the spires from inside the strait, as closely as Bell dared.
“Overflight, north to south!” a sonarman shouted.
“Quiet in Control,” Bell snapped. People were too agitated.
“Master Nine-Seven passed almost directly overhead,” the same sonarman stated with a mix of sheepishness and fright.
The whole control room became deathly quiet. If Jeffrey had miscalculated about Russian attitudes, then an air-dropped torpedo—impact with the sea cushioned by a parachute—might have already left the Il-38’s bomb bay. An eternity passed, but Sonar announced no noise of a weapon hitting the water.
“Let’s hope these spires have some steel in their cores,” Jeffrey said. “It might confuse their MAD.”
The Grisha-V was charging toward Challenger at thirty knots, her top speed. The Udaloy, further off when Challenger hit the booby trap, was coming their way just as quickly.
“New passive sonar contacts on the bow sphere,” O’Hanlon reported. “Airborne, bearing three-five-five, range is short, closing rapidly. . . . Turbine engines and helicopter rotor noise. Assess as two Helix-As, scrambled from the Udaloy.”
“Very well,” Bell responded. “Activate sonar speakers.” The noise of the helos filled the control room, in surround-sound quadraphonic, giving a three-dimensional sense of the location of the contacts. Engine turbines roared and whined, the helicopters’ transmissions screamed, and their twin counterrotating main rotors, mounted one above the other on each aircraft, made steady throbbing, thudding beats. “Stand by to suppress active sonars with out-of-phase return emissions.” Challenger ’s sonar arrays, mounted in different places at her bow and along her sides and on her sail, could actively cancel enemy pinging—if the enemy systems weren’t too powerful or too sophisticated.
Jeffrey heard sharp smacking sounds. He almost jumped out of his seat.
“Surface impacts!” O’Hanlon continued his running commentary.
People ducked, as if cowering from a depth charge.
“Assess as sonobuoys!”
The sonobuoys went active, making musical bleeps, taunting, high-pitched, nerve-shattering. They used small hydrophones to pick up echoes, relayed back to the Helix-As by radio. The helicopters in turn might be relaying the data to the Udaloy’s computers for thorough analysis. The only good thing Jeffrey could say about them was that because they had to be small and battery-powered, sonobuoys were not the most dangerous threat.
A deeper tone sounded. “Contact on acoustic intercept!” a different sonarman called out. “Grisha-V hull-mounted Bull Horn system.” Bull Horn was another NATO code name.
“Helicopters departing,” Sessions, as Fire Control Coordinator, said to Bell, sounding hopeful.
“Too easy,” Bell retorted.
A new bright line appeared on Jeffrey’s waterfall display, streaking across it diagonally like a comet.
“Overflight!” came from O’Hanlon. “South to north!”
This time, on the sonar speakers, the droning rumble and roar of a four-engine turboprop fixed-wing aircraft punished everyone’s ears, then receded.
Sonar made formal reports, belaboring the obvious.
“The helos backed off so the May could get a better MAD fix,” Bell said. Jeffrey knew he was right.
“Helos returning!” Sessions was too overwrought not to shout.
Turbines, transmissions, and rotor noises increased in intensity, almost drowning out the plop and bleep as more active sonobuoys fell and switched themselves on.
“They’re keeping us pinned until the ships get here.” Now Bell was giving his own running commentary. “Sonar, are they getting solid echoes off us?”
“Negative,” O’Hanlon said. “Am able to suppress.”
So far. The control room had begun to feel roasting hot, like an oven. Sweat dripped from Jeffrey’s chin, and his underarms were drenched with it. The atmosphere tasted foul, and smelled rancid—the stench of two dozen men’s fear.
Challenger
“Overflight, north to south!” a sonarman shouted.
“Quiet in Control,” Bell snapped. People were too agitated.
“Master Nine-Seven passed almost directly overhead,” the same sonarman stated with a mix of sheepishness and fright.
The whole control room became deathly quiet. If Jeffrey had miscalculated about Russian attitudes, then an air-dropped torpedo—impact with the sea cushioned by a parachute—might have already left the Il-38’s bomb bay. An eternity passed, but Sonar announced no noise of a weapon hitting the water.
“Let’s hope these spires have some steel in their cores,” Jeffrey said. “It might confuse their MAD.”
The Grisha-V was charging toward Challenger at thirty knots, her top speed. The Udaloy, further off when Challenger hit the booby trap, was coming their way just as quickly.
“New passive sonar contacts on the bow sphere,” O’Hanlon reported. “Airborne, bearing three-five-five, range is short, closing rapidly. . . . Turbine engines and helicopter rotor noise. Assess as two Helix-As, scrambled from the Udaloy.”
“Very well,” Bell responded. “Activate sonar speakers.” The noise of the helos filled the control room, in surround-sound quadraphonic, giving a three-dimensional sense of the location of the contacts. Engine turbines roared and whined, the helicopters’ transmissions screamed, and their twin counterrotating main rotors, mounted one above the other on each aircraft, made steady throbbing, thudding beats. “Stand by to suppress active sonars with out-of-phase return emissions.” Challenger ’s sonar arrays, mounted in different places at her bow and along her sides and on her sail, could actively cancel enemy pinging—if the enemy systems weren’t too powerful or too sophisticated.
Jeffrey heard sharp smacking sounds. He almost jumped out of his seat.
“Surface impacts!” O’Hanlon continued his running commentary.
People ducked, as if cowering from a depth charge.
“Assess as sonobuoys!”
The sonobuoys went active, making musical bleeps, taunting, high-pitched, nerve-shattering. They used small hydrophones to pick up echoes, relayed back to the Helix-As by radio. The helicopters in turn might be relaying the data to the Udaloy’s computers for thorough analysis. The only good thing Jeffrey could say about them was that because they had to be small and battery-powered, sonobuoys were not the most dangerous threat.
A deeper tone sounded. “Contact on acoustic intercept!” a different sonarman called out. “Grisha-V hull-mounted Bull Horn system.” Bull Horn was another NATO code name.
“Helicopters departing,” Sessions, as Fire Control Coordinator, said to Bell, sounding hopeful.
“Too easy,” Bell retorted.
A new bright line appeared on Jeffrey’s waterfall display, streaking across it diagonally like a comet.
“Overflight!” came from O’Hanlon. “South to north!”
This time, on the sonar speakers, the droning rumble and roar of a four-engine turboprop fixed-wing aircraft punished everyone’s ears, then receded.
Sonar made formal reports, belaboring the obvious.
“The helos backed off so the May could get a better MAD fix,” Bell said. Jeffrey knew he was right.
“Helos returning!” Sessions was too overwrought not to shout.
Turbines, transmissions, and rotor noises increased in intensity, almost drowning out the plop and bleep as more active sonobuoys fell and switched themselves on.
“They’re keeping us pinned until the ships get here.” Now Bell was giving his own running commentary. “Sonar, are they getting solid echoes off us?”
“Negative,” O’Hanlon said. “Am able to suppress.”
So far. The control room had begun to feel roasting hot, like an oven. Sweat dripped from Jeffrey’s chin, and his underarms were drenched with it. The atmosphere tasted foul, and smelled rancid—the stench of two dozen men’s fear.
Challenger
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