Terminal Run

The display screen showed a chart of the Atlantic Ocean north of the equator, the Canadian coast on the left, the European landmass on the right. A blue line connected Groton, Connecticut, with a dot in mid-Atlantic labeled point november.

The navigator pointed to the display. “The chart depicts our PIM coming out of Groton toward Point November. We have a detour on the way to the Indian Ocean, a major operation that needs to be done before we leave the Atlantic. Somewhere in the Atlantic is the U.S. robotic hunter-killer sub Snare. Many of you remember our last exercise with her.” The wardroom filled with angry murmurs, the ship’s officers resentful of the tactics of the automated submarine. “Quiet, please. Apparently something has gone very wrong with the Snare. She’s out of communication and will not respond. In the other services, the standard operating procedure with an automated combat node that is not responding to orders is to send the unit a self-destruct signal. That is not possible in this case, because Snare carries a nuclear reactor, and a self-destruct could spread enough curies of radioactive waste to kill a moderate-sized ecosphere, not to mention the warheads of the plasma weapons, which would not only be hazardous to the environment but would be quite a prize for an enterprising salvage team to obtain for a terrorist group. So that’s where Piranha comes in. We’re the destruct system. Our mission is to find Snare and put her down, at a location we will report to squadron so they can salvage any un detonated warheads and clean up the nuclear mess from the reactor.”

The wardroom erupted as several junior officers shot questions at Crossfield and others commented to themselves.

“Peace, gentlemen,” Crossfield said. “We have no intel on this submarine’s position, and it’s a damned big ocean. So we’restarting at Point November and doing an outward spiral search. At some point squadron will give us an intel update, with some data on the Snare’s position, and we’ll vector in on it.”

Pacino studied the plans of the robotic submarine opponent, fascinated. Crossfield detailed the robot ship’s capabilities, emphasizing that the ship was expected to be quiet and unpredictable. And that was when Catardi chimed in.

“There’s more news here, officers,” he said, his face a grave mask of concern. “Since the Snare is out of control, the assumption being made by ComSubDevRon 12 is that it has become paranoid. Any attempt to approach it may result in an attack. As of this moment we are to assume that Snare is a hostile combatant. It may have even been able to find out that we were sent to kill it. If so, while we’researching for it, it’ll be searching for us. This robot could be in our baffles with open torpedo tube doors, getting ready to put us on the bottom.”

The room was silent for a moment.

“That is all,” Crossfield said. “XO?”

“We’ll have a tactical meeting in the wardroom every afternoon watch at thirteen hundred, starting today,” Schultz said. “Other than that meeting, you and your men have orders to get as much rest as possible. We will be rigging for a modified ultra quiet with the only exception the galley. I want this crew tiptoeing, no stereos, no heavy maintenance, and no bullshit. Everyone got that?”

The officers nodded.

“That’s all I have, Officers.” Catardi stood and left, and Schultz dismissed the wardroom.

Pacino was still staring at the display when the officers filed out of the room and Crossfield turned off the computerized image. Alameda snarled at him, bringing him back to the present. “Mr. Pacino, this may be a war operation, but I recommend you get working on your diving officer qualifications. You’reno good to us unless you can stand a watch on your own.” She opened a safe and handed him a Write Pad computer. “Diving officer manual is loaded aboard along with the standard operating procedures. You need to know all of that cold before you go on watch at noon. You’ll be diving officer under instruction on my watch section I recommend you don’t screw it up.”

Alameda’s radio beeped. “Engineer,” she said into it.

“Yes sir, on the way, sir.” She frowned at Pacino as she left the room. He took a deep breath and turned on the computer and began studying the main ballast system.

One deck below, Lieutenant Alameda knocked on the captain’s stateroom door.

“You called, sir?”

Catardi was reclining in his command chair. “Yes, Eng. I just wanted your opinion on our young midshipman,” he said, looking up at her. Alameda froze, wondering if a reprimand was coming. Could the captain know her thoughts about the midshipman?

“He seems a quick study. Captain, and motivated besides,” she said, hoping she was not blushing. “And he seems to take the punishment of being a nonqual in stride — I’ve yet to see him complain. Even after he was put up to kissing the starboard main engine last night.”

“You’re pretty tough on the kid, Eng.”

“Yes, sir. Should I ease up on him?”