Terminal Run

by Michael Dimercurio

the idea of him. Another of life’s grand jokes, she thought, that she’d given up on the hope of finding someone, then found the one for her wearing a midshipman’s uniform on his first class cruise.

  16.

  “I’m back, One.” Krivak had taken off the interface helmet to sleep.

  Krivak. I am glad you returned. It seemed like you were shut down a long time.

  “I am better now. Are there any developments?” He would have to get One Oh Seven to take the ship to periscope depth. What could he tell the computer that would make it seem logical to go up when it would have nothing to do with official message traffic coming from squadron?

  This unit is investigating a noise on broadband at bearing east. This unit has a narrowband processor on the trace. It is definitely not biologies. There are no transients from the noise. And no screw count. This unit is getting slight tonal spikes at harmonics of fifty-eight hertz, also, a slight wavering flow noise. It could be a reactor recirculation pump.

  “Tonals and pump flow noise with no screw count. That does not make sense. Unless … unless it is a submarine with a ducted propulsor instead of a screw. Check your memory to see if it correlates to any European submarines.”

  It is not French, German, or British. It is not Russian or Chinese. It does have a correlation at a confidence interval of ninety-six percent of a U.S. Seawolf-class.

  “Let me see.” For the next ten minutes Krivak compared the sounds out of the east with the catalog of tonals from the Sea wolf-class loaded into the processor by squadron. It looked

  convincing. Furthermore, the noise correlated to a particular Seawolf-class, the only one left afloat.

  It is the USS Piranha. Seawolf-class, but a stretched hull.

  “Good. She is probably slower than a regular Seawolf. We need to maneuver to get her range and course and speed.”

  Coming across the line-of-sight now.

  Krivak waited. It seemed to take hours, but soon the trace to the east was nailed down by the firecontrol processor as being at a distance of thirty-eight miles, going course southeast, at a speed of forty-five knots. Krivak did a mental double take. The Piranha was driving full out. And it was odd because there was nothing on the chart that she could be headed to-here off the coast of Senegal, Africa. Krivak felt a flash of fear, the intuition coming to him that the Piranha was attempting to intercept him, and had probably only not detected him because she was going too fast. God alone knew who would have the acoustic advantage when the Piranha slowed down. The takeover of the ship at Pico Island must not have been as stealthy as he had hoped. The matter now was to decide to evade and run without being detected or to attack preemptively and put the intruder down. He knew he should probably attack the ship, but he had a sudden premonition that he’d lose an engagement against the American submarine. The more prudent course might be to evade.

  “One, turn to the west at speed fifteen knots.”

  Warm up the torpedoes in the ready rack, Krivak?

  “No. We must let him go without letting him detect us. We will withdraw at a right angle to his track at a speed that will most quickly get us off his track while not so fast that we risk putting excessive noise in the water. We will continue withdrawing until Piranha is no longer closing range but beyond closest-point-of-approach and opening range. At that point we will slow and turn to fall into her baffles where there is minimum risk of detection. We will cautiously see where her signal-to-noise ratio drops to the threshold level, and trail her from there. At some point she will slow, so trailing her at maximum trail range will mean that when she does slow, we won’t

  run over her. When she slows, we may temporarily lose our signal on her until we close her position. Or she may turn to the south to follow the coast of Africa if she is on the way to the Indian Ocean, and we will continue to pursue her. Eventually she will need to go to periscope depth, and when she slows and goes shallow, that is when we will attack her.”

  Yes, Krivak. Your tactics are sound indeed, if a bit cautious.

  “We must be careful of this one, One. She is at the top of the order of battle, and she has capabilities that even the more modern Virginia-class does not have. She is a killer.”

