He listened a moment longer. "I don't know," he said. "It just sounds like… I don't know. Water rushing past."
"Bingo," Queensly said. "Give that blue-nosed dragon a see-gar!"
"Huh?"
" Virginia's current speed, Seaman Wallace, is… " He tapped at the controls again, then read what appeared in one corner of a console monitor. "Thirty-three point seven knots. And that, my friend, is flying. Virginia has sonar sensors all up and down her hull, and in the big dome up on the bow, of course. You are exactly right. You're hearing water rushing past those sensors at a good forty miles per hour. And brother, that makes such an unholy racket you can't hear a damned thing else."
"We're lucky to hear anything at all above eighteen knots," Evans put in. "Twelve is better."
"A lot better," Dyer said.
"And if the skipper really wants us to do some careful listening, he'll slow the boat to a crawl, or just hover in one place. When we're hunting a bad guy, it's a matter of moving a bit, stopping and listening, moving a bit more. Takes a lot of patience."
"My dad used to take me hunting in the woods, back in Pennsylvania," Wallace said. "You do a lot of just sitting and listening."
"Good analogy," Griswold said. "You don't want to make any noise and spook the deer. And you have to stop to really study the woods around you."
"We are hunters," Dyer pointed out. "Remember, Wallace. There's just two kinds of vessels — SSNs…"
"And targets. I know." He'd heard the old submariner's saying endlessly in sub school. "So, if we can't hear anything at this speed, how do I learn?"
"Simulations, Seaman Wallace," Queensly said. "Simulations… and the magic of computers." He tapped out a new command, replacing the waterfall noise with… a kind of a deep, hollow emptiness. "You did this in sub school, right?"
"Sure. Listening lessons, we called them."
"Right. You took some tests like this all the way back in boot camp, too. They had to find out who had good ears. The really talented ones, they send to sonar school. Like yours truly. Here. Try it with these." He handed Wallace a set of headphones.
With the phones on, Wallace still heard nothing but a kind of watery silence. Or… was that a kind of a deep, plaintive groaning in the distance? He tried to hear, tried to separate it from the background emptiness.
"Hear anything?" Queensly's voice sounded muffled and far off.
"I'm… not sure." His own voice sounded preternaturally loud, and curiously dead.
"Okay, I want you to do something for me. When I tell you… you're going to take in a deep breath for a count of four. Then you're going to hold it for a count of four. Then you'll let it out for a count of four. Then you'll hold it for a count of four. Then you'll repeat. We'll do that five or six times. Okay?"
"Uh… okay. Why?"
"It's an exercise I'm going to do with you quite a bit for the next few days. Just humor me, okay? Ready? I want you to take a few deep breaths first. Relax… relax. Just let everything go. Now, close your eyes. Stay relaxed. Let yourself just kind of sink down into the sound, okay? Now, breathe in… two… three… four. And hold… two… three… four. Breathe out… two… three… four. Hold… two… three… four. Breathe in… two… three… four… "
Wallace breathed as Queensly guided him through the exercise. The sonar tech's voice was monotonous, almost hypnotic, and Wallace felt as though he were sinking into that silent emptiness in the headset. Somehow, the silence was growing larger… and… louder? No, that wasn't it. But he was beginning to separate something like a sound from the background nothingness. A groan… followed by a popping, scratchy squeak, like a rusty hinge, unimaginably faint and far off.
"I hear it!" he said.
"That, Seaman Wallace, is what we call a biological. A whale, in fact, about a thousand miles off. Now here's another…"
And the listening lessons began in earnest.
11
"Steady as she goes," Garrett said over his headset.
"Steady as she goes, aye aye" came the response.
Virginia was on the surface once more, cruising slowly through the placid waters of the Uraga Strait. The headland of Sunosaki was well astern now, and the submarine had rounded Cape Kannon, picking her way with careful deliberation through a swarm of shipping and boats of every size, shape, and description. Directly ahead rose the bristling forest of masts, antennae, and U.S. naval buildings that was Fleet Activities, Yokosuka. A pilot boat led the way through the crowded shipping lanes.
Yokosuka lay on the Mura Peninsula, astride the entrance to Tokyo-wan—Tokyo Bay itself — and was right on the main drag leading to the ports of Yokohama, Kawasaki, Chiba, and Tokyo itself. Hundreds of ships were visible from Virginia's sail in all directions, from pleasure boats and fishing smacks up to a monstrous supertanker lumbering north a mile to starboard of the American sub.
Jorgensen stood beside him on the sail's bridge. "You know, sir, the crew think it's a bitch that they're not getting liberty."
"They can think anything they like, XO. But our orders don't cut us any slack. We're out of here tomorrow, zero-six hundred."
"Aye aye, Captain." He didn't look pleased.
"You know, XO… it's your job to be a bastard." Technically, the executive officer of a ship handled the routine responsibilities concerning the crew, all internal matters, leaving the captain free to think strategically and concern himself with more global matters. The way that usually played out, however, had the exec playing the villain, the guy who handed out the unpleasant news and details, the officer the men could freely hate.
"Yeah, I know. But I don't have to like it."
"No, you don't."
With a final blast from its whistle, the pilot boat sheered off. Pier Two was ahead and to port, a hundred yards off.
"Maneuvering, Captain. Come left three-zero degrees. Bring engines to dead slow."
"Maneuvering, aye aye. Come left three-zero degrees. Engines to dead slow."
"Line handling parties, man your stations."
Virginia entered Yokosuka's harbor as men clad in dungarees and the blue coveralls known as poopie suits filed up out of the hatches and formed up at bow and stern. Garrett judged the approach carefully, watching for just the right moment.
"Maneuvering, Sail. Engine astern, one half."
"Sail, Maneuvering. Engine astern, one half." He felt the throb of the engines change pitch and timbre, felt the slight jolt as Virginia's forward speed was negated. The sub still possessed considerable momentum, however, and continued to drift forward, slowing now with each passing second.
"Helm, do you have the dock?"
"Captain, Helm. We have the dock in sight."
"Very well, then. Let's see what video gaming can do."
He heard Lieutenant Lanesky's dry laugh. "Will do, Skipper."
On other submarines, Garrett or another officer would have talked the submarine into dock, calling for left or right rudder. On Virginia, however, the helmsman and helm officer could watch the approach on the TV feed from the Photonics mast. The helmsman would be steering the boat in with his joystick — hence Garrett's crack about video games. There were those who argued that a generation of American kids raised on such games would transform the face of war. Virginia was one small proof of that argument.