Deep Sound Channel (01)

by Joe Buff

  Soon he reached the dead sub's bow

  "Smashed in," he said. "Looks like she hit nose-first."

  "This part did anyway," Wilson said as the probe explored the chaotic flattened tangle. "

  She may have broken up on the way down, from the strain, tumbling at over a hundred knots terminal velocity."

  "Yes," Jeffrey said. He studied the image-enhanced display. "Look at how the ballast tanks accordioned. . . . I see fragments of the sonar sphere."

  "What's that thing off to the left?"

  Jeffrey moved in closer. "It's a body, sir." Wormlike creatures swarmed around it.

  "Christ," someone said.

  "Easy, people," Jeffrey said. He took a breath. "There'll be more, inside or outside. We have to do this."

  Wilson sighed. "X0, go to the engineering plant now."

  Jeffrey piloted the probe, being careful not to snag the fiber-optic line. He stayed well off the bottom, afraid of what he'd see there. For a while the screen showed little, then the after portion of the hull came dimly into view.

  "Here's what did it," Jeffrey said. "That crack, it runs ten yards along the hull. . . . A near miss from something nuclear, Captain."

  "The crack's right where the steam turbines would be," Wilson said.

  "Hopeless flooding," Jeffrey whispered. "They'd lose propulsion quickly. There's no way they could save her after that."

  "Let's try for a positive ID," Wilson said. "Something with a serial number, a logbook, a uniform with a name on the shirt, anything."

  Jeffrey swallowed in spite of himself, then felt weak at his own show of emotion. We're intruders here, he told himself. This is hallowed ground . . . and a charnel house. He forced himself to shift the probe once more.

  "The men back aft died fastest," COB said as he watched his screens. "If it had to happen, they were the lucky ones."

  "No," Jeffrey said, "nobody was lucky on that boat. Crushed or burned or drowned, gouged by shrapnel, scalded by live steam, there's no good way to die in a submarine."

  D MINUS 2

  "Come in, XO," Jeffrey heard Wilson call. Once more he wondered how the captain always knew when it was him. The way I knock? My footsteps? That sixth sense skippers have? Jeffrey entered the CO's state-room.

  "You look like a fugitive from Hell Week Two," Wilson said.

  "I feel that way, Captain." Jeffrey wore a white undershirt with the SEAL emblem in red, dark green swim trunks, and black battle booties. He was still sweating and breathing a little hard.

  "Just morning PT, XO, or something special today?"

  "Both, sir," Jeffrey said. "Climbing ladders against the clock, crawling through the bilges with full gear, dancing quietly around simulated bushes, hopping gingerly past simulated mines. . . . And the virtual-reality training aids are quite realistic, great for your reaction time, and to maintain depth perception."

  "Good," Wilson said. "I like your moccasins." "They're something new that Clayton brought, Kevlar-lined throughout."

  "Laces and Velcro?"

  "They won't get sucked off by swamp mud, sir. Our swim fins fit right over them. With these on we could run for miles on coral or broken glass." Jeffrey was grateful now for his daily workouts on the ship's treadmill, in the aft auxiliary machinery room.

  Wilson chuckled. "You're happy with the plan."

  "It's all based on sound military principles, Captain." "And Clayton's leadership?"

  "He's smart, sharp, his men all seem devoted. I just need to tag along and do what he tells me."

  "No problems, XO, taking orders from a junior?" "I trust his tactical judgment."

  "And Miss Reebeck?"

  Jeffrey smiled. "She's really getting into it, Captain. She's a natural shooter."

  "Many Boers are. . . . Not that I like repeating ethnic stereotypes. How'd you judge her emotional state?"

  "Pretty good, considering what she's been through, becoming a displaced person and everything else. Good enough for what we have to do."

  "How's your leg holding up?"

  Jeffrey glanced down at the old scars on his left thigh, the puckered entrance wound dead center, the overlapping crisscrossed lines of surgical incisions. "It's a little sore, Captain, but it hasn't stiffened any. The corpsman gave me ibuprofen."

  "Monaghan working out okay as assistant XO?"

  "Good practice for him, sir, and he's really helping with my normal work load. I'm sure he'll do fine the few hours I'm away."

