The Circle (27 page)

“Mr. Lenson, see what's going on in Sonar.”

He shucked his earphones and hung them on a switch handle. His ears felt like a cut when you take a three-day-old Band-Aid off.

Past the curtains, the little sonar “room,” actually a nook the size of three phone booths, was as good as dark. A blue overhead light had been taped over till only a faint radiance leaked out. Aaron Reed stood behind the two stack operators, looking over their shoulders. Behind him, dials glimmered with the shapes of ships, rows of switches marked
MK
43
TORP INIT DEPTH SELECT
and
P/S
1, 2, 3. A pen traced a wavering line on a graphed scroll. A card beside it read,
NO COFFEE ON THE SONAR STACK DESKS. VIOLATORS WILL LICK THE SPILLS OFF THE GEAR. SIGNED, THE CHIEF.

“Uh, captain wants to know what's the story, sir.”

Reed didn't answer. Instead one of the sonar techs turned his head. “He's gone quiet. First the screws slowed down, then the circulation pumps in his reactors went off. All I get's a faint hum once in a while around five hundred hertz. There.”

He pointed to the screen. Dan had expected something like a radar picture, a sweep of light and a pip. But this looked like an emerald waterfall, speckled light, with here and there a faintly traced bar. He felt stupid again. It was getting to be a familiar feeling.

“I don't see anything.”

“Well, it comes and it goes, but it ain't the kind of thing I can give you a bearing on.”

“Okay.” He remembered the argument over identification. “Do you know yet what kind of sub it is? What class?”

Reed reached forward, past Dan. The loose-leaf book was bound in red. When Dan took it, his hands sagged.

“There's a lead insert in the spine. That's identification spectra. Flip to page three-thirteen. That's a
Yankee,
a Russki boomer, a missile boat. Like our Poseidon submarines.”

He stared at the diagram. Along the ordinate was frequency. The abscissa was intensity, in decibels. Black lines of varying length stretched from the left side.

Meanwhile, the first sonarman screwed himself around in his seat and began pushing buttons. Two big tape reels whipped backward, slowed, then began turning forward. More buttons clicked, and one of the screens flickered. It was the same display shown in the book. He flipped the cover back.
WARSAW PACT SUBMARINE IDENTIFICATION
, it read.
TOP SECRET.

“So it's a
Yankee?
”

“Look at the screen. That look like what you got in your hand?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Not exactly, it don't, Ensign. Look here, and here. A big spike at twelve hundred cycles a second. That's some kind of damage in his shaft, or his gears. And then these other machinery bands—”

“These two are the same.”

“That's his air-conditioning plant.”

“Oh. Well—do they always run their machinery the same? Can't they speed it up, slow it down, vary the tones that way?”

“Smart question, Ensign. Yeah, they do that, to throw us off. But this one's different. It might be something new. Like a
Yankee,
but different. But I'm just hairy-ass guessing, there.”

Dan thanked him and went back out through the curtain. CIC seemed very bright after Sonar. He told Evlin and Packer, “He's slowed and gone silent, sir. The sonarmen think he's either a
Yankee
or some new kind of Soviet missile sub.”

“That so?” said Packer. “Are they getting tapes?”

“Yes, sir, they showed me one.”

“Do they think they can regain track on him passive?”

“Doesn't sound like it, sir.”

“All right, Al. Ping his ass. Use the VDS; we're getting too much quenching on the twenty-three.”

“Sonar, Evaluator: Go active on the fish.”

They must have had their hand on the switch, because almost immediately he heard the deep, strong song of the sonar. It lasted for about two seconds, three falling notes, then trailed off. One of the sonarmen must have turned on a speaker, because behind the curtain he could hear it going on and on, echoing, reverberating, in an eerie ringing whine like a siren in a great cavern.

The Sonar Contact light went on. The little dials above his head spun and clicked. “Zero-five-zero, eighty-five hundred yards,” said Pedersen. “Close! He's quiet when he slows down.”

“This sea's making a lot of noise,” said Packer, but he, too, looked worried. “Plot it, quick. Al, let's drop to five knots.”

When
Ryan
slowed, her motion changed, from a gentle tipping to a violent fore-and-aft slamming. The officers bent over the trace. “She's slowed way down,” said Evlin. “And turned toward us, looks like. If we'd waited a little longer to ping, he'd have been in our baffles astern, home free.”

“Well, now he knows what we are,” said Packer. “Don't react to what he does; try to predict what he'll do next. Your bet?”

“Speed up again.”

“What do you do then?”

