“What’s a Dick-4?” asked Jabo with a completely straight face.
“You’ve heard that one before, haven’t you sir?”
“About a million times,” said Jabo. “You guys need to come up with some new material.”
V-12 appeared at the door. “Good morning sonar!”
“What are you doing here?” said Jabo.
“You’re my UI watch,” he said. “I should be asking you that. The standing orders say you’re never supposed to me more than an arm’s length away from me, so I can prevent you from harming yourself or others.”
“Good one,” said Jabo.
V-12 wedged himself further into the small space. He clearly had a hunger to participate in the search, even if he was delegated to the back of the ship. Jabo sympathized.
V-12 pointed to the same trace that Jabo had noticed. “What’s that? A Dick-4?”
“It’s a merchant,” replied the supervisor. “About fifteen miles out. Loud as shit.”
“I guess so,” said Jabo. He stared at the sonar display, turned a switch to shift it to relative bearings, so he could easily see which way was forward, and visualize their sonic picture not as a map, but as the water around them. That’s where Boise was: somewhere in front of them.
“You guys all listen to the tape?” he asked. “The signal we heard yesterday?”
“Yes sir,” they all replied in unison.
“It never did comp out,” said the supervisor. “Doesn’t match anything we have in the system. But it’s obviously manmade. And it sure as hell sounds like active sonar to me.”
“Ok if I listen?” said V-12. “I haven’t heard it yet. That’s really why I came up here.”
“Sure,” said the supervisor. He took off his headphones and handed them to V-12. As he put them on, the supe started turning switches, recalling the recorded beeping from the day before.
“I think I hear it,” said V-12.
The supervisor looked up from his console with a grin. “What?”
“I hear it,” said V-12. “I think I hear the pinging.”
“I haven’t turned on the tape yet,” he said. “You’re still listening to the sphere.”
V-12’s face became dead serious. “I hear it,” he said. “Listen.”
The supervisor turned the switch so that the whole room could hear it. And there it was: the same faint, regular pinging they’d heard the day before.
“Oh, shit,” said the supervisor.
“Tell the OOD,” said Jabo. “Now.”
The supervisor grabbed the 27-MC microphone, and then hesitated. The pinging faded, then disappeared.
“Fuck,” he said. “She’s gone. Again.”
“Goddamit,” said Jabo. “Keep listening.”
“It just disappeared,” said the supervisor. “If anything, she was louder than yesterday. But then it just evaporated.” He looked at his watch to make a note in the logs, and Jabo instinctively looked at his watch too: exactly 0630.
It occurred to him suddenly that the last time he’d felt this adrenalin surge, he had also smelled bacon in the air.
“Let me see the logs from two days ago,” he said.
The supervisor pulled a binder from a small cabinet. Jabo flipped back to 0630 from two days before, then three days before. Nothing. He couldn’t call it a pattern: just two data points. But it was all he had.
“He waved his hands at V-12. “Move,” he said. “Let me out. I need to go talk to the captain.” V-12 backed out so they could both leave.
The XO and captain were both in the control room, smiling, chatting with the watchstanders, both holding standard navy issue coffee mugs made from indestructible green plastic. Everyone looked up as Jabo stormed into the room with V-12 trailing behind him.
“Captain, I think we heard her again.”
He raised his eyebrow. “No shit? Why aren’t we at battle stations?”
“She disappeared again. But: I think I know when we’ll hear her again.”
“Oh really?” said the XO with a smirk. “You’ve got some intel you’d like to share?”
“Twenty-four hours from now,” said Jabo. “I’m not sure why, but we seem to be picking up active emissions from her between 0600 and 0630. And I’ll bet we will again tomorrow.”
“I like a good bet,” said the XO. “What are you wagering?”
“If I’m wrong — keep me in maneuvering the rest of the patrol.”
“Sounds appropriately humiliating,” said the captain. “What if you win?”
Jabo paused just a moment. “Make me the battle stations OOD,” he said.
“You’re not even in the qualification book…” said the XO. The captain raised his hand to silence him.
“Anything else, Jabo?”
“Yes,” he said. “I want V-12 to be my JOOD.”
Part Four
Jabo looked at the captain as the control room behind him lapsed into a shocked silence. V-12 stared at his feet to avoid looking at the seething XO. Their second-in-command suddenly turned to leave, but as he did so he ran right into the messenger, who was holding a tray full of steaming coffee mugs for the morning watch section. Coffee spilled everywhere and the XO stomped right through it as he stormed out.
“Congratulations,” said the captain after a pause. “You’re an OOD now. Usually we have a little ceremony.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You can thank me by finding the Boise.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” He tried to think of something intelligent to say. “Who’s taking my slot in the engine room?”
The captain looked around. “Lieutenant Bannick can do the duty.”
At first Jabo thought: great, another officer in the wardroom pissed at me. But when he turned, he saw nothing but gratitude on Bannick’s face.
Not knowing what else to do, Jabo decided to attack the problem. “Let’s take a look at the chart.”
He traced the course of the Boise, his red line, with his finger. “Ok. We have several pieces of data that show her along this track.”
“Several?” asked the captain.
“Two. More if you count the SOSUS hits and the BST buoys. I want to stay on this course, at five knots, stay right behind where we think she is.”
“But not gain on her.”
“Exactly. I don’t think she’s going slower than five knots, and this way we won’t run into her.”
“That would be lovely.”
“Let’s man battle stations at 0530, and wait and see if we hear that pinging again at 0600.”
“You mean wait and see if you’re right?”
“Correct, sir.”
“You’re going to have to eat a lot of shit from the XO if you’re wrong.”
“Captain… I really don’t care.”
Michaels sighed. “I know you don’t, Jabo. We’ve been over this.”
“Captain…”
“Let’s talk about that bullshit later. Trust me, it’s as tiresome to me as it is to you. But I feel I owe you some fatherly advice on that front. There’s more to a naval officer’s career than saluting the flag and giving rudder orders.”
“Aye, aye sir.”
“Anything else I need to put in the night orders?”
“Yes sir, one more thing. I’d also like to go down to 720 feet. For the rest of the day.”
The captain furrowed his brow, calculating. “That’s in the envelope,” he said. “But barely. Awfully deep for that slow speed. Why?”
“Exactly because it is a screwed up depth. I doubt the Boise will be that deep. So if we creep up on her for some reason, we won’t run into her.”
The captain nodded. “Good thinking Jabo. There are more elegant ways to locate a submarine than running into her.”