"They couldn't have named it the Alliance Warp Ship, could they?" Captain Steven "Spectre" Blankemeier said, shaking his head. "Oh, no . . . Cast off lines aft . . ." The short-coupled former carrier commander was clearly nonplussed over the chosen name for his boat.
"Could have been worse, sir," Commander Clay White said. The XO of the ASS Vorpal Blade was the senior submarine officer on the boat. There had been a real tussle over which portion of the service was going to control the probable future space navy. The submarine admirals had made the convincing point that spaceships would be more similar to subs than carriers. The carrier admirals, though, had a much better lobby. So Spectre had been put through an accelerated course in submarine warfare and management while White, who had been in line to command his own sub, was seconded as an "experienced XO." "At least we're so totally covert that hardly anyone will ever see our name. Cast off lines aft!"
Despite the political infighting above their heads, the two officers had meshed well. Spectre was the epitome of a fighter pilot and the crew loved him, but he hadn't studied ship handling skills until he'd assumed a carrier command and despite a tour as a sub officer, which had confused the hell out of his commander, he still wanted to fight the boat like a plane. White, on the other hand, had started as an engineer and really comprehended the details of the boat. He was methodical where Spectre was daring. It was a good combination if for no other reason than White could sometimes keep his headstrong commander from totally losing it.
"Cast off lines forward . . ." Spectre continued. "Sure as maulk it's going to get out. Guarantee it."
"Cast off forward!" White repeated. "We're so black you couldn't find us with a really good sonar system, sir. All lines cast off."
"We just motor straight out, right?" Spectre replied. "Seriously, it had to be the Adar springing that on the President. Surely he'd have caught it?"
"Probably," White said. "Yes, sir, no tug this time for security reasons. Suggest turns for three knots."
"Make it so," Spectre said. "I can't wait to get out of this damned gravity well."
"Soon," Clay replied. "Astro, what's our course on launch?"
"Two choices, sir," Weaver said. "We can head straight for the heliopause in the direction of Alpha Cent or we can do a fly-by of Saturn. It's only about two minutes out of our way and I think the planetology department would appreciate the readings. And on that course we can get a fly-by of the bow shock."
"Make it so, Astro," Spectre replied. "I'd like to see Saturn up close again. Spectacular. Plan on at least one orbit. Got to give Planetology plenty of time to survey, right?"
One reason that Captain Blankemeier had been chosen was that he was an amateur astronomer. There had not been a single submarine commander with that skill. A born tourist, he was always willing to do a quick check of a planet if it didn't interfere with the overall mission.
"Can not wait."
"Agree with you wholeheartedly, sir," Weaver said, trying to figure out the wet part of the navigation. Put him in space, he was fine. It was currents and shoals that gave him fits.
"Oh, holy grapp," Hattelstad muttered as they made their way down the ladder to the Marine bunks.
"You know, I love the Adar and I hate 'em," Jaenisch responded. "I can just start with the jokes now."
" 'I'm sorry, Gunny, I must have had my head in my ASS,' " Crowley said. " 'Let me stick my head in my ASS and see if I can think of anything.' 'Time to go back to the ASS.' It even makes my head hurt."
"Hey, Two-Gun, you play Dreen Strike?" Sergeant Lovelace said. Terry was the Bravo Team leader in the platoon, Crowley's direct boss.
"I've played it," Berg admitted. "But I prefer WoW or Orion."
"Figures," Crowley said. "We could use a fourth for Dreen. We keep getting creamed by Alpha First. They've got Gunga-Din as their heavy gunner and that Hindu is wicked."
"I've got some new WoW packs with me," Berg said. "I think I'll stay on those for a while. If the system will let me uplink."
"As long as they're valid copies," Jaenisch said, pausing at the corridor to their bunks. Everybody had followed courtesy protocol and was diving into their racks, but that didn't mean there wasn't a crowd. "There's a chip slit on the side of the screen."
"Thanks," Berg said. "You guys have been doing this for a while, haven't you?"
"We've only done two short cruises," Jaenisch said as they got to their bunks. He slid into his and then stuck his head out. "This is the first long cruise. Hopefully, nobody's gonna freak out. You might want to store all your stuff away by the time we dive."
"Because the CO drives this thing like a fighter?" Berg said.
"You have no idea."
"Good news," Julia Robertson said as she entered the mission specialist mess. "Fly-by of Saturn on the way out."
Robertson was a forty-seven-year-old skinny black woman. "People of color" were unusual enough in hard sciences but Julia was particularly unusual. A former waitress, she had gone back to school after her last child left the house. An undiagnosed sufferer from Attention Deficit Disorder, she'd found college a breeze with the right medication. Her social workers had expected her to return to the bosom of the government with a sociology degree. She'd shocked the hell out of everyone she knew when she switched to biology. She'd shocked even more people when she got her doctorate and went back to school to pick up two more.
