Phoenix Sub Zero

Jensen leaned over Pos One and watched the dot stack as the bearings to the Destiny drifted from their bow around the starboard beam. The contact was turning to his right, coming around back to the south. Jensen held his breath, as if it would keep the Destiny from hearing them.

“Speed two knots, sir,” the helmsman announced.

“Chief, prepare to hover,” Jensen ordered.

“What the hell are you doing, O.O.D?” XO Mcdonne’s tone was caustic.

“XO, Target One is reversing course I’m trying to remain undetected.” There was no trace of sarcasm in Jensen’s voice, but Mcdonne glared at the navigator nonetheless.

Mcdonne leaned over Pos One and dialed in a new course for the Destiny, 180 degrees true, due south. Other than a small wrinkle in the middle of the dot stack, the new course caused the stack to realign itself perfectly vertical.

“He’s coming around to the south. Better put some turns on and follow him in his baffles,” Mcdonne said. Then, mostly to himself: “Sucker comes north toward the Baffin Bay for 900 god damned miles and suddenly turns south. Why the hell would he do that?”

“Helm, all ahead one third, right ten degrees rudder, steady course south.”

“Conn, sonar, we’re getting transients from Target One.

Sounds like he’s flooding something. A tank or a tube.”

The dots in the stack started to angle over from Mcdonne’s neat dot stack. The target was maneuvering again.

“Conn, sonar. Target One is slowing.” “Conn, aye,” Mcdonne said into his headset. “Jensen, get the captain in here.”

“Conn, sonar. Target One is opening a hull door. Could be a weapon tube.”

“Dammit,” the XO said. What he would have given for just one Mark 50 torpedo. He glanced up at the chronometer, which read 0350 local time. In a little over an hour they were ordered to clear the area and leave the Destiny to someone else. He couldn’t help but think he should report this last incident, but what was the Destiny doing? Preparing to shoot a torpedo at them? There had been no sign that they were being tracked, no indication that the Destiny had counterdetected.

Kane appeared, still zipping up his poopysuit, his hair slicking straight up, bags under his bloodshot eyes. It took less than thirty seconds to brief him on the new development.

“Jensen, take her up to PD, fast,” Kane said. “Get Binghamton to radio, ASAP.”

“Sonar, conn, proceeding to periscope depth,” Jensen said into the intercom. “Helm, all ahead two thirds. Dive, make your depth six six feet, steep angle.”

As the watchstanders moved to the officer of the deck’s orders, 5,000 yards away the Destiny submarine slowed to walking speed, the Scorpion warhead’s gyro starting to spin, all circuits now energized.

USS SEAWOLF

As First Class Sonarman Jesse Holt took a last sip of the coffee in his Seawolf cup, the rattle of the transient came down the waterfall short-term display, the bearing from the north. In an ocean filled with transient noises it was nothing unusual. He glanced at his log, debating whether to log the rattle. On the captain’s orders, the time indication on his tube read 0351, the ship’s time set for local instead of the usual zulu time. He glanced back up at the transient, noticing it was gone before he had a chance to train the audio cursor to it and listen with his own ears. Well, the sea here was filled with more creaks and groans than a haunted house, most of them from the ice floes, some close, some distant. The ones directly overhead could sometimes be heard with the naked ear, the sudden spooky groan sending shivers down the spines of rookie and under-ice veteran alike.

Holt had reported aboard during the shipyard period, a hot-running young petty officer from the USS Louisville, the submarine in the Pacific Fleet that had done the original sound surveillance of the Destiny as it came out of the Yokosuka yards. Holt was quiet for a sonarman, who were usually known as the ship’s prima donnas. When not on watch he would spend his time qualifying the younger sonarmen, working out aft or in the torpedo room or reading in the crew’s mess. Holt was, unlike most of his shipmates, deeply religious, conducting ship’s services on Sunday mornings.

Not one crew member made fun of this, since after years spent quietly lifting weights Holt had a formidable presence.

That he was searching for another warship with the intention of killing its crew was not a conflict. He had joined the service out of conviction and belief in a way of life. Perhaps the Destiny crew had done the same. Well, let the better submarine … its crew and their cause … prevail, he had thought when Pacino had first made the announcement over Circuit One.

The odd rattling transient came down the waterfall display again, from the north but this time Holt was quick enough to move his audio cursor to the bearing of the rattle. It was a rapid popping sound, a string of firecrackers. Probably an iceberg. Or shrimp. Or a steel hull changing depth.