An effective tracked submersible could have other uses as well. During times of crisis such a vessel could be used to cut transoceanic phone cables and disrupt the West’s SOSUS arrays, those lines of high-tech hydro55 phones that America relied on to reveal the location of enemy submarines. It could also be utilized to land special forces teams, mine harbors, and attack ships even as they stood in port.
Mac was surprised that the U.S. didn’t have a similar sub in development. It would be an invaluable platform to have during times of war. Of course, there were still many in the Pentagon who doubted that such a vessel even existed. To these pig-headed skeptics, the pictures and reports meant absolutely nothing. What they demanded was solid, concrete proof. This evidence was presently situated on the seabed only a couple of miles distant. And if all went well, soon Mac would have an actual working model to show to these doubtors.
It had taken an entire year for Mac to come this close to proving his theory once and for all. During this time, there were moments when even he doubted himself. Yet in these times of weakness, Admiral Long was always there to guide him back on track. Mac had known the kindly, silver-haired flag officer for less than two years now, but he already respected the man like a father. His suggestions were intuitive and timely, and he always made time in his busy schedule to return Mac’s queries.
The Admiral was also adept at using the system to effectively further their investigation.
When dealing with top secret matters such as this, they had to keep knowledge of their efforts contained within a small circle of “need-to-knows.” Admiral Long was an expert at this, and helped develop a curt, enigmatic method of transmitting communications. Though he was often forced to read between the lines, Mac knew that this system worked, for knowledge of their project had yet to be leaked. This was all-important, for once the press knew of their activities, the Russians would also. A severe cut-back in the operation of their tracked submersible would surely follow, and then Mac’s job would be all but impossible.
Mac finished off his coffee, and had time to polish off a turkey sandwich as well, when the seaman who had originally escorted him down to the wardroom arrived to take him back to the bridge. It was as he arrived back in the Farming’s glassed-in control room that Mac saw the fog. Like a ghostly white shroud, the swirling mist completely enveloped the frigate. So thick was it that the bow-mounted ASROC launcher and 5inch gun were no longer visible.
“When did we hit this soup?” asked Mac as he joined the captain at navigation.
“Another sunny California afternoon,” mocked the CO.
“We encountered the first bank about fifteen minutes ago. It’s so thick up north that we had to pull the P-3. But don’t worry, we’re used to this infernal stuff.
The operation’s going to take place just as planned. The only difference is that we’re going to have to use radar as our eyes.”
“Captain, you never did mention how you’re going to convince our bogey to surrender itself,” said Mac.
“If the crew is Spetsnaz, the only reasoning that they’re going to listen to is a torpedo.”
“You’re most likely correct, Commander. Yet even Soviet special forces have been known to listen to the voice of reason. So we plan to first hit them with a series of active pings to let them know that they’ve been tagged.
If that’s not enough to scare ‘em topside, we’re going to drop some noise makers into the water. We’ll put a wall of sound around them that will soon enough put the fear of Marx in them.”
“And if that doesn’t convince them?” dared Mac.
“Then it’s time for the ultimate weapon,” retorted the Captain.
“When we got word of our mission, my weapons officer had just enough time to do some brainstorming and then make a quick, unauthorized trip to the surface warfare supply warehouse. He came back with a device that’s a tried and true red herring catcher.
Sitting on our fantail as we speak is a series of nets. My boys have already sewn them together, and are presently stitching a line of lead weights around the edges.”
Mac couldn’t help but grin.
“So you plan to snag them. You know, that might not be such a bad idea. In fact, I think it’s rather ingenious.”
“I’m glad you approve of our methods,” returned the proud captain.
“On a ship this size, we’re often called upon to improvise, and the simplest darn things are often the most effective.”
“Sir, we just got word from the Kinkaid,” interrupted the quartermaster.
“The Spruance and her escorts are in position to begin the intercept.”
A look of relief crossed the CO’s face as he spoke out to the eight members of the bridge crew.
“Prepare for action, gentlemen. Lieutenant Simmons, you may instruct sonar to begin their active sweep of the seafloor.
Make certain that they generate maximum volume. I want a ping out there that they can hear all the way back to Vladivostok. Lieutenant Jacquemin, have your men ready those noisemakers. If our sonar sweep doesn’t stir ‘em up, I’m counting on those explosives to do the job for us.”
As his officers began carrying out these orders, the captain discreetly lowered his voice and addressed Mac.
“Well, here it goes. Commander. Though I’m still not sure how you fit into all this, one way or the other you’re soon enough going to see the exact nature of the vessel responsible for this operation.”
“All that I ask is that you get them topside in one piece,” returned Mac.
“I’ve waited a long time for this day to come, and I sure wouldn’t want to lose them right on our doorstep.”
“You won’t lose them if I have anything to say about it,” pledged the CO, who addressed his next remark to one of his subordinates.
“Lieutenant Simmons, have sonar interface that scan over our pa. system. I want to hear just what it sounds like to be the hunted at fifty fathoms.”
This order was relayed, and less than fifteen seconds later, the bridge resounded with the loud, warbling “ping” of an active sonar projection.
“We’ve got a solid contact fifty-four fathoms beneath us, on bearing two-four-two. Relative rough range 8,700 yards,” observed the quartermaster.
“That’s our blessed bogey!” exclaimed the captain as he looked down at the plotting board. He used a red grease pencil and a straight edge to mark these coordinates on the plastic laminated chart.
“All stop!” he ordered the helmsman.
“Is he responding, Mr. Simmons?”
The junior officer double-checked his sonar repeater and answered.
“Negative, Captain. Contact appears to be hugging the bottom dead in the water.”
Another deafening ping filled the bridge. Impatience filled the CO’s tone as he barked out his next directive to the weapon’s officer.
“Enough of this bs, Mr. Jacquemin. Drop those noisemakers.
And put ‘em right down their red throats!”
The lieutenant signaled his men to begin launching the pressure-triggered blasting caps from the stem. Soon the public address speakers filled with both the resonant sonar return and the sharp, staccato blasts of a flurry of popping explosions.