Deep Sound Channel (22 page)

"Okay," Ilse said, "the glow's fading now. That says the wave's coming."

"Ten psig," Meltzer said. "Twelve."

"Let it keep overtaking us," Ilse said.

"Fifteen psig."

"That's a twenty-foot wave," Jeffrey said.

"Eighteen psig," Meltzer said.

The destroyer pinged them again, from much closer. Ilse could hear its sounds now through the hull, the scream of gas turbines, the syncopated churning of twin five-blade props.

"Get ready to put on some speed," Ilse said. "Twenty-two psig."

"Jesus," Jeffrey said, "a rogue wave. This one's at least thirty-five feet."

"Full speed ahead!" Ilse shouted. "Come up by ten feet!" The acceleration threw her rump backward. Still glued to the 'scope, she said, "Stand by to spout." "Stand by to spout, aye," Meltzer said.

"The glow's gotten much brighter," Ilse said.

"A searchlight," Jeffrey said. "Don't look right at it—they might see some glint."

"Come up two more feet," Ilse said. She flicked her wrist again, aiming the 'scope more toward the glow, the objective lens at a safe oblique angle.

They breached and she saw the destroyer, all 150 meters, all too clear through the bloom-control image, riding the trough with the ASDS. Big gun at the bow aimed right at her, missile launchers behind, a torpedo tube mount farther aft. The high bridge, the mast, tall air intakes, the smokestack. Low helo deck at the stern. The helos were gone—they must be up flying. But people were out next to drums in a rack.

The searchlight swept past in the rain, came back, and fixed on her.

"Spout!" she whispered as loud as she could. "Down 'scope now, now, now!" The harsh fluting sounded, then the image grew dark as the mast folded back and they plunged through the preceding wave.

"Now go deep," Ilse said, "like we're feeding." "How deep?" Jeffrey said.

"To six hundred feet if you can. As steeply as possible, quick."

"Pilot," Jeffrey said, "make your depth six hundred feet. Forty-five degrees down bubble smartly."

"Make my depth six hundred feet, aye," Meltzer said. "Forty-five degrees down bubble, aye."

The deck tilted forward and Ilse almost slipped. The 'scope handle banged on her head.

"Commander," the SEAL copilot said, "aspect change on Master 19. Blade rate is increasing too."

"What the hell's going on?" Clayton called, his voice low and clipped on the intercom. Ilse watched the destroyer's TMA. A new dot appeared but off-center. Then came a second, a third.

She saw Jeffrey reach for the mike. "The destroyer is turning away." Jeffrey stared at the display from the starboard side-mounted high-frequency sonar. On low-power tight-beam it swept back and forth, gradually building a

picture. The old wreck loomed large, longer and higher than the ASDS with its tow.

"That's a nice chunk of non-degaussed metal out there," the copilot said. "Some merchie'

s misfortune, our gain."

"Mmph," Jeffrey said. "She must have foundered and then landed upright. I wonder if anyone drowned."

Ilse shrugged. "Five miles from shore, with this brisk a current . . . storms here brew up pretty fierce."

"Let me hear the wreck's flow noise," Jeffrey said. The SEAL punched some keys and a low rush and hiss filled the air.

"Any backwash or eddies?" Jeffrey said.

Meltzer took his hand off the joy stick and waited. Jeffrey watched the INS.

"Negative, sir," Meltzer said. "Not this close-in on its downstream side. ASDS holding position."

Jeffrey turned to Ilse. "Questions or comments?" "No, it's just like we planned."

"Then let's get moving," Jeffrey said. "Lord knows who's watching us now." Jeffrey went aft to the transport compartment. Ilse and the SEAL chief followed. The other SEALs looked up from checking their gear. "We've arrived," Jeffrey said. "Way Point Zulu. Aptly named I should think."

Clayton smiled. "King Shaka would be proud. . . . Let's get you and Ilse outfitted." Clayton helped Jeffrey don all his swim apparatus and flak jacket, then assisted Ilse. Jeffrey strapped on the rest of the stuff he could wear in the water: survival knife on his left leg—really a tool, not a weapon—K-bar fighting knife on his right, titanium doubleedge dive knife on his left arm above his keypad, and of course his inflatable buoyancy compensator, which doubled as a life vest. Last of all came his weight belt, so it could come off first just in case. He put on his mask, tugging the straps, and checked out its head-up display.

