Vorpal Blade votsb-2

by John Ringo

  “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, incompress
ible. 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 pronounced — 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.

  Lieutenant Vaslaw managed to hold onto his pole by wrapping both legs around it. He still slammed his face into it as the boat stood first on one side, then the other, and then he swore directly vertical. It was hard to tell since most of the lights blew out almost at once in a shower of sparks.

  It might have been the latter that saved them. The direct-drive turbines had not shut down with the rest of the boat, the robust nuclear reactor had not scrammed, and they were probably the only thing that kept them from being sunk. As it was, as the emergency lighting started to come back on-line he could see that they were at an up-angle, canted to the side but ascending.

  He could also see the captain on the other side of the conn with his head up against a bulkhead. He could be unconscious or dead. Frankly, Lieutenant Vaslaw didn’t give a damn.

  “Blow all tanks,” the lieutenant said, shaking his head and wiping at the blood from his nose. “Come to speed of one third. Surface.”

  “Surface, aye!” the pilot said, happily righting the boat and scrambling for clear air. There were still currents aplenty that roiled the sub, but he could work with that.

  “Multiple leaks,” damage control called. The operator was on his knees and shaking his head but he still had his headphones on. “Multiple injuries.”

  “Great,” Vaslaw growled. “Tell the medics when they’re done with the rest, they need to check the captain. Until then, and I did not say this, I’d rather he remain unconscious.”

  Vaslaw shook his head again and then sighed. They were lucky. They would see the sky again. Too many other Russian submariners had not been so lucky. He should be happy.

  But he rather liked rock music. He had not been really aware during the last days of the Soviets but he had complete collections of rock groups from that period.

  However, his precious copy of Europe’s single, “The Final Countdown” was going for the dumpster; he never ever wanted to hear that song again.

  Not after hearing it dopplering towards him, and then away, as the several thousand ton submarine was tossed around like a leaf. The guitar solo was distinctive.

  Damn those Americans…

  “Ten degrees up!” the captain shouted over the flow noise.

  “Conn, Sonar,” Lieutenant Sousa said. “They think they actually heard something over the flow! It sounded like a shipwreck!” There was a sound like a ripple of rain from forward. Small fish were dying in large numbers.

  “Well, it wasn’t us!” Spectre yelled, grinning and bending his knees as the gees hit. The boat was headed up now, fast. As it started to level he shook his head.

  “Pilot, twenty degrees up!”

  “Twenty degrees, aye!” the helmsman yelled, grinning. They weren’t in space, yet, but he was, by God, driving a spaceship. What was it somebody in the mess had called it? A quadraphibian. Water, land, air and space.

  “Separation!” the XO yelled as the noise fell away. “Whew!” They were in the air. No chance of hitting a whale anymore. They’d hit a school of herring one time and he thought the bow was going to cave in.

  “Tactical, what’s on the scope?” the captain asked.

  “All clear, sir,” Lieutenant Souza said. “No radar emitters in range.”

  “Pilot, make your height one-zero-zero angels for pressure check,” the CO said, sitting back in his chair. “Maintain angle of ascent.”

  “So how long do we deal with this?” Mimi asked, holding onto the table to keep from sliding off the bench. Pots and pans had cascaded across the floor and Miss Julia had nearly slid off.

  “The drive is very strange,” Everette replied. “While there is gravity, it lets gravity through and has limited effect on inertial actions. So we take G forces in maneuvers. Once gravity falls off, it engages a pseudo-gravity system and begins inertial compensation. So no matter how strenuous the maneuver, we barely feel it. But the takeoff…”

  “The captain don’t even have to do it this way,” Julia said sourly. “He just does it for fun.”

  “Now, now, Dr. Robertson,” Everette said. “We shouldn’t question the tactical decisions of the boat’s commander…”

  “CO’s nuts,” MacDonald said, leaning back in his chair. “F-18 pilot.”

  “Gotcha,” Miller said. He had his feet braced on the front of the locked-down desk and was fairly comfortable. “Glad we didn’t hit anything.”

  “One of these days we’re gonna,” MacDonald said. “And that’s gonna really suck.”

  “Suck more if the Russkis figured out what was going on,” Miller pointed out.