"That would be me," Dr. Paul Dean said. The planetologist was a tall man who fit into the bunks on the converted sub poorly. He had long brown hair, going gray and pulled into a ponytail, and a gray-shot beard that hung nearly to the middle of his chest. A former professor at the University of Colorado, he'd always resented the Top Secret clearance the military-industrial complex forced on him ten years before. That is, right up until the MIC offered the "hippie" with doctorates in planetology, astronomy, physics, geology and astrophysics, a chance to go into space.
The former professor picked up a half-filled two-liter bottle of soda, shook it vigorously, opened up the cap to listen for a hiss, squeezed the sides in, shook it again, then took a swig. "I need to find out if we can drop a probe."
He went through the ritual a second time, took another swig and then got up and headed out of the room.
"Julia," Miriam said, waving to Mimi. "This is Mimi Jones."
"And what is a young lady like you doing on a spaceship like this?" Julia said, her eyes narrowing. "Does your mother know where you are?"
"My mother is dead, Miss Julia," Mimi replied politely. "But my Aunt Vera knows that I'm doing something with the government. And I'm here cause Tuffy says I'm supposed to be here," she continued, lifting the arachnoid off her lap.
"What is that?" Julia asked, backing up.
"That's Tuffy!" Miriam said, chortling. "You never saw Tuffy on the news?"
"You're that girl survived the bomb," Julia said, much more gently. She sat down at the table and nodded. "I suppose there might be a reason you're here. But the Lord sure do work in mysterious ways."
"That he does, Miss Julia," Mimi replied. "Dr. Weaver thinks that Tuffy might just be an angel. Even though he doesn't look like one."
"Not sure just what an angel would look like," Robertson said, considering the arachnoid carefully. "But I wouldn't say he'd be a big ole terancheler."
"I don't see why not," Miriam argued. "If Mimi went around with some glowing guy with wings on her shoulder it would cause more problems than something that looks like a stuffed toy."
"Good point," Julia admitted.
"What do you do, Miss Julia?" Mimi asked.
"Biology," Julia replied. "So till we get to a planet, if we find any rocky ones, I don't have much of a job. You know what biology is, miss?"
"A science that studies living organisms," Mimi recited. "I wrote a paper on punctuated evolution in the . . . second grade. I proposed that punctuated equilibrium only appears punctuated because of gaps in fossil data that are inherent in periods of rapid change."
"Really?" Julia said, impressed. "I don't suppose you've done any study since then?"
"Miss Julia," Mimi said, carefully, "I think that at this point, if I went to a university, I could probably get a doctorate in about any hard science you'd care to mention. I will admit that part of that is with the help of Tuffy. But he tries to just make me think . . . better, harder. He doesn't do it for me. You can feel free to quiz me on anything you'd like in regards to biology, geology, planetology, physics, astronomy or astrophysics."
"Interesting," Julia said. Her rather pronounced southern black accent had nearly disappeared. "What's the definition of species?"
"Ask a dozen biologists and you get a dozen answers," Mimi said. "According to Ernst Mayer, groups of actually or potentially interbreeding natural populations which are reproductively isolated from other such groups. I still say it doesn't explain tigers and lions, though."
"Damn, girl," Julia said, whistling. "How old are you?"
"Fourteen," Mimi replied. "But Tuffy says I have an old soul."
"Just one of those definitions I really like," Julia said, grinning. "I loved to trot it out for juniors that thought they knew it all about biology then point out 'species' that don't meet the definition. And I don't know what to expect on other worlds, just want to get there is all."
"And who is this young lady?" a man said from the hatchway. He was tall and broad, with a thick, neatly trimmed beard.
"Everette Beach, this is Mimi Jones," Miriam said. "Mimi, Everette. Everette is the mission specialist commander. I think that makes him your boss."
"Hello, Mr. Beach," Mimi said, standing up and shaking the man's hand.
"You're Mimi," Beach replied. "I was briefed on your presence, but only today. And this would be Tuffy. You are both welcome. I've actually heard of you from sources besides the news. I think you supplied Professor Johnson at Cal-Tech with the answer to his string node dilemma."
"Yes, we did," Mimi said shyly.
"I have to ask . . ." Everette said, his brow furrowing.
"I can't tell you if it was me or Tuffy," Mimi interjected. "Not will not, can not. I'm not sure myself. There are times when I don't know if I'm really really smart naturally or if it's Tuffy. Simple as that."
