Deep Sound Channel (16 page)

"The helmet's ceramic," Clayton said. "Stops a thirty-cal at almost point-blank range. Neutral buoyancy too, though you have to watch out for trapped air. The battery's conformal. Feel that little switch inside, by your right ear? That controls the interval. You might try half a second on each mode for starts."

Jeffrey played with it, making the picture flash back and forth faster and then slower. " Antiblooming feature?"

"These have pixel gain control. Lets you look right past glaring headlights and see someone in the shadows, all in real time."

"What about a mushroom cloud?" Ilse said.

Clayton laughed. "Keep your fingers crossed," he said. "These don't have much EMP

shielding. By then we should be done and out of there."

Jeffrey reached to his left ear and folded down the tiny built-in mike. "What about our comms?"

"Digitized voice, encrypted," Clayton said. "Using frequency-agile low-probability-ofintercept radar pulses." "Not plain radio?" Jeffrey said.

"Nope. Too easy to detect or jam. These go through trees and bushes better. The signal bounces well through building clusters too, and windows, hallways, things like that. You get distortion from multipath, but it's workable."

"Super," Jeffrey said.

"Lights, please," Clayton called. The crewman hit the switch and the fluorescents came back on. "Speaking of which, the moon will be well up as we insert, two days past full, so there'll be plenty of light through the clouds to drive the image intensifiers. In a completely darkened room you'd stick to infrared."

"Right," Jeffrey said.

"Next," Clayton said. He gave Ilse and Jeffrey diving masks, with wires that ran to little chest packs.

"The mask fits under the helmet?" Jeffrey said.

Clayton nodded. "And the rig's compatible with mixed-gas Draegers."

"You still use those things?" Jeffrey said. He turned to Ilse. "They're closed-circuit scuba gear, rebreathers. The works fit across your chest so you can reach everything easily."

"I've heard of them," Ilse said.

"There've been improvements," Clayton said. "A U.S. contractor beefed up the endurance of the 02 renewer, the carbon dioxide scrubber's more efficient, and they've got heliox for deeper depth. . . . They also added a mike to the mouthpiece, for clandestine digitized underwater telephone."

"You mean like gertrude?" Jeffrey said.

Clayton nodded. "Except now it's low probability of intercept and frequency agile, encrypted, just like our radio."

Ilse donned her diving mask and turned it on. "Wow! It's a head-up display!"

"See everything you get there?" Clayton said.

"Left side's time and depth, water pressure, and compass heading," Ilse said. "Plus other stuff. I'm not sure how to read it."

Jeffrey held his to his face and smiled. "It's a swim board."

"Yup," Clayton said. "Except it keeps your hands free, and it has inertial nav with programmable way points and a steering bug. Senses water temperature and currents too, and gives you swimmer speed over the bottom. And," Clayton added, holding up a palm-sized

object, "watch this. Ultrasonic sonar simulator. Your skipper gave permission, it won't get through the hull." He switched on the handheld transducer. An indicator began to pulse on Jeffrey's mask display, showing the bearing to Clayton's hand.

"Jeez," Jeffrey said, "you've got built-in acoustic intercept!"

"Uh-huh," Clayton said. "The hydrophones react to any loud noise too. Figure of merit's pretty poor, the directivity could be better. But it does give back your sense of undersea direction."

"This could come in handy," Jeffrey said.

"Amen, bro," Clayton said. "Like if some patrol boat screw starts up, or someone's dropping antiswimmer charges, you need to know which way they are before they know where you are."

"What's this other stuff ?" Ilse said. "The numbers on the right?"

"Diver data," Clayton said. "Monitors your physiology objectively—which is kinda hard to do yourself when someone's shooting at you. Pulse and respiration, remaining air supply, 02 partial pressure and consumption rate."

"How does that part work?" Jeffrey said.

"You have to put the chest pack on. It picks up from your body, like a lie detector, and from the regulator valves."

"That's clever," Ilse said. She modeled the chest pack, which was broad and flat. "You forgot a lady's model," she said deadpan. The thing squashed her breasts. "It's heavy."

"Not when you're swimming," Clayton said. "Same density as seawater, won't affect your buoyancy, like the flak vests we'll wear over it, underneath the Draegers."

"Great," Ilse said.

