Vorpal Blade

by John Ringo

  What the Vorpal Blade was, though, was fast.

  "Sound dive warning," the captain said.

  "All hands!" Commander White said over the enunciator. "Dive, Dive, Dive!"

  "The board is straight," the chief of boat said, indicating that all the various hatches were shut.

  "XO, dive the boat," the captain said, hopping up on his chair. "Make your depth one hundred meters."

  "Ten percent blow," the XO said. "Fifteen degrees down plane."

  "Fifteen degrees down, aye," the plane controller said.

  "Blow complete," the COB said.

  "Descending through fifty meters," the plane said. "Seventy-five . . ."

  "Level off on one hundred," the XO ordered.

  "Leveling," the plane replied. "One hundred meters depth."

  "Astro?" the captain asked.

  "Recommend course of one-five-seven," Weaver replied.

  "XO, come to course one-five-seven."

  "Right ten degrees rudder," the XO said. "Make your course one-five-seven."

  "Ten degrees rudder, aye," the helmsman said. "One-five-seven, aye."

  "Why one-five-seven?" the captain asked.

  "Last report from SOSUS indicated the Akulas were waiting for us at nine-zero," Weaver replied. "Of course, they're probably picking us up all ready."

  "Point," the captain said sourly.

  While the Cold War was no longer going on, Russia still maintained an interest in the American fleet, and especially in its submarines. They still sent attack subs to stake out American harbors and try to get hull shots, sonar profiles or any data at all on the American subs. With the Ohios they were still mostly failing; the subs that the Blade had been made from were ghosts.

  The Blade really had them puzzled, though. It appeared to be converted for inshore, the term of art was littoral, combat. But removing the acoustic tiles made no sense. Why make a ship designed to approach enemy coastlines noisy. So the Russians had been sending an increasing number of attack subs to try to figure out this new Ami sub. The one thing they'd discovered was that the Blade was very very fast.

  "XO, disengage propeller drive and close prop cowling," the captain ordered.

  The two orders were nowhere in any other submarine's lexicon and the latter was one of the reasons that the Blade wasn't very quiet. For various reasons, not the least of which was that they tended to rotate fast enough to spin off when the Blade got up to full speed, the propellers of the Blade were housed in a sliding door cowling system that was similar to the cowling kept over the props while in wet dock with the exception of the fact that they opened and closed by pushing buttons on the bridge.

  "Props disengaged and closed," the XO said after a moment.

  "Engage supercavitation field," the captain said, satisfaction in his voice. "Make power for one-two-zero knots. Engage space drive."

  "One-two-zero knots, aye," the XO said. "Engage supercavitation system. Pilot, engage space drive. Power to one-two-zero knots."

  "What the hell is that?" Miller asked as the strong flow noise started up and the sub began to shake. Being in a sub was always nervous making; hearing one apparently crashing was worse.

  "They engaged the space drive," Captain Michael "M.E." MacDonald said. He was currently regarding the chief warrant officer with interest. "When we start to really speed up it gets noisy. I only know that because I've been on this boat for shakedown ops."

  "And I haven't, sir," Miller said, nodding.

  "I understand why you are here," MacDonald said. "What I'm not sure about is what to do with you."

  "Not sure myself, sir," Miller admitted. "I know as much as you do. Tuffy wants me here. The only suggestion I have is that I think I should stay close to Commander Weaver."

  "Any reason why?" the captain asked. "Besides being old buddies."

  "Not sure how to explain, sir," Miller admitted, frowning. "Commander Weaver, well, I'm pretty sure he's going to play out more of a role than just navigating us around. I think we both know he's going to be consulted on just about anything that we encounter. I know that there are probably astronomers and astrophysicists on this boat with better credentials than his. But Weaver gets things right. You know what I mean on a military level, sir. There are guys who get things right in combat. Well, Weaver gets them right when it's . . . weird stuff."

  "Like ship-eating monsters?" MacDonald asked.

  "Like I have no idea, sir," the warrant said. "But I'm pretty sure that when it happens, we're all going to be pucker factoring. And if anybody's going to figure out how to save our ass, sir, it's going to be Weaver. And, with all due respect, sir, when he thinks something needs to be shot or blown up, he's going to scream 'Miller!' not 'MacDonald!' He thinks he's a naval officer but I guarantee he hasn't got chain of command in his bones. My suggestion, sir, is that you just tell me to tag along with Weaver. That way he's got a guy who does have a clue about ground combat to . . . suggest alternate methods."

  "Gotcha, Chief," the captain said, grinning. "Okay, that's how we'll work it. I'm appointing you the chief of security detail for Commander Weaver, especially in the event of his leaving the boat. I'll speak to the captain about how to integrate your position while on-board, but if Weaver leaves, you're his bodyguard. Work?"

  "Works, sir," Miller said.

  "All hands, prepare for water exit," the 1-MC said.

  "Hang on," MacDonald said, grabbing at the arms of his station-chair as music started booming over the 1-MC.

