The Lotus Eaters (62 page)

Quijana chewed his lower lip uncertainly. "I've got to admit; it's tempting."

"Four knots, skipper, and we're out of their search area in an hour and a quarter. We can always re-establish our presence by clicking once we get to where we met up with
Meg
, or—better—where Chu shut his clicker off."

It
is
tempting
, Quijana thought.
Let me think about the bigger picture. They probably know we had two subs out. They'd have stopped paying attention to
Meg
when it was out on its "test dive" pretending to be the new sub. So they think there's only one here. Does that make sense? Yes it does; because if they thought there were two of us they wouldn't act so confident once we took out that
Amethyst
Class. No, they'd be shitting bricks right about now. That carrier would have turned away long since.

We've got the layer between us and them. They're not going to hear the propulsor jets from up there. Hell, at four knots, they might not hear them if they were down here with us.

"All right, XO; leave the clicker off. Four knots, due east. But keep us bobbing and weaving as if we were gliding just in case they spot us."

Mortain looked embarrassed. "
Mon capitaine
, I am sorry, but I can't be more exact than to say that the dive planes are probably both big and fairly thick in cross section. At least, without my books I can't be more exact than that. We might pick them up on active pinging, depending on how they're oriented when we ping. Or . . . well . . . we might not."

"We have no "
mon capitaine
" in the Gallic Navy," Casabianca corrected. "We have 'my ass' and 'my God,' but no 'my captain.' "

Mortain looked sheepish. "Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."

The captain rubbed a sweating forehead for a moment, then said, "Get me the admiral and the other frigate captains on the horn." Turning to Mortain, he pointed a finger and added, "And you go figure a pattern for four frigates to best blanket an area with active sonar, knowing what we know about the enemy."

We must distinguish between such a system and what at first glance would appear to be its antecedents on Old Earth. True, whether in ancient Athens or ancient republican Rome, there appears to have been a close correlation between military service and political power.
That appearance, however, is somewhat deceptive. The true correlation was between wealth and political power. The military power was a symptom of the wealth as the more affluent citizenry were required to provide their own military equipment in accordance with their means; a sort of proto graduated income tax. Other, less wealthy citizens served, but generally speaking had their political power reduced in accordance not with their military-moral contribution, which was always substantial for all but the extremely poor, but with their limited wealth.
Moreover, the ancients practiced true conscription, not the mere reminder we have suggested here. True conscription, fairly and universally applied, can produce decent fighting forces, certainly, but fails to specially identify those who would voluntarily serve society even at cost. Thus, conscript systems fail to identify civic virtue, the moreso as civic virtue becomes the more rare.
Even so,—

—Jorge y Marqueli Mendoza,
Historia y Filosofia Moral
,
Legionary Press, Balboa,
Terra Nova, Copyright AC 468

The air in the operations center was thick with anger and with loss.

Janier's face was pale and drawn. The Gallic Navy only
had
seven attack submarines, one of those getting long in the tooth, and to lose one of the newest, the most modern . . .

If the Navy tries to pin this on me
, merde
, I'm screwed.

"Are the squids absolutely certain the
Diamant
was destroyed?" he asked of de Villepin.

De Villepin turned to Surcouf, standing by his side. The naval officer looked, if anything, even more distressed than Janier.
Well, I can understand that
, de Villepin thought.
Boy likely had comrades aboard the
Diamant
. At least friends of friends. And that was his service's boat. The question though . . .

"No doubt at all, general," Surcouf answered, distantly, as if awakening from a bad dream. "No doubt . . ."

"But . . . but
how
?"

"They had torpedoes, Volgan-made probably; supercavitators. We didn't know they had them," Surcouf answered. "I'm not sure how they got them, or when, or where they could have mounted them. But that they have them there is no doubt."

"And they went hunting for the pride of our fleet armed like this? Do the madmen
want
to bring down the entire weight of the Tauran Union on their little brown shoulders? Does this mean war, now?"

De Villepin shook his head. "I don't think so. Other than support to the forces they have hunting guerillas down in La Palma, there's absolutely nothing unusual going on. It's as if the Balboans are unaware that we're hunting their submarine."

"Could it be a rogue submarine, then?" Janier asked.

Surcouf answered, "No. There are two submarines at sea and, while one of them went to intercept the
Charlemagne
, the other is likely off somewhere in the Shimmering Sea, nowhere near the action. No," he repeated, "I think this is just a test of their equipment and ours . . . a test that's gotten out of hand. Badly out of hand."

"I don't think Carrera knows what's happening, just as Surcouf has said," de Villepin finished.

"Who fired first?" the general asked.

"The people I spoke to tried to downplay it," Surcouf answered, "but, based on what they did say and what they didn't, I think we did."

"And they
still
destroyed our ship?"

"Boat," Surcouf corrected, absently. "Yes, we fired first but their torpedo was much, much faster."

"And they're still alive?"

"We think so. The admiral has four frigates hunting it, plus most of
Charlemagne
's helicopters. He, at least, believes they're still alive."

"What if we let them go?" Janier asked. "Will we look like fools, being bested by peasants?"

De Villepin said, "I've wondered about that. I don't think we have to worry. Whether Carrera wants a war with us or not—and he very well might—he wants it on his terms, with us as the plain aggressor. He
has
to have that, to ensure the Federated States stays neutral or comes in on his side. A simple sub duel, under questionable circumstances, wouldn't provide that moral cover and might make the FSC think hard about the kind of monster they're letting grow to maturity here, should he advertise the event.

"No, General, I think he'll swear that crew to secrecy and let the whole thing be forgotten. Assuming the crew escapes, of course, and that we say nothing."

"Forget that, sir," Surcouf said. "The . . . the admiral has his blood up. He'll stop hunting that submarine when Hell freezes or the sub's dead."

