Deep Sound Channel (8 page)

"Concur, sir," Sessions said. "Axis hardware's good."

"And we can't use our antitorpedo rockets this far down," Wilson said. "We could go the rest of the way to the bottom, try to twist and turn inside the canyons, and risk being buried alive when the warhead blows. Or we could head up toward the surface, shoot some underwater rockets, and gamble the depleted uranium buckshot'll have the range."

"Commander," Sessions shouted, "the torpedo's going active. . . . It's in range-gate mode!"

"Put it on the speakers," Jeffrey said, "and filter out our flow noise." Ilse heard a hard and eerie dingggg, above a constant whining.

"Depth of the weapon?" Wilson said.

"Steady at three thousand feet."

"That must be its limit," Jeffrey said, "or its preset floor." The dingggg repeated, slightly louder.

Wilson frowned. "Can't we actively suppress?" Sessions hesitated. "It's not working, sir."

"We must have damage to our aft transducers," Jeffrey said, "and we're so deep the piezo-rubber hull coating won't function from the pressure."

"Torpedo booster rocket's firing," Sessions shouted as a not-so-distant rumbling came over the speakers. "It's gone to supercavitating speed inside the vacuum bubble! . . . One hundred knots and accelerating!"

Jeffrey eyed the sonar console. "Can we outdistance the weapon's final sprint?"

"Negative, sir," Sessions said. "We'll be in lethal radius when the warhead blows at endof-run."

"And we can't hit something that small with an AD-CAP," Jeffrey said. "Captain, recommend we fight fire with fire."

"Concur," Wilson said. "Load tube eight with another Mark 88. Set it for low, repeat low, yield, dot zero one KT, a snap shot on the incoming torpedo's bearing." Ilse watched as Jeffrey watched his console screens. Again lights blinked as he replayed his special weapons litany. "Security alarm!"

"Handling authorized," Wilson snapped.

"Armed guard is in position," Jeffrey said, talking faster and faster. "Electronic locks are bypassed, mechanical locks are broken. Weapon loaded in tube eight. A-wire is connected, special weapons enabler tool connected."

"I've relayed the PAL code," Wilson said.

"Green light!" Jeffrey said. "Breach door closed! Recommend a preset running depth three thousand feet."

"Concur," Wilson said. "We'll command-detonate through the fiber-optic cable."

"Sir," Jeffrey said, "we'd better launch bows-on. We can't afford to lose the wire."

"Concur," Wilson said. "Cut the wire, tube seven. Close muzzle doors and drain the tubes, tubes one through seven. Shore up the inner door tube eight." Jeffrey confirmed and then relayed the instructions, his voice clinical and clear. "Sonar, we need your absolute best estimate of that torpedo's range and speed. This is going to be close."

"I'm passing them to Combat Systems now, sir," Sessions said, "but that thing's hard to model. It's still accelerating, now two hundred knots!"

Wilson grabbed the 7MC. "Maneuvering, Conn. Stand by for severe control surface movements. Lock down the hydraulic ram relief valves." Wilson paused for the acknowledgment. "Expect a sudden back flank engine order. When it comes, give me everything you've got, but for God's sake don't trigger a reactor scram." He paused again. "Yeah, that's good, take it to a hundred eight percent." Wilson hung up the mike. "Helm, hard right rudder, make your course zero two zero. Make your depth three thousand feet smartly."

Challenger pitched up and banked into the turn, trading velocity for altitude. Ilse was pressed into her seat. Her console showed their speed was dropping fast, as their heading swung through 180 degrees. The visceral rumbling from aft got louder. The rumbling over the speakers got louder too, as did the awful dings. A relentless robot'

s coming for us, Ilse told herself. Those men we killed are reaching from beyond the grave.

"How many?" she said out loud.

"What?" Sessions said.

"How many did we kill?"

"Two dozen on each boat."

"XO," Wilson said, "when should we fire?"

"The sooner the better, Captain," Jeffrey said. "The Mark 88s are rated to our test depth."

"We can't risk a failure," Wilson said.

"Six thousand feet, then, sir?"

"Four thousand," Wilson said. "Let's make really sure." Wilson glanced at a depth gauge.

"Chief of the Watch, pump negative. Pump variable ballast to bring the boat up faster." Ilse felt a repetitive labored clunking from below. Their rate of climb increased but only slightly.

"Sir," Jeffrey said, "recommend retract the foreplanes—they might snap off or jam from shock."

"Helm," Wilson said, "retract the foreplanes."

"Recommend we level off at three thousand feet before our weapon detonates," Jeffrey said. "It's best to take the blast bows-on, show a minimum profile, protect our side arrays and pump-jet."

"Concur," Wilson said.