"Does that bother you?" Miriam asked gently.
"No, it really doesn't," Mimi said. "Tuffy has told me that we're going to be together until I die and I think we're gonna be together after. So it's not like I'm going to lose my smarts like Algernon. And being smart lets me help people. And make lots of money."
"You won't make lots of money working for the government," Julia said. "Oh, it pays well enough, but . . ."
"I'm not, actually, getting paid for this," Mimi said. "And while I know I fall in the mission specialist category, even if I don't have a specialty, I'm going to be staying close to Commander Weaver and Chief Miller."
"Any particular reason?" Beach asked.
"Cause Tuffy says they are the causality point," Mimi replied. "And that's about all I can get out of him. He's shown me the math but string nodes is two plus two compared to that. Maybe one day I'll figure it out."
"Oh," Beach said, glancing at the other two. Julia raised her eyebrows but Miriam just smiled.
"I think you're going to fit right in here," Miriam said, patting Mimi on the leg. "You know, I read your paper on Yang-Mills Theory. Did you take into account the Looking Glass bosons connection through a virtual dimension when you worked out the mass gap? I have a hard time understanding how the LGBs enable a quantum particle with positive mass to travel faster than the speed of light. I mean, haven't we decided that the LGBs are not wormholes or even Higgs fields of the classical sense?"
"That's right," Mimi said, smiling slightly despite the leg pat. "Dr. Weaver's original assessment that the gauge bosons created were simply the Higgs field gauge particles was . . ."
"Congratulations, Lieutenant Commander Weaver," Commander White said, grinning. "You have successfully navigated us out of Norfolk Harbor."
The sub had reached the two-hundred fathom line, the traditional dive point for the subs coming out of Norfolk. From there to England, more or less, there wasn't anything in the way of the sub. Oh, if they dove deep enough they could hit the bottom, but it would be tough. SSBNs were designed to be quiet swimmers, not deep ones.
Unfortunately, the newly named Vorpal Blade wasn't even particularly quiet. Various concessions had had to be made for the sub to be spaceworthy, the most important of which was removing every scrap of acoustic tile from the surface of the boat. Without the acoustic tile, which muffled internal noise, it "radiated" like a rock band.
What the Vorpal Blade was, though, was fast.
"Sound dive warning," the captain said.
"All hands!" Commander White said over the enunciator. "Dive, Dive, Dive!"
"The board is straight," the chief of boat said, indicating that all the various hatches were shut.
"XO, dive the boat," the captain said, hopping up on his chair. "Make your depth one hundred meters."
"Ten percent blow," the XO said. "Fifteen degrees down plane."
"Fifteen degrees down, aye," the plane controller said.
"Blow complete," the COB said.
"Descending through fifty meters," the plane said. "Seventy-five . . ."
"Level off on one hundred," the XO ordered.
"Leveling," the plane replied. "One hundred meters depth."
"Astro?" the captain asked.
"Recommend course of one-five-seven," Weaver replied.
"XO, come to course one-five-seven."
"Right ten degrees rudder," the XO said. "Make your course one-five-seven."
"Ten degrees rudder, aye," the helmsman said. "One-five-seven, aye."
"Why one-five-seven?" the captain asked.
"Last report from SOSUS indicated the Akulas were waiting for us at nine-zero," Weaver replied. "Of course, they're probably picking us up all ready."
"Point," the captain said sourly.
While the Cold War was no longer going on, Russia still maintained an interest in the American fleet, and especially in its submarines. They still sent attack subs to stake out American harbors and try to get hull shots, sonar profiles or any data at all on the American subs. With the Ohios they were still mostly failing; the subs that the Blade had been made from were ghosts.
The Blade really had them puzzled, though. It appeared to be converted for inshore, the term of art was littoral, combat. But removing the acoustic tiles made no sense. Why make a ship designed to approach enemy coastlines noisy. So the Russians had been sending an increasing number of attack subs to try to figure out this new Ami sub. The one thing they'd discovered was that the Blade was very very fast.
"XO, disengage propeller drive and close prop cowling," the captain ordered.
The two orders were nowhere in any other submarine's lexicon and the latter was one of the reasons that the Blade wasn't very quiet. For various reasons, not the least of which was that they tended to rotate fast enough to spin off when the Blade got up to full speed, the propellers of the Blade were housed in a sliding door cowling system that was similar to the cowling kept over the props while in wet dock with the exception of the fact that they opened and closed by pushing buttons on the bridge.
"Props disengaged and closed," the XO said after a moment.
"Engage supercavitation field," the captain said, satisfaction in his voice. "Make power for one-two-zero knots. Engage space drive."