Everyone drew breaths through their enhanced Draegers, to verify the regulators and mixed-gas supply. The raiding party crammed into the lockout compartment, Jeffrey and Ilse and all seven SEALs with equipment. Someone dogged the transport compartment hatch. Jeffrey turned to Meltzer, the stay-behind, who looked back from his pilot's position. " You know the drill," Jeffrey said. "Act like a whale, be here for the rendezvous."

"Aye aye, sir," Meltzer said.

"See if you can breach for long enough to copy the message traffic for Challenger, and scout around in case we're near a Boer ASW safety lane."

"Understood, Commander," Meltzer said.

"In fact," Jeffrey said, "when you have a chance, get in touch with Challenger by longrange secure acoustic link. Tell them I recommend deploying both the LMRSs, to scope out the minefield more while they're waiting for us. Be careful, but pop up your ESM

mast now and then, to grab some electronic intel and help our mother ship triangulate on contacts."

Meltzer nodded. He closed the forward hatch and dogged it from the other side. " Beginning equalization," his intercom voice echoed inside the sphere. A hissing noise started as air was pumped in. Jeffrey and the others kept swallowing, squeezing their noses and blowing, to clear their sinuses and ears. The hissing went on and on—once or twice the chamber creaked.

Finally Meltzer came on again. "Chamber's equalized to one six five feet saltwater. You'

re now breathing six atmospheres absolute. You're cleared to open the bottom hatch. Good luck."

Clayton reached to the bottom hatch, spun the wheel, and let it slowly drop open. Beneath them, rippling slightly, was a pool, the pitch-black ocean.

"I want to see everyone's cyalume hoop," Clayton said. "Okay, check your buddies one last time, then check your regulators again. Start using them, get out of this nitrogen." The regulators had built-in diaphragms open to the ambient environment. A series of springs, reducing valves, 0-rings, and pistons fed each swimmer gas on demand at a pressure in exact harmony with whatever their depth. Jeffrey knew this had all better work right, else their lungs would collapse or explode.

Clayton checked Ilse, the SEAL chief checked Jeffrey, then Clayton and the chief checked each other. Jeffrey watched in silence while Clayton surveyed the rest of the team, buddied in a pair and a threesome. When all was in order, Clayton positioned his mask, put on his flippers, and dropped chest-deep into the hole.

Treading water casually, he looked up and pulled off his mouthpiece. He exhaled deeply, then took a breath. "We're ten feet from the bottom, remember. Be careful, don't leave any tracks in the sand." He redonned his mouthpiece and sank, and the chief followed quickly.

The chief reappeared in a minute. "We're ready. Watch out for nocturnal eels." He popped down again.

Jeffrey and Ilse went midway in the group. Jeffrey sat on the hatch coaming, fastened his big combat swim fins, held his mask and mouthpiece securely in place, and rolled forward.

The water was sixty-five degrees Fahrenheit, cool, comfortable in moderate doses with the protection of snug bodysuits. Finally the last SEAL was down.

"Grab the line, people." Clayton's voice, now quacky from high-pressure heliox, rang through transducers at Jeffrey's temples. Jeffrey reached up and groped with his hand. Good, got it, the rope that led back to the stern.

The big hatch swung closed, killing the red battle light. Jeffrey saw eight eerie cyalume glows, greenish,

plus his own on his arm, but nothing more past his amber mask display. The water appeared fairly clear here, as Ilse had predicted.

"Take a minute, get acclimated," Clayton said.

Jeffrey steadied his breathing. He realized he was starting to sink, so compacted was he by the crush of the water—he let a smidgen of gas into his soft-pack redundant-bladder buoyancy compensator. He felt for the flat underbelly of the ASDS as a reference point, then floated horizontally.

Jeffrey brought his free hand to the flexible part of his mask, pinched his nose through the rubber, and swallowed. He unsealed his nostrils and exhaled into the mask. There, that's better. It took care of the Squeeze, helping his body adjust. It was years since he'd been down this far, outside an SSN hull.

"Comms check, status check, sound off," Clayton said.

"One, good to go," the first shooter said.

When Jeffrey's turn came, he said, "Four, good to go," distorted by the helium's high speed of sound, filling his mouthpiece and larynx. Ilse was Five, Clayton Six. Finally the last SEAL said, "Nine, good to go." The digitized gertrude was working. Jeffrey wondered idly if it could somehow be programmed to compensate for the effect of the gas on their voices. But at least this way they avoided nitrogen narcosis, oxygen toxemia at depth, and too-strict limits on bottom dwell time from nitrogen infusing their tissues and blood. Rapture of the deep, oxygen seizure, decompression sickness—Jeffrey knew all were killers.