  "Who in the hell is playing music?" Miller asked, grabbing at his own chair's arms. He'd noticed that the chair was bolted to the deck. He suspected he was about to find out why.

  "Who could order music?" the Marine CO said. "Like I said, hang on."

  "There it is."

  Captain Zabukov looked over at his sonar technician as the senior petty officer held up a hand.

  "I'm surprised you can't hear it through the hull," the CPO said bitterly. Shadowing the American boomer, even as noisy as it was, was not easy. But now, as it had the last three times they shadowed it, it had begun to play that rock and roll crap. And everyone in the crew knew what that meant.

  "Position?" Captain Zabukov asked.

  "Two-One-Four, Control," the CPO said, still bitterly. "Depth one hundred meters, more or less. You sure you cannot hear it through the hull? I am having to crank down my gain."

  "Periscope depth!"

  "Periscope depth, aye," the XO, Senior Lieutenant Ivanakov, said. "Five degree rise on bow planes."

  The Russian Akula was still the most advanced attack sub, outside of the Americans', in the world. And there were arguments on both sides. The Akula depended upon depth and speed to survive; it could dive deeper and drive faster than just about any other submarine on Earth. The trade-off, however, was noise. While the Akula was not noisy by any normal average, it was much noisier than an American 688, much less the Seawolf or Ohio series.

  That was until the Americans came up with this new bastard Ohio. The damned thing was, if anything, noisier than an Akula. It had . . . bits protruding. Following it was like following a blind man in an autumn forest. But then, that skipper would play his damned music and . . .

  "Get me on the surface," the captain snarled. "Sonar, what is its heading?"

  "Zero, one eight," Sonar called back. "It's headed towards the Zama."

  The latter Akula was one of three that Northern Fleet had sent to pinpoint the new American sub and determine how it was disappearing.

  "Captain, what are you doing?" Ivanakov asked, worried. He had heard the captain's theory on the new American boomer and he hoped that he was one of the few. If higher command ever heard it they would laugh the captain out of the service.

  "I'm going to get a hull shot," the captain said, hitting the control to raise the periscope. "A very special one. Come to course zero, one, eight, periscope depth. Max power. Now!"

  "I hope like hell they get the point," the captain said, grinning, as the music boomed. It wasn't
just being played on the boat, but broadcast through the sonar. It was a clear warning to everyone to get the hell out of the way. The A—Oh, hell, the Vorpal Blade was coming through!

  "Yes, sir," Commander Clay said sourly. A submariner to his bones, he believed in stealth over everything. But he had to admit that the music had at least successfully driven off the whales that they might otherwise have hit.

  The problem was that while going this fast, the sub was absolutely blind. Sure, there wasn't supposed to be anything in the way, not at one hundred meters. But that didn't preclude other subs, especially the Russians, being in the way. Or dolphins or whales. Or, hell, a school of herring! If they hit anything at this speed, well, it wasn't going to be pretty.

  So the captain played music, practically taunting the Russians. It just ached in his bubblehead bones.

  "Prepare for water separation," the captain said.

  "Helm, plane, all converted?" the XO asked.

  "Helm converted, aye!"

  "Plane, planes retracted, all converted, aye!"

  "Captain has the conn," the captain said. "Helm has piloting control."

  "Helm, piloting control, aye," the plane controller said, lifting his hands away from the plane controls. Under water the boat required multiple drivers for the various control surfaces. Once under space drive, the helmsman took over as sole pilot. The planesman, however, remained in position as a "co" in the event of injury to the helmsman.

  "Pilot, two-zero-zero knots! Let's take this bird for a ride!"

  "The music has started," the sonar tech for the Akula Zama said.

  "Hmmm . . ." Captain Borodinich said, musingly. "According to reports, that means that they are preparing to engage their new speed drive, Senior Lieutenant Vaslaw. What do you think of that?"

  "I am wondering where they are going, sir," the XO said, swallowing nervously.

  "So are we all," the captain replied, nodding. "You are wondering, I am wondering, the admiral is wondering. But this time, Senior Lieutenant, we shall see where they are going. Do you know why?"

  "Yes, sir," the lieutenant said. "But I was speaking of which bit of water they are going to be passing through, sir. Sonar, have they initiated drive, yet?" As he asked there was a hollow "boing" off of the hull and he flinched.

  "No, si . . . Senior Lieutenant," the sonar tech said, swallowing. He had served with Vaslaw under their previous captain. The new captain's habit of instituting damned near Soviet era formality, Senior Lieutenant this and Master Chief Sonar Technician that, was not popular. Nor was his tendency towards either stupidity or reckless arrogance. Or both. Nobody could be that stupid, after all.

  "You understand my purpose in being here?" the captain replied, surprised. "Instead of trailing as the other boats are doing?"

  "You chose to track them from forward, Captain," Vaslaw said, very nearly snarled. "Sonar, position and direction!"

  "That is for me to ask, Senior Lieutenant," the captain snapped. "I suspect that you do not care for my plan, but you will support it, is that clear?"

