On her lower screen, she called up five adjacent beams, centered on the bearing of the A-BAB flicker. And there it was: the familiar not-quite-Han-class acoustic signature. The signal was weak — just starting to fade in above the ambient noise threshold — but it was definitely there.
Gotcha!
Denisha did a quick screen capture (just in case) and began tagging the target frequencies. “Sonar Supe, I’ve got him!”
Wyatt was at her elbow almost before the words were out of her mouth. “That’s our North Korean alright!” He reached for the 29MC microphone. “All Stations — Sonar has passive narrowband contact off the port beam! Bearing one-three-three! Initial classification: POSS-SUB, confidence level high!”
He released the mike button. “Good job, Denisha! Tag it, bag it, and send it to fire control.”
“Already on it,” Denisha said.
In Combat Information Center, Ensign Moore watched a line of bearing appear on the screen of his Computerized Dead-Reckoning Tracer. The red line extended from the symbol for USS Bowie at an angle of 131 degrees. It intersected with a second red line extending from the original cueing platform, USS Albany at 199 degrees. The cross-fix provided an instant target range of just over 12,000 yards.
The ensign tapped a soft-key on the CDRT to send the range data to the Underwater Battery Fire Control System.
Then he keyed into the net. “TAO — USWE. POSS-SUB contact bears one-three-one at twelve-thousand.”
Lieutenant Faulk was Tactical Action Officer for this engagement. She responded immediately. “TAO, aye. Your contact is now designated as Gremlin Zero-One. You are authorized to prepare weapons, but hold fire until you receive batteries released.”
“USWE, aye. Understand hold fire on target Gremlin Zero-One. Break. UB — USWE. I’ve got good bearing cross-fixes from Albany. Stand by for range updates directly from the CDRT. Target Gremlin Zero-One with Anvil, and inform me as soon as you’ve got a firing solution.”
“UB, aye.”
Two new bearing lines appeared on the CDRT as the sonars of Albany and Bowie both provided updated tracking information on the enemy submarine. This resulted in a new cross-fix.
With two known locations and an established interval of time between them, the fire control computer took about a millisecond to calculate the target’s course and speed. The answer, 282 degrees at six knots, appeared in a small data window attached to the red hostile submarine symbol that represented the target.
Based on a single bearing and range update, this initial calculation would be approximate rather than exact, but it was good enough for the CDRT to project a line of advance for the submarine.
And there it was on the screen: the information they needed to move forward with the plan.
Captain Heller detached himself from a conversation with the TAO and strode over to the CDRT. “Got what we’re after, Todd?”
Ensign Moore nodded. “Yes, sir.”
The captain pointed toward a spot on the display. “What do you think? Come left to one-nine-five, and cross his track right about here?”
The ensign did an eyeball calculation. That puts us within six-thousand yards, sir. You really want to get that close?”
“I’d prefer not get within a hundred miles of that thing,” said the captain. “But we don’t have all that many Sea Bats, and we can’t afford to make our insertion points too far away from the target.”
“I guess not, sir.”
Heller caught the tone of the junior officer’s voice. “Having second thoughts?”
“About accepting a commission in the Navy? Now that you mention it, I am. Should have listened to my mom and become a dentist.”
As jokes went it was not exactly a knee-slapper, but the captain responded with a smile.
“If your brilliant plan doesn’t kill us all, you can always apply for dental school. Probably get free dental floss for life.”
The ensign returned the captain’s smile. “Who could pass up an opportunity like that?”
Jon kept his voice low enough to barely carry over the sound of the approaching outboard. “Here they come.”
There was a sound from inside the cabin, but he didn’t know what Cassy was doing in there.
Even as he watched the boarding team approach, he was mentally deconstructing their methods. If they wanted the element of surprise, they should be coming in from the seaward side, so their silhouettes wouldn’t be visible against the lights of the town. Also, the noise of the outboard was broadcasting their presence. They could have prevented that by running on an electric trolling motor. Slower, but much quieter. And how hard would it be to catch a sailboat at anchor, even if your top speed was limited to three or four knots? With a little more forethought, these guys might have slipped aboard without being detected.
Maybe their failure to take the extra steps was a sign that they didn’t care about surprise. It could also be a case of cultural machismo at odds with tactical thinking. They paid lip service to the need for stealth by dressing in black and running at night with no lights on. But they couldn’t resist the sense of masculine dominance that came from the throaty roar of a powerful motor, and their pride wouldn’t allow them to sneak in from an unexpected angle when real men charged straight in the front door.
Or maybe all of that was wrong. Jon was hardly an expert on the social customs of Cuban roughnecks.
The boat’s coxswain throttled back his motor about ten yards out, and guided his craft alongside the port stern of the Roxy.
Jon kept his hands in sight and tried to look nonthreatening as the two men in the bow looped lines over a pair of cleats, and swarmed over the gunwale into the cockpit of the sailboat.
The soldiers (or whatever they were) had worked out their tactics ahead of time. Either that or they’d been in similar situations before. One maintained as much distance as he could manage in the small cockpit, keeping a hand on the butt of a holstered sidearm. The other moved in closer.
Clearly the plan was for Thug Two to keep Thug One — and the threat — covered from a safe distance. The technique might have been effective in a place with more elbowroom, but the cockpit of the Foxy Roxy didn’t have much open deck space. With one good step, Jon could be within grabbing distance of Thug Two.
Which he wouldn’t do unless he had to. Much better to submit to some questions, produce the cruising permit and license of exception — with all the stamps and seals attached — then play the dumb (but officially sanctioned) tourist.
It wouldn’t work, of course. These guys weren’t Guarda Frontera or Policía Nacional, and they hadn’t come to inspect travel papers. This had the look of a rapid action team; the kind of jackbooted toughs who did the dirty work that few governments would admit to.
“Welcome aboard,” Jon said. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”
Thug Two said something in rapid Spanish.
“Put your hands on your head,” said Thug One.
It was now too dark to make out the man’s features, but he was undoubtedly wearing his best badass look.
Jon did his best to sound surprised. “Am I under arrest? What are the charges?”
“Hands on your head!” said Thug One again, and this time it was a shout.
“I’m an American citizen with legal travel papers,” Jon said. “And I’ve broken no laws.”
Thug One shot out a gloved hand and shoved Jon backward against the aft bulkhead of the cabin. Then the man reached for his weapon.