“Match speeds, turn to parallel him. If the seas let us.”

“What if he comes straight toward us?”

“Keep my bow toward him, track him in, then spin around and pick him up again as he passes underneath.”

“Sounds good,” said Packer. He passed his hand over his hair, seemed to remember his pipe, and looked into the bowl. He made as if to relight it, then said, “I'll be in my sea cabin.”

“Aye, sir.”

*   *   *

AS if waiting for him to return, the submarine did nothing for the next few minutes. Dan asked for permission to relieve himself.

When he came back, he knew right away something had changed. Chief Massioni, the leading radioman, was standing beside the captain, who had come back too. Packer wasn't watching the plot. He was putting his initials on a message board, looking grim. He handed it to Evlin with the pen.

Leaning forward as he put his phones back on, Dan couldn't avoid seeing it over the ops officer's shoulder.

FM: CINCLANTFLT

TO: USS REYNOLDS RYAN

INFO: JCS
CINCLANT
USAF SAC
DEFENSE INTELLIGENCE AGENCY
COMCRUDESLANT
COMSECONDFLT
COMSUBLANT
VP–24 NAS REYKJAVIK ICELAND
NAVSEASYSCOM, SEA–62L
COMASWFORLANT
MODUK
UK SUBMARINE COMMAND

 

TOP SECRET

REF: USS RYAN 180534Z DEC (PASEP)
SUBJ: CONTACT REPORT (C)

1. (S) REF A ACKNOWLEDGED. NAVFAC NORWAY REPORTED TRANSIT OF SUSPECTED SOVIET NUCLEAR BALLISTIC MISSILE SUBMARINE 0230Z YESTERDAY. TRACK DESIGNATED B41.

2. (TS) OTHER NATIONAL INTELLIGENCE SOURCES INDICATE SOVIET NORTHERN FLEET BEING BROUGHT TO HIGHEST READINESS CONDITION. RADIO TRAFFIC IS 3 TIMES NORMAL. IT IS POSSIBLE THAT A SURGE OF SOVIET FORCES INTO NORTH ATLANTIC IS BEING CONTEMPLATED. NATIONAL COMMAND AUTHORITY IS INQUIRING THEIR INTENTIONS.

3. (S) COMSUBLANT IS SORTIING USS BATFISH, USS BARB, USS POGY. HMS CHURCHILL BEING MADE AVAILABLE FROM FASLANE. ABOVE SUBMARINE ASSETS ETA YOUR POSITION 48 HOURS. AIR SUPPORT WILL BE PROVIDED FROM VP–24 NAVAL AIR STATION REYKJAVIK WITH FIRST AIRCRAFT REPORTING ON TOP NO LATER THAN 1320Z.

4. (TS) IN VIEW OF UNCERTAINTIES OF SITUATION EXERCISE UTMOST EFFORT TO MAINTAIN CLOSE CONTACT WITH TRACK B41. FRUSTRATE ADVANCE BY ALL POSSIBLE MEANS. REPORT HOURLY. RULES OF ENGAGEMENT TO FOLLOW.

5. (TS) DESTROY B41 IMMEDIATELY IF SONAR INDICATES IMMINENT MISSILE LAUNCH.

DO NOT DECLASSIFY WITHOUT PERMISSION OF ORIGINATOR
BT

They watched the red dots slowly materialize under the plotter's fingers. They made a straight line now, headed south by southwest at about four knots. “He's on his battery,” murmured the captain. “Or just barely simmering his reactors to drive some kind of backup propulsion. Yeah, that'd be smarter; he'd still have electrical power then. Did anyone log the last time we heard main machinery noise?”

Pedersen silently put his finger where it was marked on the trace.

Just then the sonarmen began cursing behind the screen. The contact light went out. Evlin straightened, pressing the phones to his ears. “What is it?” asked Packer.

“Multiple contacts. Three … four, all around the last position.”

“Shift to passive. He'll eject decoys, then he'll run.”

But he didn't. Or if he did, the sonarmen couldn't hear him. When the false contacts disappeared, the sea was as empty as if there'd never been a submarine there. Four minutes passed. Six.

With reluctant deliberation, OS3 Matt drew a red diamond at the last position, and labeled it 1116.

“Shit! He's lost us somehow.”

“Go to all stop, sir? Shut everything down and listen?”

“We could barely hear him before. Now that we pinged him, he'll really be buttoned up soundwise.” Packer stretched, frowning. “But he'll have to start up again sooner or later.”

