“Logical.”
“Pardon my ignorance, but what’s the big deal about a drone anyway?”
Cahill realized that despite Walker’s fast learning, his undersea warfare lessons would continue over many missions.
“These drones are like remote-operating vehicles with sonar suites. Jake’s used them many times to his advantage, but they’re ineffective beyond slow speeds, unless you use them actively, which Jake can’t while he’s trying to be undetected.”
“So now the tide is turned while he has to try to maneuver through submarines that are prepositioned against him.”
“Right. Four Greek submarines have deployed two drones each, which almost triples the area of their acoustic coverage.”
“Almost?” Walker asked. “Geometrically, it looks like a complete tripling.”
“True, but drones don’t have anywhere near as many hydrophones as their host submarines. Even when drifting in the water as part of an ambush, their coverage is good but not great.”
Cahill watched Walker move his finger over the submerged icons, trying to fathom the makeup of the barrier between their ship and their cavalry, the Specter. He then rapped his knuckle against their colleague’s submarine.
“If they’re spread equally, and Jake’s located here, why doesn’t he just shoot one torpedo down the bearing of the four submerged targets in the middle of each group of three?”
“A good question, but you assume the one in the middle is the submarine. A careful commander might deploy two to the right and zero to the left, or vice versa. The range on these drones is respectable, and the Greeks have had plenty of time to prepare for Jake.”
“I see.”
“Or picture two submarines committed as listeners that have deployed four drones each from the center of the screen. Since they need their guidance wires to use the drones, those tubes are occupied and can’t be used to launch torpedoes. But there would then be other submarines waiting. And remember that the entire submerged defensive geometry is still a guess until the dolphins get closer to the Greeks. There are submarines even they can’t detect yet.”
Walker straightened his back.
“We need to develop a plan and carry it out,” he said. “If we’re going to die, let’s die using our wits and courage and every bloody asset we have on this ship.”
“Easy, Liam. We don’t have to die today.”
Cahill half-believed his sentiment as it echoed in his head.
“Then what’s your plan?”
“Let’s remove the most immediate threat,” Cahill said. “Since the helicopter pilots have figured out they’ll die if they hunt for us, they’re no longer the biggest problem. It’s the frigates. We’ll start in the west and see if we can cripple the first.”
“You’re not worried about the submarines then?”
“I’m always worried about submarines. That’s why we’ll be moving between surfaced and submerged operations the entire time.”
He considered the chaos of combat and realized he’d need speed to maneuver — and possibly dodge — incoming weapons.
“And the next thing we need to do is see what sort of speed we can maintain submerged.”
“Would you like to make our best submerged speed towards the westerly frigate?”
“Yes. And when we surface, we’ll see what sort of speed we can sustain surfaced. We’ll figure out our limits with the damaged port bow and work within them.”
Walker tapped the screen and invoked lines.
“I’ve assumed a best sustained submerged speed of nine knots and recommend course two-two-six to reach firing range of the westerly frigate.”
“How much variance is in that solution if you account for the frigate’s anti-submarine zigzag legs?”
“A lot. We’ll have to wing it as we get close.”
“So be it,” Cahill said. “Come right to course two-two-six.”
Walker tapped the command, and a display showed the indiscernible shift in the Goliath’s heading. As Cahill pondered how to give speed commands to compensate for his damaged port bow, Walker offered a possible solution.
“I suggest you try turns for eleven knots on the port engine to compensate for the increased bow friction. Turns for nine on the starboard engine should be sufficient.”
“Agreed. This may tax our present MESMA lineup, though. I want all plants on line.”
“MESMA plant two is on standby.”
“Bring up MESMA plant two, make turns for eleven knots on the port engine, turns for nine knots on the starboard engine.”
Fearing his ship would protest the new speed by oscillating, Cahill discovered his concerns had merit as numbers representing the Goliath’s speed ticked upward.
“The MESMA plant two team reports their plant is up and running, but now the deck is shaking,” Walker said. “I recommend slowing back to four knots.”
“Damn it. Slow to four knots.”
“Slowing. This is bad, Terry.”
Cahill pictured the damaged ship in his mind as he pondered the hydrodynamics.
“Bad but not hopeless,” he said. “Place a five degree up angle on the ship.”
Walker tapped keys, and the deck tilted.
“Let’s try it again, only a bit more conservative,” Cahill said. “Make turns for seven knots on the port engine, turns for six knots on the starboard engine.”
The increased speed felt smooth under his feet, but the look on Walker’s face as he held a phone to his ear signaled the port hull team’s repeated report of unwanted undulations.
“The deck is shaking in MESMA plant two,” Walker said.
“How bad, compared to last time?”
“About a quarter as bad.”
“Increase the up angle to ten degrees.”
His executive officer obeyed, and the deck inclined.
“Now how bad is it?”
“They say it’s hardly noticeable,” Walker said.
“Very well. Make turns for eight and a half knots on the port engine, turns for seven knots on the starboard engine.”
“Light shaking, Terry.”
“Increase the up angle to fifteen degrees.”
He held a rail as the Goliath pointed upward.
“That seemed to calm it,” Walker said. “I recommend seeing what we can do all out.”
“Make turns for eleven knots on the port engine, turns for nine knots on the starboard engine.”
A minute later, Cahill thought he had his ship under control, but then a report from Walker about the starboard weapons bay surprised him.
“Shit, Terry,” Walker said. “The starboard weapons bay watchman was doing daily checks, and the inner diameter of the cannon is too large.”
Cahill recalled that each shot from the railgun removed a thin layer of the barrel’s metal, transformed it into a plasma cloud, and spurted it out the muzzle as a firestorm with each projectile. Time and random wear forced periodic replacement, and he carried several spares, but the swapping took half an hour — if rushed.
“That’s why we check it. Get them started on replacing the barrel immediately. If they hurry, they’ll be ready in time for our attack on the frigate.”
Thinking himself lucky for having enough time to fix his railgun before needing it, Cahill disliked his next piece of news.
“Helicopter,” the sonar supervisor said. “Moderate signal strength. Bearing zero-six-one.”
“Very well,” Cahill said. “I see that at least one pilot has the balls to hunt us. Either that, or he’s suffering from delusions of grandeur.”
“It’s almost in our baffles,” the supervisor said. “Probability of detection is small.”
While driving from the airborne threat, Cahill kept his mind focused on the surface combatant targets as Renard’s periodic, low-frequency updates shifted them about his chart.