The Lotus Eaters (61 page)

The frustration Chu felt at having a comrade under attack and being helpless to intervene caused a tight knot in the sub skipper's stomach.

I could attack
Charlemagne
, and probably draw off her escorts hunting
Orca.
But that would let them know we've a sub that can sneak right through their screens. Ruin the whole point of the exercise, that would. Shit.

The ocean floor below was far deeper than the sub's even theoretical crush depth. There'd be no escape in hiding among the clutter of sea bottom.

"The torpedo still hunting us just broke into our level, skipper," sonar announced.

Can't go down much; can't stay here.

"Inflate the rubbers, fore and aft," Quijana ordered. "Just enough for a mild positive buoyancy. I want to put the thermal layer between us and that torpedo. Level off just after we pass the thermal."

"Aye, skipper," helm answered. After a few minutes, the nose down angle the sub had taken on reversed itself as the bow began to ascend. The movement was so slow that, other than for the reversal, there was no sense among the crew of ascending.

Another quick glance at the right side of the main screen showed that the other torpedo, the one that had gone high, was still patrolling in a spiral and still actively pinging.

In some ways the screen was a distraction, presenting, as it did, a three dimensional problem in two dimensions. Quijana closed his eyes and tried to imagine the totality of the situation, with frigates hunting above, helicopters dipping above that, a barrage of sensors having been placed between him and the carrier, and probably another being dropped
somewhere
by now.

If we hadn't taken out the sub their primary effort would have been protecting the carrier. As is, and with us having dived so low, they probably think the carrier's safe enough. That means their major effort is going to be revenge. Well . . . I suppose I could understand that. The first barrage of sonabuoys was generally south. If they're putting one in now, it's probably north to keep us from heading to port and safety. So we head where? East or west, I think, but which?

West brings us nearer Santander; east there's not a decent port for two hundred miles. But we've got the endurance, easily, for either.

East or west? West or . . .

Yermo's voice was strained, if not shocked. "Skipper, the torpedo found us. Pinging like a bitch and making fifty knots for us. I make it impact in ninety seconds."

"Deception pod," Quijana ordered instantly. "Set for no delay. Dive! All dive!"

What with the need to pack sonar, both active and passive, propulsive gear and fuel, fuses, MAENAD, controls, and—by no means least—explosive into the torpedo, the room left over for a brain left the thing something of an electronic moron. Even a moron, though, can sometimes be right.

Number three noted the greater sonar return from the pod's bubbles, the simulated engine noise, and the artificial magnetic and electronic signature. It noted them and ignored them. It already had a target and anything that seemed like a better one was likely to be false. Still pinging happily at finding its purpose in life, torpedo three closed the distance to the
Orca
.

Pingpingping. Oh, joy! Oh, happiness!

"Three's ignoring the pod, skipper," Yermo said. "And Number Two is heading toward the pod. That brings it toward us."

Weapon's fingers moved over his station in a blur. "I can intercept," he announced.

"Do it!" Quijana ordered.

Weapon's finger lanced down, pressing a button to fire one of the remaining rear-facing torpedoes. A shudder ran through the sub as the torpedo launched itself, breaking through the plastic film that separated its distilled water from the salty sea. This was not a supercavitator, but a more conventional design, capable of, at most, fifty knots.

Weapons kept the torpedo on passive sonar only, with its point of aim set on the constantly pinging Gallic intruder. His hand wrapped around a stick control, not dissimilar to a computer gamer's, with a trigger to fire the wire-laying torpedo should it fail to detonate on its own when close enough to its target. He flipped off a red safety cap over the trigger, then straightened his finger.

Seconds later, Yermo said, "They heard the launch upstairs. We're getting active sonar from one of the ships and . . . another one has fired. At least two helicopters dipping now and I'm getting
plonks
as something is dropping passive sensors above us.

The sub suddenly lurched with two massive, nearly simultaneous explosions behind it.

"I
got
it!" Weapons exulted.

Quijana looked against at the main screen, now showing the pod, torpedo two aiming for it, and another torpedo just launched from the surface.

"Two has decided to ignore the pod," Yermo said. "I think it's got a lock on us. And . . . another surface ship has launched."

"Bring us down another two hundred," Quijana said.

"We've never tested it that deep, skipper," Garcia warned. "Worse: If we go too much lower we'll hit the critical point for the ammonia. Do that and we can't push out the ballast."

Quijana pointed at the screen and said, "See those. If we don't lose them we're dead anyway."

With all the noise going on below, the frigate had only an uncertain idea of where the Balboan submarine really was. It showed the most amazing ability to maneuver without its engines. The captain was fairly sure they were diving and rising, and using that motion to glide with the dive planes.

Could it get as much as a ten or twelve to one glide path ratio?
Casabianca wondered.
That could put it two or more kilometers away from our last sighting and with no more sound than comes from breaking through a thermal layer. And that's not much. Twelve to nineteen square kilometers of ocean to hide in, too. Maybe more if we didn't have a perfect lock on it to begin with.

Maybe if we blanketed the sea, launch nearly everything we have, all at once, we might get it. Fire a pattern of Ulysses rocket launched torpedoes . . . maintain guidance via digital link to the buoys they leave at the surface and through the wires they drag behind them. We could do that. Of course, one might break its wire and go hunting another but we've plenty of weapons and they've only the one submarine.

And I might suggest that to the admiral,
if
I had a better idea of where it is, or even how deep it is.

Quijana remembered the groaning of the metal on the various Volgan and Yamatan submarines on which he'd done a portion of his training.
Damned good thing for us the plastic doesn't make anything like that much noise.

