"Yes, sir. Black is up for first class, so he's going to be a bookworm this cruise."
"Willie Joe is a top-notch technician. On any other ship he'd be the leading sonarman. I expect him to get his promotion and move on. We're lucky to have him here."
"Yes, sir."
Pisaro lit a cigarette. "That brings us to Petty Officer Sorensen."
"Yes, sir."
"Did you go through his records carefully?"
"Yes, sir."
"And what do you think. Lieutenant?"
"Well, Commander, he's clearly a genius at sonar, but otherwise he's somewhat unconventional."
"Somewhat? He's a fucking maniac."
"I was trying to maintain decorum, Commander."
Pisaro burst out laughing. "Okay, Lieutenant. You're very young, and I'll give you the benefit of the doubt. A short lecture: The strength of the navy is our senior petty officers. You don't see many of them around the Naval Academy. They're called men."
"Yes, sir."
"Petty Officer Sorensen is the kind of man who puts to shame computer projections. He knows more about sonar than you or I ever will. Sonar is an art. Every sound is a question of interpretation, and Sorensen has an uncanny feel for it. Don't ask me how. I doubt if he can explain it himself. If he is, as you say, unconventional, we tolerate that down here. As long as a man does his job, we leave him alone."
"Yes, sir."
"All right, did you meet the new man? What's his name?" Pisaro looked at his papers.
"Fogarty, sir. Yes, sir, briefly. He did very well in sub school."
"School's over, Lieutenant. Sorensen will look after him. Here's one more short lecture: This is an experienced crew. They've been through a lot together, the Cuban missile crisis and more than one dangerous patrol in unfriendly waters. When we close the hatch and dive, we're all alone. We're at war with the sea every second, and not far from same with the Russians. Under those conditions there is no such thing as a routine patrol. That's all. Dismissed."
Hoek found the sonarmen waiting in the control room.
"Good morning, sir," Sorensen said.
"Good morning." Hoek cleared his throat, realizing that nothing he had learned at the academy had prepared him adequately for this moment. He felt the steel deck vibrating slightly under his feet. He heard the white noise of air conditioners and the background chatter of the command intercom. He saw Sorensen's eyes, still bloodshot but testing him. Next to Sorensen, Willie Joe looked like a puppy dog, anxious to please. Then came Davic, a scowl firmly etched across his plump face. At the end of the line was Fogarty, looking straight ahead.
Hoek cleared his throat again. "Our transit time to Naples will be ten days. We don't expect to encounter any problems, but let's keep our ears alert and our eyes on the screen."
Sorensen rolled his eyes. It was a tradition in the Submarine Service for the most junior officer on a ship to be assigned the duties of sonar officer. Over the years Sorensen had learned that the only things these young lieutenants had in common were a bad complexion and a drive to become admirals.
Hoek continued, "There is one thing to note. Crossing the Atlantic, we will be participating in a test of a new SOSUS deep water submarine detection system. As you know, the bottom of our coastal waters has been seeded with passive sonars for ten years. This new extension of the system will enable us to track any sub in the North Atlantic. The hydrophones are laid out in a grid centered in the Azores. It's similar to the system we've been operating in the Caribbean for the last year. As far as we know, the Russians don't know anything about it. Any questions?"
Sorensen asked, "Do we have to give position reports to Norfolk?"
"Not until we get to Gibraltar. We pretend it's not there. Anything else?"
Sorensen shook his head.
"Okay, Chief Lopez has assigned the watches. Sorensen, you take the first watch, Willie Joe the second, Davic the third. The watches will be four hours, so you'll all be four on, eight off. Sorensen, you will be responsible for training the new man, Third Class Fogarty."
"Yes, sir."
Throughout the ship, division heads were making similar speeches. Pisaro, who also served as navigation officer, stood before the assembled helmsmen, planesmen and quartermaster, and spoke out for the benefit of the entire control room. "Set the maneuvering watch and let's haul ass."
"You heard the man," Hoek said. "Sorensen, you and Fogarty take us out. Dismissed."
The sonar room was amidships, next to the control room and flush against the pressure hull. A tiny chamber, it contained a cabinet for tools and parts and three operators' consoles, each with a keyboard and CRT screen.
Fogarty followed Sorensen into the small chamber and looked closely at the banks of loudspeakers and tape recorders mounted on the bulkheads. Layers of acoustic tile and cork insulated the compartment from noise in the control room and the machinery aft.
"Welcome to Sorensen's Sound Effects. Sit down."
The colors were drab military. The overworked air conditioner never completely cleaned out the smell of cigarette smoke and sweat. In 1962 during the Cuban missile crisis Sorensen had taped up a newspaper photo of his hero, John Kennedy. It was still there, yellow and ragged, partially obscured by fleshy pinups and a photograph of Sergei Gorshkov, Admiral of the Fleet of the Soviet Union. A large chart displayed line drawings of the several classes of Soviet submarines: Whiskey, Hotel, Echo, Golf, November and the new Viktor.
Sorensen put on his earphones, and the last effects of his hangover disappeared. His fingers danced over the keyboard and activated the array of sixteen hydrophones, each a foot in diameter, mounted on the hull around the bow and down the sides of the ship. The hydrophones — the passive "listening" sonars — were sensitive microphones that collected sounds that traveled through the water, sometimes across great distances.
He listened to the familiar sounds of Barracuda's machinery, the pulse of pumps and the throttling steam. He heard the underwater beacons, fixed to the bottom of Chesapeake Bay, that would guide the ship through the channel and into the Atlantic. Satisfied that all was in order, he took off his earphones and looked at Fogarty.
To his surprise, Fogarty's eyes were closed. He was literally all ears. "What do you hear?" Sorensen asked.
"Barracuda."
"And what does she sound like?"
Fogarty opened his eyes and smiled. His eyes were dark brown, almost black. At first glance they were relaxed, but on closer inspection there was a hint of controlled tension.
"She sounds like World War Three."
Sorensen blinked, then laughed. "Okay, wiseguy, switch on the fathometer."
"Switching on fathometer." Fogarty's hands played over his keyboard.
"What's our depth?"
"Thirty feet under the keel."
"Test BQR-2, passive array."
"Testing BQR-2, passive array." Fogarty checked the circuits which connected the hydrophones to his console. "Test positive. All circuits functioning."
"Test active array."
Fogarty punched more buttons, activating in turn the transducers mounted in the center of each hydrophone. The transducers created the familiar sonar "pings" that radiated through the water and, if they struck an object, returned as an echo heard by the hydrophones. The "echo ranger" was rarely used, only in special circumstances, since each time it was activated it revealed the sub's location.
"Testing active array, test positive."
"Test weapons guidance."
"Testing weapons guidance. Weapons guidance locked on. Test positive."
"Test target-seeking frequency." In combat the target-seeking frequency was created by a special transducer to locate and pinpoint a target. To the target it was the sound of doom, followed immediately by a torpedo.