"One-two-zero knots, aye," the XO said. "Engage supercavitation system. Pilot, engage space drive. Power to one-two-zero knots."
"What the hell is that?" Miller asked as the strong flow noise started up and the sub began to shake. Being in a sub was always nervous making; hearing one apparently crashing was worse.
"They engaged the space drive," Captain Michael "M.E." MacDonald said. He was currently regarding the chief warrant officer with interest. "When we start to really speed up it gets noisy. I only know that because I've been on this boat for shakedown ops."
"And I haven't, sir," Miller said, nodding.
"I understand why you are here," MacDonald said. "What I'm not sure about is what to do with you."
"Not sure myself, sir," Miller admitted. "I know as much as you do. Tuffy wants me here. The only suggestion I have is that I think I should stay close to Commander Weaver."
"Any reason why?" the captain asked. "Besides being old buddies."
"Not sure how to explain, sir," Miller admitted, frowning. "Commander Weaver, well, I'm pretty sure he's going to play out more of a role than just navigating us around. I think we both know he's going to be consulted on just about anything that we encounter. I know that there are probably astronomers and astrophysicists on this boat with better credentials than his. But Weaver gets things right. You know what I mean on a military level, sir. There are guys who get things right in combat. Well, Weaver gets them right when it's . . . weird stuff."
"Like ship-eating monsters?" MacDonald asked.
"Like I have no idea, sir," the warrant said. "But I'm pretty sure that when it happens, we're all going to be pucker factoring. And if anybody's going to figure out how to save our ass, sir, it's going to be Weaver. And, with all due respect, sir, when he thinks something needs to be shot or blown up, he's going to scream 'Miller!' not 'MacDonald!' He thinks he's a naval officer but I guarantee he hasn't got chain of command in his bones. My suggestion, sir, is that you just tell me to tag along with Weaver. That way he's got a guy who does have a clue about ground combat to . . . suggest alternate methods."
"Gotcha, Chief," the captain said, grinning. "Okay, that's how we'll work it. I'm appointing you the chief of security detail for Commander Weaver, especially in the event of his leaving the boat. I'll speak to the captain about how to integrate your position while on-board, but if Weaver leaves, you're his bodyguard. Work?"
"Works, sir," Miller said.
"All hands, prepare for water exit," the 1-MC said.
"Hang on," MacDonald said, grabbing at the arms of his station-chair as music started booming over the 1-MC.
"Who in the hell is playing music?" Miller asked, grabbing at his own chair's arms. He'd noticed that the chair was bolted to the deck. He suspected he was about to find out why.
"Who could order music?" the Marine CO said. "Like I said, hang on."
"There it is."
Captain Zabukov looked over at his sonar technician as the senior petty officer held up a hand.
"I'm surprised you can't hear it through the hull," the CPO said bitterly. Shadowing the American boomer, even as noisy as it was, was not easy. But now, as it had the last three times they shadowed it, it had begun to play that rock and roll crap. And everyone in the crew knew what that meant.
"Position?" Captain Zabukov asked.
"Two-One-Four, Control," the CPO said, still bitterly. "Depth one hundred meters, more or less. You sure you cannot hear it through the hull? I am having to crank down my gain."
"Periscope depth!"
"Periscope depth, aye," the XO, Senior Lieutenant Ivanakov, said. "Five degree rise on bow planes."
The Russian Akula was still the most advanced attack sub, outside of the Americans', in the world. And there were arguments on both sides. The Akula depended upon depth and speed to survive; it could dive deeper and drive faster than just about any other submarine on Earth. The trade-off, however, was noise. While the Akula was not noisy by any normal average, it was much noisier than an American 688, much less the Seawolf or Ohio series.
That was until the Americans came up with this new bastard Ohio. The damned thing was, if anything, noisier than an Akula. It had . . . bits protruding. Following it was like following a blind man in an autumn forest. But then, that skipper would play his damned music and . . .
"Get me on the surface," the captain snarled. "Sonar, what is its heading?"
"Zero, one eight," Sonar called back. "It's headed towards the Zama."
The latter Akula was one of three that Northern Fleet had sent to pinpoint the new American sub and determine how it was disappearing.
"Captain, what are you doing?" Ivanakov asked, worried. He had heard the captain's theory on the new American boomer and he hoped that he was one of the few. If higher command ever heard it they would laugh the captain out of the service.
"I'm going to get a hull shot," the captain said, hitting the control to raise the periscope. "A very special one. Come to course zero, one, eight, periscope depth. Max power. Now!"
"I hope like hell they get the point," the captain said, grinning, as the music boomed. It wasn't just being played on the boat, but broadcast through the sonar. It was a clear warning to everyone to get the hell out of the way. The A—Oh, hell the Vorpal Blade was coming through!
