the barrel. Held to the muzzle by a short lanyard was a cap to keep out mud and water.

  "These are handmade prototypes," Clayton said. "The first truly silenced autoloading pistol."

  "Hey," Jeffrey said, "there's no ejector port."

  "These have electric ignition, with careless rounds. No firing pin, no receiver slide or cocking lever, and no ejector port."

  "Hence no cycling noise in operation," Jeffrey said. "Yup. Shoots as fast as you can squeeze the trigger. Subsonic rounds, of course."

  "Caliber?" Jeffrey said.

  "Fifty" Clayton said.

  "Jesus."

  "Stopping power."

  "Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition," the SEAL chief in the next booth said.

  Jeffrey heard the steady slap and clicking as the SEALs continued their race. They were eager and competitive, all of them experienced operators, not one man under twenty-five.

  "Pick yours up," Clayton said to Ilse. "It's not loaded."

  "It's heavy" she said, hefting the weapon.

  "Ever shoot before?"

  "Just paper targets. Rimfire twenty-twos."

  "Good," Clayton said. "We'll teach the proper stance. The thing is with a fifty, it really kicks."

  "Urn, I bet it does," Ilse said.

  "We'll show you guys how to field-strip this and everything," Clayton said.

  "We're only using pistols?" Ilse said.

  "These are just for you two, as our mission specialists. The rest of us, the shooters, we have something similar but in thirty-cal full-auto, two-handed carbine style."

  "I'm not happy going in without a live firing drill," Jeffrey said.

  "Wouldn't think of it," Clayton said. "We brought a bullet trap and we've got soft-nosed training rounds. Captain Wilson gave permission, given what's at stake."

  "If you say so," Jeffrey said. He wondered how that would look in his service jacket.

  Unusual accomplishments on XO tour: fired live rounds in the submarine.

  "Just don't take them on the mission," Clayton said. "Dumdums are illegal. Geneva Convention says they can shoot you on the spot."

  "Not if I shoot first," Jeffrey said.

  "Good man, Commander."

  "I'm awfully out of practice," Jeffrey said.

  "Don't sweat it," Clayton said. "We've got a hundred hours for working up. You too, Ilse.

  We have conditioning and team integration all planned out, and you can read the manuals on this stuff in odd scraps of time."

  "Okay," she said. "Um, how many rounds per clip?"

  "Eighteen for the pistols. Two columns side by side." Clayton handed Ilse a dummy round, colored blue.

  Jeffrey looked at it too. It was rectangular, with a pointed bullet sticking from one end.

  As Ilse passed it to him, their fingers brushed.

  "What loads you packing?" Jeffrey said, making himself stay all business once again.

  "We alternate," Clayton said. "Teflon-coated, and copper-jacket hollow point, both three hundred grains. A double-tap takes care of most contingencies, and you don't need to keep track of what's in the chamber." Jeffrey nodded, satisfied.

  "If these guns are electric," Ilse said, "what if they short out? And seawater's corrosive."

  "Good point," Clayton said. "And don't forget, blood's a good conductor too. We use waterproof equipment bags, made of Kevlar, till we come ashore. They have adj
ustable flotation bladders so they won't sink." He pointed to the weapon in her hand. "But per your question, these are made of special plastic and they're rated to ten meters with the clip in and the muzzle plug. Just in case."

  "They won't go off by accident?"

  Clayton smiled. "You need to practice safety like with any firearm."

  "Wait a minute," Jeffrey said, studying his pistol. "These things have iron sights."

  "With tritium dots for night work," Clayton said. "But that's all just for backup. Put your helmet on again, then plug this wire into the bottom of the pistol grip. Twist clockwise and it locks to double as a lanyard." He gave the gear to Jeffrey, then showed him how to activate the power on the weapon.

  Once hooked up, Jeffrey saw a cross-hair reticle in his visor image. It moved when the pistol moved, aimed where the pistol aimed.

  "Accelerometers and very-low-energy laser interferometers," Clayton said, "with each helmet tuned to a different wavelength so they won't clash. The visor always knows exactly where the weapon's pointing, even if you're off target and the bad guy's on the skyline."

  "No more red dot on the target?"