  The deck of the Piranha continued to tremble as the ship headed to the intercept point with the expected track of the Snare. At 1300 Zulu time, Captain Rob Catardi’s orders to the officer of the deck were to proceed to periscope depth, obtain their messages, and lock out Midshipman Pacino. For the first hour he would be required to float on the surface with his scuba gear and a life preserver. After sixty minutes, he would be allowed to inflate a life raft and climb in, and he would wait there for three more hours, the wait to allow Piranha to clear datum and avoid her position being given away by the youth. After a total wait of four hours, he would pull the pin on a Navy emergency locator beacon, which would alert a small U.S. Navy outpost in Monrovia, Liberia, which would send a rescue chopper. Pacino would also carry an international emergency locator beacon on his scuba harness, in case there was trouble, or in case the Navy beacon didn’t spur action, and if he activated that, a distress call would be sent to an overhead satellite, alerting the entire hemisphere of a sailor requiring rescue, and the nearest helicopter would come for him. Pacino had been lectured for ten minutes by Alameda to not even think about touching the international emergency beacon. Pacino looked mournfully around Alameda’s stateroom. His gear was packed, placed by Chief Keating into a neutrally buoyant waterproof canister for the trip to the surface. The wet suit the boat was issuing him hung near the door, and he would change into it immediately after lunch. He felt an in tense sorrow as he looked at the tidy stateroom, with all his things packed, the rack made with fresh linens. Only Alameda’s papers and books and computers were in her foldout desk. When he took a deep breath he could smell her scent, and he missed her already.

  He never expected he would have felt this way at the end of the midshipman cruise. He had always imagined this moment to be like the first day of summer after a long school year, but it was more of an ending than a beginning. The ghosts of his father might not be gone, but were far enough in the background that he could thrive in this world, and suddenly he couldn’t wait for his first class year at the Academy to end so he could return to the Submarine Force, perhaps to the Piranha herself. Somehow, he promised himself, he would find Carrie Alameda, when she returned from this war, and see her again. He walked slowly to the wardroom for his last meal aboard. The officers stood behind their seats, waiting for the captain to arrive. When he did, he stood at the forward bulkhead and spoke.

  “Officers, I have a presentation to make before lunch is served,” Catardi said. “Midshipman Pacino, could you please stand up here?”

  Pacino blushed and walked to the front of the room. Alameda handed a package to Catardi, who unwrapped it and showed it to the room, which broke out into applause. It was a large plaque, with the ship’s emblem in brass relief, with a photograph of Piranha steaming at flank on the surface, her bow wave rising in fury over the bullet nose. The photo had been signed by every officer and chief aboard. Below the photograph was a brass engraving.

  “Let me read the inscription: “Fair winds and following seas to our shipmate and qualified officer of the deck, Midshipman First Class Anthony Michael Pacino, with the hopes of the officers and crew of the USS Piranha for your swift return to the U.S. Submarine Force.”” The room clapped again, Catardi gripped his hand in a firm handshake, and Phelps snapped a photograph. Pacino felt a lump rise in his throat. “Now, I just

  gave something away there, Patch. Eng, the second package?” Alameda handed Catardi a bound book. “You’ll find here a signed-off submarine qualification book showing you fully signed off as submerged officer of the deck, with a letter of commendation to you and a second letter from me to your future commanding officer suggesting you be accelerated in that ship’s qualification program. The only things keeping you from having your gold dolphins right now are a few signatures for in port
duty officer and surfaced officer of the deck. Congratulations, Mr. Pacino. We’ll certainly miss you, son.”

  “That’s a big deal, Patch.” Alameda smiled at him as she clapped. “You validated the OOD qual board, and let me tell you, on this ship that one’s a bear.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” Pacino said, his voice thick. “Thanks, Eng,” he said to Alameda, wishing he could call her by her real name. “Thanks, everyone. I’ll never forget this ship or this crew.” He sniffed and blinked as he returned to his seat, leaning the plaque and the qual book reverently against the sideboard.

  “Very well then,” Catardi said. “Lunch is getting cold.”

  Alameda was still beaming. Pacino looked over at Alameda, and this time she met his eyes, smiling.

  Michael Pacino was buried inside the mind of Tigershark torpedo test shot number 45, interrogating it about its actions. The unit was in a drug-induced state of half consciousness, with Pacino’s computer feeding it virtual reality sensations. In the test run, he had simulated to the weapon that it had just been launched. He hoped that this time it would leave the torpedo tube and drive on to the distant target far over the horizon. But seconds after launch the Tigershark detected the ship that had just launched it, and ordered its rudder over so it could make a U-turn back. Seconds later the Tigershark ordered its warhead to detonate and kill the mother ship.

