“XO, dive the boat,” the captain said, hopping up on his chair. “Make your depth one hundred meters.”
“Ten percent blow,” the XO said. “Fifteen degrees down plane.”
“Fifteen degrees down, aye,” the plane controller said.
“Blow complete,” the COB said.
“Descending through fifty meters,” the plane said. “Seventy-five…”
“Level off on one hundred,” the XO ordered.
“Leveling,” the plane replied. “One hundred meters depth.”
“Astro?” the captain asked.
“Recommend course of one-five-seven,” Weaver replied.
“XO, come to course one-five-seven.”
“Right ten degrees rudder,” the XO said. “Make your course one-five-seven.”
“Ten degrees rudder, aye,” the helmsman said. “One-five-seven, aye.”
“Why one-five-seven?” the captain asked.
“Last report from SOSUS indicated the Akulas were waiting for us at nine-zero,” Weaver replied. “Of course, they’re probably picking us up all ready.”
“Point,” the captain said sourly.
While the Cold War was no longer going on, Russia still maintained an interest in the American fleet, and especially in its submarines. They still sent attack subs to stake out American harbors and try to get hull shots, sonar profiles or any data at all on the American subs. With the Ohios they were still mostly failing; the subs that the Blade had been made from were ghosts.
The Blade really had them puzzled, though. It appeared to be converted for inshore, the term of art was littoral, combat. But removing the acoustic tiles made no sense. Why make a ship designed to approach enemy coastlines noisy. So the Russians had been sending an increasing number of attack subs to try to figure out this new Ami sub. The one thing they’d discovered was that the Blade was very very fast.
“XO, disengage propeller drive and close prop cowling,” the captain ordered.
The two orders were nowhere in any other submarine’s lexicon and the latter was one of the reasons that the Blade wasn’t very quiet. For various reasons, not the least of which was that they tended to rotate fast enough to spin off when the Blade got up to full speed, the propellers of the Blade were housed in a sliding door cowling system that was similar to the cowling kept over the props while in wet dock with the exception of the fact that they opened and closed by pushing buttons on the bridge.
“Props disengaged and closed,” the XO said after a moment.
“Engage supercavitation field,” the captain said, satisfaction in his voice. “Make power for one-two-zero knots. Engage space drive.”
“One-two-zero knots, aye,” the XO said. “Engage supercavitation system. Pilot, engage space drive. Power to one-two-zero knots.”
“What the hell is that?” Miller asked as the strong flow noise started up and the sub began to shake. Being in a sub was always nervous making; hearing one apparently crashing was worse.
“They engaged the space drive,” Captain Michael “M.E.” MacDonald said. He was currently regarding the chief warrant officer with interest. “When we start to really speed up it gets noisy. I only know that because I’ve been on this boat for shakedown ops.”
“And I haven’t, sir,” Miller said, nodding.
“I understand why you are here,” MacDonald said. “What I’m not sure about is what to do with you.”
“Not sure myself, sir,” Miller admitted. “I know as much as you do. Tuffy wants me here. The only suggestion I have is that I think I should stay close to Commander Weaver.”
“Any reason why?” the captain asked. “Besides being old buddies.”
“Not sure how to explain, sir,” Miller admitted, frowning. “Commander Weaver, well, I’m pretty sure he’s going to play out more of a role than just navigating us around. I think we both know he’s going to be consulted on just about anything that we encounter. I know that there are probably astronomers and astrophysicists on this boat with better credentials than his. But Weaver gets things right. You know what I mean on a military level, sir. There are guys who get things right in combat. Well, Weaver gets them right when it’s… weird stuff.”
“Like ship-eating monsters?” MacDonald asked.
“Like I have no idea, sir,” the warrant said. “But I’m pretty sure that when it happens, we’re all going to be pucker factoring. And if anybody’s going to figure out how to save our ass, sir, it’s going to be Weaver. And, with all due respect, sir, when he thinks something needs to be shot or blown up, he’s going to scream ‘Miller!’ not ‘MacDonald!’ He thinks he’s a naval officer but I guarantee he hasn’t got chain of command in his bones. My suggestion, sir, is that you just tell me to tag along with Weaver. That way he’s got a guy who does have a clue about ground combat to… suggest alternate methods.”
“Gotcha, Chief,” the captain said, grinning. “Okay, that’s how we’ll work it. I’m appointing you the chief of security detail for Commander Weaver, especially in the event of his leaving the boat. I’ll speak to the captain about how to integrate your position while on-board, but if Weaver leaves, you’re his bodyguard. Work?”
“Works, sir,” Miller said.
“All hands, prepare for water exit,” the 1-MC said.
“Hang on,” MacDonald said, grabbing at the arms of his station-chair as music started booming over the 1-MC.
“Who in the hell is playing music?” Miller asked, grabbing at his own chair’s arms. He’d noticed that the chair was bolted to the deck. He suspected he was about to find out why.
“Who could order music?” the Marine CO said. “Like I said, hang on.”
“There it is.”
Captain Zabukov looked over at his sonar technician as the senior petty officer held up a hand.
“I’m surprised you can’t hear it through the hull,” the CPO said bitterly. Shadowing the American boomer, even as noisy as it was, was not easy. But now, as it had the last three times they shadowed it, it had begun to play that rock and roll crap. And everyone in the crew knew what that meant.
“Position?” Captain Zabukov asked.
“Two-One-Four, Control,” the CPO said, still bitterly. “Depth one hundred meters, more or less. You sure you cannot hear it through the hull? I am having to crank down my gain.”
“Periscope depth!”
“Periscope depth, aye,” the XO, Senior Lieutenant Ivanakov, said. “Five degree rise on bow planes.”
The Russian Akula was still the most advanced attack sub, outside of the Americans’, in the world. And there were arguments on both sides. The Akula depended upon depth and speed to survive; it could dive deeper and drive faster than just about any other submarine on Earth. The trade-off, however, was noise. While the Akula was not noisy by any normal average, it was much noisier than an American 688, much less the Seawolf or Ohio series.
That was until the Americans came up with this new bastard Ohio. The damned thing was, if anything, noisier than an Akula. It had… bits protruding. Following it was like following a blind man in an autumn forest. But then, that skipper would play his damned music and…
“Get me on the surface,” the captain snarled. “Sonar, what is its heading?”
“Zero, one eight,” Sonar called back. “It’s headed towards the Zama.”
The latter Akula was one of three that Northern Fleet had sent to pinpoint the new American sub and determine how it was disappearing.