  "Good. Speaking of which, take a look through these." Wilson handed Jeffrey a folder and diskette. "What's this, sir?"

  "Partial maps of the Durban minefields and the Boer SOSUS grids."

  "How'd we get this, sir? An inside source?"

  "Nope, the hard way. One of the newer Los Angeles— class boats, Springfield, went in and waved her coattails, loud enough to draw off their patrols. During this nice diversion the second Seawolf, Connecticut,

  snuck by and eyeballed everything with her LMRS. . . . That's top secret."

  "Super," Jeffrey said.

  "Now, I see you have something for me."

  "Here, sir," Jeffrey said, passing the message slip. "Our address and another letter group came in through the on-hull ELF antenna when we rose to bellringer depth."

  Wilson read the slip. "The final go-ahead code," he said. "The mission's on, definitively."

  "They're asking us to pop up again for one last intel download. Captain, request permission to trail the medium baud rate floating wire antenna."

  "Negative."

  "Sir?"

  "We stay deep."

  "But, sir, there could be important info. A weather update or opforce disposition changes."

  "I know, XO, but it's my decision. If something crucial happened, we'd've been scrubbed altogether, and for us as the attacker nothing's more important than surprise."

  "But we wouldn't radiate. We'd just receive."

  "That's not a just, XO. We'd make a datum for the enemy."

  "But, Captain—"

  "No. Just because we don't have something that can spot a long, thin wire floating half a foot beneath the surface of the ocean doesn't mean they don't. Remember who invented cruise missiles and ICBMs."

  "I hadn't thought of that, Captain. I see what you're getting at."

  MINUS 1

  "So your regulations actually require an officer to be at every meal in the enlisted mess?"

  Ilse said.

  "Not just Challenger," Jeffrey said. "It's navy-wide. For morale and to check the food."

  "And this morning it's your turn."

  "Thanks for joining me."

  Ilse smiled. "You're welcome, Commander Fuller." As they worked their way through each snug, cramped compartment, she watched how Jeffrey walked, relaxed yet energetic, twisting and turning smoothly to get past people or equipment. He might be slightly favoring that leg, but Ilse decided not to say anything. From what she'd seen of the exit wound at the back of Jeffrey's thigh, it must have been awful. Now it was all hidden by his khaki slacks, nicely snug at the rear. Not in Clayton's league, but then Clayton was somewhat younger.

  Again Ilse watched Jeffrey walk. An honorable wound, she told herself. Whatever happened, he'd been hit facing the enemy. Jeffrey ran his fingers through his hair, and she realized now the gesture was a habit. A few strands were out of place. She was about to reach and fix them, but they'd arrived at the mess.

  "It's busy now," she said.

  "Zero five-thirty's the middle of the breakfast rush."

  Jeffrey and Ilse traded greetings with the crewmen eating in the booths, and with the mess management staff doing the cooking and serving. The layout was American-cafeteria style and the mix of smells was delicious. Ilse was working up a big appetite the last few days, burning it off as she went.

  Jeffrey ordered first. "Scrambled eggs, fried potatoes, double order breakfast sausage."

  Then he grabbed a large black coffee and some OJ.

  Ilse decided to have the same, especia
lly the coffee. Then she took a closer look and wrinkled her nose. "These eggs are powdered, aren't they?"

  Jeffrey shrugged. "So's the OJ, but the bread's fresh-baked. Look on the bright side." He rocked on the balls of

  his feet, holding his tray and surveying the crowd. "There's an opening. Follow me." He led her to a partly empty booth and they sat with a pair of crewmen. Both had black eagles and other stuff on their sleeves. The men were obviously pleased by the company, Ilse's especially.

  "We caught some glimpses of your training," one man said. His shirt pocket was stenciled KERR.

  The other man, SCUTARO, shook his head theatrically, with a big smile on his face. "

  You wouldn't catch me doing stuff like that in a million years. Gimme a nice, safe submarine any day."

  "What do you guys do exactly?" Ilse said.

  "We're in the weapons department," Kerr said. "We service the units," Scutaro said.

  "And we check the presets and then stand by to fire on local control during general quarters."

  "And now we do the manual loading too."

  "Sorry about your mates," Ilse said.

  "Thanks," both men said.

  "They saved the ship," Kerr said, "getting those shores in place."

