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Authors: P.T. Deutermann
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tactical mistake was extreme, and that probably he would have to soften it in the near future. But this mission was too important. If he had to keep their attention by death threats, he would do it. Their Navy would never get another chance like this one to strike a blow against the arrogant imperialists.
He retrieved and holstered the pistol, and headed for the control room, followed silently by the Musaid who had
been waiting outside in the passageway. He climbed the short steel ladder leading up into the attack center, and looked around. The watch was in place, planesman, helmsman, diving officer, conning officer. They greeted him normally. The word was not yet out, then. He swept the gauges quickly. The boat was on level keel, depth 85 meters, on a southerly heading, away from the dangerous contact to the northwest. The Musaid went to the diving officer’s position, and stood behind the planesmen.
“Report,” ordered the Captain, taking his station near the periscope well.
“Depth 85 meters, trim stable, on one shaft, speed 3 knots, quiet condition two established,” reported the watch officer, a young Palestinian. The Palestinians made the best officers, he reflected; smart, quick, and eager. And vengeful. That was important.
“We have one contact of interest,” the watch officer continued. “It appears to be a destroyer to our north and west, with sonar active.”
The Captain walked over to the sonar stack. “Audio,” he commanded.
The operator, a Bedouin boy whose ears were the most discriminating in the whole submarine force, was listening on headphones. Continuing to concentrate, he reached up and flipped a switch. Immediately the full spectrum of the ocean’s sound flooded the control room, the hissing susurration of the sea itself, the clicking and snapping of marine life, and there, in the distance, the distinctive ri-i-i-i-ng of a searching active sonar. The Captain cursed silently.
“Audio off,” he ordered. He turned to the watch officer, noticing that the Deputy had come to the control room.
“Did he approach pinging, or did he just suddenly start up from his current position?”
“We detected the screwbeats of an approaching ship, along with those of other shipping; there are many ships coming and going from the river,” replied the watch officer. “Suddenly, this one began to ping.”
The Palestinian looked over at the Deputy; he seemed to be aware that this exchange was out of the ordinary.
The Captain cursed aloud. That meant that this warship had come out silently, and then had begun to look for something. If the ship had come out from its base pinging, it would signify no more than an operational testing of their sonar. To have one come out and begin pinging in the very area where they may have been seen meant something else entirely. It had to be the fishing boat. They must have been seen.
“Make your course east, 090, into the Gulf Stream. When we encounter the sidewall temperature boundary layer, remain in that layer, and turn south, away from this destroyer. Maintain present depth.”
“It shall be done, Captain.”
- The watch officer snapped out quick orders to the helmsman. The submarine, dead silent when running on its batteries, heeled very slightly as she came around to port. The watch officer was using his head—no large rudder angles, and therefore no residual vortex left in the water for the enemy sonar to find. The Captain nodded approvingly.
The Captain went back over to the sonar console, and tapped lightly on the petty officer’s headphones. Without a word, the petty officer took them off and passed them back to the Captain, who put them on. He listened intently, absorbing the ping pattern and frequency.
“What model sonar is this?” he asked the petty officer.
“American, SQS-23,” replied the young man. “An old sonar.” The boy had been to the Soviet Navy sonar school at Sevastopol, and even the Russians had been impressed. He had acutely
He retrieved and holstered the pistol, and headed for the control room, followed silently by the Musaid who had
been waiting outside in the passageway. He climbed the short steel ladder leading up into the attack center, and looked around. The watch was in place, planesman, helmsman, diving officer, conning officer. They greeted him normally. The word was not yet out, then. He swept the gauges quickly. The boat was on level keel, depth 85 meters, on a southerly heading, away from the dangerous contact to the northwest. The Musaid went to the diving officer’s position, and stood behind the planesmen.
“Report,” ordered the Captain, taking his station near the periscope well.
“Depth 85 meters, trim stable, on one shaft, speed 3 knots, quiet condition two established,” reported the watch officer, a young Palestinian. The Palestinians made the best officers, he reflected; smart, quick, and eager. And vengeful. That was important.
“We have one contact of interest,” the watch officer continued. “It appears to be a destroyer to our north and west, with sonar active.”
The Captain walked over to the sonar stack. “Audio,” he commanded.
The operator, a Bedouin boy whose ears were the most discriminating in the whole submarine force, was listening on headphones. Continuing to concentrate, he reached up and flipped a switch. Immediately the full spectrum of the ocean’s sound flooded the control room, the hissing susurration of the sea itself, the clicking and snapping of marine life, and there, in the distance, the distinctive ri-i-i-i-ng of a searching active sonar. The Captain cursed silently.
“Audio off,” he ordered. He turned to the watch officer, noticing that the Deputy had come to the control room.
“Did he approach pinging, or did he just suddenly start up from his current position?”
“We detected the screwbeats of an approaching ship, along with those of other shipping; there are many ships coming and going from the river,” replied the watch officer. “Suddenly, this one began to ping.”
The Palestinian looked over at the Deputy; he seemed to be aware that this exchange was out of the ordinary.
The Captain cursed aloud. That meant that this warship had come out silently, and then had begun to look for something. If the ship had come out from its base pinging, it would signify no more than an operational testing of their sonar. To have one come out and begin pinging in the very area where they may have been seen meant something else entirely. It had to be the fishing boat. They must have been seen.
“Make your course east, 090, into the Gulf Stream. When we encounter the sidewall temperature boundary layer, remain in that layer, and turn south, away from this destroyer. Maintain present depth.”
“It shall be done, Captain.”
- The watch officer snapped out quick orders to the helmsman. The submarine, dead silent when running on its batteries, heeled very slightly as she came around to port. The watch officer was using his head—no large rudder angles, and therefore no residual vortex left in the water for the enemy sonar to find. The Captain nodded approvingly.
The Captain went back over to the sonar console, and tapped lightly on the petty officer’s headphones. Without a word, the petty officer took them off and passed them back to the Captain, who put them on. He listened intently, absorbing the ping pattern and frequency.
“What model sonar is this?” he asked the petty officer.
“American, SQS-23,” replied the young man. “An old sonar.” The boy had been to the Soviet Navy sonar school at Sevastopol, and even the Russians had been impressed. He had acutely
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