by Joe Buff
"We're in the Main Pass now," Jeffrey said. "That's little West Island there to port, and Middle and East islands both to starboard. Notice how they're thickly wooded, and the big coral reefs."
"I see them, sir. We're clear."
"No swimming on the ocean side, by the way. Sharks." Jeffrey chuckled again. The submarine passed the last pair of channel buoys and entered open water. Two aircraft overtook the boat, passing low on either beam, air combat missiles on their hard points. "F-14D Tomcats," Jeffrey said. He turned to Meltzer. "A-models flew before you were born."
The two-seat Tomcats both did barrel rolls in greeting, their engine noises deafening, little trails of vapor forming spirals off their airfoils. Jeffrey and Meltzer waved. The pilots pulled back on their sticks, their afterburners brilliant in the daylight. Each riding 56,000 pounds of thrust, the aviators swept back their wings and disappeared into the clouds.
Jeffrey glanced up at Challenger's American flag, now shifted to a gaff behind the cockpit. He listened to it snapping briskly, and had to smile. Then he gripped the edge of the cockpit with both hands, facing into the relative wind off the port bow. He was way too tired to feel much emotion, just a kind of numbness and a sense of purpose.
"Challenger's first war patrol," he said aloud. God knows when I'll get some sleep. God knows if I'll be alive this time tomorrow.
"It's exciting, sir," Meltzer said. "Now we get to do our part." Then Jeffrey thought about what Ilse Reebeck had said.
He had a flashback, not his first the last few weeks. The concussion of grenades, the crackle of small-arms fire. The screams, the smells, the blood mixing with seawater. He shook his head to clear his thoughts.
It didn't work. He saw his old fiancee in his mind, looking down at him in traction, pity and revulsion in her eyes. He remembered the final time, struggling in his walker, when she just gave up and left.
Jeffrey chided himself angrily. "Duty, Meltzer," he said by way of cover. "Keep your mind on duty." "Absolutely, sir."
"You can just make out the sea state reduction system," Jeffrey said, pointing southsouthwest. "Use your binoculars, you'll get a better view." The young man took a look.
"Disc-shaped barges," Jeffrey said, "anchored to the bottom. They knock down big waves caused by storms, or ones made artificially by the enemy."
"That's a euphemism, sir," Meltzer said.
"Damn straight," Jeffrey said. "What I really meant is the tsunami from a nuclear explosion. Diego Garcia's average elevation's just four feet over mean high water."
A few minutes later Jeffrey tapped the bridge fathometer. "You been watching soundings?"
"Yes, sir," Meltzer said. "We went from fifty feet to fifteen hundred pretty quick."
"The bottom drops off fast here. It's already twenty-five hundred plus." Jeffrey thought of Ranger, and of the airfield left behind him now. He thought of the 4, 000 people on the base. Targets, he told himself. They're all juicy, sitting targets for nuclear warheads.
That PROBSUB was getting closer by the minute. It was time for Challenger to dive.
"Clear the bridge!" Jeffrey ordered. The port lookout snapped the flag gaff off its mounting. The lookouts and bridge messenger went below, then the JOOD. Jeffrey inspected the hatch and followed last. He dogged the hatch, climbed down the ladder through the sail, and checked the next hatch. A petty officer sealed the second hatch after Jeffrey confirmed the bridge was clear.
Jeffrey took the ladder to the next deck down, walked past some computer banks, and strode into the Command and Control Center, the CACC. As was standard procedure when Challenger got ready to submerge, Jeffrey as officer of the deck became the diving officer now. Wilson had the conn.
Jeffrey sat down at the two-man desk-high Q-70 command workstation, to Wilson's right. In front of Jeffrey against the forward bulkhead was the ship control station, another part of Lockheed Martin's AN/UYQ-70 control room console suite. In its left position sat COB, as chief of the watch. To COB's right sat David Meltzer, still JOOD, now acting as the helmsman. Between them was the engine order telegraph, a four-inch dial. Jeffrey buckled his seat belt.
COB was busy with the ballast and the trim. His console had valve manifold and vent and pump and moisture trap controls, air and water pressure gauges, fill-level meters, and status enunciators. One of his screens showed a flow diagram of the entire pump and tankage system, and the ship's hydraulics.
