by Joe Buff
Jeffrey forced himself back to the present: the growler. Its ringer was hand-powered from the other end by turning a little crank, which everyone had their own way of doing, their "fist." Jeffrey could tell this call was from his acting XO, Lieutenant Bell, who this watch was officer of the deck.
Jeffrey gulped the last of his iced tea, wiped his lips with a white cloth napkin, then lifted the handset. "Captain."
"Sir," Bell said, "Sonar just picked up a mechanical transient. Submerged, left of the bearing to the convoy, and much closer to Challenger."
Closer? Jeffrey's heart quickened. "What's Milgrom's best guess of the range?"
"Maybe fifty thousand yards." Twenty-five nautical miles. Hmmm… "What's her assessment?"
"She thinks it was an underwater probe and drogue connecting, trying to hide in the reverb from that latest detonation."
"Some kind of undersea replenishment," Jeffrey said. "Probably pulled back for a breather from the running fight northeast of us."
"Yes, sir. Milgrom says she heard something like it once before, on Dreadnought, but that time the targets evaded. It's definitely Axis."
Good. That's why Kathy was here, a bit of cross-pollination between American and Royal Navy ceramic-hulled submarine crews. Jeffrey stood up decisively, from the sacrosanct captain's place at the head of the wardroom table. Captain Wilson's place.
"I'll be right there, XO. Rig for ultraquiet and deep submergence. Sound silent general quarters, man battle stations antisubmarine."
Jeffrey quickly piled the Texas work papers onto the sideboard. He ducked into the pantry to bus his dirty dishes.
Lying loose they might become dangerous projectiles — and the wardroom doubled as Challenger's operating theater. On the way, for the umpteenth time, he glanced at the wardroom data repeaters. The ship was approaching latitude 29°28′ north. Jeffrey was glad he hadn't opened that "RECURVE ARBOR" courier envelope. Some kind of secret orders? Which base to head for in the U.S.? Updated recognition codes for when they reached home waters?
Well, taking the fine print literally, he hadn't crossed 30 north yet — and there might be something in the package to limit his tactical discretion. For him, all the lives on the convoy — and the vital cargoes they carried — had to outweigh a single stranded crew on an already sunken submarine… didn't they?
Besides, here was a chance for Jeffrey's first independent kill. He was half afraid he wouldn't see combat before the East Coast and dry dock. Once hard and demanding Captain Wilson recovered, Jeffrey would revert to XO, taking orders in battle, not giving them.
* * *
Jeffrey climbed the ladder up one deck. He strode to the command workstation in the center of the CACC.
It occurred to Jeffrey that it hadn't occurred to him to be nervous making his first deliberate attack as acting captain, a big step in any naval officer's career. But as he'd discovered as a much younger lieutenant (j.g.), badly wounded on a black op in Iraq in '96, he didn't mind dying half so much as he minded being bored. The intense comradeship of people being shot at dispelled his gnawing sense of inner emptiness. The difference this time, though, was Jeffrey was almost forty, with everything that implied. And the burden of command was not one ounce diminished since his first taste of enemy fire; the unforgiving trade-offs of life-versus-life, that soul-wrenching calculus of war, only got harder, more wearing with age. He had never felt so lonely as in the past day, with no one, no one, to relieve the ultimate pressures of his responsibility as captain, or to share the blame in case he failed.
"Sir," Bell said, talking fast, "the ship's closed up at battle stations antisubmarine. We are rigged for ultraquiet. Our depth is twelve hundred feet, and we are rigged for deep submergence. Our course is due north, speed is top quiet speed, twenty-six knots." Unlike other American submarines, Challenger had in-hull hangar space for her minisub; the ASDS didn't slow her down.
Jeffrey repeated Bell's info per standard procedure, then took the conn. Bell slid over to the right seat of the desk-high console. Bell was an inch taller than Jeffrey, four years younger, and fit but not as muscular. Bell was a Navy brat, like his father before him, and had grown up all over the world.
Jeffrey announced in a loud clear voice, "This is the captain. I have the conn." The watchstanders acknowledged.