  "Talk about courage," Scutaro said. "They had to

  know we'd never get that outer door shut in time." "Hey," Kerr said, "leave us not mope about our departed comrades. They're in heaven now, right?"

  "At least they don't haveta eat these lousy eggs,"

  Scutaro joked. He swallowed another forkful.

  "The eggs are just as bad in the wardroom," Jeffrey said, obviously proud of his men's high spirits.

  "Let me ask you a weapons question," Ilse said, "if this isn't classified."

  "Shoot," Kerr said, and Scutaro cracked up.

  Ilse laughed too. "Very funny. I've been curious about why the nuclear warheads you're using are so small." She started buttering her toast.

  "Small is relative, ma'am," Scutaro said. "Dot one KT's still a hundred tons of high explosive."

  "But how come you don't use something really big?" Ilse said. "Like ten kilotons, or fifty?"

  "Remember, Ilse," Jeffrey said, "these are torpedo warheads. By definition we can't be very far away when one goes off, not much more than the maximum range of the unit, which with an ADCAP is some thirty nautical miles. Most engagements are well inside that distance, since everyone's so quiet nowadays."

  "If the bang's too big, we'd get blown up too," Kerr said.

  "Or damaged, which is bad enough," Scutaro said.

  "Past a certain point it wouldn't make much difference," Kerr said. "Any damage risks bad flooding. Except for those humongous Russian boomers, no sub can take a lot of flooding. You're just too heavy, go right to the bottom no matter what you do."

  "At least nuclear power makes us more survivable," Kerr said, "compared to a diesel/AIP

  in a melee situation. We can skedaddle twice as fast as them if we need to, cut the enemy fish's closing speed substantially, and stay at ahead flank till its fuel runs dry."

  "The rule of thumb," Scutaro said, "is a torpedo needs to be one and a half times as fast as the targeted sub to be sure of a kill. And by the way, our Improved ADCAPs are very fast."

  "Even then we still need a good firing solution," Kerr said. "Otherwise our weapon could pass well ahead or astern, too far off to pick up the other guy in its passive search cone, or even active mode."

  "And worst of all," Jeffrey said, "now he knows you're there, and he's really pissed."

  Jeffrey and Ilse walked back to their state-rooms after breakfast.

  "Time to change to sweats again," Jeffrey said. "Just one day to go." Ilse was quiet, so he added, "That's the

  problem with real combat. You train so hard you're exhausted going in."

  "Urn," Ilse said. "Would you come inside for a minute? I want to talk to you about something."

  They went into her room. Jeffrey took the single chair, figuring Ilse would perch against her rack, but she stayed standing. Jeffrey realized she'd switched to one of her serious moods again.

  "Did you ever kill someone?" she said.

  "When I was a SEAL?"

  "Yes."

  "Yeah, I did."

  "The same time you were wounded?"

  "I can't talk about that mission."

  "Can't, or won't?"

  "It's secret."

  "How did it feel?"

  "I told you already, painful. The recovery was worse." "No. I mean killing. How did it feel?"

  "Cold. Empty. Scary. . . . Necessary. I try not to be introspective, Ilse, about certain things. Experience taught me that the hard way."

  "Jan once said I think too much."

  "Oh."

  "If something goes wrong," Ilse said, "I want you to kill me."

  "What?"

  "Just what I said. If we're in danger of being captured. I know too much."

  "Ilse, this is not the time for negative thinking."

  "I'm not being negative, I'm being a realist. This whole thing's so rushed."

  "Ilse, SEALs don't leave people behind. They certainly don't kill their own."

  "I'm not your own. And think of what I've seen and overheard the last few days. I couldn'

  t hold out forever under torture. They use drugs and electricity."

  "Urn," Jeffrey joshed, "can't you ask Clayton? After all, he's the man in charge."

  "He's too young."

  "Huh?"

  "He still thinks he's immortal."

  Jeffrey nodded. "You need to, secretly, to get the job done."

  "He might . . . he might do it prematurely if we get in a fix, or, or wait too long."

  "Couldn't you just shoot yourself ?" Jeffrey said. "You know, in the head? I'll be glad to tell you when."

  His attempt at humor failed miserably, as Ilse turned away, obviously hurt.