"Yes, sir," Commander Clay said sourly. A submariner to his bones, he believed in stealth over everything. But he had to admit that the music had at least successfully driven off the whales that they might otherwise have hit.
The problem was that while going this fast, the sub was absolutely blind. Sure, there wasn't supposed to be anything in the way, not at one hundred meters. But that didn't preclude other subs, especially the Russians, being in the way. Or dolphins or whales. Or, hell, a school of herring! If they hit anything at this speed, well, it wasn't going to be pretty.
So the captain played music, practically taunting the Russians. It just ached in his bubblehead bones.
"Prepare for water separation," the captain said.
"Helm, plane, all converted?" the XO asked.
"Helm converted, aye!"
"Plane, planes retracted, all converted, aye!"
"Captain has the conn," the captain said. "Helm has piloting control."
"Helm, piloting control, aye," the plane controller said, lifting his hands away from the plane controls. Under water the boat required multiple drivers for the various control surfaces. Once under space drive, the helmsman took over as sole pilot. The planesman, however, remained in position as a "co" in the event of injury to the helmsman.
"Pilot, two-zero-zero knots! Let's take this bird for a ride!"
"The music has started," the sonar tech for the Akula Zama said.
"Hmmm . . ." Captain Borodinich said, musingly. "According to reports, that means that they are preparing to engage their new speed drive, Senior Lieutenant Vaslaw. What do you think of that?"
"I am wondering where they are going, sir," the XO said, swallowing nervously.
"So are we all," the captain replied, nodding. "You are wondering, I am wondering, the admiral is wondering. But this time, Senior Lieutenant, we shall see where they are going. Do you know why?"
"Yes, sir," the lieutenant said. "But I was speaking of which bit of water they are going to be passing through, sir. Sonar, have they initiated drive, yet?" As he asked there was a hollow "boing" off of the hull and he flinched.
"No, si . . . Senior Lieutenant," the sonar tech said, swallowing. He had served with Vaslaw under their previous captain. The new captain's habit of instituting damned near Soviet era formality, Senior Lieutenant this and Master Chief Sonar Technician that, was not popular. Nor was his tendency towards either stupidity or reckless arrogance. Or both. Nobody could be that stupid, after all.
"You understand my purpose in being here?" the captain replied, surprised. "Instead of trailing as the other boats are doing?"
"You chose to track them from forward, Captain," Vaslaw said, very nearly snarled. "Sonar, position and direction!"
"That is for me to ask, Senior Lieutenant," the captain snapped. "I suspect that you do not care for my plan, but you will support it, is that clear?"
"Sir," the lieutenant replied. Which was neither agreement nor disagreement.
"Direction . . . one-one-three," the sonar tech said, tapping at keys and ignoring the captain's input. Thank God they had finally gotten a decent computer on the boat. When he had started in his position, it had been that Soviet era maulk. Tubes if you could believe it. They still didn't have the filtering and processing of the American boats, but when they could spot them they could at least lock them down without reference to a bunch of pins and slide-rules. "Course . . . two-nine-five!"
"Captain, it's headed right at us!" the lieutenant said. "We must change course!"
"And so we will," the captain said calmly. "We will parallel their track. They have become predictable. They point a certain direction and then go fast, like some pilot taking off from a runway. I think it's because their commander, Blankemeier, yes? He was a carrier pilot. No finesse, yes? So we shall parallel them and find where they go. Come to course one-one-five. . . ."
The boat's pilot, prepared for the order, whipped his wheel around, hard, causing the submarine to bank like an aircraft and filling the boat with the noise of unsecured gear rattling into the corridors. Most of the conn barely had time to grab stanchions as the boat stood on its side.
"Not so hard!" the captain snarled. "And I said one-one-five! Not one-eight-zero! Go to full power as soon as this ham-handed cow gets us back on course."
"American speed coming up," Sonar called as another "bong" rattled off the titanium hull of the boat. "Continuing to use active sonar!"
"Captain," the lieutenant pleaded. "The reason for all this noise is clear! The Americans are saying 'we are coming through! Get out of the way!' And we should!"
"And because you have been, we still do not know where these Amis go when they do to go silent!" the captain snapped. "How they can simply disappear? Because none of you cowards were willing to get close enough to them! Which is why Northern Fleet has sent me, yes? Sonar, where are they, now?"
"Coming up from our rear," Sonar said as the hull of the Akula began to thrum from flow. "Speed over eighty knots. I am only able to track them through their own sonar; ours is being washed out with flow noise. Oh, and I hear their music . . . It's dopplering . . ."
