Deep Sound Channel (31 page)

"How, how do I know you're telling the truth?"

"You don't," Van Gelder said. He coughed and cleared his mouth of grit and dust. "But you know I'm still alive and breathing, right? So you have a choice. You can keep the blast door closed and hope Durban gets nuked so I get blown to ashes. If you fail to open this door immediately and Durban does not get nuked, I will personally blow your ass off once the all-clear sounds. The other choice is opening the door, in which case I'll be far more interested in rejoining my ship than putting you on report for stupidity and cowardice. Which I will do if you don't open this bloody door!" The hydraulic mechanism began to whine, and the massive slab swung toward Van Gelder.

"Docking solid," Jeffrey said into the ASDS intercom.

"Roger," COB's voice answered, "Challenger confirms a solid dock. Ocean Interface conformal doors are closing now."

"Acknowledged," Jeffrey said. He watched the little status presentation on the LCD as the pressure doors swung closed over the ASDS icon.

"Doors closed," COB said two minutes later. "Hangar bay still wet, hangar internal pressure relieved."

"Confirmed," Jeffrey said. "ASDS seawater gauges read as on the surface. Decompression sequence for repetitive group F dive table is completed, ASDS internal air pressure reads as on the surface."

"Commander," Meltzer said, "our radiacs and dosimeters all show inside normal tolerances."

"Very well, Copilot," Jeffrey said. "Challenger, radiology is satisfactory, no measurable on-board contamination, no personnel exposures of concern at this time."

"Acknowledged," COB said. "ASDS, you are cleared to open your lower hatch."

"Very well, Challenger," Jeffrey said, "we are opening our lower hatch." Jeffrey flicked some switches, then unbuckled and stood up. He stretched, as much as was possible for his tall figure in the cramped confines. He and Ilse and Meltzer went into the central airlock chamber, and Clayton and the SEALs joined them there. Jeffrey knelt and spun the wheel. He let the door drop open.

There was a small crowd waiting at the base of the ladder, including Challenger's senior medical corpsman and several ASDS maintenance specialists. Jeffrey saw Commodore Morse's bearded face look up at him.

"Scratch one bioweapons lab," Jeffrey said. "Three SEALs KIA, and we took a prisoner." Half an hour later Jeffrey and Ilse walked together toward the CACC.

"It's amazing what a shower and a change of clothes can do for your perspective," Ilse said.

Jeffrey laughed. "That plus a swig of Wild Turkey and a strong cuppa coffee works every time."

"Thanks again for saving my life," Ilse said.

"Aw, shucks, it was nothing."

"I'll share a second-stage regulator with you anytime, Mr. Fuller." Just then they reached the control room. Captain Wilson turned. "Welcome back," he said. Jeffrey quickly took reports from Monaghan and Sessions, then reclaimed his role as fire control coordinator. Lieutenant Monaghan returned to being navigator, and Ilse took a seat next to Sessions at a sonar workstation. Meltzer relieved the relief pilot. Jeffrey scanned the navigation plots and tactical displays while Wilson conned the ship. Enemy surface units and airplanes and helos swarmed everywhere, in spite of loss and damage from the local blast and EMP. There were more than two dozen hostile contacts all around.

That count included submarines on ASW duty

beneath the fallout plume, Jeffrey noticed. The pounding surf was an ideal backdrop for ambient sonar and hole-in-ocean spotting of the quiet diesel boats, but was also one more reason Challenger hugged the ocean floor—plenty of all-revealing wave-action sound energy was coming through the thermocline.

Jeffrey eyeballed the minefield map and gravimeter screens that COB and Meltzer used. Meltzer, back at the helm, seemed remarkably wide-awake and chipper. Jeffrey smiled. Ah, to be that young again.