  Jeffrey stood up and moved closer, not sure what to say. Then he remembered the video of her brother being hanged. He awkwardly put one hand on Ilse's shoulder. She turned and held him tight, looking up with tears in her eyes.

  "Promise me, Jeffrey Fuller. Promise now."

  ABOARD CHALLENGER,

  NEARING DURBAN

  The sonar speakers filled the hushed CACC with noise. Enemy steam turbines and gas turbines whined in the distance, prop screws churned, and water jets of fast patrol boats rushed and whooshed. Diesel engines throbbed and burbled. Helos plopped their dipping sensors under clattering rotor blades. From all directions Boer and German surface unit hulls and hydrofoils hissed and pounded in the constant roaring waves. And from all directions came their active pinging sounds, close or far away, high-pitched or rising sawtooth or bass.

  Ilse and Sessions had shifted to sonar consoles at the fore-end of the row of seven, farther from the navigator but closer to Jeffrey at Fire Control. Ilse, along with Jeffrey, wore jet-black combat clothing, a Gortex-like whole-body stocking that also served as wet suit.

  "There," Ilse heard Jeffrey say tightly, "another one. Move in. Move in with the LMRS."

  "I've got it," COB said. "It's in disguise like the rest of

  "Watch the turbulence," Jeffrey said.

  "I've got it," COB said.

  "Turn the LMRS sideways, unmask the synthetic-aperture array."

  "Turning sideways, aye."

  "Be careful," Jeffrey said. "Don't get too close." "I've got it," COB said.

  Ilse studied the live feed on one window of her screens. She could see an innocuous mound covered with sponges, anemone, starfish. Jeffrey had explained that modern bottom influence mines were equipped with odd projections, to speed colonization by sea life for camouflage. These mines were CAPTORs. They opened an outer casing to launch an ASW torpedo when their software felt a good contact was near.

  "Confirmed," COB said. "It's a mine, a live one." Ilse could see the outline of its workings now, a kind of X ray in ultrasound.

  "Tag it 32," Jeffrey said, sp
eaking to the tactical plotting team whose stations lined the CACC's starboard bulkhead next to the relief pilot's position. Almost three dozen bottom mines on their track so far. Not one of them was a dummy.

  Ilse saw the little symbol for the latest threat appear on the bottom chart on her screen, a

  "V" in red with a dot inside and the numeral 32. On her other display, picked up by the LMRS's image-intensified CCDs, she watched a siphonophore float past, long and thin, gelatinous, its body lined with stomach pouches, some digesting kills caught by its 10, 000 little fingers. The LMRS loitered well ahead of Challenger, the unmanned undersea vehicle scouting at a safe distance.

  "Helm, compensate," Captain Wilson snapped, breaking Ilse's reverie. "We're drifting again."

  "Aye aye," Lieutenant Meltzer said, tense as he piloted Challenger, hugging the bottom, blending in, using the bow and stern auxiliary maneuvering unit thrusters constantly.

  "A pattern's showing, Captain," Jeffrey said. "Rows parallel to the bottom current. This minefield's not so random as we're meant to think."

  "You're right, XO," Wilson said.

  Ilse superimposed the minefield map they'd been building onto the terrain contours from the bird's-eye-view gravimeter. She set up her own data in another window, bottom geology and local hydrographics. The Agulhas Current here ran several knots, south-

  southwest along the eastern coast of Africa. The Agulhas extended down this deep, five hundred fathoms, past the anoxic minimum, well into the zone that teemed with biologics.

  "Commander," Ilse said, "if we continue on this course, we'll reach soft bottom, diatoms and foraminiferal ooze. Our hull will stand out on sonar."

  "Very well, Oceanographer," Jeffrey said. "Captain, recommend we come to port, to stay stealthy and make more progress west toward our objective."

  "We'll have to thread this row of mines first," Wilson said.

  "The Boers are clever," Jeffrey said. "We'll be broadside to the current if we try to do it gingerly."

  "We'd drift down over one for sure," Wilson said.

  "Sir," Jeffrey said, "at point-blank range our synthesized magnetic field won't fool the CAPTORs. They'll figure out we really are a submarine, not some expendable minesweep probe in target emulation mode. They'll launch inside our antitorpedo arming run."