On his own active matrix LCD Jeffrey called up a copy of the digitized ship status board. He studied it very carefully. Everything that was supposed to be open was open, and everything to be closed was closed. Reports from all compartments confirmed there were no leaks, fires, or critical equipment casualties, and all checklists for submerging were complete.
"Captain," Jeffrey said, "ship is ready for dive in all respects."
"Very well," Wilson said. "Make turns for eight knots." Jeffrey picked up the 7MC microphone, a dedicated line to the men in charge back behind the reactor. "Maneuvering, Control. Make turns for eight knots." Maneuvering acknowledged. "Maneuvering acknowledges turns for eight knots," Jeffrey said.
"Dive the ship," Wilson said. "Dive, dive. Make your depth seven zero feet."
"Dive the ship, aye," Jeffrey said. "Make my depth seven zero feet, aye." Jeffrey hit the dive alarm, and an electronic tone sounded twice in the CACC. "Chief of the Watch, dive the ship." Jeffrey missed the loud Klaxon they'd used in the old diesel boats.
"Dive the ship, aye," COB said. He made the announcement on the 1MC.
"Helm," Jeffrey said, "make your depth seven zero feet." He knew seventy feet at the keel was Challenger's periscope depth.
"Make my depth seven zero feet, aye," Meltzer said.
Jeffrey watched COB flood first fore and then aft ballast tanks. Meltzer used his splityoke control wheel to put two degrees down angle on the bowplanes, helping get Challenger's nose beneath the waves.
Jeffrey set a window on his main console screen to show imagery from one of the two non-hull-penetrating photonics masts. Starting with the fast-attack sub USS Virginia, ordered in 1998 and commissioned in '04, these took the place of traditional periscopes with their awkward straight-line optical paths.
On-screen Jeffrey saw Challenger blow spray just like a spouting whale as air rushed from the ballast tanks t h rough big vents in the hull. Gradually she left that unnatural upper world where all stood naked, descending into the other world for which she had been made. A world of silent darkness, yet one that teemed with life and evanescent light.
"Bow's under," Jeffrey announced, then used the little joy stick to look aft. "Stern's under. Helm, make four degrees down bubble."
"Four degrees down bubble, aye," Meltzer said. In older boats—like the Los Angeles–class USS Alexandria, where Jeffrey did his own first tour—a pair of junior enlisted men worked the rudder and the dive controls: sternplanes for depth, bowplanes at low speeds for bank and angle of attack. These days, though the navy still used two-man piloting, those roles were combined with ballast/trim control in two more-senior jobs. As Challenger's propulsor, now well submerged, drove the boat down more quickly, Jeffrey saw their rate of descent increase on his display. "Chief of the Watch," he said, " blow negative to the mark."
COB fed high-pressure air back into the negative tank, emptying it to the point, the mark, he estimated would restore neutral buoyancy—the tank was flooded when the ship first rigged for dive, to get her down fast when the time came. Skillfully COB and Meltzer leveled Challenger off at seventy feet.
Next Jeffrey oversaw as COB altered trim so the boat would hold zero bubble, stay level. Then COB pumped seawater between auxiliaries one and two amidships so there was no list port or starboard. Jeffrey knew he'd made a first cut when they got under way, based on fore and aft ship draft measurements and weight calculations at the tender. It helped that the local seas were calm—the master chief was done in record time, and Jeffrey reported to Wilson.
Wilson took control of the photonics mast, sca
nning for surface visual contacts on wide angle, then high power. Jeffrey backed him up on his own monitor—a deep draft Military Sealift Command auxiliary could do fatal harm in a collision. Jeffrey confirmed there was nothing to be seen now, even on passive infrared, except for clouds and a KC130T transport aircraft wearing Marine Corps camouflage.
"Make turns for four knots," Wilson said.
Jeffrey relayed the order to Maneuvering, then passed their acknowledgment back to the captain. The lower speed was to let COB fine-tune the trim and buoyancy.
"Navigator," Jeffrey heard Wilson say, "how's our GPS?"
"Way off, sir," the navigator said. "Bad guys still playing with the signals."
"Inertial navigation and gravimeter?"
