Knowing his executive officer — although unimpressive to look at — was a coffee-fueled real-world version of a “mentat” from Frank Herbert’s Dune novels, he contemplated aloud.
“The closest point of approach is fourteen miles,” he said.
He let the comment sit in the air but could feel Jones’ synapses firing. Confident that his executive officer would speak when ready — and then be hard to shut up — Rodriguez offered another tidbit to bring Jones in line with his chain of reasoning.
“The fastest production torpedo in the world runs at what? Sixty-five, seventy knots?” he asked. “Tops?”
Still nothing but neuro-electric energy from Jones.
“Thirteen minutes time to target, if you have a torpedo with superhuman fuel reserves,” Rodriguez said.
Fearing he would be caught in an eternal monologue, Rodriguez welcomed Jones’ intrusion into his personal space. The rotund executive officer’s stomach bounced off Rodriguez as he turned into him.
“Oh sorry, captain,” Jones said and backed up a pace.
“No problem,” Rodriguez said.
“I’d like to propose some theories about this Agosta,” Jones said. “The Hamza can only be doing one of three things. It’s gathering intelligence, rehearsing a submerged approach, or preparing to attack the Stennis for real. Don’t you agree?”
“Can’t think of any other reason they’d be here.”
“But here, just outside of Pearl Harbor, the only intel the Hamza could be gathering is about our fleet, but for what value? I doubt the Hamza’s here to gather data.”
“Talk to me about rehearsing, then,” Rodriguez said.
“Pakistan faces a constant threat of carrier attack from India. This could be a bold exercise to get the top Pakistani submarine ready to thwart its greatest seaborne threat.”
“But it’s not realistic,” Rodriguez said. “Any carrier in a hostile theater would have aircraft swarming around it looking for subs. The Stennis isn’t on the defensive now.”
“It’s realistic enough as you can get though, because the Hamza’s deep. That makes it hard for helicopters to find it through the acoustic layers.”
“Also makes it harder to attack the carrier without visual input,” Rodriguez said.
“Exactly, sir. That’s what the Hamza could be practicing here — a deep attack without its periscope so that it’s not exposed to Indian aircraft. That’s why the training scenario could be what they’re doing. Lord knows we spent decades doing it in our submarine history.”
Rodriguez agreed but let his mind progress towards the unfathomable.
“And if this is a real attack?”
“Back to your comment about closest point of approach, sir,” Jones said. “Unless the Hamza repositions, it’s a tough shot. If they shoot before the CPA, the carrier’s out of range. If they shoot after, the carrier heads into the channel and drives out of range. If they want to hit it at CPA, then the torpedo has to run at slow speed to conserve fuel. If this were a real attack, I question why they don’t move in closer.”
“You assume standard twenty-one-inch torpedo tubes.”
“True. But even if they were modified with sixty-five-centimeter tubes and are carrying those monster Russian anti-ship torpedoes, we’d still have thirteen minutes to take them out, surface, and warn the Stennis. American nuclear carriers are among the fastest ships on the planet. It would have plenty of time to evade.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” Rodriguez said. “But the Hamza doesn’t know we’re sitting right behind it, and an attack may be plausible.”
“Plausible, sir, but unlikely.”
“But you’ve got the preparations in place?”
“Yes, sir. Weapons are ready to engage the Hamza.”
“Good,” Rodriguez said.
“And we’ve got two communication buoys with redundant messages stating the Hamza’s position and that it’s launched a weapon. The message will be broadcast on multiple frequencies, and the Stennis would get the message if the Hamza fires and we launch the buoys.”
Although dubious, the Hamza’s presence did not justify a preemptive attack. Rodriguez’ orders were clear. He couldn’t attack a neutral country’s vessel in international waters. But they were also clear that he couldn’t let the Hamza toy with the United States.
“Well, executive officer,” he said. “At this point it doesn’t matter what he’s doing. It’s time to end this game.”
“You mean to drive him off now, sir?” Jones asked.
“Yup. Let’s light him up and see if we can deafen its sonar operators and send them back to—”
Chief Bartlett’s portly body stiffened.
“Sir, active transmission bearing zero-four-three,” he said. “It doesn’t correlate to any known active sonar or torpedo system.”
Jones passed in front of Rodriguez with a nimbleness impossible for his size. He bumped into the chief as he joined him at his fire control consoles.
“Closest correlation?” Rodriguez asked.
“I’m getting a list now. The closest three frequencies are the old Australian Collins class submarine sonar, the Russian Sovremennyy class destroyer sonar, and the Taiwanese unmanned vehicle search sonars. They use those in their harbor protection schemes.”
“Holy shit,” Rodriguez said. “Do you think the Hai Lang is here, using an unmanned vehicle?”
Jones appeared almost giddy and uncaring of danger. Rodriguez thought his executive officer would be miserable anywhere but on a submarine.
“It’s possible, sir,” Jones said. “Given the options, that’s what it must be.”
Rodriguez frowned and raised his voice.
“Possible counter-detection by the Hai Lang and the Hamza. All stations analyze.”
“By the Hamza too sir?” Jones asked.
“If that active ping had enough power, it might have bounced off our hull and back to the Hamza. If they were paying attention, they just got a sniff of us.”
As the control room fell silent — each sailor analyzing the situation — Jones stooped over a console with Chief Bartlett. After a moment, he stood.
“Given they weren’t alert and their sonar system isn’t optimized for the active frequency, there’s much less than a fifty-percent chance the Hamza heard us.”
Rodriguez found the information comforting.
“And the unmanned vehicle? The Hai Lang?”
“Greater than fifty-percent chance,” Jones said. “Even with our anechoic hull coating, I think the Hai Lang got a strong enough return to know where we are.”
Chief Bartlett interjected an idea.
“Our active intercept receivers were able to pinpoint a bearing and range to the unmanned vehicle,” he said. “Should we dedicate a torpedo to it?”
“What?” Rodriguez asked. “Waste a torpedo on an unmanned vehicle?”
“In case we’re wrong, and it’s another submarine.”
“Fine,” Rodriguez said. “Go ahead, but keep tubes one and two ready on the Hamza.”
The somber faces in the control room reminded Rodriguez of a soccer team that had just gone down two goals to zero. The room seemed to deflate, and he needed to find a spark of energy.
He did his best acting job.