"It also shows your rate of rise or dive," Clayton said. "It sets off an alarm—the transducers vibrate at your

temples—if you go too deep or start coming up without exhaling, like if you're wounded or you just go stupid. That feature can be switched off in tactical situations. It's loud enough for your swim buddy to hear. I'll be yours, by the way."

"You really thought of everything," Ilse said.

"You bet," Clayton said. "Remember, when in doubt while going up or down, thirty feet per minute always works."

"Right," Ilse said. "I have a scuba Openwater Two certificate."

"I've kept at it myself," Jeffrey said. "I'm a qualified safety diver. Hull inspections mostly, for maintenance or damage, and for any sabotage when we leave port." Clayton nodded. He held up a little keypad, also with a wire. "Dive computer, standard navy tables and the classified aggressive ones. This goes on your wrist, plugs into the pack. The output shows up on your mask. Keys are big enough for frozen fingers or some hard corner of your gear."

Ilse laughed, obviously impressed. Two more crewmen came into the mess, grabbed coffee and donuts, stared at the group with all their weapons, and left quickly.

"How long do these batteries last?" Jeffrey said. "Long enough," Clayton said.

"What's the mean time between failures? I've a sneaky feeling these were rushed into production."

"Like so many other things." Clayton shrugged. "Long enough. As long as some still work, and we stick together, we're okay. We're taking backup gauges, analog mechanical, for the basic data."

Jeffrey nodded.

"We'll have practice sessions," Clayton said, "in a partly flooded lockout trunk. That's how we'll calibrate your weight belts. COB can provide warm seawater—you know it's icy at our present depth."

"Super," Jeffrey said. "I just wish we'd started this two months ago."

"You heard the briefing," Clayton said. "We don't got two months. . . . Don't worry, it'll come together." Jeffrey looked at Ilse and she shrugged.

"Next," Clayton said. He unlocked a case and took out a pair of pistols. Jeffrey lifted one by the butt, keeping his fingers well away from the trigger. A big orange safety plug rested inside the bottom of the butt, where the magazine would go. A thick sound suppressor formed an integral part of the barrel. Held to the muzzle by a short lanyard was a cap to keep out mud and water.

"These are handmade prototypes," Clayton said. "The first truly silenced autoloading pistol."

"Hey," Jeffrey said, "there's no ejector port."

"These have electric ignition, with careless rounds. No firing pin, no receiver slide or cocking lever, and no ejector port."

"Hence no cycling noise in operation," Jeffrey said. "Yup. Shoots as fast as you can squeeze the trigger. Subsonic rounds, of course."

"Caliber?" Jeffrey said.

"Fifty" Clayton said.

"Jesus."

"Stopping power."

"Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition," the SEAL chief in the next booth said. Jeffrey heard the steady slap and clicking as the SEALs continued their race. They were eager and competitive, all of them experienced operators, not one man under twentyfive.

"Pick yours up," Clayton said to Ilse. "It's not loaded."

"It's heavy" she said, hefting the weapon.

"Ever shoot before?"

"Just paper targets. Rimfire twenty-twos."

"Good," Clayton said. "We'll teach the proper stance. The thing is with a fifty, it really kicks."

"Urn, I bet it does," Ilse said.

"We'll show you guys how to field-strip this and everything," Clayton said.

"We're only using pistols?" Ilse said.

"These are just for you two, as our mission specialists. The rest of us, the shooters, we have something similar but in thirty-cal full-auto, two-handed carbine style."

"I'm not happy going in without a live firing drill," Jeffrey said.

"Wouldn't think of it," Clayton said. "We brought a bullet trap and we've got soft-nosed training rounds. Captain Wilson gave permission, given what's at stake."

"If you say so," Jeffrey said. He wondered how that would look in his service jacket. Unusual accomplishments on XO tour: fired live rounds in the submarine.

"Just don't take them on the mission," Clayton said. "Dumdums are illegal. Geneva Convention says they can shoot you on the spot."

"Not if I shoot first," Jeffrey said.

"Good man, Commander."

"I'm awfully out of practice," Jeffrey said.

"Don't sweat it," Clayton said. "We've got a hundred hours for working up. You too, Ilse. We have conditioning and team integration all planned out, and you can read the manuals on this stuff in odd scraps of time."

"Okay," she said. "Um, how many rounds per clip?"