  "Sir," the lieutenant replied. Which was neither agreement nor disagreement.

  "Direction . . . one-one-three," the sonar tech said, tapping at keys and ignoring the captain's input. Thank God they had finally gotten a decent computer on the boat. When he had started in his position, it had been that Soviet era maulk. Tubes if you could believe it. They still didn't have the filtering and processing of the American boats, but when they could spot them they could at least lock them down without reference to a bunch of pins and slide-rules. "Course . . . two-nine-five!"

  "Captain, it's headed right at us!" the lieutenant said. "We must change course!"

  "And so we will," the captain said calmly. "We will parallel their track. They have become predictable. They point a certain direction and then go fast, like some pilot taking off from a runway. I think it's because their commander, Blankemeier, yes? He was a carrier pilot. No finesse, yes? So we shall parallel them and find where they go. Come to course one-one-five. . . ."

  The boat's pilot, prepared for the order, whipped his wheel around, hard, causing the submarine to bank like an aircraft and filling the boat with the noise of unsecured gear rattling into the corridors. Most of the conn barely had time to grab stanchions as the boat stood on its side.

  "Not so hard!" the captain snarled. "And I said one-one-five! Not one-eight-zero! Go to full power as soon as this ham-handed cow gets us back on course."

  "American speed coming up," Sonar called as another "bong" rattled off the titanium hull of the boat. "Continuing to use active sonar!"

  "Captain," the lieutenant pleaded. "The reason for all this noise is clear! The Americans are saying 'we are coming through! Get out of the way!' And we should!"

  "And because you have been, we still do not know where these Amis go when they do to go silent!" the captain snapped. "How they can simply disappear? Because none of you cowards were willing to get close enough to them! Which is why Northern Fleet has sent me, yes? Sonar, where are they, now?"

  "Coming up from our rear," Sonar said as the hull of the Akula began to thrum from flow. "Speed over eighty knots. I am only able to track them through their own sonar; ours is being washed out with flow noise. Oh, and I hear their music . . . It's dopplering . . ."

  "Damned arrogant Americans," the captain muttered. "We shall track them this time. . . ."

  "Captain, they have been tracked doing over three hundred knots!" the lieutenant replied with a pleading tone. "We need to get out of the way. . . ."

  "I said silence," Borodinich snapped.

  "Speed . . . over one hundred knots . . ." Sonar called. "Higher I think. Perhaps as much as two hundred. I'm getting so many harmonics . . . Wait . . . Can you hear them . . . ?"

  "What is that?" the captain asked. Every submariner is attuned to the rhythm of their boat. Any ping can be a problem, any extra vibration could be a sign of failure. So the strange rumbling was . . . disquieting.

  "That is them," Sonar replied, pulling off his headphones and bracing himself. "All you have to do now is listen!"

  It was more than the sound of an approaching train. The lieutenant had once watched a show about tornados. In it, a man had been trapped under an underpass as a tornado passed over. It was like that. No, stronger, as if a hurricane could be compressed into the size of a truck and it was getting closer. The Akula was already going nearly fifty knots but the sound was getting louder. And over it . . .

  "Is that music?" the captain asked, looking at the lieutenant.

  "Yes, sir . . ." Vaslaw said, unhappily. "It's—"

  "Never mind," the captain snapped, his appearance of calm starting to crumble. "Come to course—"

  Senior Lieutenant Vladimir Vaslaw was no fool. He had been on this very sub when the Amis had last passed and had been close enough to, barely, hear that dread sound, to faintly catch the tune that, against all probability, was blasting forth through the very metal of the American craft. Now . . . it was much louder. So he grabbed a stanchion and clung to it like a limpet as the captain's words were overwhelmed with noise. And then the wave hit.

  It is said that boats are a hole in the water into which money is poured. But in the case of the Vorpal Blade, she was going over two hundred knots, creating not so much a wake as a supercavitation vacuum behind her, a gap filled with a mixture of water turned to air and air turning to water. And as she passed, the weight of three hundred feet of ocean, rather than money, collapsed that temporary hole.

  The effect wasn't that of a tornado or a hurricane. Tornados are dirty, hurricanes are wet, but neither is pure water. And water has many interesting properties. It is, among other things, incompressible. So it transmits shocks quite well. And there aren't many greater shocks than a submarine-sized pocket of water collapsing at very nearly the speed of sound. Were it not for the brilliant modifications to the Ohio-class submarine, more specifically, the long blade or shock initiator on the bow, the effect would be many times more p
ronounced—two orders of magnitude worse.

  The Akula was wrenched through the water like a leaf blown by a gale, tossed on its side and hammered until its hull rang like a tocsin. The only thing that saved its life was that the hull was one of the strongest on the earth and they weren't, really, all that deep.

  That didn't help the personnel and equipment in the boat, though, as the wake of the passing boomer shook them like a terrier at a rat. Anyone not buckled in, and the only people on the boat so secured were the pilot and the buoyancy operator, was thrown around like a bowling pin.