The Lotus Eaters (59 page)

You could cut the stress with a knife, and the Tauran—really the Gallic—battle group was still nearly twenty miles away.

From his command chair, mounted on a low dais overlooking the stations of the crew, to either side of the sub's bridge and forward, under the main screen, Chu followed the
Orca
's progress on an electronic sea chart. The other sub moved at a speed of twenty-one knots, so said the display, which speed the
Meg
matched. This was slow enough for the
Orca
to have no practically detectable sound of its own, through the thermal layer that separated the two. Only the clicker on the sub sounded, as it sailed two hundred meters up and about eight thousand forward.

Though much progress had been made, over the last few decades, in stealthing surface warships, they were still much noisier than submarines. Even here, below the thermal layer, the noise of the battle group and the frigate moving to meet it were detectable enough for the sonar man, aided by computer, to mark their positions on the screen with a considerable degree of certainty.

"But I still haven't heard
shit
out of the sub that's escorting that battle group, skipper," sonar announced softly through the boom mike that connected him to the rest of the on-duty crew. The sonar man, Antonio Auletti, thought,
And if that doesn't worry you, it sure as shit worries me. Not that I expect to be able to do much about it. Though it's not, I suppose, as if we were sailing unarmed.

"Okay," said Chu, "
Orca
's on her own. Set intercept course for the carrier."

The torpedo man didn't expect to be used, this cruise, and so sat back in his very comfortable chair—comfortable enough to allow sleeping at battle stations if one cared to put it into its reclined position—with his fingers intertwined behind his head. His control board, in any case, showed nothing but green, fourteen lights for fourteen torpedoes carried external to the pressure hull, just inside the oil-smooth outer fairing.

Seated behind the weapons station, Miguel Yermo,
Orca
's chief of sonar could hear the Gallic flotilla much more clearly than could Auletti on the
Meg
. This was to be expected, as the
Orca
was considerably closer to the surface and, more importantly, above the thermal layer under which
Meg
sailed. Sadly for Yermo, he, too, hadn't the first, faintest clue as to the location of the submarine presumed to be escorting
Charlemagne
. He didn't like that lack of knowledge any better than did Auletti, presumptively still trailing his own boat by about eight kilometers.

And I have to guess at that, because a) my bloody sonar is primarily oriented forward, b) the towed array is just that, towed behind us, and c) the
Orca
is
not
using its clicker and is as quiet as . . . well . . . as quiet as if it wasn't even there.

And . . . what the hell's that?
Yermo wrapped one hand over his headphones and pressed, listening intently.

"Skipper I've got sonar contact . . . faint . . . about . . . a thousand feet down, under the layer . . . bearing . . . one-seven-seven . . . three to three and a half kilometers range." Yermo's finger requested the sonar computer to match the sounds coming off the contact. "She's moving fast to pass underneath us. I make it an Amethyst Class, skipper."

"That assumes the recordings the Volgans sold us are accurate," answered the
Orca
's captain, a young man named Quijana with a very fatalistic outlook on life. Truth be told, Quijana was quite certain he should have been dead years ago, along with the entire crew—minus himself, of course—of his first boat, the
Santisima Trinidad
. Only luck and a commander who wanted to save what could be saved had spared him.

"I believe the Volgans, skipper," Yermo replied. "And anyway, what other class would it be with a Gallic fleet? The Pike Class isn't due to launch for another two years."

"Fair enough," Quijana agreed. "What's she doing away from her carrier, though?"

The XO of the boat, Dario Garcia, ventured a guess. "Training, skipper. The
Amethyst
Class is going to try to break through the cordon to get in a position for a shot at the
Charlemagne
. Hell, we're slated to do the same thing next year with
Dos Lindas
."

"Yeah . . . or maybe they're looking for us."

Garcia thought not. "Skipper, with the clicker going nobody has to
look
for us. They already know where we are."

The Exec thought about that for a moment, then said, "But, you know, since we
are
that noisy, when we want to be, they really shouldn't be ignoring us like they are. It's odd."

Quijana nodded. "Mark the sub as target seven," he ordered. In a few seconds the screen updated with the designation.

"Skipper," Yermo said, "the frigate that was going to meet the battle group and two of its own escorts are heading toward the sub."

Quijana looked again at the screen and saw the targets designated as "two," "five," and "six," changing course to intercept the submarine labeled as "seven."

"And I'm picking up some noise that suggests one or more helicopters enroute, too," Yermo added. "Ummm . . . skipper?"

"Yeah, I know. If they're heading toward the Gallic sub they're also heading toward us. Lemme think, for a bit."

The control room, though crowded and cramped, was also calm and fully collected. They were a professional crew, with what every man aboard would have agreed was a first rate captain in command.

"Any sign that the target sub is moving away?" asked the captain of a fresh faced, young deck officer.

"So far nothing, sir," the deck officer replied. "They can't be so ignorant as to believe we don't hear them, can they?"

The captain, medium height and graying at the temples, raised one hand to his jaw and commenced tapping his fingers lightly across thin lips.

"Is it possible they don't hear us—or the escorts or the helicopters—all heading this way?" the captain asked.

The deck officer frowned. "After that burst of speed we put on," he said, "they've got to know we're here. And Intel has said the Balboans brought Volgan and maybe improved that through their Yamatan or Zioni contacts. Volgan may not be of the best but it's plenty good enough to hear everything but"—the deck officer put out one hand and waggled his fingers—"
maybe
the helicopters off of
Charlemagne
."

"Is it possible they don't know how good our sensors are?" the captain asked.

"Why do you ask, sir?"

"Because Intel also said that every member of a Balboan submarine crew is a graduate of something like our own commando course. That means they're a very determined bunch. And if a very determined bunch is pressing in to engagement range after having been made, that worries me a great deal.