Even so, Quijana looked forward to where one of the crew had strung a piece of string across the control room at waist height. That string was almost touching the deck now. He thought, then, about the ocean pressing in from all sides. He remembered, too, the terrible moments after he'd been booted off the old
Trinidad
, just before it plunged into the side of the Salafi suicide ship in the straits of Nicobar. He could still feel the massive blow transmitted first through the water and quickly followed by the shock wave that came through the air.

Just so you know, God, I really don't want to die. If I ever said I wish I'd gone in with
Trinidad
, I didn't mean it. I'm scared and I could use Your help, by the way.

Yermo said, "Fish two seems to have lost us, skipper. It's started a spiraling search again."

"Keep close track, sonar," Quijana ordered. "I want to pop back up above the layer
just
as two drops below."

"Skipper?" Weapons asked.

"Yes?"

"I can try to take two out with another torpedo."

Forcing down his fear, trying to think clearly, Quijana considered it, deciding, "No, not yet. If it's lost us for now, a launch will let it know where we are. And two's only the most dangerous enemy out there." Again, he gestured at the screen. "There are at least four more."

"Ops," said Captain Casabianca, "review for me what we know and don't know about these subs. There's something I'm missing and it could be important."

Lieutenant of the Line Mortain thought for a moment, summing up his knowledge of the
Meg
Class before saying, "About thirty-six to forty meters long, captain. Teardrop shaped, X-form tail. Jet propulsors. Fuel cell powered. Crew of seventeen or eighteen, we think. We know now that it's armed,
well
armed. Dual hulled, with a thinner hydrodynamic hull over a much thicker pressure hull. We think—"

"Stop there for a minute," the captain said. "Sonar, the torpedoes launched by
Diamant
used active sonar. Why couldn't they see the sub."

The frigate's sonar man, a warrant officer, or "major," in the system of the Gallic Navy, rubbed his face for a moment and said, "We know the hull's plastic, captain. Maybe it's some new plastic, or an old one with better than normal anechoic tiles."

Casabianca looked a question at Mortain. "No tiles, sir," the latter answered. "Not unless they're putting them on at sea and that—"

"Right. Unlikely." The captain turned his attention back to sonar. "Keep thinking," he said.

The sonar major rubbed at his face for a few moments, then shook his head and whispered, "No, that's a silly thought."

"Tell me this silly thought, major," the captain said.

"Well, sir . . . I read once that it would be possible to build an outer hull that was facetted, like some of those airplanes the Federated States uses. I read that this could cut return sonar down by a factor of one thousand."

"No good, major," Mortain objected. "The same way we know there are no anechoic tiles we know there's no facetted fairing."

"Yes, sir," the major agreed. "But what if that outer hull is
really
transparent to sonar, and the facets, or something like them, are between the inner and the outer. Maybe they're what hold the two together."

"
Tres elegant
," Mortain said, almost grudgingly. "And it would account for their invisibility to sonar, from some angles, at least."

"Okay, then, I'll buy that as a possibility," the captain said. "Keep going, Mortain. What else do we know?"

"Sir. We know they have an amazingly quiet method of pumping ballast. I can't imagine what it is."

"Yesss . . . yes," Casabianca agreed. "And that is how they're gliding, correct?"

"I think so, sir," Mortain answered.

"How's your math, lieutenant?" the captain asked.

Mortain looked both puzzled and somewhat pleased. "Very good, sir. I took prizes in school."

"Excellent," the captain said, rubbing his hands together. "Now take the dimensions of the sub as we know them, and the shape. Plot back to and from known positions. Then figure out for me how big those dive planes are for it to be gliding as much as we know it is. From that, tell me how thick they are."

"Sir?"

"Because if they're big enough, Mortain, I think we might get a sonar return if we were positioned just right . . . or if somebody was. I just might risk an active ping from up here, from all of us if I can talk the admiral into it, to get a lock and fire."

Meg
still tracked
Charlemagne
, which tracking was pulling them further and further from
Orca
's lonely ordeal. Fortunately, the carrier was both slow moving and zigzagging. On the screen, and barring only the carrier and some of the torpedoes that were still hunting and which, therefore, still had fresh tracks, the other icons had taken on a faded aspect, indicating the lesser degree of certainty as to their locations and other aspects.

Chu shook his head and said, "Okay, enough is enough. We've proved we can get at the best the Taurans have to offer and track them at will without them having a clue. That mission's over. Helm?"

"Aye, skipper."

"Bring us around one eighty, drop below the layer, and head for the last known position for
Orca
. Make your speed six knots. Maybe we can get there in time to make a difference."

Chu's exec leaned over and whispered to him, "If they do take out
Orca
, it might be nice to toast that carrier in revenge."

"It's tempting, I agree," Chu answered. "Sadly, it's not our mission. No, that's not strong enough. It would be a
violation
of our mission."

Chu's exec scowled.

"I couldn't agree more," said the captain. "Even so, we can't do it."

"We're not
supposed
to do it. Remember what they say about forgiveness and permission."

Whether the torpedoes were out of juice or had simply gone inactive as a power saving measure until their passive sensors picked up something interesting, neither Quijana nor Yermo knew. They did know that there were currently no torpedoes in the area actively moving or tracking. Even torpedo two, which had never reacquired the sub, was so far down they considered it more likely than not it was lost.

On the screen, both surface ships and torpedoes had faded almost out of view. Even the sonobuoys dropped by helicopter and fixed wing craft had gone silent and began to fade. Given the ocean currents and the surface winds, Quijana wouldn't have bet a bottle of not very good beer as to where any of them were now.

"You know, skipper," Garcia suggested, in a confidential whisper, "we could shut off the clicker and just move off."

"Against orders," Quijana said.

"Maybe not. We proved to them we could be found if we use our engines. They've probably figured out we're using buoyancy differential to glide. We sail off. They sit up there for a week or two and, when they never get our signal, assume we glided away."