“Roger, copy all. We’ll do what we can, Murdoch.” Batman’s voice was grim. He turned to Bam-Bam. “Get off a message to Centurion.”
Captain Tran fought his impulse to pace, schooling himself to stillness that rigged for silent running required. He would not allow himself the luxury of expending some energy through pacing the small compartment. Not only would it not have achieved anything, but it would set a bad example for the rest of the crew. Silent ship meant just that — no unnecessary movement, no talking, and above all, no pacing the deck.
This was the hardest part of submarine warfare, probably the reason that the men who served on these ships bore the name “silent service.” It was a game of cat and mouse, of waiting, of staying submerged and hidden while you waited for the other fellow to make a mistake. Captain Tran held this as an article of faith, that there was no crew as superbly trained as the one on board an American fast attack submarine. Granted, the equipment gave them every edge as well, but it was the crew rather than the steel that encased them that he placed his trust in.
A movement aft caught his eye, and he turned to see the sonar chief holding one finger up in the air. Slightly ashamed at the relief he felt to be moving, Tran padded silently over to the console. He studied data displayed there before asking in a whisper, “Is that her?”
Jacobs nodded. “Bilge pumps, I think,” he said. “It’s faint, and intermittent.”
Tran reached for a spare set of headphones jacked into the input line and slipped them over his ears. He was always surprised at how much more quiet it was with the headphones on, even on a submarine at quiet ship. He could hear his own heartbeat, hear the steady rhythm of his own breathing as blood coursed through his veins. And, just at the edge of perception, he heard the sound that had alerted his sonar team. There it was again — a faint hiss, whine followed by a thump. Bilge pumps or some other slow rhythm machinery on board. It didn’t matter exactly what — the important point was that it wasn’t one of theirs.
“Not as watertight as we are, perhaps,” he said, making an old joke. Bilge pumps weren’t normally run for leaks inside a submarine — any leak would be almost instantly fatal, as high pressure water rocketing into a hull would probably precipitate cascading casualties faster than any crew could keep track of them. No, bilge pumps were used to pump over the small discharges that steam, an occasional leaky pump, and just sheer spillage accumulated in the lower parts of the ship. Still, his joke was met with a slight smile from the crew.
“Targeting solution?” the sonar chief asked.
Tran nodded. “Completely passive. No one is supposed to know we’re here until the carrier is ready to move.” He could see by the expression on the chief’s face that this didn’t sit well. They had contact, albeit a tenuous one. They would have a firing solution within seconds. Every second that they let pass with this submarine still alive in their home waters ate at them. He now regretted the one ranging ping that he’d ordered earlier. That extra bit of uncertainty might have now worked in his favor.
“We can’t do anything right now with the situation as it is on the land,” he said, and briefly debated with himself just how much to explain to the crew. He knew about the nuclear weapon located on the island, but was it necessarily something he needed to tell the rest of the crew? Most of them had families, girlfriends, even parents on the island. Would the additional worry about the families distract them from the job at hand? And more importantly, would knowing that their friends and loved ones were in such mortal danger improve their performance at all?
No. Tran decided to keep the information to himself. “It’s all part of a plan,” he temporized, not entirely comfortable with the withholding of the information, but certain in his heart it was the right thing to do. This was what he was paid for, to carry the burden of knowing such secrets without allowing them to distract his crew.
That was evidently enough for his chief. He nodded, then pointed to the attack console immediately to his right. “Firing solution, Captain, anytime, anywhere.” A quiet smile betrayed the pride behind his voice.
“Captain — she’s increasing speed. Look.” Jacobs pointed out some acoustic components on the display, then tweaked an automatic gain control knob. “I hold they’re headed directly for us, sir, although she’s still shallow.”
“She can’t know we’re here,” Tran said confidently. “Maintain firing solution.”
“And now she’s turning away,” the chief said softly. Not that he needed to announce the fact — the downward shift in the submarine’s frequency had already told Tran she was maneuvering.
Now why is she doing that? Charging straight for us, then turning and heading in the opposite direction. And why the relatively high-speed run now? Tran glanced at the chronometer and verified that it was indeed still daylight on the surface above.
Nothing about the submarine’s conduct had made much sense thus far, and this high speed charge was just the latest anomaly. Creeping in too close had put Centurion far closer to the rest of the Chinese forces than he was comfortable with, and now it seemed that their positions had been reversed. Was the diesel trying to tempt him into giving chase, hoping to lure him into a trap?
“Sonobuoys!” the chief said, his voice marginally louder than it had been before. “Who the hell is — ”
Suddenly the sonarmen ripped off their headphones as a violent explosion rocked the submarine. It was too far away to do any real damage, but the downward force from the explosive rolled the submarine slightly, an odd sensation for those used to working on a virtually motionless platform.
Tran had it on the speaker now, the faint splash-gurgle of something large and metallic hitting the water, the hiss as air escaped from it and it bubbled down through the water. Then the explosive crump before the pressure wave reached the submarine.
A second, then a third, a fourth explosion, each one progressively closer to the submarine. Captain Tran’s mind was racing. They can’t know where we are, it’s impossible. This was sheer bad luck, nothing more — wait it out. They’re guessing now, but if you come up to high speed and make a run for it, try the noisemakers, they’ll know for sure they’ve got you.
Even though his cold intellect advised silence and waiting, every atom in his body screamed for speed. As the explosions came faster and closer, he had an overwhelming sense of the vulnerability of the steel hull that protected them from the deep. Most of the time, he was simply unconscious of it. He lived in the submarine, and everyone else did that you knew, too. No big deal — that’s just where you were.
But now, hearing the violent echoes crash against his hull, he felt a sense of vulnerability and frailty. Around him, he could hear the uneasy stirrings of the crew, as their iron discipline cracked slightly under the strain of the noise.
“Not sonobuoys. Depth charges,” he said. Tran stepped to the middle of the control room and raised his voice slightly. “They’re guessing.” He looked around the room, careful to catch each gaze, willing his confidence in his own abilities out in a stream of courage to each of them. “They’re guessing — they don’t know where we are.”