7
TWENTY METERS BENEATH the waves and over three hundred kilometers northwest of the Queequeg, USS Nashville maintained a leisurely cruising speed of fifteen knots while pinging away with her active sonar.
Commander Greg McDonald had received a curious Flash operational order a few days ago, with instructions to deviate from their scheduled patrol in the ever-volatile Persian Gulf over to what seemed to be a remote part of the Arabian Sea.
His crew had been instructed to listen in and track an unknown sonar contact picked up by a passing Navy frigate a few weeks before, and they had just arrived at the purported area.
The Nashville was one of the US Navy’s older Los Angeles-class fast attack submarines, and McDonald knew this was to be her final voyage before being retired from active service. Three years of running this baby, and now I can’t wait till they give me command of one of the new Virginia-class boats, he thought. Still, he felt a sense of nostalgia, as if he was a living witness to the end of an era.
His executive officer stood near the open doorway to the sonar room, keeping his eye on whatever the computers and the crew could identify and relay it to the captain. Despite the seemingly calm waters above them, the ocean was alive with all sorts of noises, from churning currents along the reef beds to the minute cacophony of sea life. Nashville’s sonar crew functioned as both her eyes and ears, and they had a full-time job sorting through the mundane sounds of the oceans to get at whatever it was they were looking for.
McDonald knew the crew was uneasy over this latest mission of theirs. He’d overheard plenty of talk that they were actually tracking a new Chinese submarine with some sort of revolutionary propulsion system that made herself invisible to them. But since he hadn’t been given many details either, McDonald decided to let the rumors swirl for now.
Better not to tell them anything than to make up a story that ends up being a lie later on, he thought. Crew morale was important, and the last thing he wanted to add was his own crazy ideas as to why they were out in the middle of nowhere.
“Sonar says we might have something, skipper,” the executive officer said.
“What’s she sound like?” McDonald asked as casually as he could.
“I’m not sure, sir,” the sonar chief said. “Can’t hear any screws, but lots of clicking stuff.”
“What do you mean by ‘clicking stuff?’”
“Frying bacon, sir. Only louder.”
McDonald rubbed his chin. The sound of frying bacon meant schools of shrimp. “No propellers or anything like that?”
“Other than the sea life there’s nothing, skipper.”
McDonald looked at his executive officer, who merely shrugged back. What the hell do they want us to find out here? This whole thing feels like a wild goose chase.
“Conn, sonar,” the sonar chief said. “Got something big near the surface. Three hundred yards. Bearing one-four-two.”
“Close approach procedures,” McDonald ordered.
“Whatever she is, she’s not moving, skipper,” the executive officer said. “Looks like she’s just drifting. I estimate her length to be around forty-five feet.”
“A ship of some kind?” McDonald asked.
“Sonar thinks she’s a biologic. Maybe a whale.”
For several minutes the crew waited silently as they got closer.
“Take us up to periscope depth,” McDonald said. If there is an experimental Chinese submarine out here then she’ll probably find us first since we’re doing all the active pinging with our sonar.
“Range at one hundred fifty yards,” the executive officer said.
McDonald walked over to where the periscope was and activated the orange hand ring near the ceiling. The periscope slid up from its well at the starboard side of the podium. After stooping forward a little to get into eye level, the captain quickly dropped the handles in place and then shifted it to face the correct bearing and began scanning the surface.
McDonald sighted the crosshairs while resting his hands along the side grips. He figured it was one of the last times he would be handling such an antique instrument, since all the newer submarine classes would have remote cameras instead. It was already dusk on the surface, so he had to squint in order to see the details.
The Nashville’s executive officer shuffled over to where he was. “Is it a whale, skipper?”
Pulling his head back, McDonald gave a slight nod. “A dead humpback. Two actually. I can see some of their entrails floating on the surface. One of them’s been gutted like a suckling pig. There’s schools of fishes eating away at both carcasses.”
His subordinate scratched his head. “Shark attack?”
McDonald shrugged back. “No idea.”
The executive officer leaned closer to whisper in his captain’s ear. “Did the Navy brass say anything at all as to what we’re supposed to be looking for?”
“No,” McDonald said softly. “All we’re supposed to do is identify the contact and report back on what we find. The problem is we don’t even know what to look for.”
“Conn, sonar,” the sonar chief said. “I think I’ve got a solid contact. Bearing at forty-four. Range four hundred yards. Moving slowly at less than one knot. I think she’s close to the bottom of the seabed.”
McDonald lowered the periscope back into its well as the executive officer walked back to his station beside the sonar room. He looked towards the navigator. “How deep is this area?”
“Around eight hundred feet, sir,” the navigator said.
It could be another boat, just hiding down there, McDonald thought. Bottom of this area is pretty much right at our test depth, which means she’s right near hers too. “We’ll take a closer look. Try seven hundred.”
The executive officer nodded. The test depth was the limit to which the submarine could be dived down to in peacetime conditions. “Diving Officer of the Watch, take us down seven hundred feet. Do it gently.”
“Aye,” the diving officer of the watch said before he gave the same orders to the planesmen manning the helm.
McDonald rubbed his index finger just below his lower lip. We’re not at war with anyone except the terrorists on land and the occasional Somali pirate on the surface, so if she’s a Russian or Chinese boat then all we’ll do is stare each other down with sonar pings.
“Contact is just creeping along the ocean floor,” the executive officer said. “Lots of sea life sounds.”
“This is just weird,” one of the sonar operators said.
“What’s weird?” McDonald asked.
“We’re used to hearing fish and all, sir,” the young man said. “But the noises down here, it’s unlike anything I’ve ever heard before. Even our computers can’t identify it.”
“What’s it sound like?”
“Like snapping crab claws, skipper,” the sonar chief said. “Just amplified somehow.”
McDonald grimaced. In all his years and experience, he had never encountered anything like it before. “Go full stop.”
“Full stop, aye,” the diving officer of the watch said.
McDonald turned back towards the sonar crew. “You spot any sort of screw cavitations or counter pings?”
“No, skipper,” the sonar chief said. “Just more sea life noise.”
McDonald eyed his executive offer. “Well, I’m totally stumped. You got any ideas?”