"Move aft and mount up," Clayton said.

Ilse had swum with dolphins before, but it was something else to be one, riding inside the dolphin-shaped robotic swimmer delivery vehicle. She let her legs follow the motion, up and down again and again as her stealth SDV drove her forward. Its flukes and flippers gave tremendous momentum, far faster than the sustained one knot the best combat swimmer could do, far more efficient than the best man-made shafted rotary propulsor. Ilse smiled to herself inside her mouthpiece, the Draeger now feeding pure oxygen as she maintained shallower depth. She rushed for the surface and sprinted and blew. She felt like a mermaid, a water nymph.

On her augmented dive mask display, plugged into the onboard computer, she could see the rest of the team arrayed in an arc, like a pod of natural cetaceans. They made twelve knots over the bottom, steering course three two five, but actually moving on course two nine five, because of the leeway of the current. The water was warmer now, near the surface, 72°F.

The active sonar in the SDV 's head, just like a real dolphin's melon, gave off whistles and clicks, mapping the sea and its floor. Some emissions were ultrasonic, but Ilse could feel them nevertheless, slight tickling on

her scalp and chin as she rested her forehead on sorbothane padding. The dolphin was equipped with glass eyes, optical-quality portholes. Each time she breached she watched lightning bolts shatter the sky.

"Form up more tightly on me," Clayton called. "We'll ride on a wave, conserve power:'

Ilse flexed her elbows and worked the hand controls mounted on both sides of her head. She aimed a bit more to the right. As the mechanical dolphin edged into the turn, the stowed equipment bags pressed on her hips, not uncomfortably but enough to know they were there. She could hear the slight whirring of drive motors, and her eardrums felt each change in depth. The SDV was free-flooding, through blowhole and anus, quite anatomically correct—its jaws didn't open, its face was fixed in a grin. With a knob on the control grips she fine-tuned the air bladders, adjusting her buoyancy and trim.

"Go deep," Clayton ordered. "This roller is breaking." Ilse and the others obeyed. She could hear the roller crashing, feel the jumbling tug of its surge. She pitied a sailor adrift in such seas— each cubic meter of plummeting ocean weighed just over one metric ton.

"Patrol craft coming in," the SEAL chief's voice sounded.

"I see it," she heard Clayton say. She saw it too on her sonar, now that they were under the waves. It was off to port, undoubtedly laboring hard. It gradually drew in closer.

"Let's give the lookouts a show," Clayton said. "On my mark, when the range falls to two hundred yards, we'll close and then caper a bit off her bow"

"Watch out for the pounding and yawing," Ilse heard Jeffrey say, "and also watch out for her screws."

Now Ilse saw the coast on her sonar. Bearing three three zero relative were two rocky corners of land, slowly

drawing closer as the robotic dolphins worked their way across the Agulhas Current. Between those two contacts lay the tidal estuary at the mouth of the Ohlanga River.

"Outer reef approaching," Clayton said. "Maintain twenty-five-foot depth. The surf here'

s terrific."

Ilse worked her handgrips, complying. She saw the reef in outline on her mask display, ten to twenty feet farther down, a hundred feet across, stretching as far north and south as her sonar would go. The sonar picked up biologics, looking like static or snow on her screen. Her dolphin was jostled by turbulent water, swells piling up to explode. She'd dived these reefs in better days, in much better weather, for fun, and she'd tanned on the yellow sand beaches. She knew there were beautiful coral formations beneath her here, and tropical fish in breathtaking colors. Now all was blackness.

"Okay," Clayton said. "We're through. The sandbar's next. Form line ahead. Watch out for what's left of the shark nets."

The water was deeper again, some seventy feet, but suddenly shelving, the boulderstrewn inner surf zone coming up. Ilse shifted into position, the fifth in the column of dolphins of war.

"Now's the toughest part, people," Clayton said. "We're past high slack water because of delays. There are strong rips working against us, and even this close to spring tide it'll be very shallow."

Ilse saw on her mask that her pulse had gone over a hundred. This was the first time she really felt scared. She moved a bit closer to the dolphin in front of her, Jeffrey's.

"Six, Eight, I'm at bingo battery charge," she heard over the gertrude.

"Six, Four," Jeffrey called, "I'm close to it too. This storm is more work than the model predicted."