Meltzer acknowledged. Challenger banked into a gentle turn to starboard.
Jeffrey called up his weapons-status page. “Fire Control, pull the Mark Eighty-eights from tubes five and six and replace with high-explosive Mark Forty-eight Improved ADCAPs.”
Bell relayed commands. “Sir, why ADCAPs? Their punch is weak and their crush depth is shallow.”
“Two reasons, Fire Control. In this ridge terrain, first-detection and engagement ranges might be very short. We need the option to shoot without a self-kill from our own atomic warheads. Hence the high-explosive fish. And the von Scheer needs to go shallow to launch her missiles.” Jeffrey glanced at the photo of Ernst Beck he still kept windowed on his console. “That’s Beck’s Achilles’ heel. Shallow, we can use ADCAPs.”
“Understood, sir.”
Meltzer reported he’d reached Jeffrey’s designated way point.
Jeffrey eyed a depth gauge and the gravimeter. Challenger began to rise, on a level keel and with no forward speed.
“Fire Control, pull the Mark Eighty-eights from tubes seven and eight. Replace with Long Term Mine Reconnaissance System units.” The LMRSs were unmanned undersea vehicles — remote-controlled off-board probes; they could be fitted with various specialized black boxes. “Missionconfigurable load-out is to be modules for antisubmarine passive sonar. I intend to use them as early-warning detection aids against the von Scheer. For stealth, control both units by fiber-optic tether.” The probes could use an acoustic link instead, but the digital bursts might be heard by a sophisticated enemy.
“Understood, aye aye,” Bell said.
Jeffrey watched his weapons-status screen. The color coding for tubes five through eight changed from green — ready to fire — to red: not ready. Then tubes five through eight had their outer doors closed and the seawater drained. The inner-tube-door icons popped open. The Mark 88s were disarmed by the torpedo-room crew, and pulled from the tubes and placed on the storage racks by the hydraulic autoloader mechanisms. ADCAPs, and off-board probes, were presented to the tube breach doors. The new units slid into the tubes, and the inner breach doors closed.
“Sir,” Meltzer said, “my depth is three thousand feet.”
“Very well, Helm. Fire Control, make tubes seven and eight ready in all respects including opening outer doors.”
Bell acknowledged. He relayed orders to flood and equalize the pressure in the tubes. The outer doors slid open.
Jeffrey used his light pen. “Position the two probes here, and here.” He marked places to the north and south of the seamount peak. “Hold them at a depth of three thousand feet.” That was their crush-depth limit, and also put these listening outposts near the sweet spot of the deep sound channel.
“Data preset.”
“Very well, Fire Control. Firing point procedures, LMRS units in tubes seven and eight.”
“Ready.”
“Tube seven, shoot.”
“Tube seven fired electrically.”
“Unit is running normally,” Milgrom reported.
“Tube eight, shoot.”
“Tube eight fired electrically.”
“Unit is running normally.”
“Very well, Sonar, Fire Control… Helm, on autohover, make your depth five thousand feet.”
Meltzer acknowledged. Jeffrey watched his screens as Challenger descended beside the stark and jagged basalt face of the seamount. Meanwhile, on the tactical plot, the icons for the probes moved toward their designated places. COB took control of both probes from his console.
“Helm,” Jeffrey ordered, “on auxiliary maneuvering units, rotate the ship onto heading two two five.” Southwest.
Meltzer acknowledged. The auxiliary thrusters were mounted at bow and stern, and helped the ship navigate in tight quarters. Safely below the two probes, Challenger gently pivoted while the fiber-optic tethers to the probes continued playing out. Jeffrey did not want to break the tethers to those probes.
“Helm, back one-third, make turns for four knots.”
Challenger eased away from the seamount face and the probes, keeping her bow — and her torpedo tubes — aimed in their direction.
“Helm, all stop. On autohover, take us to the bottom.”
The tension in the control room rose as Challenger went much deeper. Jeffrey watched as a gauge showed the outside pressure increase more with every foot.
“Hull popping,” Milgrom reported at nine thousand feet.
It couldn’t be helped. The ridge terrain should help mask the ship from von Scheer — Jeffrey hoped. “Very well, Sonar.”
“Hull popping,” Milgrom said again at eleven thousand feet.
“Very well.” The rote of standard reports and acknowledgments always went on, especially entering combat. Crisp and clear two-way dialogue, with no chance for awful mistakes or missed information, was indispensable.
Nearing fifteen thousand feet, Jeffrey felt the deck under his feet begin to buckle slightly as Challenger’s ceramic-composite hull was compressed. COB worked his console to maintain the ship’s neutral buoyancy because as she was squashed in from all sides, she displaced less water and acted heavier. COB expelled water from the variable ballast tanks to lighten the ship. At such great depth, the hardworking pumps made noise. This too can’t be helped.
Dust and crumbling heat insulation fell from the squeezed-in overhead as Challenger descended more. Extra damage-control parties were already waiting in key places throughout the ship, since Challenger had been at battle stations and rigged for deep submergence for some time. Even so, crewmen squirmed. People brushed the dust and insulation off their consoles and their clothes. Jeffrey did this too, as casually as he could, to set an example. But he knew that, three miles down, the slightest leak could be catastrophic. He saw some people sweating despite the cold air used to cool all the ship’s electronics. Everyone grew very hushed, speaking in whispers if they spoke at all, and moving as little as possible: the hull compression so deep forced deck sound-isolation rafts and machine-vibration damping mounts to make hard contact, spoiling much of Challenger’s normal quieting.
Jeffrey realized his own hands felt ice-cold. He ordered the air circulation fans turned off — his excuse to himself was to quiet the ship even more. Quickly the compartment grew stuffy and humid, from so many overexcited bodies in close proximity.
“Sir,” Meltzer reported, “my depth is fifteen thousand feet.”
“Very well, Helm… Fire Control, Sonar, now we wait.”
CHAPTER 39
Ernst Beck’s ship was at battle stations and the Zentrale was rigged for red. Karl Stissinger, the einzvo, sat beside the captain at the command console. Baron von Loringhoven stood in the aisle, observing.
“My intention,” Beck stated, “is to let the tactical situation itself reduce uncertainties. Since it must be clear to Fuller that we’re approaching along the Walvis Ridge, we can expect to meet him there. His best strategy is to sit in ambush at ultraquiet and force us to remain on the move, giving him the sonar advantage. He has to be somewhere ahead of us, to stay between us and our missile launch point against the target convoy.” Beck used his light pen on the nautical chart and gravimeter display on his console. His markings were reproduced on Stissinger’s screens, and on the digital displays on the forward bulkhead used by the pilot and copilot.