"We'll see about that," Janier said. "Connect me to the
Charlemagne
."

"We're still in range. Take out the carrier, Chu," the exec said. "That will get those frigates off Quijana's ass, if only to rescue the sailors floundering in the water."

Chu looked down at the deck, isolated from the hull by shock absorbers, the better not to transmit internal noise.
Of course, he's right that it would, but at the cost of blowing our little secret. Then again, does that matter? Carrera only has us, so far as I know anyway, for the purpose of taking out that carrier . . . well, that one and another and a couple or three from the Zhong. The surprise wouldn't last past our first successful attack anyway. What difference if it's now or in a couple of years? They'll still be shy a carrier. And, hell, in a couple of years the secret of how quiet we really are might be blown anyway.

Ah, but then there
is
the timing issue. A carrier sunk now might be the same as a carrier sunk then . . . as far as the size of the enemy fleet goes . . . but the timing would be all wrong . . . could be anyway. I just don't know. I only know
 . . .

"We've got our orders, Ibarra, and you have yours. Now shut up and quit pestering me."

"Fuck. I trust that
you'll
be the one delivering the next of kin notices."

"We don't know there'll be a need for any next of kin notices. Now—"

"I know. I know. Shut up and quit pestering you."

Whatever it was Admiral Duguay said to Janier over the phone, it was enough to turn the general's face ashen.

Replacing the phone on its receiver, Janier said simply, "He refuses to listen. He says if there's an attack here because he kills that submarine that will be
my
problem. He said other things, too.

"Do we mobilize the troops then?" asked de Villepin.

Still ashen-faced—
What
did
the admiral say to him
, wondered de Villepin—Janier shook his head. "No, no. Let's not let our actions notify the Balboans as to what is going on at sea.

"And now leave me in peace and quiet for the next hour."

The bridge was hushed. Every man present knew Casabianca was guessing, frankly. They also knew his guess had a few things going for it. He knew where the enemy below could go for succor. He had a pretty good idea of its maximum speed while gliding, as it presumably was. He had a point of origin to trace from.

"East or west," the captain said softly. "One or the other. I chose east. If I'm right, maybe we get him. If I'm wrong . . ."

"Sir," Mortain said, taking a telephonic radio receiver away from the side of his head, "
Montcalm
,
Horizon
, and
Cotentin
are on station. The admiral says it's your command. Oh, and Captain Bertin of
Montcalm
is bitching about it, too."

"Bertin always bitches," answered Casabianca. The captain turned towards his sonar major. "Major, on Lieutenant Mortain's command. Weapons, stand by. Mortain?"

"Sir?"

"On radio . . . command . . . continuous . . .
Ping!"

In seconds the major announced, "I've got them."

"Fire!"

"Skipper," said Yermo to Quijana, "they're boxing us."

Quijana looked up from the deck to the screen toward the boat's bow. It was true enough, with four surface ships taking up position approximately to the four cardinal direction of where
Orca
had been perhaps half an hour ago.

"They don't hear us," Quijana said, uncertainly. "If they did they wouldn't be so far out. They'd—"

The captain's words were cut off as the submarine was suddenly deluged with the sound of four separate sonar emitters all going to continuous
ping
.

Yermo tried to ignore the sounds, listening intently for the much more ominous, "Oh, shit, I've got a surface launch . . . no, two . . . three . . . four. Each ship's fired once."

"Fired what?" Quijana asked.

"The Gallic frigates usually mount Ulysses anti-submarine rockets," Quijana's XO said. "That means they'll be here . . ."

"
Plonk
," said Yermo, looking straight up. He squeezed a headphone to his ear. "
Plonk
,
plonk
 . . .
plonk
."

Do NOT panic
, Quijana ordered himself.
Besides, the thing you're most afraid of is being afraid . . . and you don't have much longer for that to happen, now do you, Miguel?

Aloud, he said, "Friends, we're dead. But we're going to sell ourselves dear. Weapons?"

"Aye"—
gulp
—"aye, sir."

"We've still got two supercavitators?"

"Yes, sir, two."

"Good. Fire one on self guidance at target three, the other at target . . . ummm . . . two. Fire when ready. Once they're away fire two standard torpedoes at targets one and four. Guide those yourself to the extent you can. Stand by to drop guidance on those and guide the close in defense torpedoes. Helm?!"

"Aye, sir."

"Turn on the clicker. Flank speed ahead."

"The
clicker
?" the XO, Garcia, looked aghast.

"We're dead anyway," Quijana said. "But the
secret
can be preserved."

The exec started to object, then admitted, also aloud, "Yeah, you're right."

Quijana nodded. His XO then added, "Miguel, I never believed before that old Pedraz booted you off the
Trinidad
. I thought you jumped. I believe it now."

Mortain went white, not because the counterattack from the Balboan sub was unexpected, but because of the speed of the torpedo coming for his ship. That wasn't unexpected either; it was still shocking. Bending over the sonar screen, the naval officer simply couldn't bring himself to credit the way the supercavitator ate up the kilometers.

The "major" running the sonar station whistled and said, "Dear God, I don't think we can escape it."

"Head straight towards it," ordered Portzmoguer's captain.

The helmsman turned his head and eyes in the direction of the captain. "
Towards
it, sir?" He sounded as if he thought that the stupidest order he'd ever heard.

"The things are so noisy they can't use their own passive sonar," the captain explained. "They slow down at a preset point and ping, then adjust and start moving again. If we're not in a position for it to get a bounce from us, there's a fair chance we can lose it altogether. And stop wasting fucking time. Do it! And, Mortain, pass that to the"—the captain looked briefly at his operations board—"pass it to the
Montcalm
."