  Captain Zabukov had surfaced the boat and was on his sail, a pair of night vision binoculars glued to his eyes. He knew that they had fallen well behind the Ami sub, but it was possible that he could -

  “There!” Lieutenant Ivanakov said, pointing to the southeast.

  “Yob tvoyu mat…” the captain said, quietly.

  “I assume that that was not directed at me, sir,” the lieutenant said. “Bozhe moi! You were right!”

  “And you think that they are going to believe us, yes?” the captain said. “That the Amis have a flying submarine? And where has it been flying to, yes? The stars?”

  “Store your maulk if it’s out,” Jaenisch yelled.

  “It’s all stored,” Berg said.

  “Okay, here’s the deal,” Jaenisch continued, rolling out of his rack and climbing up to Berg’s. “Make sure your maulk is stored. Except. There are sick bags here,” he said, opening up one of the small storage compartments. “Make sure you’ve got at least one available. The CO’s going to go to full power underwater to outrun the Akulas. You’ll know we’re starting the speed run when the music starts. Then he’s going to jump out of the water. You just hang onto the zero-gee straps. Keep your bunk elevated. If you’ve got to puke, puke into the bag and seal it. Keep your door closed and your circulator on high in case somebody misses their bag. When we’re out of gravity it will get better. But as soon as we’re out of gravity we’ve got chores to do.”

  “Aye, aye,” Berg said, grinning. “Sounds like fun.”

  “You wish,” Jaenisch said as music started pounding over the 1-MC. “Grapp, here we go.” He jumped to the deck and rolled into his bunk, closing the door.

  All down the corridor, doors that had been open were closing and Berg quickly followed suit. Then, just to be sure, he didn’t just hold onto the zero-gee straps but pulled them across his legs and midsection, cinching them down. As he did he began to feel acceleration pressing him back into his bunk.

  He grabbed the straps though when it felt like the boat was coming apart.

  “Holy grapp!” he shouted, not that anyone could hear him. All he could think was that the sub, which was clearly hammering through the water, was not designed for this sort of punishment. If anything went wrong, they were going to die. Probably fast, but not necessarily. Messily, for sure.

  Then the sub nosed up, pressing him downward harder than any combat flight he’d ever been on. Suddenly, the rumbling stopped and for a moment that made him even more worried.

  “It’s okay,” Jaen yelled. “We’re in atmosphere. H
old on, though.”

  As he said that, the sub dropped and banked, pulling more gees, high positive ones then dropping through free fall and into negative.

  It was like being on a roller coaster where the only thing you could see was a blank steel wall a few inches from your face. Already nauseated, Berg grabbed the puke bag and put it to use.

  He mag sealed that one and grabbed another as the sub went through a series of maneuvers that seemed designed to make him puke. Finally, though, the sensation of madcap flight stopped and things settled. In fact, it felt like they were back in port.

  “Whew,” he said, sealing the second bag and kicking up his air recirculator. As soon as most of the smell was gone he opened his bunk.

  “That was nasty,” Berg said. “Is it always like that?”

  “Pretty much,” Jaenisch said, rolling out of his bunk. “We’re supposed to go clean our M-10s in the mess. First Platoon is doing Wyvern maintenance in the missile compartment, Third is on sleep cycle.”

  “Lucky Third,” Berg said, rolling out of his bunk and dropping to the deck.

  “Come on,” Jaenisch said, walking towards the rear hatch. “We’re first up and we need to clear the compartment.”

  “Leveling off at angels one-zero-zero,” the pilot said. The gravitational and “G” effect had practically disappeared. Down was the deck. Up was the overhead. Even the level off couldn’t be felt.

  “Pressure check,” the CO said, standing up and walking over to the board.

  The chief of boat ignored him as he dialed up on the pressure in the boat. The CO was, after all, the CO. But a good sub skipper would have let the grapping chief handle this. He flexed his jaw to let his ears pop as the pressure in the boat came up. After the speed run, hell at any time, there was a chance that a seal could have popped. The pressure check was designed to detect that.

  “Pressure steady after one minute,” the COB said.

  “Roger. XO, announce all silence for pressure check.”

  “All hands, all hands. Silent running for pressure check.”