"Ring laser gyrocompasses are all in order. No discrepancies or drift on ship's ESGN
accelerometers. Tight agreement with seafloor gradiometry and the dead-reckoning plot.
"
"Soundings?" Wilson said.
"Two seven three five feet, sir, and increasing," the navigator said.
"Sonar," Wilson said, "any nearby contacts?" With increased automation and distributed data fusion, Sonar no longer had a separate room.
"Negative, sir," the sonar officer said, confirming what he'd sent to Jeffrey's screen.
"Very well, Sonar," Wilson said. "X0, I want to head due south, take that incoming PROBSUB from the Flank. Make your course one eight zero."
"Make your course one eight zero," Jeffrey formally relayed to the helmsman, who sat just feet away.
"Make my course one eight zero, aye, sir," Meltzer said. "Steering one eight zero, sir," he broke in thirty seconds later.
"Steering one eight zero, sir," Jeffrey repeated to the captain, continuing the age-old rituals of the sea, almost religious incantations. In ancient times, Jeffrey knew, they kept the idols on the quarterdeck.
"Very well, Dive," Wilson said. "Sonar, where's the layer?"
"One seven five feet, sir."
"I plan to stay above the thermocline till we take a better look around. Stream the port towed array."
"Aye, sir," Jeffrey said. "Chief of the Watch, stream the port towed array." Jeffrey saw COB's hand was poised, anticipating the order. He acknowledged and flicked the switch.
Jeffrey pictured the half-mile-long TB-29 thin-line array streaming out astern. The starboard towed array, the fat-line TB-16D, gave a shorter aperture and wasn't as good at catching the very-low-frequency five-or ten-hertz noises of a diesel sub.
"Make your depth one five five feet," Wilson said.
"Make my depth one five five feet, aye," Jeffrey said. "Five degrees down bubble." Meltzer acknowledged, and with no sense of motion or vibrations the deck tilted down once more.
One thing Jeffrey liked when he was diving officer was its position facing forward. It let him feel more at one with the ship, sneaking or charging through the ocean. Since a submarine was just a long and narrow tube, and virtually every compartment doubled as passageway fore and aft, almost every station or console
fronted a port or starboard bulkhead. Almost all the crew rode sideways, and some of them slept that way. Jeffrey played many roles in the course of a day, a week, a month at sea, and sometimes felt like he was going sideways too.
"Photonic mast's under," Jeffrey said, watching the monitor again. He took a quick look around underwater—no threatening shadows. "Chief of the Watch, lower the photonic mast and all antennas."
"Lower the mast and all antennas, aye," COB said. "Passing one hundred feet, sir," Meltzer said. "Passing one hundred feet," Jeffrey repeated to Wilson.
"Dive, we're under time pressure," Wilson said. "Make normal one-third turns." Again Jeffrey palmed the 7MC. Again Maneuvering acknowledged. Again he relayed this to the captain.
"XO," Wilson said, "once we clear our baffles and do a thorough check for sound shorts, I intend to make the transit south by sprint-and-drift at fifteen hundred feet. . . . We'll slow up when we're closer to our target."
"Understood, sir," Jeffrey said, knowing Wilson would always share his plans as navy regs required. Jeffrey would be the CO's sounding board and punching bag, constantly preparing for the job.
"XO," Wilson said, "send the messenger of the watch to invite our guests to the CACC." Ilse Reebeck sat alone in the tiny state-room they'd given her. It took just a minute to unpack, and now she was looking at a picture of her family. These little lulls were the worst, the times like this with nothing else to do.
She held the photo to her chest, rocking gently back and forth. She tried again to lock in all the memories, knowing they'd fade inevitably with the hopeless years. Images flashed through her mind, and the sounds of voices now forever gone. Echoes, of everything she'd lost and of things she'd never had.
Someone knocked. With all her self-control she said, "Come in." The messenger was very young, polite, and shy. Ilse rose to follow him and took her first good look around. The corridor was clogged with boxes now, mostly food. The walls had fake wood wainscoting, a pleasant touch, she thought. Certainly the decor in other ways was stark—a big fire ax and extinguisher gave the only real touch of color. Then she spotted the foot-sized Velcro-like red triangles on the deck, marking thin pipes with small nozzles labeled RESPIRATOR AIR LINE. Ilse and the
messenger squeezed down the short corridor past various crewmen: enlisted, officers, chiefs. Most of them seemed friendly and surprised. Give them five more minutes, she told herself, and everyone aboard will know I'm here, if they don't already. Ilse passed other state-rooms, marked xo and CO, and then she was in the control room. To her right were two closed doors, RADIO and ESM, posted with security warnings.