  "Nope. Too obvious, and with smoke or fog or dust that laser beam would lead right back to you. This way your kill won't know that you just drew a bead. Until, that is, he suddenly checks out."

  "I like it," Jeffrey said. He glanced at Ilse. She looked doubtful.

  Clayton touched her shoulder. "Killing's never easy for the good guys."

  Jeffrey nodded as old memories returned. "We have four days for clicking in."

  "What's that mean?" Ilse said.

  "Altering our minds," Jeffrey said. "Bonding, and turning off the outside world.

  Forgetting who we are, becoming what we need to be, to get this done."

  D MINUS 3

  As Jeffrey finished dressing, he heard dull thumps through the bulkhead from Ilse's cabin right next door. He wondered what she might be doing—some kind of exercises, probably. She did seem in great shape. Jeffrey bent to tie his shoelaces and Commodore Morse knocked and entered.

  "Good day, Commander," Morse said brightly. He put a thick sheaf of files on the upper bunk, then began to strip down to his Skivvies.

  "Good morning, sir," Jeffrey said.

  "Thanks again for sharing your little sanctum with me."

  "It's no problem, Commodore, that rack is meant for guests. I get to know some interesting people. Besides, it's nice to have the company." The thumping next door stopped.

  Morse grabbed a towel and his toilet kit. "And it's nice to be on a real warship. Surface units make me nervous. . . . And aeroplanes? Forget it."

  "They say the same about us, sir," Jeffrey said, and both men grinned.

  "Good Lord," Morse said, "now she's singing." Jeffrey heard Ilse through the bulkhead, but he couldn't make out the tune. She seemed to have a good voice, though. It struck him what a complicated person Ilse Reebeck was, moody and intense, sometimes so American in her speech and thinking and sometimes so unreachable.

  A minute later someone knocked. "Come in," Jeffrey called. It was Ilse, rosy pink and wide-awake.

  "Oh, excuse me, Commodore," she said, seeing Morse there in his underwear. She was wearing a denim jump suit, baggy in some places and a bit too snug in others, with a Challenger baseball cap in matching blue.

  "I like to shower before I sleep," Morse said, slightly embarrassed.

  "I'll remember that for next time, sir," Ilse said. "I just got up an hour ago."

  Morse nodded, then went through the side door into the CO/XO shower. He turned on the water, then he started singing.

  "I'm on watch in twenty minutes," Jeffrey said to Ilse. He checked himself one more time in the dressing mirror. "I need to scan the log and take some reports before then. What's up? Did you sleep well?"

  "Fine, yes. These mattresses are very firm." Ilse looked at his, as if to see if it was different.

  "Good back support," he said.

  "I want to work with Lieutenant Sessions on the Agulhas Current," Ilse said. "We'll have to head right through it and I can help."

  "That's good," Jeffrey said. "Talk to the navigator too." "You give permission?"

  "For sure," Jeffrey said, liking how she looked with that cap on. She'd bunched her hair up above the little plastic sizing strip at the back, making a kind of ponytail. "So far you'

  ve been a real help, Ilse. Your enhancements to our models made a difference when we fought those Axis diesel subs. It's like having a sailing master aboard, twenty-first-century style."

  "You mean the guy who advised the captain in the old men-o'-war?"

  "Yeah," Jeffrey said. "Currents, soundings, weather, tides, wooden ships and iron men."

  Ilse smiled. "Was he part of the crew?"

  "Warrant officer."

  "What's that mean?"

  "It's like being a noncommissioned officer, like a master chief, but you're more senior.

  Your pay and privileges are in line with a lieutenant maybe, even a lieutenant commander." Ilse seemed to like that.

  "Can I follow you around while you get ready for your watch?"

  "A little tour?" Jeffrey said.

  Ilse nodded.

  "Ready?" Jeffrey said.

  "Yes."

  "See," Jeffrey said, "the oncoming watch standers already took over, except for me."

  "You always go last?" Ilse said.

  "On this boat, yeah. The main thing's consistency." "Now what?" Ilse said.

  "I'll take reports, starting with the helm."

  "Sir," LTJG Meltzer said, "fly-by-wire ship control is rigged for nap-of-seafloor cruising, top speed twenty-six knots, general course now two one five, following route laid down by the navigator."

