That was a core rule of ASW: if you’ve got a solid track, don’t fuck with anything unnecessarily. Many a contact had been lost by busy-bee operators trying to fine-tune something that could have been left alone.
She was only half-listening when Captain Heller issued the ‘batteries released’ command over the net. The USWE now had permission to attack the target as soon as UB got the firing solution nailed down.
Denisha stole a glance at the system clock just as the bridge was announcing flight quarters over the 1MC speakers. Sky Wolf would be launching any minute. It would fly out there and kill the sub at a distance.
This happy thought was interrupted by the realization that one of her markers had disappeared from the display. The associated frequency line had vanished as well — fading into the salt-and-pepper speckles that represented the ocean’s ambient noise levels.
The other freqs were starting to fade as well. Damn!
Denisha tried to keep the annoyance out of her voice. “Heads-up, Supe. We’re losing this guy.”
STG1 Wyatt broke off whatever he had been saying to the chief. “Say again?”
“Gremlin Zero-One,” said Denisha. “Target strength is dropping below background noise. We’re losing him.”
“Well get him back!” Wyatt snapped.
Then, recognizing that the demand was as unrealistic as it was unhelpful, Wyatt quickly modified his tone. “Try lowering the signal bias on your processor thresholds. See if you can dial him back in.”
Denisha didn’t need anyone to tell her that. She was already doing it. She had the necessary menus open on the upper display, and she was calling up the slider bars and signal curves to adjust processor sensitivity.
Wyatt started to point toward the screen, but the chief waved him away. “She knows what she’s doing. You better warn the USWE.”
Wyatt nodded and keyed his mike. “USWE — Sonar. Be advised, signal strength for Gremlin Zero-One is dropping rapidly. Contact is weak and fading fast.”
The net was silent for a several seconds. This was clearly not welcome news. Finally, the USW Evaluator responded. “Sonar — USWE. Copy your fading contact. Break. ASTAC — USWE. How long before we can launch the helo?”
“USWE — ASTAC. Sky Wolf can be up in approximately three minutes.”
“USWE, aye. I don’t think we have that kind of time. Break. UB — USWE. How’s your fire control solution?”
“USWE — UB. I’ve got a rough solution. Target is near the outer edge of the range envelope for Anvils. Estimated contact course is one-six-four. Estimated speed ten knots. Low confidence.”
“UB — USWE. I copy one-six-four at ten knots. Low confidence. Stand by.”
Denisha’s frustration mounted as tonal markers vanished from her screen one after another. Adjusting the processor thresholds wasn’t helping. Neither was anything else on her extensive list of tricks. The contact was all but gone now.
“If we’re gonna shoot,” she said, “we’d better do it soon.”
“The TAO and Evaluator will be talking it over with the skipper now,” said Chief Scott. “Considering how badly we got mauled the last time around, they’re probably not too eager to start lobbing ordnance without a decent firing solution.”
“What if we don’t find him again?” asked Wyatt.
“There are worse things that could happen,” said the chief. “Like getting two or three supercav torpedoes up our ass because we jumped the gun on this.”
“My last freq just went dark,” said Denisha with a sigh. “I have no remaining signals to track.”
Wyatt took a quick look at her display and reached for the 29MC microphone. “All Stations — Sonar has lost passive narrowband contact. Last bearing one-five-niner.”
He shifted back to the tactical net and pressed his mike button. “USWE — Sonar. We’ve got enough track data to shoot on a time-late solution. But if we’re going to do it, sir, it has to be now.”
The reply came about ten seconds later. “Sonar — USWE. We are at weapons-hold. We are not engaging this contact. I say again, weapons-hold. We are not engaging this contact. Return your operators to normal search routines.”
The words hit Denisha like a slap in the face. Normal search routines? Normal fucking search routines? They’d had the bastard square in the crosshairs. All they’d needed to do was hit the goddamned button. Send those North Korean assholes to the bottom of the ocean as an honor guard for Bernadette Tomkins, and Teddy Hicks, and the rest of the dead Mahan sailors.
She had a wild impulse to key her mike and tell the USWE to grow some balls and pull the trigger. Finish the fight right fucking now. End it.
But a more rational part of her mind overrode the urge, wisely concluding that a move that stupid would get her pulled out of the watch rotation. Then she’d have no chance to participate in the finding and killing of the enemy submarine.
So she swallowed her anger, called up A-BAB on the upper display again, and resumed the long search.
CHAPTER 39
-------------------------
From: <zachary.heller@navy.mil>
Sent: Saturday, February 28, 6:47 PM
To: <efraim.j.heller@beth_israel_newhaven.org>
Subject: Shabbat Shalom
Abba,
The sun is dipping below the horizon, but the first three stars have yet to show their faces in the sky so I’m not too late to wish you a peaceful Sabbath.
I have to confess that I didn’t do a very good job of observing the customs. I didn’t light the candles, or read the Torah, or pray. I didn’t recite birkat ha-mazon after my meals. (Given how far my eating habits have strayed from the kashrut, that would have been hypocrisy.)
Instead of resting and reflecting, my Shabbat was spent trying to locate and kill a group of complete strangers.
There are obviously gentler and less direct ways of saying that, but when you strip away the euphemisms, that’s the kernel of truth beneath the polite words. That’s the reality of what I’m doing.
Don’t get me wrong; I believe in the mission we’ve been given, and I’m determined to carry it out. My crew and I are defending our country, as trite as those words have come to sound in this age. We’re doing vital work, and it would not be an exaggeration to say that the fates of countless human beings hang in the balance.
But none of those things can alter the fact that I’m trying very hard to end the lives of people I’ve never even met.
This is a strange profession I’ve gotten myself into. It’s possible to have a thirty-year career and never see ten seconds of combat. It’s also possible to die in battle just a couple of months after basic training. A few days ago that happened to some of the younger sailors aboard USS Mahan. Actually it happened to nearly everyone on that ship. Close to three hundred people were killed, and every one of those deaths was an incalculable tragedy. Even so, there’s something especially dreadful about losing a kid who’s not old enough to shave.
I realize that everyone’s time on this earth is limited. Sooner or later, the black camel kneels for each of us. But it’s such a crime when it happens to someone whose life is only getting started.
Some of my own crew members aren’t long out of high school. They’re still too naive to accept the truth of their own mortality. Deep down, they believe that death is something that happens to other people.
You know different, Abba, and so do I. No matter how much I want to protect these kids, I have no way to guarantee their lives, much less their innocence.