What he didn't understand was why his shipmates on board the Ohio weren't more excited. The Manta's technology was damned impressive. Her fuel cells alone represented a major leap forward in power generation for small underwater craft. In the future, they might well allow the deployment of whole fleets of microsubmarines, robots raging independently across the world's oceans or deploying from manned submarine mother-ships. Manned fighters like the Manta, operating from undersea carriers like the Ohio conversions, might make hunter-killer boats like the new Virginia class obsolete.
Somehow, though, neither Ohio's officers nor her crew seemed that interested in the Manta. Or maybe, Hawking thought, it was simply that he himself had yet to be fully accepted by the rest. He'd tried being his usual open, friendly self, even with the enlisted men, and if he'd not been rebuffed directly, then at the least they'd maintained a cool distance.
No matter. He'd made a breakthrough yesterday afternoon, while going over the checklist for the Manta. A young first-class torpedo man who called himself Moonie had been assigned to the work detail loading the Manta's kinetic-kill torps, and Hawking had managed to strike up a friendly conversation. He had an idea he wanted to try, and the guy had loaned him a music CD so he could pull it off. The CD was already loaded and cued. All he needed to do was switch it on and patch it through the deep sound channel.
Ohio materialized out of the gloom dead ahead, vast and dark. He was approaching her bow-on. A slight adjustment of the controls would send him down the sub's starboard side.
"Manta, this is Ohio. Reduce speed and alter course to maintain safe clearance."
" Ohio, this is Manta. I've got it covered."
At just under ninety knots, the Manta began rolling as it shrieked past the huge vessel. Hawking switched on the CD and patched it through….
Caswell could hear the approaching Manta. In fact, the high-pitched flutter of its wake was pretty near all he could hear. "What the hell?"
"What is it, kid?" Sommersby asked.
"Sounds like the zoomie's coming straight for us."
"He's coming down the starboard side," Dobbs said. "Sounds like a high-speed torpedo, doesn't he?"
Reaching out, Caswell switched to the broadband deep sound channel….
Caswell jumped in his chair as he yanked the headphones off his ears. "What the fuck?"
"What's the matter, Cass?" Sommersby demanded.
Caswell pointed shakily at the headphones on the console. He could still hear a harsh, hip-hop beat rattling from the earpieces.
"That son of a bitch just tried to deafen me!" The racket, in fact, was loud enough that every man on board the Ohio could hear it, muffled and distorted by the water and the boat's hull, and overlaid by the fluttering whine of the passing fighter sub. The heavy, thumping beat, however, was insistent, and as intrusive within the submarine's normally silent world as a blaring, too-loud stereo in the car next to yours at a traffic light.
"What is that?" Dobbs asked. "Rap?"
Sommersby picked up the headset and held it to his ear. He smiled. "M.C. Hammer. Our zoomie likes puns."
"Puns?" Dobbs asked.
"M.C. Hammer. Operation Sea Hammer. Cute. Real cute. I just hope for his sake the skipper shares his sense of humor."
"Mr. Hawking," Stewart said above steepled fingers. "Do you have any idea what the very first order in my order book reads?"
Hawking was standing on the other side of the desk, at rigid attention. He'd come to attention when he reported to Stewart moments ago, and Stewart had not yet told him to stand at ease. "No, sir."
"It's the same as the first order in every sub captain's book. No guesses?"
"No, sir."
"It's remain undetected. Do you have any idea how deadly your little stunt out there this morning could have been?"
"Sir, there wasn't another vessel for five hundred miles in any direction."
"Really? How do you know this?"
Hawking opened his mouth as though to reply, then clamped it shut again.
"For your information, mister, sound travels well under water. Very well. It can reflect off the bottom and off of the thermocline and travel hundreds of miles; a phenomenon we call convergence. If there was an enemy submarine out there, even a thousand miles away, he heard us. Or, rather, he heard you."
"Sir, I didn't think there was any harm."
Stewart leafed through the papers in Hawking's personnel folder, which he'd had delivered to his desk an hour before. "You did go to submarine school, didn't you? It says you did… New London, right here."
"Yes, sir."
He leafed through more pages in the service record, then stopped, reading one of the sheets more closely. He'd noticed this one when he reviewed Hawking's record upon being assigned to the Ohio, but hadn't actually read it carefully. "My God."
"Sir?"
"This is a letter of reprimand. It says that while you were stationed on board the Eisenhower, you performed a low-altitude high-speed maneuver without proper authorization, passing 'level with the flight deck' and just a few meters to port—"
"I buzzed pri-fly, yessir."
"I should have known. You're a hot dog."
"Uh… I had a bet with—"
"I don't care if you had communion with the Pope!" Stewart studied the man at attention before him a moment. "You have jeopardized the security of this mission and the safety of this vessel. I don't know what they expected of you when you were flying Hornets off the Ike, but that kind of behavior is something I will not stand for!"
He read through several more pages. "In fact, it seems you were given an offer you couldn't refuse. They were going to pull your flight status. You got out of it by volunteering for the Manta project. Mm. Did the people at the submarine research facility know they were getting a hot dog from the fleet?"
"Uh, I believe it was deemed best not to worry them, sir."
"Uh-huh. I'll believe that."
"Sir… I am sorry, and it won't happen again."
"You're damned right it won't!" The words were a growl.
"I just… "
"Go on."
"Sir, I just didn't think it would do any harm! It's not like we're up against the Soviets or anything like a world-class twenty-first-century navy! We're still a couple of thousand miles from the Gulf, and the Iranians don't have shit to track us! Hell, I figure the Manta puts more noise into the ocean than that CD did."
"Mister," Stewart said, his voice very low, and very dangerous. "Don't you dare lecture me on my assets or my strategic imperatives on my own boat! What the Iranians have or don't have is beside the point!