Jeffrey was impressed. Not only did Wilson come to meet the ASDS right inshore, but now Challenger was heading south-southwest along the coast within the safety lane. They were barely 20,000 yards out from Durban, but assuming that it was a safety lane and the boat stayed in its limits, they were immune to enemy fire: South African and German forces had to treat all submerged contacts in the lane as friendly. This was standard wartime procedure to avoid blue-onblue engagements, or, Jeffrey told himself, in this case redon-red. Antisubmarine forces avoided the corridor intentionally— otherwise navigation error or an accidental weapons release could lead to tragedy. The Axis navy took great pains to disguise their daily safety lanes—but lurking in their midst for several hours, Challenger, with two LMRS probes and the ASDS as off-board recon platforms, had scoped the corridors out like Jeffrey recommended. Jeffrey glanced at the conning screens again. Challenger made turns for four knots, moving more like seven because of the current, at a depth right now of 570 feet, up on the continental shelf. Her slow speed through the water cut down the subtle pressure waves thrown off by her passage, further enhancing her stealth. She still needed Jeffrey's magnetic-signature cloaking gambit to fool the mines, which made for some tense moments, since mines lay everywhere, but at least if noticed at this point, Challenger wouldn't be subject

to depth charges and torpedoes from Rommel and that Sachsen-class destroyer and their cronies.

Jeffrey suspected the mines within the safetycorridor-of-the-day were switched off by acoustic remote control, to protect Axis submarines from faulty fuzing. If so, they'd be reactivated later, when the safety corridor changed—too bad there was no survivable way to check out Jeffrey's theory.

Jeffrey saw that the lane plotted on the nav chart took a bend to port.

"Helm," Wilson said, "left standard rudder. Make your course one four three."

"Left standard rudder, aye," Meltzer said. "Make my course one four three, aye." Wilson turned to Jeffrey. "It's clever how they arrange it, XO. Inbound traffic comes down from the north, drifting with the current. Outbound vessels sneak off south, also using the flow"

"That's just what I'd do, Captain," Jeffrey said. "It lets the diesels save their batteries and helps their SSNs to make less noise. With the tighter vertical contours down the coast, it gives 'em a free ride out to the thousand-fathom curve."

"Take a look at this, XO," Wilson said. "Radio room just decoded it." Jeffrey took the message slip. The news was four days old.

SAS VOORTREKKER SIGHTED 67 SOUTH 09 EAST X DAMAGED BY Q-SHIP

TO ALL YOUR PEOPLE X VOOR IDENT AS SSN HIT USS RANGER X MAY

"Well, that's a relief, sir," Jeffrey said. "Maybe the tide's starting to turn our way now" He went back to his screens.

Jeffrey noted that the exact layout of the safety route got vague ahead, as Challenger drew ever farther from the hummock where she'd waited for the minisub and deployed the probes. This was because the distance covered since retrieving the ASDS was starting to rival the effective range of the LMRS autonomous-mode acoustic links, especially in these noisy current-strewn and halocline-ridden waters.

"Sir," Jeffrey said, "recommend we deploy an LMRS again on a wire. We can send it on in front to scout our track while we keep moving. Have it scan the bottom for us, and use it to help triangulate the enemy patrol craft and helos. We ought to be clear of the coastal defenses before its battery runs down."

"I concur," Wilson said. "We'll get much better clues on where the safety corridor is or isn't. Chief of the Watch, deploy an LMRS with a fiber-optic wire. Make its course one four three true, run it out to five thousand yards ahead of Challenger. Then maintain that range to own ship and maintain the zero zero zero relative bearing when you can."

"Aye aye, sir," COB replied.

Jeffrey used a window on one of his screens to study the data from the probe. Visibility was poor, the water turbidity high from bottom muck still settling after the A-bomb shock and the heavy silting by rainstorm runoff all along the KwaZulu/Natal coast.

"COB," Jeffrey said, "get a close-up of that mine." Jeffrey looked at the UHF mine classification sonar image. "Captain," Jeffrey said, "this is interesting. This one's a regular bottom influence device, not a CAPTOR. Must be the Boers are worried a torpedo cutting loose so close to base might run erratic and home on the wrong side's vessel."

"You're probably right, XO."

Jeffrey told COB to check a few more mines along their course. None of them were CAPTORs either.

"Sir," Jeffrey said, "we're coming to another bend in the corridor. It turns to starboard here, to avoid the old ammunition dumping ground, and at this point it must lead right into the bluff. Recommend we push the LMRS further away from us, to explore the outbound safety track in detail. This near to Durban I suspect the whole area's forbidden to ASW."

"That's risky, Fire Control."

"Captain, it'll give us a clearer view of what lies ahead, increase our options in case we have an equipment casualty or something. It'll also widen our base line for triangulation, since we lost our thin-line towed array and the older fat line's less useful in the littorals."

"Very well, XO. I concur." Wilson gave COB the orders, then had Meltzer turn the boat to starboard on course two four zero.