"Damned arrogant Americans," the captain muttered. "We shall track them this time. . . ."
"Captain, they have been tracked doing over three hundred knots!" the lieutenant replied with a pleading tone. "We need to get out of the way. . . ."
"I said silence," Borodinich snapped.
"Speed . . . over one hundred knots . . ." Sonar called. "Higher I think. Perhaps as much as two hundred. I'm getting so many harmonics . . . Wait . . . Can you hear them . . . ?"
"What is that?" the captain asked. Every submariner is attuned to the rhythm of their boat. Any ping can be a problem, any extra vibration could be a sign of failure. So the strange rumbling was . . . disquieting.
"That is them," Sonar replied, pulling off his headphones and bracing himself. "All you have to do now is listen!"
It was more than the sound of an approaching train. The lieutenant had once watched a show about tornados. In it, a man had been trapped under an underpass as a tornado passed over. It was like that. No, stronger, as if a hurricane could be compressed into the size of a truck and it was getting closer. The Akula was already going nearly fifty knots but the sound was getting louder. And over it . . .
"Is that music?" the captain asked, looking at the lieutenant.
"Yes, sir . . ." Vaslaw said, unhappily. "It's—"
"Never mind," the captain snapped, his appearance of calm starting to crumble. "Come to course—"
Senior Lieutenant Vladimir Vaslaw was no fool. He had been on this very sub when the Amis had last passed and had been close enough to, barely, hear that dread sound, to faintly catch the tune that, against all probability, was blasting forth through the very metal of the American craft. Now . . . it was much louder. So he grabbed a stanchion and clung to it like a limpet as the captain's words were overwhelmed with noise. And then the wave hit.
It is said that boats are a hole in the water into which money is poured. But in the case of the Vorpal Blade, she was going over two hundred knots, creating not so much a wake as a supercavitation vacuum behind her, a gap filled with a mixture of water turned to air and air turning to water. And as she passed, the weight of three hundred feet of ocean, rather than money, collapsed that temporary hole.
The effect wasn't that of a tornado or a hurricane. Tornados are dirty, hurricanes are wet, but neither is pure water. And water has many interesting properties. It is, among other things, incompressible. So it transmits shocks quite well. And there aren't many greater shocks than a submarine-sized pocket of water collapsing at very nearly the speed of sound. Were it not for the brilliant modifications to the Ohio-class submarine, more specifically, the long blade or shock initiator on the bow, the effect would be many times more pronounced—two orders of magnitude worse.
The Akula was wrenched through the water like a leaf blown by a gale, tossed on its side and hammered until its hull rang like a tocsin. The only thing that saved its life was that the hull was one of the strongest on the earth and they weren't, really, all that deep.
That didn't help the personnel and equipment in the boat, though, as the wake of the passing boomer shook them like a terrier at a rat. Anyone not buckled in, and the only people on the boat so secured were the pilot and the buoyancy operator, was thrown around like a bowling pin.
Lieutenant Vaslaw managed to hold onto his pole by wrapping both legs around it. He still slammed his face into it as the boat stood first on one side, then the other, and then he swore directly vertical. It was hard to tell since most of the lights blew out almost at once in a shower of sparks.
It might have been the latter that saved them. The direct-drive turbines had not shut down with the rest of the boat, the robust nuclear reactor had not scrammed, and they were probably the only thing that kept them from being sunk. As it was, as the emergency lighting started to come back on-line he could see that they were at an up-angle, canted to the side but ascending.
He could also see the captain on the other side of the conn with his head up against a bulkhead. He could be unconscious or dead. Frankly, Lieutenant Vaslaw didn't give a damn.
"Blow all tanks," the lieutenant said, shaking his head and wiping at the blood from his nose. "Come to speed of one third. Surface."
"Surface, aye!" the pilot said, happily righting the boat and scrambling for clear air. There were still currents aplenty that roiled the sub, but he could work with that.
"Multiple leaks," damage control called. The operator was on his knees and shaking his head but he still had his headphones on. "Multiple injuries."
"Great," Vaslaw growled. "Tell the medics when they're done with the rest, they need to check the captain. Until then, and I did not say this, I'd rather he remain unconscious."
Vaslaw shook his head again and then sighed. They were lucky. They would see the sky again. Too many other Russian submariners had not been so lucky. He should be happy.
But he rather liked rock music. He had not been really aware during the last days of the Soviets but he had complete collections of rock groups from that period.
However, his precious copy of Europe's single, "The Final Countdown" was going for the dumpster; he never ever wanted to hear that song again.
Not after hearing it dopplering towards him, and then away, as the several thousand ton submarine was tossed around like a leaf. The guitar solo was distinctive.
