Suddenly the compartment filled with the worst caterwauling he’d ever heard in his life. It sounded like someone was torturing a Hispanic cat. And it was coming from the bunk overhead.
“Hey, Sergeant Portana!” Berg said, sticking his head out of the bunk. “There are earbuds for music!”
“Wha’?”
“EARBUDS!” Berg shouted over the music. He figured it must be something Filipino but he didn’t really care as long as the sergeant turned it down.
“Don’ like ’em!” Portana shouted back. “Better to listen to it this way!”
“What the hell is that racket?” Gunny Robert Mitchell shouted from the hatch of the berthing compartment.
“Portana!” someone shouted. It was impossible to tell who in the crowd of Marines had answered.
“Sergeant Portana! Use your earbuds or turn it down and close your berth!” the gunny shouted. “Why the fuck is this compartment such a rat-house? Get in your bunks, Marines, and get situated. We’re pulling out.”
“Gunny,” Corwin yelled from down the compartment. “A moment of your time?”
The gunnery sergeant made his way down the compartment to Corwin’s bunk and leaned over for a quiet word with the corporal.
“You sure?” Berg heard him say.
“Ask Two-Gun,” Corwin said clearly through a lull in the noise.
“Sergeant Bergstresser?” the gunny said. “Do you have anything to input on the subject of the CO’s take-off procedures?”
“Just that I’d rather be strapped to the underbelly of an F-16 during air combat maneuvers, Gunny,” Berg answered, latching down his valuables drawer. “The CO seems to think it’s a good idea to find out if anything isn’t secured on launch. By plowing it through the bulkheads.”
“Damn,” the gunny said. “You heard Two-Gun. Get your shit secured, Marines. I gotta head back to quarters…”
As soon as the hatch closed the music overhead cranked back up. Berg let out a sigh and slid in his earbuds. If he turned the music up high enough it drowned out the noise overhead…
“Clearing two hundred fathom line,” the pilot said.
“Board?” the CO asked.
“Board is straight,” the chief of boat replied. It was one of the responsibilities of the senior NCO of the sub to ensure all the markers showed hatches closed.
“Dive the boat,” the CO responded. “Make your depth one hundred meters.”
“One hundred meters, aye,” the XO replied. “Twenty percent blow, ten degrees down on planes. Dive the boat.”
“All Hands!” the chief of the boat said over the 1-MC. “Dive, Dive, Dive.”
“Tactical,” the CO said over the comm to Tactical. “What’s the read on our trailers?”
“Full spread,” Tactical replied. “SOSUS and the attack boats out front have a count of six Akulas. And one diesel boat, tentatively identified as Chinese of all things. They don’t come into the Pond on a regular basis. Long cruise in a diesel boat.”
“We’re getting most popular,” the CO muttered. “Astro, course?”
“One Two Seven, sir,” Weaver replied. “The last report had a gap in the Akula line about there. I’d suggest we go through relatively slowly. There are going to be enough boats out there, we’re risking a collision if we do our usual approach.”
“They can hear us coming,” the CO said. “But we’ll keep the speed down until we’re past the Akula line. Tactical, where they at?”
“A north-south line right on the outside of the Economic Exclusion Zone, Conn.”
“We’ll crank it up to seventy knots as soon as we get to depth. Then slow down and get a read as we approach. As soon as we’re past, we’ll go to full speed.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” the XO said. “Approaching one hundred meters. Level out.”
“And switch drives,” the CO said. “As soon as we’re down. I’m tired of playing sardines and whales with these guys.”
“Sergeant Bergstresser?” Himes asked over the comm as the sub started to shake. “What’s happening?”
The call came in clearly by being boosted over the sound of the music. Which meant it just about blew out Berg’s eardrums.
“Ow!” Berg said, turning down the music. “The CO’s engaged the space drive. We’re probably doing a speed run past the Akulas that keep trying to get a look at us.”
“Isn’t that sort of dangerous?” Himes asked nervously.
“Yes,” Berg replied as music started to boom through the submarine. “So the CO gives them fair warning to get out of the way!”
“Jesus, I thought it would be quiet on a submarine!” Smith shouted. “What the grapp?”
Berg keyed the comm to go to everyone in the berthing compartment, automatically shutting down various games and music.
“This is Sergeant Bergstresser,” he said tiredly. “Listen up. The CO has engaged the space drive. Which means we’re speeding up. The sub is going to shake like a mothergrapper. It’s going to sound like it’s coming apart. It would come apart if it wasn’t for that big spike sticking out the front. That creates what’s called a supercavitation bubble around the ship. That keeps us from crushing like a tin can. We’re going to probably do a speed run to outrun the Akulas, but since we’re underwater we can’t see them. And going this fast we can’t hear them on sonar. So the CO plays music to warn them to get the grapp out of the way. The problem only comes when we leave the water. When you feel us start going up, hold the grapp on. Close your bunks, put your straps on and grab your barf bags. You’re going to need them. That is all.”
“You shut down my music,” Sergeant Portana said over the comm as soon as he’d hung up.
“It was an all-compartment,” Berg replied.
“Don’ shut down my music again,” Portana replied. “You don’ ever turn off my music.”
“Got you,” Berg said. “Anything else?”
There wasn’t any reply.
“God, I miss having Lurch as our armorer,” he said as the music overhead cranked back up.
“Nearing the reported Akula line,” Tactical said.
“Roger,” the CO replied. “Slow to ten knots.”
“Ten knots, aye,” the XO replied. “Slow to ten knots.”
“Tactical,” the CO asked as soon as the flow noise reduced. “Got anything?”
“Still waiting for the readings, sir,” the tactical officer replied, looking over the shoulder of the petty officer manning the sonar console. The TACO was a submariner but he’d been put through an advanced course in aerial combat direction. There still wasn’t a class on space combat but the way the Blade was set up, it was remarkably close to a combination. The tactics room of the Blade looked more like the CIC of an Aegis, with multiple screens capable of showing a variety of targets. At the moment, there wasn’t anything on any of them.
“Bingo,” the sonar operator whispered, pointing to the display. “Akula engine signatures. Designate Sierra One. Fourteen thousand meters. Making turns for… about eight knots. Turning towards us, I think. It’s got us for sure.”
The Blade was a converted Ohio, which meant that no submarine in the world should have been able to detect her at fourteen thousand meters, nearly seven miles. However, various compromises had been necessary to convert her into a spaceship. Among other things, she had been stripped of her covering of anacoustic tile. That, right there, meant she radiated sound like a rock concert. Not to mention the fact that the CO had a rock band cranked up to maximum volume.