The sonarman shook his head. “It isn’t screw sounds. I’ve never heard anything like it.” He ran the tape back and played it again.
Two minutes later, Lieutenant Earl Butler came into the attack center. “You rang, Skipper?”
“Listen to this, Earl.” Mancuso rewound the tape and played it a third time.
Butler was a graduate of the University of Texas and every school the navy had for submarines and their engine systems. “What’s that supposed to be?”
“Jonesy says it’s a Russian sub. I think he’s right.”
“Tell me about the tape,” Butler said to Jones.
“Sir, it’s speeded up ten times, and I washed it through the BC-10 five times. At normal speed it doesn’t sound like much of anything.” With uncharacteristic modesty, Jones did not point out that it had sounded like something to him.
“Some sort of harmonic? I mean, if it was a propeller, it’d have to be a hundred feet across, and we’d be hearing one blade at a time. The regular interval suggests some sort of harmonic.” Butler’s face screwed up. “But a harmonic what?”
“Whatever it was, it was headed right here.” Mancuso tapped Thor’s Twins with his pencil.
“That makes him a Russian, all right,” Butler agreed. “Then they’re using something new. Again.”
“Mr. Butler’s right,” Jones said. “It does sound like a harmonic rumble. The other funny thing is, well, there was this background noise, kinda like water going through a pipe. I don’t know, it didn’t pick up on this. I guess the computer filtered it off. It was real faint to start with — anyway, that’s outside my field.”
“That’s all right. You’ve done enough for one day. How do you feel?” Mancuso asked.
“A little tired, Skipper. I’ve been working on this for a while.”
“If we get close to this guy again, you think you can track him down?” Mancuso knew the answer.
“You bet, Cap’n! Now that we know what to listen for, you bet I’ll bag the sucker!”
Mancuso looked at the chart table. “Okay, if he was heading for the Twins, and then ran the route at, say twenty-eight or thirty knots, and then settled down to his base course and speed of about ten or so…that puts him about here now. Long ways off. Now, if we run at top speed…forty-eight hours will put us here, and that’ll put us in front of him. Pat?”
“That’s about right, sir,” Lieutenant Mannion concurred. “You’re figuring he ran the route at full speed, then settled down — makes sense. He wouldn’t need the quiet drive in that damned maze. It gives him a free shot for four or five hundred miles, so why not uncrank his engines? That’s what I’d do.”
“That’s what we’ll try and do, then. We’ll radio in for permission to leave Toll Booth station and track this character down. Jonesy, running at max speed means you sonarmen will be out of work for a while. Set up the contact tape on the simulator and make sure the operators all know what this guy sounds like, but get some rest. All of you. I want you at a hundred percent when we try to reacquire this guy. Have yourself a shower. Make that a Hollywood shower — you’ve earned it — and rack out. When we do go after this character, it’ll be a long, tough hunt.”
“No sweat, Captain. We’ll get him for you. Bet on it. You want to keep my tape, sir?”
“Yeah.” Mancuso ejected the tape and looked up in surprise. “You sacrificed a Bach for this?”
“Not a good one, sir. I have a Christopher Hogwood of this piece that’s much better.”
Mancuso pocketed the tape. “Dismissed, Jonesy. Nice work.”
“A pleasure, Cap’n.” Jones left the attack center counting the extra money for jumping a rate.
“Roger, make sure your people are well rested over the next two days. When we do go after this guy, it’s going to be a bastard.”
“Aye, Captain.”
“Pat, get us up to periscope depth. We’re going to call this one into Norfolk right now. Earl, I want you thinking about what’s making that noise.”
“Right, Captain.”
While Mancuso drafted his message, Lieutenant Mannion brought the Dallas to periscope-antenna depth with an upward angle on the diving planes. It took five minutes to get from five hundred feet to just below the stormy surface. The submarine was subject to wave action, and while it was very gentle by surface ship standards, the crew noted her rocking. Mannion raised the periscope and ESM (electronic support measures) antenna, the latter used for the broad-band receiver designed to detect possible radar emissions. There was nothing in view — he could see about five miles — and the ESM instruments showed nothing except for aircraft sets, which were too far away to matter. Next Mannion raised two more masts. One was a reed-like UHF (ultrahigh frequency) receiving antenna. The other was new, a laser transmitter. This rotated and locked onto the carrier wave signal of the Atlantic SSIX, the communications satellite used exclusively by submarines. With the laser, they could send high-density transmissions without giving away the sub’s position.
“All ready, sir,” the duty radioman reported.
“Transmit.”
The radioman pressed a button. The signal, sent in a fraction of a second, was received by photovoltaic cells, read over to a UHF transmitter, and shot back down by a parabolic dish antenna towards Atlantic Fleet Communications headquarters. At Norfolk another radioman noted the reception and pressed a button that transmitted the same signal up to the satellite and back to the Dallas. It was a simple way to identify garbles.
The Dallas operator compared the received signal with the one he’d just sent. “Good copy, sir.”
Mancuso ordered Mannion to lower everything but the ESM and UHF antennae.
In Norfolk the first line of the dispatch revealed the page and line of the one-time-pad cipher sequence, which was recorded on computer tape in the maximum security section of the communications complex. An officer typed the proper numbers into his computer terminal, and an instant later the machine generated a clear text. The officer checked it again for garbles. Satisfied there were none, he took the printout to the other side of the room where a yeoman was seated at a telex. The officer handed him the dispatch.
The yeoman keyed up the proper addressee and transmitted the message by dedicated landline to COMSUBLANT Operations, half a mile away. The landline was fiber optic, located in a steel conduit under a paved street. It was checked three times a week for security purposes. Not even the secrets of nuclear weapons performance were as closely guarded as day-to-day tactical communications.
COMSUBLANT Operations
A bell went off in the operations room as the message came up on the “hot” printer. It bore a Z prefix, which indicated FLASH-priority status.
Z090414ZDEC
TOP SECRET THEO
FM: USS DALLAS
TO: COMSUBLANT
INFO: CINCLANTFLT
//NOOOOO//
REDFLEET SUBOPS
1. REPORT ANOMALOUS SONAR CONTACT ABOUT 0900Z 7DEC AND LOST AFTER INCREASE IN REDFLEET SUB ACTIVITY. CONTACT SUBSEQUENTLY EVALUATED AS REDFLEET SSN/SSBN TRANSITING ICELAND INSHORE TRACK TOWARDS ROUTE ONE. COURSE SOUTHWEST SPEED TEN DEPTH UNKNOWN.
2. CONTACT EVIDENCED UNUSUAL REPEAT UNUSUAL ACOUSTICAL CHARACTERISTICS. SIGNATURE UNLIKE ANY KNOWN REDFLEET SUBMARINE.
3. REQUEST PERMISSION TO LEAVE TOLL BOOTH TO PURSUE AND INVESTIGATE. BELIEVE A NEW DRIVE SYSTEM WITH UNUSUAL SOUND CHARACTERISTICS BEING USED THIS SUB. BELIEVE GOOD PROBABILITY CAN LOCATE AND IDENTIFY.
A lieutenant junior grade took the dispatch to the office of Vice Admiral Vincent Gallery. COMSUBLANT had been on duty since the Soviet subs had started moving. He was in an evil mood.