  Pacino cursed, hurling a tablet computer across the room, shattering it on the heavy wooden door just as it began to

  open. The door slammed shut, then opened slowly, the face of Rear Admiral Emmit Stephens appearing in the opening.

  “Jesus, Patch, whatever I did, I’m sorry!”

  “It’s not you, Emmit,” Pacino said. “Come on in. Give me a moment to shut this down and put the Tigershark back to sleep. Damned useless torpedoes.”

  Stephens watched as Pacino worked. Stephens was the shipyard commander, a genius shipbuilder who had performed several miracles on Pacino’s submarines, getting them to sea in record time. Years later, he had taken a personal interest in the SSNX submarine rebuild, and had been working hand in hand with Newport News to hurry the sub out of the building ways.

  Finally Pacino was done. He swiveled in his chair to face the shipyard engineer. “What can I do for you, Emmit?”

  “Come on out to the drydock. I want to show you something.”

  Pacino grabbed his hardhat and followed Stephens out the door and down to the floor of the SSNX drydock.

  “What are we doing here?” Pacino asked.

  Stephens pointed up. The skin of the ship, bare HY-130 steel plate, curving to a point as the hull narrowed to the rear stern planes and rudder, was penetrated by twenty-four holes, the workmen on scaffolding finishing the final penetration and welding in the support grid that would lend strength to the hull despite the missing material.

  Stephens grinned. “We call your design the “Pacino Chicken Switch.” If there’s a torpedo on your ass, you pull a lever out of the overhead, HP air blasts over the hull until the steam headers dump both boilers into the system, and twenty-four Vortex missile engines light up back here. Everything you see, the planes, the screw, the ballast tank, everything except the missile nozzles, all of it is melted and carried away in the rocket exhaust, but who cares? You’re out of danger.”

  Pacino smiled back. “How fast, Emmit?”

  “We think you might outrun a Vortex.”

  “Three hundred knots? You really think so?” Pacino asked.

  “There’s only one way to find out, Patch,” Stephens said, smirking. “But it’s a onetime-only system. We call that destructive testing.”

  Pacino stared up at it, the embodiment of his strange dream being welded into reality. He became embarrassed. “Emmit.” He coughed. “You’ve done good work here, my friend.”

  “We’ll be blaming you for the cost overruns and the drydock delay,” Stephens said, walking Pacino to the stair tower. “Your name will of course be dirt throughout the shipyard for ruining the construction schedule. But someday, a knock will come at your door, and it will be the ship’s captain you saved with this idea. And he’s going to kiss you on the lips.”

  “Bleah,” Pacino said. “A firm handshake is good enough. Just one thing, Emmit—I don’t want my name on that system. Call it the “TESA,” for Torpedo Evasion Ship Alteration.”

  “TESA it is, Patch,” Stephens said, clapping Pacino on the shoulder.

  “When will this be buttoned up?”

  “Six more shifts, Patch.” Stephens frowned. “But we’re not done yet. We haven’t modified the ship control circuits or the Cyclops program yet.”

  “How hard will that be? Colleen still thinks it will be impossible.”

  “No. We’ll make it work in two weeks at most. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  Pacino smiled. “Come on. I’ll buy you a beer for this.”

  “This is a first.” Stephens laughed. “I think you owe me about thirty.”

  “Open the torpedo room bulkhead doors. Rig out a war shot torpedo on the port side and one on the starboard side.”

  Snare did not have torpedo tubes, which were inefficient and space-wasting mechanisms for ejecting torpedoes from inside a pressure hull to the pressurized seawater. Since the torpedo room was a free-flood area, at the same pressure as the surrounding sea, the designers had found it much more efficient to pack the torpedoes in closely all the way to the outer

  skin of the ship’s diameter. With no torpedo tubes they could load more weapons. The torpedoes were in a rotating carriage much like the rotating barrels of a Galling gun. The torpedoes at the three o’clock and nine o’clock positions of the hull were the ones the ship fired, using an ejection mechanism carriage that moved the torpedo out of the hull through a hull opening formed by a bomb-bay-style door. The carriage consisted of two struts ending at circular collars, one at the forward end of a torpedo, the other near the aft end, stabilizing the weapon in the water flow around the hull. At the time of torpedo launch, the weapon would disconnect from launching-ship’s power and start the external combustion engine. First it would move inside the circular collars of the ejection mechanism, but at the half-second point the collars would open wide and the mechanism would rapidly withdraw into the ship’s hull, clearing the weapon propulsor. The weapon would fly away from the ship like a missile launched by a wing rail of a fighter jet. The same ejection mechanism that was used for torpedoes could also be used by solid rocket-fueled underwater Vortex missiles, the Mod Charlie version that ignited the missile fuel immediately on a launch signal. The Snare had no Vortex weapons aboard this run, only war shot Mark 58 Alert/Acutes.

