“Is that music?” the captain asked, looking at the lieutenant.
“Yes, sir…” Vaslaw said, unhappily. “It’s—”
“Never mind,” the captain snapped, his appearance of calm starting to crumble. “Come to course—”
Senior Lieutenant Vladimir Vaslaw was no fool. He had been on this very sub when the Amis had last passed and had been close enough to, barely, hear that dread sound, to faintly catch the tune that, against all probability, was blasting forth through the very metal of the American craft. Now… it was much louder. So he grabbed a stanchion and clung to it like a limpet as the captain’s words were overwhelmed with noise. And then the wave hit.
It is said that boats are a hole in the water into which money is poured. But in the case of the Vorpal Blade, she was going over two hundred knots, creating not so much a wake as a supercavitation vacuum behind her, a gap filled with a mixture of water turned to air and air turning to water. And as she passed, the weight of three hundred feet of ocean, rather than money, collapsed that temporary hole.
The effect wasn’t that of a tornado or a hurricane. Tornados are dirty, hurricanes are wet, but neither is pure water. And water has many interesting properties. It is, among other things, incompressible. So it transmits shocks quite well. And there aren’t many greater shocks than a submarine-sized pocket of water collapsing at very nearly the speed of sound. Were it not for the brilliant modifications to the Ohio-class submarine, more specifically, the long blade or shock initiator on the bow, the effect would be many times more pronounced — two orders of magnitude worse.
The Akula was wrenched through the water like a leaf blown by a gale, tossed on its side and hammered until its hull rang like a tocsin. The only thing that saved its life was that the hull was one of the strongest on the earth and they weren’t, really, all that deep.
That didn’t help the personnel and equipment in the boat, though, as the wake of the passing boomer shook them like a terrier at a rat. Anyone not buckled in, and the only people on the boat so secured were the pilot and the buoyancy operator, was thrown around like a bowling pin.
Lieutenant Vaslaw managed to hold onto his pole by wrapping both legs around it. He still slammed his face into it as the boat stood first on one side, then the other, and then he swore directly vertical. It was hard to tell since most of the lights blew out almost at once in a shower of sparks.
It might have been the latter that saved them. The direct-drive turbines had not shut down with the rest of the boat, the robust nuclear reactor had not scrammed, and they were probably the only thing that kept them from being sunk. As it was, as the emergency lighting started to come back on-line he could see that they were at an up-angle, canted to the side but ascending.
He could also see the captain on the other side of the conn with his head up against a bulkhead. He could be unconscious or dead. Frankly, Lieutenant Vaslaw didn’t give a damn.
“Blow all tanks,” the lieutenant said, shaking his head and wiping at the blood from his nose. “Come to speed of one third. Surface.”
“Surface, aye!” the pilot said, happily righting the boat and scrambling for clear air. There were still currents aplenty that roiled the sub, but he could work with that.
“Multiple leaks,” damage control called. The operator was on his knees and shaking his head but he still had his headphones on. “Multiple injuries.”
“Great,” Vaslaw growled. “Tell the medics when they’re done with the rest, they need to check the captain. Until then, and I did not say this, I’d rather he remain unconscious.”
Vaslaw shook his head again and then sighed. They were lucky. They would see the sky again. Too many other Russian submariners had not been so lucky. He should be happy.
But he rather liked rock music. He had not been really aware during the last days of the Soviets but he had complete collections of rock groups from that period.
However, his precious copy of Europe’s single, “The Final Countdown” was going for the dumpster; he never ever wanted to hear that song again.
Not after hearing it dopplering towards him, and then away, as the several thousand ton submarine was tossed around like a leaf. The guitar solo was distinctive.
Damn those Americans…
“Ten degrees up!” the captain shouted over the flow noise.
“Conn, Sonar,” Lieutenant Sousa said. “They think they actually heard something over the flow! It sounded like a shipwreck!” There was a sound like a ripple of rain from forward. Small fish were dying in large numbers.
“Well, it wasn’t us!” Spectre yelled, grinning and bending his knees as the gees hit. The boat was headed up now, fast. As it started to level he shook his head.
“Pilot, twenty degrees up!”
“Twenty degrees, aye!” the helmsman yelled, grinning. They weren’t in space, yet, but he was, by God, driving a spaceship. What was it somebody in the mess had called it? A quadraphibian. Water, land, air and space.
“Separation!” the XO yelled as the noise fell away. “Whew!” They were in the air. No chance of hitting a whale anymore. They’d hit a school of herring one time and he thought the bow was going to cave in.
“Tactical, what’s on the scope?” the captain asked.
“All clear, sir,” Lieutenant Souza said. “No radar emitters in range.”
“Pilot, make your height one-zero-zero angels for pressure check,” the CO said, sitting back in his chair. “Maintain angle of ascent.”
“So how long do we deal with this?” Mimi asked, holding onto the table to keep from sliding off the bench. Pots and pans had cascaded across the floor and Miss Julia had nearly slid off.
“The drive is very strange,” Everette replied. “While there is gravity, it lets gravity through and has limited effect on inertial actions. So we take G forces in maneuvers. Once gravity falls off, it engages a pseudo-gravity system and begins inertial compensation. So no matter how strenuous the maneuver, we barely feel it. But the takeoff…”
“The captain don’t even have to do it this way,” Julia said sourly. “He just does it for fun.”
“Now, now, Dr. Robertson,” Everette said. “We shouldn’t question the tactical decisions of the boat’s commander…”
“CO’s nuts,” MacDonald said, leaning back in his chair. “F-18 pilot.”
“Gotcha,” Miller said. He had his feet braced on the front of the locked-down desk and was fairly comfortable. “Glad we didn’t hit anything.”
“One of these days we’re gonna,” MacDonald said. “And that’s gonna really suck.”
“Suck more if the Russkis figured out what was going on,” Miller pointed out.
Captain Zabukov had surfaced the boat and was on his sail, a pair of night vision binoculars glued to his eyes. He knew that they had fallen well behind the Ami sub, but it was possible that he could -
“There!” Lieutenant Ivanakov said, pointing to the southeast.
“Yob tvoyu mat…” the captain said, quietly.
“I assume that that was not directed at me, sir,” the lieutenant said. “Bozhe moi! You were right!”
“And you think that they are going to believe us, yes?” the captain said. “That the Amis have a flying submarine? And where has it been flying to, yes? The stars?”
“Store your maulk if it’s out,” Jaenisch yelled.