Deep Sound Channel (4 page)

"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, scanning 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."

"Super," 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."

"I suppose I'll find out soon."

Jeffrey glanced away for a moment, then looked back. "You speak American English very well."

"I spent four years in San Diego. I got my Ph.D. from Scripps."

"Impressive."

"So I've been on lots of research ships. Diving is a hobby. And I dated a few navy guys, out of Coronado. . . . No, they didn't blab about your precious submarine. I've been briefed, on the way out here. Only up to a point, apparently, but by COMSUBPAC

himself."

"Really?" Jeffrey sounded almost jealous.

"He said this boat's assigned to DEVRON TWELVE, as if that explained everything."

"It would, to a submariner. Development Squadron Twelve . "

"And if you're wondering why they picked a woman, I wasn't their first choice. The other three they tried were men, but none of them had the guts for it." Ilse wriggled her bottom to get more comfortable in the seat. She put the first CD-RW

into the drive, worked the console's keyboard, and massaged the trackball with her palm. She called up a menu she knew by heart, then leaned over to talk to the sonar officer, a slightly plump lieutenant sitting to her right. Step one, she presumed, would be to enhance his ocean models, used to compute sonar detection and target counterdetection zones. That should keep her busy for a while.