"Why is it so dark?"
"Ma'am," the messenger said, "we usually rig for red like this. It makes the screens and instruments easier on watch standers' eyes. . . . Some boats use blue." Ilse looked at the ceiling, which was low. Excuse me, she told herself, that's the overhead. Pipes and cables ran everywhere—between them hung the coiled black cords for mikes. There were rows of computer consoles along both side bulkheads, mostly occupied, most with two large screens, one above the other. There was a digital navigation plotting table near the back. Every bit of available wall space was clogged with junction boxes, other gadgets, countless dials and switches, knobs and handles in every possible shape and size.
Keyboards clicked. Men seated or standing watched their screens or touched them or spoke in confident hushed voices. Occasionally someone called out, orders or information. Ilse smelled warm electronics and ripe male bodies. Where were the periscopes?
Captain Wilson and the executive officer came over.
"Miss Reebeck," Wilson said with a smile Ilse already knew was rare for him. "We have a few minutes till we're in firing position. We'll do a SEAL mission briefing with you once our present task's complete. We can use the wardroom later."
"Good," Ilse said.
"In the meantime Commander Fuller can get you started. He's in charge of training in the boat."
"How about this one?" Ilse said, claiming an empty position at a row of what were obviously sonar consoles along the port bulkhead.
The XO nodded. "Just what do you have in mind?"
"Commander, I'm an oceanographer. While I'm here, Captain Wilson wants me to help upgrade your ship's modeling of underwater sound propagation. I've got better data on the local seas."
"A-hah," Jeffrey said, as if things were starting to make sense to him.
"You should never have scaled back NOAA's research budget," Ilse said. "If your country hadn't cut defense spending so much, we might not all be in this mess. Think of the American lives it's cost already, to save some dollars."
Jeffrey winced, opened his mouth to retort, then seemed to think better of it. Ilse pulled three rewritable three-inch CD-RWs from her blouse pocket. "Bottom geology and currents, salinity, water temperatures, and tides. Volcanic vents and their effects. Seasonal biologics at different depths and times of day."
"Su
per," Jeffrey said.
"I have a lot of experience in these waters and where we're going next."
"And where might that be?" Jeffrey said.
"Durban."
"The main South African sub base?"
"Not exactly."
"So what's the plan?"
"The usual commando op. Stab, kill, blow up things." "You make it sound too glib."
"Commander, there's nothing glib about this. The Putsch hanged my brother, okay? He was one of the ones they showed on television."
"Jesus. . . . I'm sorry"
"I'm not interested in apologies."
"Urn, how did you get out?"
"I was in the U.S. when it happened. At a marine biology conference." Jeffrey cleared his throat. "You know how to use this thing?"
"It's a Virginia-class ARCI terminal, part of the onboard fiber-optic LAN. Each console can handle sonar, target tracking, or weapons control, depending how you set it up."
"Yup."
"It replaces the older systems in Los Angeles-and Seawolf-class SSNs."
"You're well informed."
"Challenger's the fourth fast-attack sub built since Virginia," Ilse said, "a bit of a hybrid though with commonalities to Seawolf, seen by some as an unnecessary step backwards. Challenger has a Seawolf-sized hull envelope, a big propulsion plant, eight extra-wide torpedo tubes, all quite expensive."
Jeffrey nodded.
"She's got all-electric drive by Westinghouse," Ilse said, "with no reduction gears—that part's new, extremely quiet. Third-generation pump-turbine propulsor, like an underwater jet engine, extremely fast."
"Hull number 778," Jeffrey said.
"I know. They've been painted over for the war." "Exactly what else do you know about Challenger?" "I've been through SUBSCHOL in New London," Ilse said. "Flooding drills, fire fighting, escape tank
swim, the works."
"What did they say about this boat?"
"Just that she's different, and controversial." "That puts it mildly."