"What do we know?" Jeffrey said impatiently.
Bell relayed him the large-scale tactical plot. "Submerged hostile contact designated Master One, bearing zero two five true." Off the starboard bow, given Challenger's course.
"Sonar, any further data since that transient?"
"Negative, sir," Kathy said. "Recommend splitting contact designation as Master One and Master Two, since I'm certain there are two vessels involved."
"Do it. Contact identification?"
"Speculation, sir. One Class two-twelve attack sub and one modified Class two-fourteen long-endurance milch cow"
"Makes sense," Jeffrey said. The 212 must be replenishing its liquid oxygen and hydrogen supplies, for its air-independent fuel cells (AIP). "The German boats won't be making more than three knots, cruising in close proximity, linked by fueling hose. A juicy target, if we can get near enough for a decent shot." An easy target, too.
"Sir," Bell said, "if our priority is helping the Texas, shouldn't we decline an engagement here? The closer we get to these U-boats, the more likely they'll pick us up."
"They'll have twenty or thirty nuclear torpedoes between them. We put 'em on the bottom in little pieces, more of our ships get through."
"Er, yes, sir."
Jeffrey turned to the phone talker. "Give me your rig." Jeffrey put on the bulky headphones and pressed the switch for the sound-powered mike.
"This is the captain." It got easier each time he said it. He made eye contact around the control room as he spoke. "Men… and women of Challenger. You all know we have somewhere important to get to, to help our friends on Texas." He paused to let the phone talkers stationed around the ship catch up, relaying his words to the other crewmen in earshot in each compartment. "Now we have a chance to do some good on the way. We are going to destroy two hypermodern Axis diesel submarines and neutralize their atomic weapons. Our actions will allow more ships to reach the U.K., on this convoy and future convoys. We must act quickly while they're still linked up for refueling and they're slow and vulnerable. Those AIPs are fast enough to be a threat to us and god-awful quiet on their fuel-cell electric drives. There's some risk, but it's worth it and we're taking it." Jeffrey paused again. "That's all." He took off the rig.
There was tense silence in the compartment. Jeffrey imagined some of the men chafed at this delay in the rescue mission. He decided to pretend he didn't notice: He was in charge now.
Jeffrey glanced toward the ship control station, on the forward bulkhead. COB was in the left seat, as general-quarters chief of the watch. Lieutenant (j.g.) David Meltzer had the right seat, as the helmsman. Both sat with their backs to Jeffrey; he couldn't read their faces.
"Helm," Jeffrey ordered, "make your course zero two five…. XO, I want to aim for the enemy's baffles." The blind spot behind their stern. "How long would it take a two-twelve to refuel, if it was running on empty to start with?"
Bell cleared his throat. "Intel thinks about sixty minutes, Captain."
"Then let's assume we have one hour, starting with that transient…. At our present speed we'll close the range to fifteen thousand yards in forty minutes. We'll launch our fish from there…. That won't leave much margin for close-in tactics. Face it, time's on their side."
"But, sir, if we shoot any sooner, and give our torpedoes too long a run, the enemy will hear them coming for sure. Then things could get very dangerous for us."
"Yeah," Jeffrey said. Defending Diego Garcia, Challenger had lost three torpedomen, and had half her tubes damaged, and it was a dry-dock job to fix her autoloader gear. "That's probably why they picked us to rescue the Texas. We're not good for much else."
CHAPTER 3
/> Jeffrey stood, leaning against the side of the command workstation as Challenger moved in on Kathy's now stale transient contact. Standing always helped Jeffrey think, and he'd been awake for thirty-six hours straight, so far. Sonar held no new data on the targets yet.
Jeffrey and his key people were debating whether to deploy Challenger's one remaining towed array, for a better chance of detecting the U-boats early, through the very-low-frequency tonals they'd be making. The conversation had already gone in circles once. Basically, Jeffrey wanted to save the array for self-defense once they reached Texas; they'd had to ditch their other one at Diego Garcia, because it took too long to retract once there was an enemy torpedo in the water. But Kathy and Bell wanted to use the spare array now, or they might not be able to find the 212 and 214 at all.