  "Sir," COB said, "our depth is five two four zero feet, material condition ZEBRA, patrol quiet in the boat."

  "Thanks, COB, Meltzer," Jeffrey said, then turned to Ilse. "I make up a watch bill every month. I try to mix people around now and then so all the crew can work together. But I also like to have the battle stations roster on duty often so they stay sharp as a group, not just at general quarters."

  "Like now," Ilse said. "They're your lead-off team."

  "Yup, the most experienced guys." Jeffrey sat down next to the off-going OOD at the command workstation. Jeffrey quickly skimmed the newest entries in the handwritten logbook, then spent more time on Captain Wilson's most recent instructions.

  "Running as before, sir," the OOD said as Jeffrey finished. He was a junior officer from Engineering. "No new equipment casualties, no threats, all scheduled drills complete and satisfactory."

  "Good," Jeffrey said. "Captain told me he was turning in."

  "Yes, sir. Night orders are to go to modified ultraquiet at oh three hundred Zulu."

  "I saw that, very well. . . . Next to fill me in, Ilse, shall be the navigating department."

  "Sir," the senior chief on duty said, "we're driving south-southwest between the Soudan Bank to starboard and Rodrigues Ridge to port. Our position is 18 degrees 46.1 south, 60

  degrees 14.4 east. Central Madagascar is six hundred miles off our starboard beam."

  "Very well, Assistant Navigator," Jeffrey said. "Ilse, in older boats he'd be called the quartermaster."

  Jeffrey brought up several displays on the command console one by one. "Now I'm taking a good look at the big picture in the boat. Pumps and valves and tankage lineup first, including filtration desalinators. . . . Air quality—we have radiacs and mass spectrometers for that."

  Ilse nodded.

  "Next," Jeffrey said, "is reactor and steam plant lineup and key-point pressures and temperatures. Look away for a minute, Ilse, this stuff is classified. . . . Then come loads on the turbogenerators and hydraulics. . . . And weapons status. See how you read the weapons board?"

  "Little symbols," Ilse said. "Um, torpedo tubes, and, and missile silos?"

  "We call that the vertical launch system, VLS, for our Tomahawk cruise missiles."
r />   "How come so much is red?"

  "Either we're too deep or fast to launch, or the weapon presets and firing solutions aren't loaded. Or we haven't flooded and opened the outer doors. The big Xs through the port torpedo tubes remind us they're inoperable now"

  "This is great—it gives you everything at once. It's, like, idiot-proof."

  "That's the idea." Jeffrey used the intercom to review secondary machinery status with the engineering officer of the watch, the EOOW. Satisfied, he hung up the mike.

  "Challenger's a new ship," Jeffrey said. "The propulsion plant's still breaking in.

  Changes in key performance variables can give us hints of trouble. So far everything looks good."

  Jeffrey stood and walked with Ilse the few paces to the sonar area. He peered at all the console screens.

  "Morning, sir," Lieutenant Sessions said. "No nuclear detonations detected in this theater during the previous watch."

  "A quiet night," Jeffrey said. "What's happening locally?"

  "We have some neutral merchant shipping off our stern, sir. They'll be in our baffles soon but they're well distant and the range is opening fast. These submerged contacts here are biologic."

  "Very well," Jeffrey said. "Sonar, I want you to get Ilse familiarized with our bottom nav and mapping capabilities. Pretend she's joined your division fresh from SUBSCHOL."

  "Yes, sir," Sessions said.

  Jeffrey glanced at a chronometer—it was 2326 Zulu. "Well," Jeffrey said, "now it's my turn."

  Ilse thanked him and sat down next to Sessions. Jeffrey went back to the OOD. "I relieve you, sir."

  "You have the conn," the OOD intoned, rising from the console.

  "This is the XO," Jeffrey announced, "I have the

  Conn.,,

  "Aye aye, sir," the CACC watch standers said. The exOOD went aft.

  Jeffrey sat down and made some entries in the log, then settled into the command chair, grateful for the familiar routine of conning the ship. He was glad that for the next six hours the total concentration would relieve his mind of other things, including thoughts of Ilse Reebeck that weren't related to work.

  "This gravimetry display is unbelievable," Ilse said.

  "It's the closest thing to magic I've ever seen," Sessions said.