“Anything closer?” the TACO asked.
“Not that I can get over this damned music, sir,” the petty officer said bitterly.
“Conn, permission to cut the music. It’s interfering with our acoustics.”
“Done,” the CO said as the music cut off. “Anything between us and freedom?”
“We’ve got an Akula at fourteen thousand meters, Conn,” Tactical replied. “One eight seven degrees, designated Sierra One.”
“They just kicked up,” the petty officer said as one of the boards automatically updated. The Russian sub was now shown doing turns for thirty knots towards their position. “There’s another, designate Sierra Two. North of us, right at the edge of detection. I don’t really have more than that. And there’s… there’s something else out there but I can’t quite get it. It’s quiet whatever it is. Don’t even have a vector.”
“Probably that Chinese diesel-electric,” the TACO said. “They’re quiet as a thief. Is it in front of us?”
“Can’t tell,” the PO admitted.
“Conn, Tactical. Sierra One making turns for thirty knots towards our position. Sierra Two is an Akula to the north, out of position. Potential Sierra Three, probable Chinese diesel, location unknown but within ten thousand meters.”
“Roger, Tactical, good job,” the CO said.
“The Chink’s just gonna have to take his chances,” Spectre continued. “Crank her up. One hundred knots for fifteen klicks then increase to two hundred to launch point.”
“One hundred knots, aye,” the XO replied.
“Cue the music.”
“There it is again,” the Chinese sonar operator said. “They are between us and the coast. Speed increasing…”
“Turn the boat,” the CO said. “Come to course one-eight-zero, maximum speed.”
“Are you sure about this, Senior Captain?” the XO asked as soon as the boat was on course.
“I read the intelligence report,” the CO replied. “A Russian Akula was nearly destroyed getting in the way of this Ami. I will not have the same thing happen to us. There, do you hear that?”
“Music?” the XO asked.
“The song “Final Countdown” by a group called Europe,” the Chinese skipper confirmed, nodding. “That is the music he plays every time he disappears. What is the Ami’s course?”
“Thirty-seven degrees,” the sonar operator replied. “Closest point of approach should be two thousand meters at two hundred nine degrees.”
“Turn to course thirty-seven degrees,” the CO said. “Continue max speed. Periscope depth.”
“Yes, Senior Captain,” the XO said, converting the orders into individual commands.
The Chinese skipper waited as the periscope was raised, then pointed it to the east. He keyed the video recorder and waited. The star-light periscope gave a grainy green picture but it would have to be enough.
“Range to target?”
“Nineteen thousand meters and increasing,” the sonar operator said. “Speed has increased to… to over two hundred knots. Russian Akula now detectable to the southeast. Also on a heading of thirty degrees. Speed seventy knots.”
“The Ami is trying to run completely out of sight,” the CO muttered. “But is he patient enough?”
The question was answered in a welter of foam on the horizon. For a brief moment there might have been something like a breaching whale on the scope. He would have to rerun the chip. But only in the privacy of his office. His superiors had been precise on that point.
“I’ve lost the Ami,” the sonar operator said, swallowing nervously. “There was a rush of sound, like falling water, then he was gone. I’m sorry, Senior Captain.”
“It is not a problem,” the Chinese skipper said, patting the sonar operator on the back. “Slow to one third. Let us slip clear of these Akula then make rendezvous with our refueling ship. We have a long voyage home before us.”
“Modderpocker!” Sergeant Portana screamed, his legs flailing in midair. He must have grabbed one of the zero-gee straps to keep from being flung from his bunk. “Modderpocker’s crazy!”
“I told you to secure yourself and your gear, Sergeant,” Berg said over the implant circuit. He had braced himself against the bulkhead of his bunk and the memory-plastic door and was doing just fine with the takeoff.
“Gimme a pocking hand!”
“Sorry, Sergeant, I couldn’t hear you over your music!” Berg said. “What was that? You want applause?”
The ship suddenly banked the other way, throwing the armorer back into his bunk and, from the sound of it, connecting his head with the bulkhead.
“Ow! Modderpocking flypoy CO!”
Berg opened his compartment long enough to hit the external controls on Portana’s bunk, closing the memory plastic door just in time for the armorer to bounce off of it instead of pitching back out into the compartment. Then the ship started pulling about a four G dive, resulting in a thump as the armorer hit the top of his PEU. While the bottom was padded, the top was not only solid, it had various protuberances for controls, video screens…
Berg leaned back and grinned at the sounds of the new armorer being bounced around in his bunk like a tin can. Revenge was sweet.
6
“Low Earth orbit established,” the pilot said, sighing.
The snaking course upwards was at least partially a necessity. There were thousands of radars across the Earth that could detect the Blade, from warships to airports. The basic course was right down the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, but it was necessary to do various detours around radar emitters, including American ones. Even admirals commanding carrier battle groups weren’t supposed to know about the Blade. Their radar operators sure as heck weren’t supposed to.
But by parking, momentarily, over Antarctica, the Blade could stop to make sure that it wasn’t leaking air. Given that they were planning on being in space for thirty days, straight, they were going to need all the consumables they could carry.
“Overpressure holding in all three compartments,” the XO said after ten minutes. “Loss is… nominal.”
“Nominal may not cut it this time,” the CO said. “I hope you and Commander Weaver worked out a superior method of air recharge this time. I don’t want to be talking like Donald Duck.”
The last time the Blade ran low on air the answer had been to drop into the atmosphere of a Jovian planet and separate oxygen from its atmosphere. Jovians had been found in virtually every system they visited so it was a natural stop. However, various problems had intended upon it, not least of which was that the ship flooded with helium and hydrogen. There was still plenty of oxygen to breathe but the extra gasses caused everyone to speak in a squeak.
“Part of the upgrade was installing a heat bypass system to melt ice, sir,” Bill pointed out. “We can stop and gather water, then separate the O2 from that. The engineers also improved on the blaged-up system for extraction from a gas giant. So we can do that if we have to, sir. Without either the evacuation that we experienced or nearly as much penetration by low-density molecules.”
“So I won’t be sounding like Donald Duck?” the CO asked suspiciously.
“You will not be sounding like Donald Duck, sir,” Bill replied, trying not to grin.
“We have an SOP on both, sir,” the XO added. “The big question is capturing the comet.”