"Captain," Jeffrey said a little later, "I'm wondering if while we're here we shouldn't drop some mines of our own. Who knows what we might sink."

"XO," Wilson said, "that is too risky. We'd make mechanical transients loading and sending them out, plus their own propulsion noise might be picked up, and launching them creates dead-certain proof that we were here."

"Understood, Captain," Jeffrey said. He almost blushed. The exhilaration of sneaking in this close to the heart of darkness was making him impetuous. I better cut that out, he told himself.

Commodore Morse came into the CACC. "I spent some time with the SEALs," Morse said. "Sounds like you all did a terrific job."

"Thank you, sir," Jeffrey said.

"You too, Ilse," Morse said.

Ilse turned and smiled. "Think there'll be women commandos someday, Commodore?"

"Maybe there are now," Morse said, "and they aren't telling." He winked. Morse turned back to Jeffrey. "If I were you, I'd help Clayton write up the SEAL chief for a Medal of Honor. As a lieutenant commander and not part of his unit, your word as witness would add a lot of clout."

"That's a great idea," Jeffrey said.

"If I may," Morse said, "let me offer another suggestion." Jeffrey noticed Captain Wilson didn't mind the input—the two senior men had gotten close since leaving Diego Garcia. "Go ahead, sir," Jeffrey said.

"One thing we learned in the Falklands," Morse said, "from all our surface ship losses, is the absolutely crucial importance of aggressive damage control. The SEALs are busy cleaning their gear and drafting their after-action reports, but that's mostly make-work."

"That's sort of true, sir," Jeffrey said. "It doesn't take that long to clean a rifle and rinse a regulator valve."

Morse nodded. "I think you ought to add them to your repair party roster. Good upperbody strength, terrific endurance, mental calm under pressure, and let's say they're very used to working in the face of death hip-deep or more in freezing seawater with salt spray in their eyes."

Jeffrey turned to Wilson. "Captain?"

"XO, manning questions are your call."

"I agree, then," Jeffrey said. "Thanks, Commodore. . . . Messenger of the Watch, once we secure from full ultraquiet, report to the engineer. Ask him to assign Clayton and his people to a damage control party somewhere forward."

"Assign the SEALs to damage control, aye, sir," the messenger said. He jotted in his notebook.

Jeffrey got up to stretch. His left leg was starting to ache terribly.

"Problem, XO?" Wilson said.

"Just my old wound, Captain. Overexertion, probably, or delayed reaction to the stress."

"How you feeling otherwise?"

"Tip-top, sir," Jeffrey said. Surprisingly that was true—the miracle of adrenaline.

"Phone Talker," Wilson said, "call the corpsman to the CACC."

"Sir, that's really not necessary," Jeffrey said.

"XO, here on Hans's doorstep I need you at a hundred ten percent. Let the corpsman give you an aspirin."

As Jeffrey walked around, his leg suddenly buckled. Morse caught him and helped him to sit down. The corpsman came. He started checking Jeffrey very carefully, testing his reflexes and listening to his chest.

"Will I live, Chief ?" Jeffrey said.

"Sir," the corpsman said, "you may be having decompression sickness."

"That's ridiculous," Jeffrey said. "We followed procedure exactly."

"Commander, you know as well as I do decompression's a stochastic process. There're always people who show random hits not predicted by the data. The problem you've got is all the scarring in that leg. It doesn't fit well with any of the tissue compartment models that crank out the navy diving tables."

"So now what?" Jeffrey said. He reminded himself that two deep dives in a short period was especially risky.

"I'm giving you this painkiller. I'll check with you in half an hour. If the leg still hurts, you go into your rack and go on oxygen. Any twitching or slurred speech, dizziness or discoordination, you go into the hyperbaric chamber."

"Just what I need right now," Jeffrey said, swallowing the pill. He washed it down with coffee.

The corpsman looked Jeffrey in the eye. "Don't take chances with your health, Commander." He left the CACC.

Jeffrey went back to studying the LMRS downlinks. All of a sudden the bioluminescent glow flared up, much brighter than its background level. Then a big shadow seemed to cross the field of view.

"What the hell was that?" Jeffrey said. "COB, catch up to it, bring the LMRS closer."

"Bring the LMRS closer, aye." COB worked his joy stick. "I'm getting buffeting," he said. "The contact's not just drifting, there's wake turbulence."