Since he was using active sonar, sending out pulses of sound like a bat or a dolphin, rather than simply listening for the noise the Ohio wasn't making, he could employ Doppler ranging to pick up an accurate distance to the target. Manta's on-board computer was quite sophisticated, and could give him range readouts to the meter… if the target's relative bearing and velocity were known. Since he didn't know how fast the Ohio was traveling, or what her aspect was relative to his approach— bow-on, stern-to, or somewhere in between — her motion relative to his caused some uncertainty in the ranging data. According to the console readout, however, the target was now between nine hundred and eleven hundred meters away — less than half a mile.
His lights were on. There was nothing to see, however, save for a greenish haze about his vessel, backscatter from the external lamps. Nothing… nothing…
And then there she was, looming out of the night, a vast and dark shadow imperfectly illuminated by the Manta's forward light. She'd already turned away from him, stern-to, and was moving ahead through the depths at ten knots. Between the shrouded screw and cruciform tail, and the erect rectangle of the sail, he could see the long double row of hatches down her afterdeck. The two hatches closest to the sail were covered by the blunt, stubby cylinder of the ASDS — the dry-deck shelter used by the sub's complement of SEALs or other Special Forces. Halfway down the row, however, the twelfth hatch to port had been opened and the capture gantry deployed.
The gantry, actually, was little more than a single, slender pole, deployed straight up out of the missile launch tube, then lowered forward on a hydraulically operated hinge until it rested flat on the deck. Magnetic grapples extended to either side, and a red strobe light pulsed in the water, marking the top end of the gantry.
A contact light went on at the top of the Manta's touch-screen console. He was close enough now that he could communicate directly with Ohio's command center, either via high frequency sonar pulses or through blue-green laser.
"Ohio, this is XSSF-1 on capture approach, coming up on your six, range two-two-five meters, speed one-five knots."
"XSSF-1, Ohio. We heard you coming a mile away. You are clear for final approach and lockdown. The fishing pole is deployed."
"Fishing pole" was slang for the capture gantry. In early days of prototype testing, capture had actually involved firing a powerful magnetic grapple connected to a tow line to the fighter, hooking on, and dragging the craft in. Operational techniques had improved a lot during the past year, however.
"Roger that, Ohio. XSSF-1 on final."
Hawking accelerated the Manta slightly, pushing through the turbulence of the Ohio's wake. As soon as the slight buffeting subsided and he emerged above Ohio's stern, he cut back on the throttle and brought the fighter's nose up, matching speed with the much larger submarine beneath him and settling in toward the gantry. This part took a delicate touch and skillful coordination between fighter pilot and sub driver; during the last few seconds of the approach, he couldn't see the gantry directly, but had to rely on a small monitor on his console that relayed the view from a camera mounted on the keel. Although a flashing green light assured him his approach was nominal, it didn't have the same feel as judging the final few meters by eye.
The flashing green light went yellow as he drifted a bit too far to port. "XSSF-1, Control. Adjust right one meter."
"Yeah, yeah… "
It was much like calling the ball on a carrier deck approach, but in slow motion compared with the highspeed slam-down onto a carrier's fantail. He adjusted his course slightly, and the flashing green light came back… then switched to steady green as the magnetic grapples caught him. There was a gentle thump, a jar transmitted through the cockpit's deck.
"XSSF-1, we have capture. Kill your power and enjoy the ride."
"Roger that, Ohio." He switched off the Manta's power systems. "All systems powered down."
His external lights switched off; all was blackness again save for the intermittent red flare of the docking light. After a moment he felt another jerk, and the sensation of being tipped back in his seat. The fishing pole was being elevated once more, brought back into its upright position. In a few more moments Hawking was on his back, his head lower than the rest of his body due to the angle of his seat. Gently, the fishing pole and its catch were lowered down into the launch tube.
Another solid thump, a long pause, and the clank and thud of the external tube hatch closing and locking above him. Hawking waited there, head-down in the darkness, feeling more than a little claustrophobic. In a way, the darkness helped, since he couldn't see the walls of the missile tube just outside the cockpit. He didn't like admitting it — and he for damn sure hadn't admitted it to the headshrinkers during his selection process for this gig — but he was slightly claustrophobic, had never cared for being cooped up in a coffin-sized box.
Give me the wide open sky anytime, he thought. A cockpit was tight-fitting, but with the sky around him, he'd never felt cooped up. Even when "flying" the Manta, the view of the surrounding ocean held the unpleasant twist in his stomach at bay.
It was just when he was locked up inside the missile tube, at the start or at the conclusion of a run, that he began to want to scream….
He heard the hiss and roar of water being forced out of the missile tube, and a moment later light came on. When the pressures equalized, a hatch cracked open opposite the Manta's canopy, the canopy slid back and out of the way, and hands reached in to help him.
"Welcome aboard, sir," a Navy chief said. Two other enlisted men crowded in close, helping him remove and secure his headset. "Let's get you out of that harness…. "
With the harness released, he slid down and back into the sailors' waiting arms, a decidedly undignified way to come on board.
He was a bit unsteady as he rose to his feet. The compartment he was standing in was huge, dominated by the massive paired pillars of the launch tubes extending into the distance in both directions.
The chief seemed to guess what he was staring at. "Yeah, it's something, all right," he said. "Welcome to Sherwood Forest, Commander. I'm Chief Connolly, and I've been assigned to the Manta as crew chief."
"Sherwood Forest?"
A shrug. "Sorta like the deep woods in here, with the giant trees, y'know? C'mon, sir. The skipper'll want to see you."
Bemused, Hawking followed the chief forward, past the ranks of enormous, green-painted "trees," while the other enlisted men continued to work on the Manta, securing it from operational status, rendering the weapons safe, and removing the swim recorder and other instrumentation.
The deck, he noted, was actually a metal grating that surrounded the ranks of launch tubes. It was difficult to see through to the next level below… but it looked as though a number of dark, head-sized shapes were hanging there, just beneath his feet.
Connolly noticed his curious stare and grinned. "Fresh produce," he said. "When a submarine puts out to sea, every available space is pretty much crammed with food — enough for a hundred forty-some men for anywhere from two to six months, depending on the mission. Down there, in the keel below Sherwood Forest, that's the coolest part of the boat, and there's a lot of air circulation, too. The galley crew stores string bags full of heads of lettuce and potatoes there, hanging up from the deck grating."