"And then, too, when you think about the rogue nature of the whole Balboan state, an army that owns a country . . . renting themselves out as mercenaries . . . their long standing policy of enmity with everything decent and liberal . . . uncontrollable . . . willful . . . and war is coming, where
Charlemagne
will be a critical asset."

The captain made a sudden decision. "Ready four torpedoes," he said. "Rig for extreme silent running. Bring us back above the thermal. And then bring us into a three hundred and sixty degree turn."

"Sir?"

"I want to come up on their tail again."

"Sir, they don't carry torpedoes."

"You know, son," the captain said, putting an affectionate hand on his officer's shoulder, "I could believe one research or drug interdiction sub might be built with no weapons. But nobody builds what amounts to a factory to make a class of submarines with no arms. No market for it, you see."

"But Intel—"

"Fuck Intel. They've been wrong before. And they're just the sort to be right about the quasi commando training—that can be
seen
—but utterly wrong about whether that sub is armed, since that's harder to see."

"They could intend for the subs to be commando carriers," the deck officer said, not unreasonably.

"Do you want to bet your life on that?" the captain countered. "The life of the
Charlemagne
?"

"Put that way, sir, no." The deck officer turned from the captain and began to give the orders.

Auletti turned his head over one should and twisted to look directly at Chu. "The frog sub's disappeared, skipper. No trace."

"Well
find
it."

Auletti gave his captain one of those looks that as much as said,
Don't be an ass. Sir.

Chu nodded. "Yeah, right. Belay that."

Aleman suggested, "We might be able to pick them up again if we come up above the thermal, assuming they went above it."

Shaking his head, Chu answered, "Sure, and they might hear us. We're quiet, but you never know. No, we'll maintain course to intercept
Charlemagne
."

"Lost 'em, captain," Yermo told Quijana. "I think maybe they went under the layer."

Quijana nodded while thinking,
Man, ever since Pedraz booted me off the
Trinidad
I've felt like a fugitive from the law of averages. And my instructions didn't cover this. What's that frog sub doing? What would
I
be doing in his shoes?

"I've got a better signature on that surface disturbance, sir," Yermo said. "It's definitely at least one helicopter . . . and I've got a
plonk
from a sonar buoy. Active sonar pinging now."

"Don't sweat the buoy," Quijana said. "I doubt they need it for us, with the clicker going. If I had to make a guess, I'd say they're looking for that sub we lost track of."
Of course, that assumes the frog sub is still playing a game with her own battle group. I'm
really
getting uncomfortable with all this.

Then again, my mission is to provide cover for the
Meg
to get under the fleet. Have I already done that? I could use the underwater phone to find out but if I do the frogs will know there's another sub out here. One they hadn't a clue to. That might panic them. Hell, it would panic me. This is . . .

Yermo interrupted Quijana's train of thought. "Captain, I've got another
plonk
. High frequency noise but not sonar. One of the helicopters, if there is more than one up there, is talking to the frog sub. And . . . there goes another
plonk
. Skipper, I'm sure there's more than one helicopter up there."

"What the fuck do you mean, 'there's only one sub down there'?"
Diamant's
captain demanded on the helicopter that had dropped the sonobuoy. "I can hear the bastard . . . Oh, you see us doing a three-sixty
under
the layer, but you can't see them cruising straight above the layer. Oh, you can hear the clicking from the defective water jet? But no active return signal? That's bizarre."

"Could be the material," the deck officer ventured. "The plastic we know makes up the hull might give a poor return signal."

"But
that
poor?" the captain questioned.

"Maybe the sonobuoy's defective," the deck officer offered, reasonably.

"No . . . no, they see us well enough." The captain went back to tapping his lips. He ceased his tapping and put the underwater telephone transceiver back to his head. "Relay to
Charlemagne
," he said. "I want a line of passive sonobuoys dropped in front of that sub. If he doesn't turn back from those it will establish a pretty good case that he intends to intercept the battle group with hostile intent. I also need permission from the admiral to fire if they do pass that line. Tell the admiral I am loading tubes."

Now
that
I heard
, thought Auletti. "Captain Chu, the Amethyst Class is flooding tubes. Location on screen now."

Chu hadn't taken his eyes from the screen lately. He saw the Gallic submarine reappear as his target "Five" (because
Meg
, being under the layer, didn't have as clear a picture of the surface as
Orca
did.

"This shit has just gotten way too serious," was Chu's pronouncement. "Quijana," he whispered, "I think we've already proved our point. You can turn around and go home any time now."

Auletti said, "Sir, the
Orca
's stopped . . . or maybe just turned off its clicker. I think they must have heard the tubes being flooded."

Chu shook his head. "No, they didn't turn off their clicker. Quijana's the literal sort. His orders were to use his clicker continuously while moving under power. He'll do that right up to the point where it means self destruction . . . and maybe past that point. Maybe he'll be clever and stop for a bit.

"Continue on course for the Gallic battle group."

"All stop," Quijana ordered, as soon as he was informed that the Gallic submarine was arming itself. The clicker was electronically, although not mechanically, tied in to the drive system, to the extent that it would stop clicking if the jet pumps stopped, or increase or slow its rate of clicking if the sub's speed went up or down.

And now what? They're nuclear, with maybe two or three months rations aboard. I'm not; I can't replenish my air anything like that long; and we'd all starve long before he does. Fuck.

Garcia walked over to stand next to Quijana's command chair. "If it comes to it, skipper," the Exec whispered, "The bitch is already in line with our rear tubes. At this range"—the main screen indicated the Gallic sub was less than a kilometer astern—"she'd hardly know what hit her if we use the supercavitating torpedo we've got back there."