"Three thousand's the depth of minimum danger this close in," Jeffrey said, "the tight part of the hourglass. Higher up the blast cone spreads as it lifts the surface; deeper down the counterpressure widens as it hammers toward the bottom."

"Concur," Wilson said.

"Depth six thousand feet," Meltzer said. Ilse looked at a pressure gauge: a metric ton for each square inch of hull.

"Range to the incoming torpedo?" Jeffrey said.

"Five thousand yards," Sessions said. "Too close," Ilse heard him mumble.

"If it's got a proximity fuze," Jeffrey said, "it's set real tight."

"Back full," Wilson said.

"Back full, aye," Meltzer said. "Maneuvering acknowledges back full."

"Watch the trim as we slow down!" Wilson said. "The blast catches us from off the level, we'll be knocked out of control."

"Adjusting the trim, aye," COB said. Ilse heard pumps gently whirring.

"Back flank," Wilson said.

"Back flank, aye," Meltzer said. "Maneuvering acknowledges back flank." Ilse watched their speed mount up again as they fled in reverse from the enemy torpedo. Meltzer was sweating in concentration, his fingers bloodless white as he worked the control wheel.

"Make tube eight ready in all respects," Wilson said, "including valve lineup for a punchout with a water slug. Tube eight, firing point procedures on the incoming torpedo."

"Solution ready," Jeffrey said. "Ship ready. Weapon ready."

"Chief of the Watch," Wilson said. "On the 1 MC, rig for depth charge."

"Rig for depth charge, aye."

Ilse saw Jeffrey glance at Commodore Morse. The

Brit winked back and gripped a handle on the overhead. "Depth four four zero zero feet," Meltzer said.

"Very well," Wilson said, "match sonar bearings and

shoot."

"Unit from tube eight fired electrically!" Jeffrey said. Sessions tried to clear his throat. " Unit is running normally, sir."

Jeffrey looked up from his console and again met Ilse's eyes. "Thirty seconds to intercept! Incoming torpedo should exhaust its fuel and blow any moment!" Jeffrey turned to Captain Wilson. "Unit from tube eight has,,

With a deafening wham, pile drivers slammed the bottom of Jeffrey's feet and spine. His entire skeleton rattled. Challenger—still moving in reverse—lurched sternward violently. Jeffrey was thrown against his seat belt, his skull bouncing off the headrest. Commodore Morse went flying.

Red shadows shifted wildly as the CACC's spring-loaded fluorescents jiggled crazily in their mounts. But the lights and shockproof monitors didn't flicker once. Then Jeffrey's ears registered a painfully loud sssss and the air began to fog. He ran his tongue along his lips and blinked. Good, it wasn't the blinding salt spray of ambientpressure seawater. Instead a compressed air leak, cold as it expanded through some failed pipe joint or valve, was condensing the moisture in the CACC atmosphere. The force of the leak blew dust and papers everywhere. Jeffrey saw COB work his panel, bypassing the fault.

"Nav gyros have tumbled," the assistant navigator called. "Reinitializing now" Another shock wave hit as the giant gas bubble of the fireball fell in upon itself and then rebounded hard,

trading kinetic and potential energy back and forth. Jeffrey eyed a depth meter. The boat was falling slowly, rocking badly in the disturbed water all around.

"Chief of the Watch and Helmsman," Wilson said, "watch our buoyancy but do not let her broach. If we can play dead now convincingly, it'll make our next job easier." Wilson grabbed the red handset for Damage Control, located back in Engineering.

"Fire, fire, fire in the ESM room," a sound-powered phone talker said. Probably a short in one of the electronic support measures consoles, Jeffrey told himself, or maybe one of the multiband receivers kept warmed up on standby. That might impair Challenger's intelligence-gathering ability later, and her detection of enemy radar. As fire fighters hustled along the after passageway, someone opened the ESM door from inside. "It's out, it's nothing," the technician said, holding up a CO, extinguisher. Thin smoke drifted out of the small compartment and was sucked into the overhead vents. Jeffrey, now standing, was doubly relieved: the air-conditioning meant the boat couldn't be in such bad shape. The Enj wouldn't run the fans on batteries, he wouldn't waste the power. So the reactor and heat exchangers had to be okay, along with at least one shipservice turbogenerator. The speed log on Jeffrey's digital display told him both steam sides survived and Challenger's propulsor jet still worked.

Then Sessions shouted, "Flooding sounds! We're taking water somewhere!"

"Localize it," Jeffrey ordered.

"I'm getting flooding forward!"

"Phone Talker," Jeffrey said, "have all compartments near the bow check in."

"Sir," the phone talker said a moment later, "torpedo room does not respond."