A search for broadband noise using the ship's hull arrays would also be problematic. Challenger was hiding in the deep scattering layer, a zone of dense biologics that caused false echoes for enemy sonar; at this time of day in this season and latitude, the layer was comparatively shallow, twelve hundred feet. The 212's and 214's crush depth was a bit deeper than that, so they might be cloaked in the layer, too — it tended to block sound over any substantial distance.
Ilse suggested hunting for the U-boats by trying to look up at them from a greater depth — in sonar hole-inocean mode — using surface wind and wave noise to acoustically backlight the targets. The problem with that was they'd need to get very close to Master One and Two first, by sheer guesswork, before they'd have much chance of a contact. And even then, the Class 212 and 214 were tiny compared to Challenger — they'd be very hard to see as just two quiet spots against a noisy background.
Kathy stressed that any sonar search plan, in these conditions, would be at best an awkward compromise. Ilse looked like she wasn't sure what to think. She did point out that the seafloor here, at eighteen thousand feet, went way past Challenger's crush depth. Bell hinted, not so gently this time, that maybe they ought to just press on to Texas.
The clock kept ticking. In his mind, Jeffrey decided. They'd follow the original line of bearing to the targets, course zero two five, and then assume the U-boats were slowly heading north to keep after the convoy fight while the 212 refueled. Challenger would use hole-in-ocean sonar: Kathy and Ilse had found two frequency bands where the biologic layer was relatively transparent to ambient noise.
For a moment Jeffrey felt self-doubt, or guilt or something. Had he picked this particular route for Challenger on purpose, to take him near the track of the convoy fight, for another chance to mix it up with the Axis while he held an independent command?
There were certainly quieter, safer ways to reach the Azores, and home from there…. Was he trying to leave a calling card for that ceramic-hulled asshole, Eberhard, using nuclear torpedoes to settle old scores from office politics?
"People, it's our job to be aggressive. We're going after the German subs."
The others nodded, seeming to Jeffrey relieved a decision was made, and glad they weren't the ones to have to make it. He told Ilse to use her knowledge of hydrodynamics, to try to model what the flow drag of the U-boats' fueling pipes might sound like.
Jeffrey gave orders to arm the atomic warheads in torpedo tubes one and three, then flood the tubes and open the outer doors. The guys on Texas would have to hold on a little bit longer.
Jeffrey thought back to the courier envelope, unopened in his safe. What the hell did RECURVE ARBOR mean? Well, it would just have to wait. He certainly couldn't allow himself second thoughts now.
HALF AN HOUR LATER
"Anything yet?" Jeffrey asked.
"No, sir," Kathy said.
Jeffrey went to talk to the navigator.
"It's been quiet out there for a while," Ilse whispered to Kathy.
"The convoy battle has died down."
"Think it's over?"
"No." Kathy brought up a different display on her console. "Still plenty of surviving merchant ships, see? The Germans must be lying doggo. Still a few surviving escorts, too. I can barely hear them pinging."
"Doesn't that convoy have SSN escorts?" SSNs were nuclear-powered fast-attack subs.
"Apparently not," Kathy said, "or the frigates wouldn't use active sonar, for fear of showing the Axis subs where ours are lurking, by an accidental echo off their hull, you see. Most of our fast-attacks are needed to protect the surviving carriers anyway, or for independent operations like we're on now. There aren't enough SSNs to go around, Ilse…. Besides, if there were, they might be sunk by friendly fire. Surface and airborne antisubmarine forces tend to treat any submerged contact as hostile, and shoot before they ask questions…. So our fast-attacks stay clear."
"I'm glad I'm not riding that convoy."
"Those merchant mariners are the unsung heroes of this war, if you ask me. Just like in the last big brew-up, before our time."
Ilse returned to her keyboard, refining ocean-model parameters to make better sense of all the raw data pouring in from the hull arrays.
Jeffrey came over and tapped Kathy on the shoulder. She turned.
"Any contact?"
"All five sonarmen are working on it, sir."
* * *
"Anything, Sonar?"
"Not yet, Captain."