Damn those Americans. . . .
"Ten degrees up!" the captain shouted over the flow noise.
"Conn, Sonar," Lieutenant Sousa said. "They think they actually heard something over the flow! It sounded like a shipwreck!" There was a sound like a ripple of rain from forward. Small fish were dying in large numbers.
"Well, it wasn't us!" Spectre yelled, grinning and bending his knees as the Gs hit. The boat was headed up now, fast. As it started to level he shook his head.
"Pilot, twenty degrees up!"
"Twenty degrees, aye!" the helmsman yelled, grinning. They weren't in space, yet, but he was, by God, driving a spaceship. What was it somebody in the mess had called it? A quadraphibian. Water, land, air and space.
"Separation!" the XO yelled as the noise fell away. "Whew!" They were in the air. No chance of hitting a whale anymore. They'd hit a school of herring one time and he thought the bow was going to cave in.
"Tactical, what's on the scope?" the captain asked.
"All clear, sir," Lieutenant Souza said. "No radar emitters in range."
"Pilot, make your height one-zero-zero angels for pressure check," the CO said, sitting back in his chair. "Maintain angle of ascent."
"So how long do we deal with this?" Mimi asked, holding onto the table to keep from sliding off the bench. Pots and pans had cascaded across the floor and Miss Julia had nearly slid off.
"The drive is very strange," Everette replied. "While there is gravity, it lets gravity through and has limited effect on inertial actions. So we take G forces in maneuvers. Once gravity falls off, it engages a pseudo-gravity system and begins inertial compensation. So no matter how strenuous the maneuver, we barely feel it. But the takeoff . . ."
"The captain don't even have to do it this way," Julia said sourly. "He just does it for fun."
"Now, now, Dr. Robertson," Everette said. "We shouldn't question the tactical decisions of the boat's commander. . . ."
"CO's nuts," MacDonald said, leaning back in his chair. "F-18 pilot."
"Gotcha," Miller said. He had his feet braced on the front of the locked-down desk and was fairly comfortable. "Glad we didn't hit anything."
"One of these days we're gonna," MacDonald said. "And that's gonna really suck."
"Suck more if the Russkis figured out what was going on," Miller pointed out.
Captain Zabukov had surfaced the boat and was on his sail, a pair of night vision binoculars glued to his eyes. He knew that they had fallen well behind the Ami sub, but it was possible that he could—
"There!" Lieutenant Ivanakov said, pointing to the southeast.
"Yob tvoyu mat . . ." the captain said, quietly.
"I assume that that was not directed at me, sir," the lieutenant said. "Bozhe moi! You were right!"
"And you think that they are going to believe us, yes?" the captain said. "That the Amis have a flying submarine? And where has it been flying to, yes? The stars?"
"Store your maulk if it's out," Jaenisch yelled.
"It's all stored," Berg said.
"Okay, here's the deal," Jaenisch continued, rolling out of his rack and climbing up to Berg's. "Make sure your maulk is stored. Except. There are sick bags here," he said, opening up one of the small storage compartments. "Make sure you've got at least one available. The CO's going to go to full power underwater to outrun the Akulas. You'll know we're starting the speed run when the music starts. Then he's going to jump out of the water. You just hang onto the zero gee straps. Keep your bunk elevated. If you've got to puke, puke into the bag and seal it. Keep your door closed and your circulator on high in case somebody misses their bag. When we're out of gravity it will get better. But as soon as we're out of gravity we've got chores to do."
"Aye, aye," Berg said, grinning. "Sounds like fun."
"You wish," Jaenisch said as music started pounding over the 1-MC. "Grapp, here we go." He jumped to the deck and rolled into his bunk, closing the door.
All down the corridor, doors that had been open were closing and Berg quickly followed suit. Then, just to be sure, he didn't just hold onto the zero-gee straps but pulled them across his legs and midsection, cinching them down. As he did he began to feel acceleration pressing him back into his bunk.
He grabbed the straps though when it felt like the boat was coming apart.
"Holy grapp!" he shouted, not that anyone could hear him. All he could think was that the sub, which was clearly hammering through the water, was not designed for this sort of punishment. If anything went wrong, they were going to die. Probably fast, but not necessarily. Messily, for sure.
Then the sub nosed up, pressing him downward harder than any combat flight he'd ever been on. Suddenly, the rumbling stopped and for a moment that made him even more worried.
"It's okay," Jaen yelled. "We're in atmosphere. Hold on, though."
As he said that, the sub dropped and banked, pulling more Gs, high positive ones then dropping through free-fall and into negative.
It was like being on a roller coaster where the only thing you could see was a blank steel wall a few inches from your face. Already nauseated, Berg grabbed the puke bag and put it to use.
