Charles Taylor - Boomer

“Right away. Captain.”

As Newell entered sonar, the words were already tumbling from his mouth, “Ready to blow away another boomer, Steve?”

The sonar officer’s glasses had inched down his nose until he was looking over the tops. “Captain, that’s one hell of a masking device they’re using.” He removed the glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Dixon was asking me how we know so much about it if we’re the first ones to ever run into it.”

“Intelligence, Steve. It’s about time those spooky guys turned up something useful to the fleet like this. But they weren’t about to broadcast it all over town. Let people without a need to know hear about that device and it’d get back to the Kremlin in no time flat. So SUBPAC kept it to himself … except for those of us who might need it right away, of course.…” His voice drifted off again. “Enough of that. We’ve been through it before. I want to get us in there and take this one out as fast as possible.” He rubbed his hands together. “Are we going to have any problems about that masking device or has everybody got it together for this attack?”

“I guess we’re ready to go,” Thompson agreed forlornly. “But what about that other contact?”

“Other contact,” Newell repeated as if that was the first he’d heard of it. “Right. What have you got there?”

“Another submarine, Captain. It must be. It’s farther away and it appears to be on almost a steady bearing, probably heading toward that boomer, too.”

“Probably a bird dog … a trailer waiting for someone like us. But we’ll take care of him. We’ll knock him off right after we finish off that boomer.”

“That’s a perfect Florida. ” The words came hesitantly in a soft voice, almost a whimper.

“What was that?” Newell snapped.

It was the sonarman, Dixon. “That’s a perfect Florida ,” he repeated. “No way it could be anything else but. You can’t fool a computer.” His voice was unsteady, as if he were about to cry. “Slight variation in her machine noises.”

“Steve,” Newell said evenly. “You have about thirty seconds to straighten him out, or you’re going to be short one sonarman. If you don’t believe me, look what happened to Lott. We can get along without Dixon as easy as we’re getting by without the others.” He stalked out of the room growling over his shoulder, “Thirty seconds.”

“Lost contact,” Dixon croaked, tearing off his headphones. “She’s gone silent … like she was dead in the water. But it was Florida ,” he added, his head cradled in his arms across the face of his scope.

Florida was silent—”like fog creeping in on cat’s feet,” Buck Nelson whispered to himself — making maneuvering speed. He’d given the order to reduce speed to the bare minimum, just maintain steerageway and support the hydrophone array they were towing astern. The sounds each man generally associated with normal shipboard existence were gradually reduced to a barely audible hum. Even conversation and movement, sounds that would not pass into the water, were unconsciously restricted until men looked at each other with a strange half smile while they conversed in a combination of whispered phrases and sign language.

Buck Nelson and Jimmy Cross were both in sonar, squeezed side by side against the narrow hatch that led into the adjacent computer room. Chief Delaney paced back and forth behind his sonarmen, each of whom were monitoring a specific hydrophone array. With Florida’ s own noise reduced to an absolute minimum, and listening conditions apparently excellent, they were in a perfect position to analyze any sound that came to them.

Delaney functioned like a concertmaster. His was more a physical job initially as he monitored his sonarmen. He moved from one position to the next, sometimes bending over a man’s shoulder and lifting an earpiece to whisper something, occasionally listening over a set of proffered headphones, twisting dials, flipping switches, orchestrating sounds that neither the captain nor the XO could hear.

“Shiiit, Chief, when are you going to share some of that stuff with us?” Cross finally asked in exasperation.

Delaney winked, put his finger to his lips, and continued his performance without a word.

“I’m glad women don’t treat me that way,” Cross murmured to the captain. “I’d be a mighty sorry son of a bitch ashore.”

Nelson was showing signs of increasing irritation. The first indication was an obvious one to his crew because he began smoothing his mostly invisible mustache. But his irritation wasn’t caused as much by Chief Delaney’s cavalier approach as by the fact that two solid contacts had appeared in Florida’ s sector. Such occurrences simply didn’t happen to a boomer on patrol. If Las Vegas were giving odds, the present situation would definitely be a long shot. When a boomer attracted an audience, it was either a freak happening or a serious problem.

“You may be just as sorry a son of a bitch if we can’t figure out who our guests are out there.” Nelson shook his head irritably. “I have a nasty feeling about this … very nasty.”

“Captain, if I might make a suggestion at this point — although I’m sure you’ve already thought about it.…” Cross paused. It never hurt to allow the captain to prepare himself. The XO had a habit, one that appealed to a powerful ego like Nelson’s, of making an idea appear as if the person he was talking to had originated it. “A Marine would say something like ‘lock and load,’ or something to that effect, which meant he figured his men better be prepared to fire. That also means better safe than sorry, and it also seems to me that a fire-control solution for our weapons system would be a superb idea at this point.” The words came out almost apologetically, as if Cross were relating the words already formed in Nelson’s mind.

“You have a way with words, XO. Why don’t you step outside and see if you can’t set that up for us. And I’ll wait here in the dark and watch Delaney play his games.”

Less than a minute after Cross moved out into the control room, Delaney suddenly stood erect and folded his arms. It was his signal. His part of the symphony seemed to be completed. Then he stroked his chin thoughtfully for a moment. “It doesn’t make sense, Captain.”

Nelson leaned forward in anticipation. “Talk to me, Chief.”

“We got a contact off our port quarter that keeps increasing speed, or at least that’s the way it sounds to us, and I’ll put money down that it’s one of ours.”

Nelson gave no indication of surprise. “Which one?”

“688.”

“What’s she doing out here?”

Delaney glanced at Nelson curiously. It wasn’t the response he’d anticipated. “Beats me, Captain. All we do is try to figure out who’s out there, not why.”

“You said she’s increasing speed. That would mean she’s closing us.” Nelson had said that more for himself than Delaney. “They’re supposed to avoid.…” His voice drifted off with his thoughts.

“Can’t be so sure yet about that one dead astern, sir, but I’d say the same thing — one of ours. Can’t get the computer to tell me it’s a someone to worry about yet.”

“Who? Which?” Nelson hadn’t moved from his original position. His voice was soft and distant, as if he were more in touch with an inner self than with Delaney, The only reaction that might have expressed his real concern was a renewed effort to train his mustache. He was stroking it very precisely now.

“Dead astern, Captain. Conditions are good, but that’s asking a lot in that situation. If we turned and exposed the entire array, we might just give him a title.”