“Bow sonar has possible contact, range 7000 meters, bearing 000 relative.”
He snapped fully awake.
“Speed?”
The man looked anguished. The data were too sketchy. He needed a longer hit, or a second and third hit in quick succession to get a vector and speed.
Seven thousand meters was too far ahead, and too far for the bow sonar to make contact. Unless he was going very fast. It had to be a false contact — a seamount, or a boat. Or another submarine. He struggled with the possibilities as his own boat continued to creep down the channel.
“All engines stop. Planesman, bow above the layer.”
The Admiral Po seemed to hold its breath.
“Possible contact, range 7000 meters, bearing 000 relative.”
The image returned on the command screen.
“Vector 000. Speed twelve knots.”
The American was racing away. He would be clear of the channel in moments; indeed, given the vagaries of passive sonar, he might be free now, and increasing speed.
“Make revolutions for four knots. Retrieve the tail.” It was useless in the channel, anyway. The American was surely too far away to hear its telltale 44dB line as the bad bearing in the towed array winch screamed.
Were they detected? He didn’t think so, couldn’t think so. This had the smell of a standard operating procedure, a routine to lose hypothetical pursuit. If so, it was crushingly effective.
“Towed array housed, sir.”
“Very well. Make revolutions for six knots.”
At six knots, the Admiral Po was one of the loudest leviathans in the deep. Her second-generation reactor could not be made really quiet by the addition (and in some cases, the slipshod addition) of the best Russian quieting materials from the third generation — isolation mounts, for instance. The captain hated to go above four knots in an operational patrol. He felt naked.
They roared along the channel, a painful compromise, too loud to avoid detection, too slow to catch the American if he was determined to go fast.
“How did we miss him going so fast? I make no accusation, understand. I need to know.”
“Captain, he is not much noisier at twelve knots than at six. Even the cavitation noise is, well, muffled. He is very quiet.”
No submarine should be so quiet at twelve knots.
In Severomorsk, they had told him about the “steel Sierra,” the Russian submarine that would do these things. That had been twelve years ago, before the Soviet Union rolled over and sank. Clearly the American boats could do the same. His antiquated attack boat had just fallen even farther behind, because the ability to run fast without cavitation, the designer’s dream since the 1960s, placed the new American boomer in the fourth generation.
He timed out the channel’s length on his own watch. The second he was sure he had depth under his keel, his voice rang out.
“Make our depth 300. Turn to port heading 270. Make our speed two knots.”
Turning gradually broadside to the expected vector of the target, exposing the length of the towed array to get the maximum signal, diving to avoid an unexpected ambush.
Time gurgled by down the hull.
“All stop.”
Nothing.
“Sonar?”
“No contact.”
The captain was a thorough professional and he didn’t quit. He searched in ever-increasing spirals for twelve hours, sprinting and drifting, risking detection and flirting with disaster if the American sub was lurking in the deep water just north of the channel. But he took such risks only because he already knew the answer: His opponent had raced down the channel and into the deep water and had vanished to the north.
Sleepless, grimy, sweat-stained, he rose from his command chair and addressed the bridge crew.
“This is not a total loss, comrades. We have unprecedented sonograms on the American; we know that he was headed north. We know more about their patrol routes and procedures than any boat in Chinese history. And they have no idea that we’re here.”
“Do we go north, then, Captain?” asked his first officer.
“No. No, we return to our patrol area, study our sonograms, and wait.”
Until Jewel gives us the next one, he thought. But Jewel was too precious, and he couldn’t say that to the crew.
The submarine set a course for the waters off Seattle.
The gleaming new S-3 sagged a little, turning on final for the carrier; his break had been weak, and he knew that no self-respecting LSO would give him an okay on any part of this trap so far. Now he was in the groove but chasing his lineup like a nugget, all of his motor coordination sluggish and unresponsive, like a bad hydraulics system in an old airplane. His brain knew where his hands should go, but his injured hand lagged and the signals seemed to move too slowly, too jerkily, and the plane, like a horse that knows that the hand at the reins is weak, seemed to fight him.
He eyeballed the lineup, called the ball in his head, and tried to recapture the flawless rhythm that he had once had at this game. One mile, six hundred feet, one hundred and forty knots. He knew the numbers, but the response seemed to lag and he wanted to blame the equipment, wanted to suddenly press a button and have all of those reaction times and skills come flooding back, and then he jerked physically to realize that he was there, the deck was THERE….
His angle of attack was too steep, tending to sag at the very end and fighting his near-stall speed for altitude; the plane had nothing to give him; his correction was too late, and the immovable laws of physics and mathematics grabbed his plane and flung it into the back of the ship, just a few feet above the neat, white lettering that said “USS Thomas Jefferson.” A brilliant orange-and-white explosion obliterated his control screen—
— and he picked up the joystick in his good, strong right hand and smashed it through the wallboard of the living room, screaming his frustration at the top of his lungs.
“Fuck! FUUUCK! Jesus FUCKING Christ!” He was roaring with anger, sweat and failure dripping from him, and the shards of a piece of expensive computer equipment broken by his own stupid rage prodded him to a sicker, meaner level, as he thought of what he had become with one wound — two fingers shot off his left hand in Pakistan and he was half what he had been. Less than half.
There was a small irregular hole in their rented living-room wall. “Fucking stupid JERK!” he shouted. His face left no doubt whom he meant. He threw the shattered remnants of the joystick across the room, where they left a nick in the paint on the wall under the stairs. He clenched his hands, savoring the awful feeling of the missing fingers. A noise distracted him.
Crying.
His son was standing on the stairs, terrified by a side of his father he had never seen, never should have seen.
“Oh, my God, Mikey!” Alan said, his voice bruised from shouting.
Mikey stood, whimpering, looking afraid. Afraid of his father, the hero. Alan took a step toward the stairs and Mikey bolted for his room, and the front door opened, and there was Rose, beautiful and healthy in her flight suit, the poster child for women in naval aviation. She stopped as soon as the door opened; he could see in a heartbeat that she saw it all, knew it all.
He threw himself into an armchair he didn’t like, facing a television he hated. He hated the room and he hated the house. It might have been better if it had been his own house, but this was merely a place they had found in the hectic last days of the Shreed business, when Rose had been temporarily attached to the Chief of Naval Operations, and then he had got hurt. The house was too small and too mean, but it was what she could find in one day. And he hated it.