Ah, but then there is the timing issue. A carrier sunk now might be the same as a carrier sunk then . . . as far as the size of the enemy fleet goes . . . but the timing would be all wrong . . . could be anyway. I just don't know. I only know . . .
"We've got our orders, Ibarra, and you have yours. Now shut up and quit pestering me."
"Fuck. I trust that you'll be the one delivering the next of kin notices."
"We don't know there'll be a need for any next of kin notices. Now—"
"I know. I know. Shut up and quit pestering you."
Building 59, Fort Muddville, Balboa, Terra Nova
Whatever it was Admiral Duguay said to Janier over the phone, it was enough to turn the general's face ashen.
Replacing the phone on its receiver, Janier said simply, "He refuses to listen. He says if there's an attack here because he kills that submarine that will be my problem. He said other things, too.
"Do we mobilize the troops then?" asked de Villepin.
Still ashen-faced—What did the admiral say to him, wondered de Villepin—Janier shook his head. "No, no. Let's not let our actions notify the Balboans as to what is going on at sea.
"And now leave me in peace and quiet for the next hour."
D 466 Portzmoguer, Gallic Navy, Shimmering Sea
The bridge was hushed. Every man present knew Casabianca was guessing, frankly. They also knew his guess had a few things going for it. He knew where the enemy below could go for succor. He had a pretty good idea of its maximum speed while gliding, as it presumably was. He had a point of origin to trace from.
"East or west," the captain said softly. "One or the other. I chose east. If I'm right, maybe we get him. If I'm wrong . . ."
"Sir," Mortain said, taking a telephonic radio receiver away from the side of his head, "Montcalm, Horizon, and Cotentin are on station. The admiral says it's your command. Oh, and Captain Bertin of Montcalm is bitching about it, too."
"Bertin always bitches," answered Casabianca. The captain turned towards his sonar major. "Major, on Lieutenant Mortain's command. Weapons, stand by. Mortain?"
"Sir?"
"On radio . . . command . . . continuous . . . Ping!"
In seconds the major announced, "I've got them."
"Fire!"
BdL Orca, Shimmering Sea, Terra Nova
"Skipper," said Yermo to Quijana, "they're boxing us."
Quijana looked up from the deck to the screen toward the boat's bow. It was true enough, with four surface ships taking up position approximately to the four cardinal direction of where Orca had been perhaps half an hour ago.
"They don't hear us," Quijana said, uncertainly. "If they did they wouldn't be so far out. They'd—"
The captain's words were cut off as the submarine was suddenly deluged with the sound of four separate sonar emitters all going to continuous ping.
Yermo tried to ignore the sounds, listening intently for the much more ominous, "Oh, shit, I've got a surface launch . . . no, two . . . three . . . four. Each ship's fired once."
"Fired what?" Quijana asked.
"The Gallic frigates usually mount Ulysses anti-submarine rockets," Quijana's XO said. "That means they'll be here . . ."
"Plonk," said Yermo, looking straight up. He squeezed a headphone to his ear. "Plonk, plonk . . . plonk."
Do NOT panic, Quijana ordered himself. Besides, the thing you're most afraid of is being afraid . . . and you don't have much longer for that to happen, now do you, Miguel?
Aloud, he said, "Friends, we're dead. But we're going to sell ourselves dear. Weapons?"
"Aye"—gulp—"aye, sir."
"We've still got two supercavitators?"
"Yes, sir, two."
"Good. Fire one on self guidance at target three, the other at target . . . ummm . . . two. Fire when ready. Once they're away fire two standard torpedoes at targets one and four. Guide those yourself to the extent you can. Stand by to drop guidance on those and guide the close in defense torpedoes. Helm?!"
"Aye, sir."
"Turn on the clicker. Flank speed ahead."
"The clicker?" the XO, Garcia, looked aghast.
"We're dead anyway," Quijana said. "But the secret can be preserved."
The exec started to object, then admitted, also aloud, "Yeah, you're right."
Quijana nodded. His XO then added, "Miguel, I never believed before that old Pedraz booted you off the Trinidad. I thought you jumped. I believe it now."
D 466 Portzmoguer, Gallic Navy, Shimmering Sea
Mortain went white, not because the counterattack from the Balboan sub was unexpected, but because of the speed of the torpedo coming for his ship. That wasn't unexpected either; it was still shocking. Bending over the sonar screen, the naval officer simply couldn't bring himself to credit the way the supercavitator ate up the kilometers.
The "major" running the sonar station whistled and said, "Dear God, I don't think we can escape it."
"Head straight towards it," ordered Portzmoguer's captain.
The helmsman turned his head and eyes in the direction of the captain. "Towards it, sir?" He sounded as if he thought that the stupidest order he'd ever heard.
"The things are so noisy they can't use their own passive sonar," the captain explained. "They slow down at a preset point and ping, then adjust and start moving again. If we're not in a position for it to get a bounce from us, there's a fair chance we can lose it altogether. And stop wasting fucking time. Do it! And, Mortain, pass that to the"—the captain looked briefly at his operations board—"pass it to the Montcalm."
D 469 Montcalm, Gallic Navy, Shimmering Sea, Terra Nova
"Tell that stupid bastard aboard Portzmoguer to stuff it," snarled the captain. "Helm, hard away from the torpedo. We'll outrun the bitch! It's got to have limited fuel."
Montcalm heeled over as the helm applied full rudder to turn the ship away from the oncoming torpedo. Men all over the ship either swayed on their feet or fell on their rear ends. Down by the galley a cook, Matelot breveté—or ordinary seaman—Dupre, managed both to keep his feet and to keep upright the tray of sandwiches he was bringing to the bridge. The cook was just congratulating himself when the frigate came out of its turn and took off at flank speed. Not expecting this, Dupre slammed his head into a bulkhead and bounced to his arse as the sandwich tray went flying.
Leaving the sandwiches behind, Dupre began to stagger topside to give the bridge crew a piece of his mind. Imagine the nerve; treating a chef like this. What do they think; that we're an Anglic vessel?
* * *
"A stern chase is a long chase," so it was said. It was even true when first said, in the day of sail on Old Earth. But when the chaser has a speed nearly six times greater than the quarry, and the quarry's less than ten kilometers away, a stern chase is likely to be very short indeed. When that quarry has to waste time turning about . . .