Phoenix Sub Zero

Sharef impatiently waved Ahmed to silence while bending over a video display. Ahmed studied it, unable to make out anything useful in spite of being trained in the latest fighter cockpit computer weapons systems.

One of the ship’s more senior officers, a commander with tawkidi written on his breast pocket, appeared next to Ahmed, as if it were his duty to brief Sihoud and Ahmed. He spoke in a hushed tone, “We’ve detected a hostile coalition submarine in the narrows up ahead. Probably an American Los Angeles-class.

He’s blocking our exit. He probably does not know we are here.” Sihoud said nothing, just stood frowning at the computer screens and the officers’ backs. Ahmed tried to find the general’s eyes but Sihoud didn’t acknowledge him.

“What are we going to do?”

“We aren’t close enough yet. In a few minutes, when we are closer, we’ll be launching a Nagasaki torpedo salvo at the coalition sub.”

Ahmed frowned. “Why can’t we fire the torpedo now?”

“We can, but the captain does not wish to give away our position by firing —torpedoes are noisy. If we launch from too great a distance, the target may hear and turn to run. A torpedo in a tail chase sometimes catches up, but sometimes it runs out of fuel before it can go into attack mode, and the sub escapes.”

“Then chase him and fire again.” “We might not detect him again,” Tawkidi said.

“Why not? You have this time,” Ahmed said, his voice rising.

Sharef turned and glared at him. Ahmed felt his face flush.

“The sea does funny things with sound,” Tawkidi said.

“Detecting him now may be easy, but detecting him six hours from now may be impossible when the sun heats the water near the surface and changes the temperature profile and makes the biologies become active.” Ahmed shook his head. It was like being told his aircraft radar only worked on good days. “… torpedo launch transient …” an officer at one of the panels said quietly to Sharef, his earphone removed from one ear. “Incoming torpedo from the target, sir.”

Sharef picked up a set of headphones and listened while staring at another display panel, the patterns on it different but still meaningless to Ahmed.

“Prepare to insert a computer delouse,” Sharef commanded.

“Select the Dash Five in tube eleven. Ship control, engine stop.”

“Ready, sir.”

“Engine stopped.”

“Insert the delouse!” Sharef ordered.

“Shutting down now,” the mechanical officer called to Sharef from the aft starboard corner of the room. “Reactor is — shut down. Battery life is thirty percent.”

The ventilation fans spun to a halt in the room and the heat of the computers and men immediately caused the temperature to soar. Sweat broke out on Ahmed’s forehead, a drop forming on the end of his nose, his armpits wet.

Conversations in the room stopped. Nothing seemed to be happening, except the officers continued to stare at the computer videos.

“Tawkidi, what the hell is going on?” Ahmed asked, careful to keep his voice down.

“The coalition sub launched a torpedo at us. We were wrong about him not hearing us,” Tawkidi himself stared at the video screens, never looking at Ahmed or Sihoud.

“And? Why did you shut down the reactor? Won’t the torpedo hit us?”

“It might.” Tawkidi held his finger over his lips, silencing Ahmed. Ahmed finally saw Sihoud turn and look at him.

“Status of the Dash Five?” Sharef glanced at the bulkhead chronometer.

“Unit is warm, sir, bow cap open, emissions set at ninety decibels. Commodore, this is the only unit. If he shoots again, we have no more.”

Sharef nodded, outwardly certain-looking, inwardly doubting one Dash Five on a journey like this would be enough.

“Shoot tube eleven.”

“Fire eleven … tube indicates normal shot.”

“Turn the Dash Five to course one zero zero, increase the emission to 120 decibels.”

“Turn inserted, sir, passing north, passing east, steady on one zero zero, emitted noise at 120 dee bee.”

Another prolonged silence in the room. The ship was airless, hot and incredibly humid. Ahmed’s face and hair were soaked, the sweat filling his eyes. Suddenly he was acutely aware that there was a half-kilometer of seawater between him and the sky above.

“Turn the Dash Five to one four zero and increase to 130 decibels,” Sharef ordered. The officer on the panel acknowledged, played with the computer, and reported his results.

“Second torpedo launch from the target. Commodore.”

“Commander,” Ahmed said to Tawkidi, “please tell us what’s going on without my having to beg you, if you please.”

“The commodore launched an evasion device programmed to sound like this ship — the Dash Five — louder than this ship but otherwise identical. Meanwhile the propulsion plant is shut down and quiet and we drift silently while the Dash Five confuses the torpedoes.”

“Aren’t you going to shoot back?”

“First things first. Once the incoming weapons are fooled, we’ll shoot. Otherwise the enemy sub could steer the torpedoes and hit us. The commodore invented this tactic. It is brilliant, if untested.”