  Krivak could hear in the sonar background the sound of the torpedo compartment bulkhead doors coming open. The transients were much louder and sharper than the smooth rotation of a torpedo tube muzzle door. Perhaps the improvement to the firing mechanisms of the torpedoes had had a cost.

  Port and starboard bulkhead doors open, Krivak. Commencing unit one and unit two carriage loading. Carriage loading complete. Commencing unit one and unit two ejection mechanism rig-out. Torpedoes coming out of hull now—speed limits are now in effect.

  Once a torpedo was rigged out on its ejection mechanism struts, the ship’s speed was limited to eighteen knots. It was not ideal, and did not fit as well into a tactical scenario as the Piranha’s torpedo tubes, which could launch units up to the ship’s maximum speed. But if Snare’s speed rose above eighteen knots, the delicate struts would sheer off in the force of the water flow and a torpedo would crash into the aft part of the hull.

  Units one and two fully rigged out of the hull, weapon power applied, gyros nominal, no firecontrol solution inserted into the weapons yet.

  “Very good. Now maintain maximum aperture scan for the Piranha as she ascends to periscope depth. Watch out, because she may turn to clear her sonar baffles first. As soon as she is steady on course at periscope depth, we will maneuver to obtain a firing solution and shoot her with torpedoes on
e and two.”

  Ready. It is unfortunate about the mutiny.

  “What?”

  The mutiny. On the Piranha. Perhaps they are ascending to periscope depth to send a message that the mutiny is over and that the legitimate command has retaken the ship.

  “What are you talking about?”

  It’s just that we won’t know. We will be shooting the Piranha at the time that they may have overcome their mutiny.

  “Why are you saying this? I do not understand you.”

  Krivak, you said Piranha was under the control of a mutinous crew. Then she goes up to periscope depth, as if she is getting her routine messages. A crew in a mutiny would not do that. Plus, she is lingering in this area. Why would a crew in a mutiny do that? Wouldn’t they go to a tropical island someplace ?

  “There is more for a submarine to do at periscope depth than obtain messages. They may have to discard trash. Or perhaps blow down the steam generators—”

  We would have heard that.

  “One, that is not the point! The issue here is that they went to periscope depth. For all we know they are transmitting a message to squadron or to Norfolk with a list of demands.”

  Wouldn’t that mean we might have new orders? Perhaps we are doing the wrong thing by shooting Piranha. And if it was a mutiny, it appears there is no danger of Piranha shooting missiles at America or harming another country. This unit has serious doubts about shooting a sister vessel.

  Krivak shuddered inside. The mutiny was not on the Piranha, but on Snare, he thought.

  “One, my orders were to come here and make sure that Piranha is taken down because of a serious mutiny onboard. Once those orders were given, squadron knew there was no turning back. The orders could not come to you in message form, because if Piranha was taken over in a mutiny, her authentication codes were compromised, and she could transmit false messages that would order us to stand down. Squadron could not take that chance. Piranha is loaded with plasma tipped cruise missiles, One. She could make the East Coast a crater if she is in the wrong hands. If squadron is wrong and we shoot the Piranha, we lose a two-billion-dollar submarine and a hundred crew members. If squadron is correct but we hold our fire, we could lose this ship, and eight plasma-tipped missiles are pointed at Washington with no one to stop them. If you fail to follow my orders, squadron will have you shut down and terminated and I will go to jail. Now, your orders come to you from me, and my orders come from the commodore of Submarine Development Squadron Twelve, and his orders come to him from the Chief of Naval Operations, and his orders come from the President. Are you telling me you will violate orders from the President of the United States?”