"No feeds from the torpedo room," Jeffrey stated, studying his screens.

"We're taking water forward," COB confirmed.

A messenger arrived. "Sir," he said to Jeffrey, "Weps reports torpedo room is taking water. We looked through the hatch port. It's impossible in there." COB stopped juggling the variable ballast and safety tanks, reaching instead for the fore and aft emergency blow handles. He flipped up the protective plastic covers and looked meaningfully at the captain.

Wilson nodded. "Chief of the Watch, emergency blow on high-pressure air, do not use the backup chemical gas generators." There was a great roaring sound. "Start to vent again at four hundred feet. I don't want us surfacing a leaky boat right under a pair of mushroom clouds."

"Vent at four hundred, aye," COB said.

"How bad's the flooding?" Jeffrey said. The enlisted talker relayed the question on his big chest-carried mouthpiece, then listened on his headphones as the damage control party reported back.

"Bad, sir. Water's gaining on the bilge pumps fast, rising over a foot a minute. The spray's still taking paint right off the bulkheads."

"XO," Wilson said, listening on the damage control handset, "that's our biggest problem now. You head down there and take charge, get Weps in here as Fire Control." Wilson picked up the 7MC with his left hand. "Maneuvering, maintain back flank. We need speed for depth control and the pump-jet's got lousy pickup in reverse." Wilson turned to Meltzer. "Helm, how are the waterfoils?"

"Sir, foreplanes will not deploy. All after control surfaces are nominal, but functioning is awkward going backwards."

"Make your depth one hundred feet and try to hold her steady there. That'll reduce the outside pressure and give us some protection from the fallout." As the boat came up, she began to roll and pitch. "Captain," Meltzer said, "we're too unstable!"

Wilson held the mike open as he continued, "Right standard rudder."

"Right standard rudder, aye, sir. No course specified."

"As our bow swings left to two seven zero," Wilson said, "steady her there and stop the shaft. Then go ahead to one third smartly. I want us clearing datum upwind, just in case. The lower speed'll relieve some of the force of the water on the bow. Use down-angle on the sternplane function if we get too heavy forward."

"Understood, sir," Meltzer said.

"X0, tell me if you can't stop the flooding. Besides the radiation problem, I'd hate to surface and make a datum for some overflying satellite."

"I concur, sir," Jeffrey said. He started for the ladder aft of the CACC, the one leading down to the weapons spaces.

On the way he grabbed a portable radiac—radiation, detection, indication, and computation. This one measured alpha particles, the heaviest and slowest-movingthus least penetrating—fallout emission by-product. But alpha sources were the most carcinogenic if inhaled, lodged in the alveoli of the lungs. At another locker Jeffrey donned a self-contained Scott air pack. He sealed the mask very tightly, drawing in the metallic-tasting oxygen from the heavy tank. He put on thick work gloves. When he reached the torpedo room lower level, the damage control parties were inside. Jeffrey quickly sized up the situation.

Challenger's eight torpedo tubes, her war-fighting business end, were grouped vertically in sets of four, starboard and port of her centerline. The tubes were located abaft the bow, canted outward nine degrees to clear her sonar sphere—gantries between the four tall weapons racks created an upper mezzanine. Tube eight

was on the lower left of the port-side, even-numbered group. Water gushed from around its inner door, blasting harder than a fire hose.

By the time Jeffrey climbed through the hatch and dogged it shut behind, the boat was trimming noticeably by the bow from all the weight of added water. The lowest pair of three-foot-wide gleaming titanium inner doors was half submerged. The next pair up, tubes five

and six, wore small signs, WARNING WARSHOT LOADED.

The water was tinged with red and flecked with bits of plastic and raw flesh. Shoved out of the way behind one weapons rack were the remains of the torpedomen who manned the room at general quarters. The force of the incoming spray at depth had battered them beyond recognition. Electronics cabinets near the tube-eight door were smashed as if hit by cannon fire. The fore-ends of the weapons in direct line to the door had all been shredded, their blue protective covers and fiberglass nose caps gone and their guidance packages in tatters. The conventional Mark 48 highest on the inner port-side rack teetered menacingly, its support clamps knocked asunder by seawater jetting in at a thousand psi. Jeffrey wondered what state its arming circuitry was in. He sloshed forward through the thigh-deep freezing water, his head just clearing the gantry overhead, his shoulders brushing the weapons racks on either side. He wriggled past the damage control party, then bent over and took a good look at tube eight, which projected from the forward bulkhead through a mass of pipes and fittings. Thick wooden beams pressed against the damaged door, placed there before the concussion by the nowdead crewmen. The sea spewed out all around the edges of the interrupted-screw breach, ricocheting off the bulkheads and hydraulic loading gear.