“I figure, all we have to do is wait,” said Evlin. “He can't run long without his air conditioning, and he shut that down, too. And if he's on battery, five hours, six, and he'll have to start his reactors, or he won't have enough juice left to put a bubble in them.”

Packer rubbed his chin. “I hope you're right. Start a lost-contact search. Make that the search center, where he went sinker. Search axis, two-four-zero.”

Silver said, “How long will we be at that, sir? I need to know, set up my watches in CIC—”

The captain cut him off with a raised hand. He said, closing his eyes, “We'll be at it until we find him, Mark. And after that, until they call us off.”

*   *   *

AN hour later they still had no contact. The captain was perched on a stool Pedersen had dragged over for him. Packer had attached himself to the bulkhead with the straps from a gas-mask pouch. From time to time, his head drooped, but he caught himself and dragged it up. Then it would loll again, till the next roll skidded the stool out from under him. Evlin asked him once whether he should report the lost contact. Packer grunted and shook his head.

At eleven-thirty, he stirred uneasily. He blinked at the clock, then glanced around. Dan straightened from his exhausted slump against the radar repeater, seeing Packer's eyes on him.

“Al.”

“Yessir.”

“Why don't you set up a watch rotation. Get Reed to spell you, get a few hours in the bag. We may be here for a while.”

“What about you, sir? Shall I get Commander—”

“No,” said Packer. He didn't add anything, and after a moment, Evlin said, “Aye, sir. I'll do it port and starboard, six on, six off. Chief! Send somebody down after Mr. Weaver, to relieve Mr. Silver. Ask Ensign Cummings if he can spell Mr. Lenson. Tell them to get something to eat and be up at noon.”

As Pedersen left, Dan slumped back again. Now that a relief was on the way, he suddenly felt wrung out, feeble, as though all that kept him upright was the steel behind him.

*   *   *

AT noon, a sullen-looking, sniffling Cummings poked him in the back. Dan explained what was going on. The sub was still lying low. They were pinging away for him, search plan RHUBARB. The disbursing officer grunted and took the headset.

When he was free, he staggered away from the plotting table. He'd been standing there for almost nine hours. And on the bridge for three hours before that. He'd be back on at 1800. He should sleep now. He should get something to eat.

Instead he went forward, into the pilothouse. Ed Talliaferro glanced at him from beside the binnacle. Rambaugh was there, and Shorty Williams. Lassard was at the wheel. Chief Yardner had the JOOD's binoculars. He felt an obscure pleasure in their unremarking, weary glances. Clinging to the overhead cable, he lifted his eyes and looked out—over the forward mount and antenna, crusted with an unfamiliar carapace, into a waste of wind and sea.

Suddenly his mouth began to water again. He had only a second to choose. Bridge urinal, corner bucket, or the wing.
Ryan
rolled, making the choice for him. He slid downhill to the door, and undogged it hastily.

The air was crystal ice, and ice coated the gratings under his boots. He fetched up against the splinter shield and clung to the rough, gritty steel, staring down into the sea.

The gratings soared upward, then dropped away. He was light and then heavy. When she slammed back down spray exploded around her stem. But she kept going down, and down. With horror, he saw her ice-coated chains and tackle wavering beneath many feet of clear green water. A second later the wave crashed into the gun mount, tearing itself apart into roaring tons of tormented, creamy foam that leapt upward like a pitted leopard, trying to claw him down into it. Then the gale whipped that away, too, as if enraged that its ally had failed in the assault.

Suddenly, all at once, his guts emptied like a squeezed sack. An instant too late, he realized he was facing the wind.

When it was over, he clung to the rail, gasping and shuddering. He ducked to the pool of mixed rain and seawater that rolled endlessly between the scuppers. He splashed his face and wiped it with his sleeve. But he couldn't do anything about his clothes. Through the porthole, he caught Lassard's smirk above the helm. It turned away, to Coffey, and then the other faces swung. Was that laughter? To hell with them. By the smell in there, they weren't doing so hot, either.

Weak, chilled, empty, he clung there, watching as the rising wind gilded another layer of ivory over the forecastle and 01 level. The gun mount was sheathed with white armor. Wind-slanted icicles bent from the tampioned muzzles. The whip antenna, the blast shield, range finders, all were cased with ice, shining with a dull, smooth internal light that echoed the opalescent sky.
Ryan
irritated the sea, and the sea had begun coating her, as an oyster coats a grain of sand to produce a pearl.

Beyond them, the gale heaved and roared in terrifying carelessness. Terrifying uninterest, and terrible power. He remembered what Talliaferro had said about ballasting, and Evlin's warning about the storm track.