on the bridge. Hwang said a few words to the lieutenant. âThis is Sierra Two Lima,â Kim said carefully into a microphone. âStartex. Startex. Startex. Event 27003. Sierra Two Lima. Out.â
Dan paced the bridge, then found a place to park by the chart table.
Chung Nam
should be on 270 at ten knots for this event. The other Korean ships would follow astern of her. But he didnât see it happening yet. In fact, he didnât see
anything
happening.
He was clearing his throat when Hwang saluted Yu. He spoke apologetically. The captain frowned, and shot angry Korean at the officer of the deck. Who in his turn wheeled and spat abuse at the helmsman. The gyro spun slowly and settled on 270.
The exercise proceeded. He went out onto the bridge wing and checked the 19. Henrickson had lashed the black box to the deck gratings. A cable ran up to a stubby whip clamped above them. The 19 computed and recorded ship location five times a minute, accurate to within twenty feet. When the mainframe back at TAG digested its recordings, those from the other ships, and those from the submarine, theyâd be able to watch the tactical picture develop in twenty-second increments. When the decisions in the logs and the reports of the ship riders were factored in, analysis would yield whoâd sunk whom, whoâd missed chances and made wrong decisions, which tactics worked and which didnât.
He went down to CIC and poked his head through the black curtains into the little corner sonar room. It always seemed hushed back there. A survival of the days when sonarmen had actually listened. Now they depended more on sight, interpreting the visual displays on their screens, than on their ears. Monty Henrickson and the three Korean techs were so intent they didnât notice him for a few minutes. When they did, the eldest smiled and bobbed his head. Dan nodded back. The supervisor reached up and turned a dial.
A distant throb filled the compartment, the muffled but still audible signature of a U.S. nuclear submarine. Mixed with it were subtexts, the clicks, whines, and buzzes of biologics, pulsing throbs he guessed were the other ships and maybe
Chung Nam
âs own self-noise.
They were in passive mode: listening only, not pinging. The chief pointed to a shimmering display of what Dan guessed were the screw tonals. Everything that went to sea had its fingerprint, from rotating machinery, screws, cavitation, hull noise. Even dead in the water a ship chanted a narrow-frequency counterpoint composed of discrete tones from air-conditioning, generators, cooling pumps. With practice a sonar team could identify class, nationality, often individual ships. He gave them an encouraging wink. Henrickson waved back with his clipboard, and Dan backed out.
In the far corner the plotting team huddled in busy absorption. The DRT, dead reckoning tracer, was the heart of antisubmarine operations. A lit circle showing own-ship position projected from beneath the glass-topped table onto a large sheet of paper. He perched for some time on a wobbly stool, nursing what he finally realized was a caffeine-deprivation headache. The plotters, headphones clamped to their ears, had no time to talk or even look up. They jotted down ranges and bearings from sonar, radar, and the lookouts, a complete round every fifteen seconds. Own ship was in black pencil; the submarine, red; coordinating ships, blue. The wandering snarled snail-traces recorded the intricate minuet that was antisubmarine maneuvering, the remorseless long-drawn-out struggle that in wartime would end with sudden detonations and violent death.
Leaning over their shoulders, Dan saw
San Francisco
was drawing aft. It had passed its closest point of approach to the flagship and was now abreast of
Kim Chon,
the next ship astern.
Dae Jon
brought up the end of the line.
He refreshed his memory from his PDA. Heâd have to know thiscold once the pace picked up.
Kim Chon
was a patrol
Dan paced the bridge, then found a place to park by the chart table.
Chung Nam
should be on 270 at ten knots for this event. The other Korean ships would follow astern of her. But he didnât see it happening yet. In fact, he didnât see
anything
happening.
He was clearing his throat when Hwang saluted Yu. He spoke apologetically. The captain frowned, and shot angry Korean at the officer of the deck. Who in his turn wheeled and spat abuse at the helmsman. The gyro spun slowly and settled on 270.
The exercise proceeded. He went out onto the bridge wing and checked the 19. Henrickson had lashed the black box to the deck gratings. A cable ran up to a stubby whip clamped above them. The 19 computed and recorded ship location five times a minute, accurate to within twenty feet. When the mainframe back at TAG digested its recordings, those from the other ships, and those from the submarine, theyâd be able to watch the tactical picture develop in twenty-second increments. When the decisions in the logs and the reports of the ship riders were factored in, analysis would yield whoâd sunk whom, whoâd missed chances and made wrong decisions, which tactics worked and which didnât.
He went down to CIC and poked his head through the black curtains into the little corner sonar room. It always seemed hushed back there. A survival of the days when sonarmen had actually listened. Now they depended more on sight, interpreting the visual displays on their screens, than on their ears. Monty Henrickson and the three Korean techs were so intent they didnât notice him for a few minutes. When they did, the eldest smiled and bobbed his head. Dan nodded back. The supervisor reached up and turned a dial.
A distant throb filled the compartment, the muffled but still audible signature of a U.S. nuclear submarine. Mixed with it were subtexts, the clicks, whines, and buzzes of biologics, pulsing throbs he guessed were the other ships and maybe
Chung Nam
âs own self-noise.
They were in passive mode: listening only, not pinging. The chief pointed to a shimmering display of what Dan guessed were the screw tonals. Everything that went to sea had its fingerprint, from rotating machinery, screws, cavitation, hull noise. Even dead in the water a ship chanted a narrow-frequency counterpoint composed of discrete tones from air-conditioning, generators, cooling pumps. With practice a sonar team could identify class, nationality, often individual ships. He gave them an encouraging wink. Henrickson waved back with his clipboard, and Dan backed out.
In the far corner the plotting team huddled in busy absorption. The DRT, dead reckoning tracer, was the heart of antisubmarine operations. A lit circle showing own-ship position projected from beneath the glass-topped table onto a large sheet of paper. He perched for some time on a wobbly stool, nursing what he finally realized was a caffeine-deprivation headache. The plotters, headphones clamped to their ears, had no time to talk or even look up. They jotted down ranges and bearings from sonar, radar, and the lookouts, a complete round every fifteen seconds. Own ship was in black pencil; the submarine, red; coordinating ships, blue. The wandering snarled snail-traces recorded the intricate minuet that was antisubmarine maneuvering, the remorseless long-drawn-out struggle that in wartime would end with sudden detonations and violent death.
Leaning over their shoulders, Dan saw
San Francisco
was drawing aft. It had passed its closest point of approach to the flagship and was now abreast of
Kim Chon,
the next ship astern.
Dae Jon
brought up the end of the line.
He refreshed his memory from his PDA. Heâd have to know thiscold once the pace picked up.
Kim Chon
was a patrol
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