"Have you run a systems check?"
"Several times, Captain."
Jeffrey fidgeted at the Combat Systems consoles. The tactical nuclear Mark 88 deepcapable torpedoes in tubes one and three were armed and ready to fire. Lieutenant Bell had the conn.
"Helm," Bell said. "Time for the next search leg. Make your course zero four five." Northeast. "Slow to ahead one third, make turns for seven knots." Going slower improved sonar sensitivity.
Meltzer repeated the orders verbatim for confirmation, worked the engine order dial and his control wheel, then called out when Challenger reached the altered course and speed.
Jeffrey was pleased with the young man. Meltzer had ranked high in his class at the Naval Academy, and in the nuclear qualification training, and Basic Submarine Officers Course, but nothing beat the test of combat. Since leaving Diego Garcia, not so long ago, Meltzer had showed nerve and confidence. He was a tough kid from the Bronx, and Jeffrey liked him. He'd piloted the ASDS on the Durban raid, and done very well, and then done well handling Challenger herself in the running battle which followed. Jeffrey decided Meltzer would pilot the mini again, rescuing the men from Texas.
Jeffrey smiled to himself. On his own junior officer tour, on a Los Angeles-class boat, a beginner enlisted rating had worked the helm, another the separate stern-plane controls, under the ever-watchful eyes of a diving officer. Back in those days SEALs rode freeflooding undersea scooters to the target, freezing their asses all the way — and a disabled sub had to wait for a deep-submergence rescue vehicle staged from the U.S. or Britain.
Jeffrey was less pleased with Bell. Bell was third-generation Navy, true. His father and grandfather had been enlisted men: his father a chief in riverine warfare toward the end in Vietnam, his father's father a steward on a battleship in World War II. Bell had earned a place at Annapolis, and an officer's commission, and had a strong service record since then, but he kept second-guessing Jeffrey in front of the crew. He also seemed at times lately to lack confidence, or backbone, or something. Was he distracted, too distracted, because his wife was expecting? Would he really make the grade as acting XO? He ought to stick to that task, daunting enough for a mere lieutenant, and let Jeffrey make the big decisions as acting captain. It was a captain's job to make the tough decisions.
Jeffrey turned to Ilse and Kathy, not smiling at all now. "So what have we got?"
"Still nothing," Kathy said.
"The more time we spend doing this, the closer that two-twelve gets to being refueled." Jeffrey pressed Kathy on purpose. The ship was going into battle, and Jeffrey had to take this new woman's measure fast.
Kathy nodded reluctantly. "Recommend we go deeper, sir, for a wider look-up
search cone, so as to cover a larger swath with each sweep we make."
"Oceanographer, where's the axis of the deep sound channel here?" Sounds made near the axis tended to stay at the depth of the axis, a gambit to conceal Challenger from Master One and Two.
"Right around six thousand feet," Ilse said.
"We'll continue our look-up from there." Jeffrey. glanced at the clock yet again. "We better spot them soon. Once they split up they'll make a smaller target, and be a lot harder to find."
For a moment Jeffrey worried someone or something might be lurking for him in the deep sound channel, a kind of horizontal acoustic superconductor…. He thought of the men waiting and suffering on Texas, who were depending on him for rescue. How much air did they have left? How much blood plasma, and morphine? He thought of the crews on those convoy ships, also bleeding, drowning, burning alive.
Jeffrey realized that if his choice to shoot for score against these two Axis submarines backfired, there'd be no salvation for the Texas. No one else was close enough to effect a timely rescue if Challenger was lost. Not for the first time, Jeffrey wondered what he was doing.
* * *
The ship was at six thousand feet.
"Still nothing, Sonar?" Jeffrey snapped.
"No, sir. Nothing. We haven't picked up anything."
"Was that transient a mistake?"
"No," Kathy said, looking insulted. "It was much too clear on the tape. The system is optimized to pick up mechanical transients."
"Sir," Bell said, "we're almost out of time. Maybe we should just go back."
"No. We keep looking."
"I have something!" Kathy shouted. A sheen of sweat glistened on her forehead.
