“Captain, what are you doing?” Ivanakov asked, worried. He had heard the captain’s theory on the new American boomer and he hoped that he was one of the few. If higher command ever heard it they would laugh the captain out of the service.
“I’m going to get a hull shot,” the captain said, hitting the control to raise the periscope. “A very special one. Come to course zero, one, eight, periscope depth. Max power. Now!”
“I hope like hell they get the point,” the captain said, grinning, as the music boomed. It wasn’t just being played on the boat, but broadcast through the sonar. It was a clear warning to everyone to get the hell out of the way. The A — Oh, hell, the Vorpal Blade was coming through!
“Yes, sir,” Commander Clay said sourly. A submariner to his bones, he believed in stealth over everything. But he had to admit that the music had at least successfully driven off the whales that they might otherwise have hit.
The problem was that while going this fast, the sub was absolutely blind. Sure, there wasn’t supposed to be anything in the way, not at one hundred meters. But that didn’t preclude other subs, especially the Russians, being in the way. Or dolphins or whales. Or, hell, a school of herring! If they hit anything at this speed, well, it wasn’t going to be pretty.
So the captain played music, practically taunting the Russians. It just ached in his bubblehead bones.
“Prepare for water separation,” the captain said.
“Helm, plane, all converted?” the XO asked.
“Helm converted, aye!”
“Plane, planes retracted, all converted, aye!”
“Captain has the conn,” the captain said. “Helm has piloting control.”
“Helm, piloting control, aye,” the plane controller said, lifting his hands away from the plane controls. Under water the boat required multiple drivers for the various control surfaces. Once under space drive, the helmsman took over as sole pilot. The planesman, however, remained in position as a “co” in the event of injury to the helmsman.
“Pilot, two-zero-zero knots! Let’s take this bird for a ride!”
“The music has started,” the sonar tech for the Akula Zama said.
“Hmmm…” Captain Borodinich said, musingly. “According to reports, that means that they are preparing to engage their new speed drive, Senior Lieutenant Vaslaw. What do you think of that?”
“I am wondering where they are going, sir,” the XO said, swallowing nervously.
“So are we all,” the captain replied, nodding. “You are wondering, I am wondering, the admiral is wondering. But this time, Senior Lieutenant, we shall see where they are going. Do you know why?”
“Yes, sir,” the lieutenant said. “But I was speaking of which bit of water they are going to be passing through, sir. Sonar, have they initiated drive, yet?” As he asked there was a hollow “boing” off of the hull and he flinched.
“No, si… Senior Lieutenant,” the sonar tech said, swallowing. He had served with Vaslaw under their previous captain. The new captain’s habit of instituting damned near Soviet era formality, Senior Lieutenant this and Master Chief Sonar Technician that, was not popular. Nor was his tendency towards either stupidity or reckless arrogance. Or both. Nobody could be that stupid, after all.
“You understand my purpose in being here?” the captain replied, surprised. “Instead of trailing as the other boats are doing?”
“You chose to track them from forward, Captain,” Vaslaw said, very nearly snarled. “Sonar, position and direction!”
“That is for me to ask, Senior Lieutenant,” the captain snapped. “I suspect that you do not care for my plan, but you will support it, is that clear?”
“Sir,” the lieutenant replied. Which was neither agreement nor disagreement.
“Direction… one-one-three,” the sonar tech said, tapping at keys and ignoring the captain’s input. Thank God they had finally gotten a decent computer on the boat. When he had started in his position, it had been that Soviet era maulk. Tubes if you could believe it. They still didn’t have the filtering and processing of the American boats, but when they could spot them they could at least lock them down without reference to a bunch of pins and slide-rules. “Course… two-nine-five!”
“Captain, it’s headed right at us!” the lieutenant said. “We must change course!”
“And so we will,” the captain said calmly. “We will parallel their track. They have become predictable. They point a certain direction and then go fast, like some pilot taking off from a runway. I think it’s because their commander, Blankemeier, yes? He was a carrier pilot. No finesse, yes? So we shall parallel them and find where they go. Come to course one-one-five…”
The boat’s pilot, prepared for the order, whipped his wheel around, hard, causing the submarine to bank like an aircraft and filling the boat with the noise of unsecured gear rattling into the corridors. Most of the conn barely had time to grab stanchions as the boat stood on its side.
“Not so hard!” the captain snarled. “And I said one-one-five! Not one-eight-zero! Go to full power as soon as this ham-handed cow gets us back on course.”
“American speed coming up,” Sonar called as another “bong” rattled off the titanium hull of the boat. “Continuing to use active sonar!”
“Captain,” the lieutenant pleaded. “The reason for all this noise is clear! The Americans are saying ‘we are coming through! Get out of the way!’ And we should!”
“And because you have been, we still do not know where these Amis go when they do to go silent!” the captain snapped. “How they can simply disappear? Because none of you cowards were willing to get close enough to them! Which is why Northern Fleet has sent me, yes? Sonar, where are they, now?”
“Coming up from our rear,” Sonar said as the hull of the Akula began to thrum from flow. “Speed over eighty knots. I am only able to track them through their own sonar; ours is being washed out with flow noise. Oh, and I hear their music… It’s dopplering…”
“Damned arrogant Americans,” the captain muttered. “We shall track them this time…”
“Captain, they have been tracked doing over three hundred knots!” the lieutenant replied with a pleading tone. “We need to get out of the way…”
“I said silence,” Borodinich snapped.
“Speed… over one hundred knots…” Sonar called. “Higher I think. Perhaps as much as two hundred. I’m getting so many harmonics… Wait… Can you hear them… ?”
“What is that?” the captain asked. Every submariner is attuned to the rhythm of their boat. Any ping can be a problem, any extra vibration could be a sign of failure. So the strange rumbling was… disquieting.
“That is them,” Sonar replied, pulling off his headphones and bracing himself. “All you have to do now is listen!”
It was more than the sound of an approaching train. The lieutenant had once watched a show about tornados. In it, a man had been trapped under an underpass as a tornado passed over. It was like that. No, stronger, as if a hurricane could be compressed into the size of a truck and it was getting closer. The Akula was already going nearly fifty knots but the sound was getting louder. And over it…