He mag sealed that one and grabbed another as the sub went through a series of maneuvers that seemed designed to make him puke. Finally, though, the sensation of madcap flight stopped and things settled. In fact, it felt like they were back in port.
"Whew," he said, sealing the second bag and kicking up his air recirculator. As soon as most of the smell was gone he opened his bunk.
"That was nasty," Berg said. "Is it always like that?"
"Pretty much," Jaenisch said, rolling out of his bunk. "We're supposed to go clean our M-10s in the mess. First Platoon is doing Wyvern maintenance in the missile compartment, Third is on sleep cycle."
"Lucky Third," Berg said, rolling out of his bunk and dropping to the deck.
"Come on," Jaenisch said, walking towards the rear hatch. "We're first up and we need to clear the compartment."
"Leveling off at angels one-zero-zero," the pilot said. The gravitational and "G" effect had practically disappeared. Down was the deck. Up was the overhead. Even the level off couldn't be felt.
"Pressure check," the CO said, standing up and walking over to the board.
The chief of boat ignored him as he dialed up on the pressure in the boat. The CO was, after all, the CO. But a good sub skipper would have let the grapping chief handle this. He flexed his jaw to let his ears pop as the pressure in the boat came up. After the speed run, hell at any time, there was a chance that a seal could have popped. The pressure check was designed to detect that.
"Pressure steady after one minute," the COB said.
"Roger. XO, announce all silence for pressure check."
"All hands, all hands. Silent running for pressure check."
"What?" Miller asked.
"Shhh," the Marine replied. "Listen for hissing. It actually works."
"Pressure check?" Berg asked.
"Doesn't count with us," Jaen said. "It's a crew announcement."
"Sorry, they didn't cover it at Paris Island," Berg said, grinning.
"God, I want to be there the first time some DI has to," Hattelstad said. " 'Upon atmospheric exit your ship's skipper will call for pressure check to ensure air integrity. This command means nothing to Marines, for we are hard as steel. Space Marines therefore neither leak at-moh-sphere nor need at-moh-sphere!' "
"I don't hear anything," Mimi said, blinking.
"We wouldn't in here," Julia said, shaking her head vigorously. She hadn't been able to clear her left ear and it was painful. "This room is in the middle of the add-ons they put in the missile room. But there are sailors moving around listening for leaks. They'll dial down the pressure in just a minute."
"All sections check clear for leakage," the XO said. "Pressure drop, nominal. Space drive nominal, ardune generator nominal. Heat sink . . . nominal."
The last was important. The engines, various electronics, and human bodies installed in the boat created a huge amount of heat. Underwater it was dispersed into that magnificent heat sink molecule H2O. In space, the heat dissipated poorly.
The answer was a new and innovative heat sink. Installed in the slots that on a normal sub held the towed array sonar were two extensible cylinders of, essentially, glass with some iron and a few other trace elements thrown in. Heat from the sub would be pumped into them until they were boiling hot. The mixture of molten silicon dioxide (glass) and other elements were perfect reservoirs for thermal energy until the molten tubes reached near vaporization state. At that point, the boat would have to find a deep space, very cold, spot and "chill." To extend the heat capacity of the tubes they were surrounded in liquid metal heat-pipes that flowed out to the underside of the spaceship. The heat-pipes would radiate some of the energy into space and the liquid would cool and be flowed back over the molten glass tubes. This only bought time; eventually the thermal load became far more than the thermal management system could handle and "chilling" would be necessary.
"Recommend we come to heading two-one-eight or head out, sir," Weaver said. "We're going to be in range of NASA sensors in Australia in two minutes."
"XO, are we all clear for space ops?" the CO asked.
"Certify clear for space ops," the XO said.
"Astrogation?"
"Recommend come to heading one seven eight, mark one dot three. Two hundred G delta-V to two-zero-zero kilometers per second. We'll be to two planetary diameters in two minutes and seven seconds at that acceleration and velocity, then we can go to Warp One. Maintain Whiskey Two Dot Five for niner seconds at Warp One, then turn to heading two-zero-five increase to Warp Three. Saturn orbit on that heading is seven seconds."
"Why not a direct course?" The CO asked.
"Alpha Centauri is currently on the back side of the sun, sir," Weaver said. "We sort of need to fly around the system to get there. And if we cut closer than that course, we risk hitting Mars. Not close or anything, but I'd prefer some margin. We could go up and over if you'd prefer. . . ."
"No, that sounds good," the CO said, shaking his head. "Make it so, XO. I would prefer to avoid the edges of space until we reach Saturn. But tell everybody we are leaving."