"Eighteen for the pistols. Two columns side by side." Clayton handed Ilse a dummy round, colored blue.

Jeffrey looked at it too. It was rectangular, with a pointed bullet sticking from one end. As Ilse passed it to him, their fingers brushed.

"What loads you packing?" Jeffrey said, making himself stay all business once again.

"We alternate," Clayton said. "Teflon-coated, and copper-jacket hollow point, both three hundred grains. A double-tap takes care of most contingencies, and you don't need to keep track of what's in the chamber." Jeffrey nodded, satisfied.

"If these guns are electric," Ilse said, "what if they short out? And seawater's corrosive."

"Good point," Clayton said. "And don't forget, blood's a good conductor too. We use waterproof equipment bags, made of Kevlar, till we come ashore. They have adjustable flotation bladders so they won't sink." He pointed to the weapon in her hand. "But per your question, these are made of special plastic and they're rated to ten meters with the clip in and the muzzle plug. Just in case."

"They won't go off by accident?"

Clayton smiled. "You need to practice safety like with any firearm."

"Wait a minute," Jeffrey said, studying his pistol. "These things have iron sights."

"With tritium dots for night work," Clayton said. "But that's all just for backup. Put your helmet on again, then plug this wire into the bottom of the pistol grip. Twist clockwise and it locks to double as a lanyard." He gave the gear to Jeffrey, then showed him how to activate the power on the weapon.

Once hooked up, Jeffrey saw a cross-hair reticle in his visor image. It moved when the pistol moved, aimed where the pistol aimed.

"Accelerometers and very-low-energy laser interferometers," Clayton said, "with each helmet tuned to a different wavelength so they won't clash. The visor always knows exactly where the weapon's pointing, even if you're off target and the bad guy's on the skyline."

"No more red dot on the target?"

"Nope. Too obvious, and with smoke or fog or dust that laser beam would lead right back to you. This way your kill won't know that you just drew a bead. Until, that is, he suddenly checks out."

"I like it," Jeffrey said. He glanced at Ilse. She looked doubtful. Clayton touched her shoulder. "Killing's never easy for the good guys." Jeffrey nodded as old memories returned. "We have four days for clicking in."

"What's that mean?" Ilse said.

"Altering our minds," Jeffrey said. "Bonding, and turning off the outside world. Forgetting who we are, becoming what we need to be, to get this done."

As Jeffrey finished dressing, he heard dull thumps through the bulkhead from Ilse's cabin right next door. He wondered what she might be doing—some kind of exercises, probably. She did seem in great shape. Jeffrey bent to tie his shoelaces and Commodore Morse knocked and entered.

"Good day, Commander," Morse said brightly. He put a thick sheaf of files on the upper bunk, then began to strip down to his Skivvies.

"Good morning, sir," Jeffrey said.

"Thanks again for sharing your little sanctum with me."

"It's no problem, Commodore, that rack is meant for guests. I get to know some interesting people. Besides, it's nice to have the company." The thumping next door stopped.

Morse grabbed a towel and his toilet kit. "And it's nice to be on a real warship. Surface units make me nervous. . . . And aeroplanes? Forget it."

"They say the same about us, sir," Jeffrey said, and both men grinned.

"Good Lord," Morse said, "now she's singing." Jeffrey heard Ilse through the bulkhead, but he couldn't make out the tune. She seemed to have a good voice, though. It struck him what a complicated person Ilse Reebeck was, moody and intense, sometimes so American in her speech and thinking and sometimes so unreachable. A minute later someone knocked. "Come in," Jeffrey called. It was Ilse, rosy pink and wide-awake.

"Oh, excuse me, Commodore," she said, seeing Morse there in his underwear. She was wearing a denim jump suit, baggy in some places and a bit too snug in others, with a Challenger baseball cap in matching blue.

"I like to shower before I sleep," Morse said, slightly embarrassed.

"I'll remember that for next time, sir," Ilse said. "I just got up an hour ago." Morse nodded, then went through the side door into the CO/XO shower. He turned on the water, then he started singing.

"I'm on watch in twenty minutes," Jeffrey said to Ilse. He checked himself one more time in the dressing mirror. "I need to scan the log and take some reports before then. What's up? Did you sleep well?"

"Fine, yes. These mattresses are very firm." Ilse looked at his, as if to see if it was different.