Piranha: Firing Point

The processed data — crowded curves and graphs and broadband waterfalls — were crammed into the center right display. He found the 6881, where a pulsing computer cursor outlined it, the narrowband three-dimensional graphs surrounded by thin lines of boxes as the computer outlined the noise to process, looking outward, seeking transients, nailing down the bearing to the vessel. The central god’s-eye view showed his own ship in the center, a blinking diamond symbol marking the estimated position of the enemy submarine.

“He’s much slower now, sir. The bearing rate is high left — he’s turning. Another sonar contact coming up also, sir. Contact WT-1, multiple contacts, surface warships, bearing 088, bearings very diffuse, a whole range of bearings to the east. On my mother’s blood, they’re everywhere. I’m tracking, must be, no, sir, over a hundred ships! I can’t—”

“Congratulations, you found the convoy, but what is ST-1 doing?”

“Um, he’s slowing and turning, steady on his new course.”

“Turn-count speed?”

“Eighteen clicks.”

He’s looking for us, Chu thought. Maybe he sniffed something at high speed, and he’s slowed down to get a better picture. “Men,” he said, “the 6881’s turn is most probably a routine sonar calibration maneuver. Everyone relax.” He smirked — he never thought he’d say those two words in the heat of this operation.

More time clicked off.

“ST-1 is turning again, sir, straight toward us, coming around. Could be moving into attack position. Admiral.”

Xhiu was losing his cool, Chu thought. He glanced significantly at Lo Sun, as if to say. Get over there and calm him the hell down. Lo walked quietly around the command console to stand behind the sensor console.

“Steady, Navigator. Weapons Officer, program tubes ten and eleven for target ST-1. Nagasaki II torpedoes, weapon ten programmed for ultraquiet swimout Weapon eleven for high-thrust gas-generator ejection with highspeed ship-to-target transit. Gentlemen, your attention, please. Prepare to attack submerged contact ST-1.”

USS ANNAPOLIS, SSN-760

“Sonar, Captain, classify sierra two four mwl”

There was no arguing with John George Patton when he had his blood up. Contrary to the intent of the U.S. Navy regulations, he maintained an easygoing, almost casual relationship with Demeers. The expert sonarman had been a frequent guest at Patton’s Sandbridge Beach house, where they ate grilled burgers and talked about how the Navy was going to hell, or at least they had until the new admiral had shown up to kick everyone’s ass in gear, as Demeers put it But when there was trouble, Patton’s formerly easy manner vanished with so little a trace that an observer would never have guessed that the two men had put away several dozen cases together.

At this moment it was strictly military discipline, officer to enlisted, the rank of 0–6 to E8.

Patton had the words on his lips, prepared to say! “Snapshot tube one.” Within ten seconds that would flood the number one tube, open the outer door, and launch down the bearing line to the intruder submarine.

Yet he couldn’t open the door until he had a definite hostile target for practical reasons — having an open door caused a now-induced resonance at high speed, like blowing over a bottle mouth. The whistle would scream out into the sea and announce their presence. Patton didn’t intend to open a tube door unless he was ready to shoot to kill, which he was, his knuckles going white on the stainless steel handrail of the conn platform.

The officer of the deck. Lieutenant Horburg, half stood, half kneeled on the leather seat at the second console of the BSY-4 row of computers, the row called the attack center. Furiously he dialed in a stack of dots, trying to use their two maneuvers to see what distance and speed of the target fit the data. He also needed to gauge where they’d be in the near future, say, five minutes, when a torpedo would be programmed to launch.

The solution was crude, but was coming in, showing the target 24,000 yards to the northeast, just outside the sector of sonar clutter from the surface task force.

Patton concentrated on the BSY panel, position two, waiting to see what fell out of Horburg’s computer game.

So far it looked like the target was zooming up to them at over 35 knots. Patton frowned, knowing that couldn’t be a lurking diesel boat, not with that speed. It had to be nuclear, but if it was hostile, why didn’t it slow down to be quiet and shoot at them when they didn’t suspect?

Only one reason, Patton thought. It wasn’t an enemy at all. It had to be the Santa Fe, the other escort submarine.

“Captain, Sonar aye, sierra two four is a submerged contact, distant, low signal-to-noise ratio, making forty knots on one seven-bladed screw, classified 688 class improved.”

“Captain, aye,” Patton called. “Designate sierra two four the USS Santa Fe:’ “Conn, Sonar, aye.”

“Supervisor to control.”

Demeers walked in, his shoulders slumping, a fresh bottle of Coke whooshing open as he unscrewed the cap.