“Probably talking about us,” said Chris.
“Torbin, what kind of radar is that Taiwanese vessel using?” she asked.
“Negative on that. Don’t have transmissions. Sukhois have standard Slot Back radar. They’re not close to picking us up. You want data on the carrier and the escorts?”
“They tracking us?”
“Negative. I’d compare the carrier’s radar capabilities to the AN/SPG-60 the Navy uses. Not particularly a problem for us; they can’t see their own planes beyond fifty miles. No airborne radar capacity.”
“You sound a little disappointed.”
“You always like to go against the best.”
“Don’t get too cocky.”
“Yes, ma’am; thank you, ma’am.”
Torbin was a big blond Norseman, a rogue throwback to the days of the Vikings they’d shanghaied from a terminal Wild Weasel posting in Turkey. He fit right into the Dreamland crew.
All they’d give the poor woman was a folded flag and some well-meaning salutes.
Zen nudged the joystick ever so slightly to the right, trying to keep the closest white blur in the center of his screen. Like the Flighthawks, Piranha had a set of preprogrammed routines, one of which allowed it to simply trail its designated target. Still, he preferred to manually steer the probe—otherwise, he really had no function.
They were about twenty miles from the end of their effective communication range; they’d have to drop another buoy soon.
The submarines were changing course, making a slight arc that took them due east. They were well behind the carrier group—Zen started to slow, remembering Delaford’s warning they would probably spin around to look for him, but they didn’t. They had their throttles open, plunging ahead at thirty-eight knots. Much faster and he’d have trouble keeping up.
Zen hit the toggle, changing the synthesized view from sonar to temp. the nearest submarine looked like an orange funnel in a greenish-brown mist; the other was such a faint blur, he wasn’t sure he would have seen it without the computer legend. The computer used all of its sensors to keep track of the targets, and could synthesize a plot from any angle. Jeff briefly toggled into front and top views. I was important—but difficult—to remember the views were based only on sensor information; he wasn’t looking at reality, but a very simplified slice of it. Anything outside of the sensor’s sensitivity was missing from the scene. That meant, for instance, when he looked at the thermal image, anything precisely the temperature of the water wouldn’t show up.
He went back to the passive sonar feed, the easiest to use when controlling the probe. The lower portion of the screen looked foamy and white, a by-product of the sound reflections the device picked up. As Jennifer had explained, it was a kind of refracted energy, similar to glare bouncing off sand. The computer could only filter so much of it out, but a good operator could compensate for the blind spot by changing the position of the nose every so often. In effect, pushing the spotlight into the darkness. Zen nudged the nose down slightly, peering into the basement, then tucked back to keep his target in sight.
They were turning again, this time south. Zen made another course correction, then studied his sitrep map on the far-right screen. He guessed the subs were making an end run around the back of the carrier task force.
Zen glanced over at Jennifer. She seemed more herself, her nose almost touching one of the computer screens. The only signs she was still upset were that she wasn’t talking to herself or sipping her diet soda.
“Hey, Jen, we’re going to have to drop a buoy soon.” He said.
“Yeah,” she said. “I just want to make sure they’re going to hold roughly this course. I’ll work it out with Captain Stockard.”
“You have to watch the carriers.”
“I know.”
“I know you know.”
“There’s a comeback for that, but I don’t remember what it is.”
Zen turned his attention back to the screen. He realized he’d slipped a big off-line, and started to correct a little too quickly. The probe went too far right, then wallowed a bit as he overcorrected. He backed off, easing his grip.
A warning tone buzzed in his ear. He started to frown, thinking the computer was scolding him, then he realized it was showing a new contact.
“Jennifer—I have a new contact. No range markings,” he said. He flipped back into the thermal mode—there were only two funnels. He went back—the third shadow was off to the left; it didn’t seem to be moving.
Jennifer punched buttons at her station. “Roughly thirty-eight miles away, but the probe isn’t sure. Very quiet, angled away—could be a submarine using only its battery. I’m guessing it’s the Indian sub.”
“Not one of ours?”
“Hang on.”
He could hear her pounding her keys.
“Doesn’t appear to match. We can check with PacCOm, though, see if the position would match. I think it’s the Indian. It’s got to be. Can you hold your position while I talk to the Piranha people and see if I can get more data?”
“The Chinese subs are trucking,” he told her.
“Well, hang back a little while I get Commander Delaford. They’re not using active sonar?”
“They haven’t since we came on.”
The probe’s nose began to oscillate; he’d moved it too fast. Zen gently applied pressure to get it into a wide circle, where it stabilized.