Terminal Run

“No. We must let him go without letting him detect us. We will withdraw at a right angle to his track at a speed that will most quickly get us off his track while not so fast that we risk putting excessive noise in the water. We will continue withdrawing until Piranha is no longer closing range but beyond closest-point-of-approach and opening range. At that point we will slow and turn to fall into her baffles where there is minimum risk of detection. We will cautiously see where her signal-to-noise ratio drops to the threshold level, and trail her from there. At some point she will slow, so trailing her at maximum trail range will mean that when she does slow, we won’t run over her. When she slows, we may temporarily lose our signal on her until we close her position. Or she may turn to the south to follow the coast of Africa if she is on the way to the Indian Ocean, and we will continue to pursue her. Eventually she will need to go to periscope depth, and when she slows and goes shallow, that is when we will attack her.”

Yes, Krivak. Your tactics are sound indeed, if a bit cautious.

“We must be careful of this one, One. She is at the top of the order of battle, and she has capabilities that even the more modern Virginia-class does not have. She is a killer.”

The deck of the Piranha continued to tremble as the ship headed to the intercept point with the expected track of the Snare. At 1300 Zulu time, Captain Rob Catardi’s orders to the officer of the deck were to proceed to periscope depth, obtain their messages, and lock out Midshipman Pacino. For the first hour he would be required to float on the surface with his scuba gear and a life preserver. After sixty minutes, he would be allowed to inflate a life raft and climb in, and he would wait there for three more hours, the wait to allow Piranha to clear datum and avoid her position being given away by the youth. After a total wait of four hours, he would pull the pin on a Navy emergency locator beacon, which would alert a small U.S. Navy outpost in Monrovia, Liberia, which would send a rescue chopper. Pacino would also carry an international emergency locator beacon on his scuba harness, in case there was trouble, or in case the Navy beacon didn’t spur action, and if he activated that, a distress call would be sent to an overhead satellite, alerting the entire hemisphere of a sailor requiring rescue, and the nearest helicopter would come for him. Pacino had been lectured for ten minutes by Alameda to not even think about touching the international emergency beacon. Pacino looked mournfully around Alameda’s stateroom. His gear was packed, placed by Chief Keating into a neutrally buoyant waterproof canister for the trip to the surface. The wet suit the boat was issuing him hung near the door, and he would change into it immediately after lunch. He felt an in tense sorrow as he looked at the tidy stateroom, with all his things packed, the rack made with fresh linens. Only Alameda’s papers and books and computers were in her foldout desk. When he took a deep breath he could smell her scent, and he missed her already.

He never expected he would have felt this way at the end of the midshipman cruise. He had always imagined this moment to be like the first day of summer after a long school year, but it was more of an ending than a beginning. The ghosts of his father might not be gone, but were far enough in the background that he could thrive in this world, and suddenly he couldn’t wait for his first class year at the Academy to end so he could return to the Submarine Force, perhaps to the Piranha herself. Somehow, he promised himself, he would find Carrie Alameda, when she returned from this war, and see her again. He walked slowly to the wardroom for his last meal aboard. The officers stood behind their seats, waiting for the captain to arrive. When he did, he stood at the forward bulkhead and spoke.

“Officers, I have a presentation to make before lunch is served,” Catardi said. “Midshipman Pacino, could you please stand up here?”

Pacino blushed and walked to the front of the room. Alameda handed a package to Catardi, who unwrapped it and showed it to the room, which broke out into applause. It was a large plaque, with the ship’s emblem in brass relief, with a photograph of Piranha steaming at flank on the surface, her bow wave rising in fury over the bullet nose. The photo had been signed by every officer and chief aboard. Below the photograph was a brass engraving.