He rubbed his right shoulder and biceps and grimaced. At least he could shoot the Destiny submarine without it ripping his arm out of the socket. Damned Betts. Next time he’d lift a few weights before challenging his beefy torpedoman.

Chapter 6

Thursday, 26 December

EASTERN MEDITERRANEAN

USS AUGUSTA

The door to sonar smashed open. The sonar chief turned and stared at Captain Daminski, his hair drawn back, red wraparound glasses shading his round eyes. Chief Bruce Hillsworth, Royal Navy, was on an exchange program, his usual assignment to the HMS Triumph, an attack submarine of the Trafalgar class. After going to BSY-1 BATEARS sonar school in San Diego, Hillsworth had reported aboard Augusta for the temporary assignment to assist the regular sonar supervisor. But the irreverent Brit had proved so adept at his job that, at Daminski’s insistence, the Navy had approved his top-secret clearance and proposed to the British Admiralty that he be allowed to complete a three-year tour.

Daminski slammed shut the door to the sonar shack, violating the rig for patrol quiet that required doors to be shut gently. Hillsworth ripped off his earphones and glared at the captain, then spoke, his South London accent oddly exotic in a navy dominated by descendents of early twentieth-century immigrants and great-grandsons of the Confederacy.

“Sir, if you insist on slamming the door I shall be obliged to ask you to leave my sonar compartment.”

Daminski clapped Hillsworth on the shoulder. “Aw, your queen wears combat boots.”

Hillsworth’s nose tilted toward the overhead. “Is there anything in particular I might be able to help you with, sir?”

Daminski looked around the room and took it in, as if he were seeing it for the first time, or perhaps the last. The space was quiet, the sonar display consoles humming, ventilation ducts purring, the room dimly lit by blue fluorescent lights and the green of the console video screens. A wall speaker played the sound of the selected beam of the spherical sonar array, the volume turned low enough to make the ears strain to hear the sound of the merchant ship’s propeller off in the distance. The faraway whooshing of the screw blades sounded lonely, mournful.

“I want to see the sonar search-plan for the Destiny-class.”

Hillsworth nodded, took off the headphones and led Daminski to the computer in the forward corner of the cramped space. Daminski paged through the software, looking at the expected tonal frequencies predicted from the Japanese-constructed ship. Little was known about her sound signature. When the ship had left the Mitsubishi shipyard in Yokosuka the Improved-Los Angeles-class submarine Louisville had trailed her out, doing an “underhull,” a periscope surveillance of the new ship as it ran on the surface.

The video of that observation had given naval intelligence a more complete picture than if they had gotten a tour of her drydock. When the Destiny-class submerged, the Louisville stayed with her, circling her in what was known as an SPL (for sound pressure level recording). The wideband-width tape recordings were analyzed for weeks at navsea until the resulting sonar search plan was created. That plan noted the various pure tones emanating from the Destiny submarine as a function of distance from the contact and the angle of the ship itself. Sonar detection in the BATEARS BSY-1 suite was done primarily by narrowband detection, listening in a narrow slice of ocean for a particular pure frequency, a tonal. Reducing the space listened to and the frequencies listrened for cut down on the near infinite amount of data the sonar computers would otherwise have to process to find the enemy sub. But the plan depended heavily on what tonals the target submarine transmitted.

Daminski frowned. “This SPL is a year old,” he complained.

“Afraid so, Cap’n.”

“This might not sound anything like the Destiny does today.”

“It might.”

“No way. Chief. This data was taken on Destiny’s maiden voyage. God knows our boats sound completely different from sea trials to a year later after we’ve fixed all the shipyard’s screwups and eliminated all the sound shorts. I think we should open up the tonal gates.”

“Sir, you’ll be doubling or tripling the volume of data. It’ll slow us down. Might not scoop up the rascal at all.”

Daminski turned from the computer screen and looked up at the overhead. “I can’t help thinking they’re somehow ahead of us. There’s something we haven’t thought about.”

The phone rang from the conn.

“O.O.D for you, gov’na. Says you’re requested in the officers’ mess for a briefing. Probably about our friend the Destiny.” “Yeah.” Daminski sighed. “Don’t forget opening those gates. Chief. At least a couple hertz.”

“I’ll consider discussing it with the weapons officer, if you don’t mind, sir.”

Daminski laughed, noting Hillsworth’s rigid insistence on following the chain of command, even knowing that the weapons officer would take his orders from Daminski.