barrier.
In the sound room the ratings scanned 360 degrees around the boat. Still no trace of man-made noise in the ocean depths.
The time was shortly before 1800 hrs. Heâd checked with the wireless room; at 1814 there was a satellite transmission scheduled. Any submarine listening could take in the latest intelligence and news reports in a thirty-second burst of compressed data, together with signals directed at individual boats.
âCaptain, sir! Officer-of-the-Watch,â Cavendish called into the intercom.
âCaptain
!
â
âNo contacts in the deep channel, sir. Propose to come up to sixty metres, and clear the surface picture. If nothingâs around, Iâd like, with your permission, sir, to return to periscope depth, raise a mast and take in the broadcast scheduled for 1814, sir.â
In the pause that followed, Cavendish imagined Hitchens studying his watch.
âSounds good. Iâm coming to the control room, but carry on
.â
Cavendish swung round to the blue-shirted planesman.
âBring her up to sixty metres, Jones.â
The rating pulled back on his control stick, keeping a careful eye on the angle-of-ascent gauge.
They came up fast and levelled out at a depth where they could hear the sounds of surface ships, hidden from them before by the temperature gradients which separate surface sounds from those of the deep.
Somewhere up here was the
Illustrious
task force, but Cavendish calculated the ships should be well north of
Truculent,
closer to Iceland, preparing to sweep the seas for submarines ahead of the
USS Eisenhower
battle group.
âControl room! Sound Room,â
the loudspeaker crackled by Cavendishâs ear.
âGo. Control Room.â
âNo contacts on sonar, sir. Surface clear.â
Cavendish smiled with relief. Philip Hitchens joined him at the bandstand, behind the planesman.
âDid you hear that, sir?â
âYes, I did.â
He looked at his watch. 1805.
âYou can proceed to periscope depth. Iâm going to the wireless room.â
Hitchens moved awkwardly across the control room, as if conscious the men were watching him. How many of them knew about the controls heâd imposed on the communications procedures?
Heâd told sub-lieutenant Smallbone the previous evening that all future communications would be for his eyes only.
The burst transmission of digital data from the satellite would be recorded on magnetic disk, then fed through a processor to be printed out in real time.
âAs soon as youâve got the stuff printing, I need you out of the room, Iâm afraid,â Philip reminded them briskly.
Smallbone and the operator Bennett nodded at him sullenly.
âIâm sorry. Not my idea. Orders from CINCFLEET,â Hitchens lied smoothly. âEverything set now?â
âSir,â Smallbone acknowledged.
Hitchens peered at his watch for the third time in a few seconds. He couldnât conceal his nervousness and spun back into the control room.
Cavendish was raising the forward search periscope.
âESM?â Hitchens snapped.
âNegative, sir. No contacts.â
The Electronic Support Measures mast was the first to be raised whenever they closed with the surface. Its sensors were designed to detect radar transmissions from ships or aircraft, transmissions that could spot their periscope or radio mast.
Cavendish completed his all-round look.
âNo visual contacts, sir. Sea-state five.â
Hitchens studied his watch again. 1814 precisely.
Philip stomped back to the wireless room. The diskdrive chattered as it filed the data.
âTransmission complete, sir,â Smallbone reported.
Philip turned on his heel and called into the control room.
âOfficer of the Watch, down periscope, and take us deep again.â
Hugo Smallbone shuffled awkwardly out of the radio room, and stood outside the door, hands clasped behind his back as if at parade-ground
In the sound room the ratings scanned 360 degrees around the boat. Still no trace of man-made noise in the ocean depths.
The time was shortly before 1800 hrs. Heâd checked with the wireless room; at 1814 there was a satellite transmission scheduled. Any submarine listening could take in the latest intelligence and news reports in a thirty-second burst of compressed data, together with signals directed at individual boats.
âCaptain, sir! Officer-of-the-Watch,â Cavendish called into the intercom.
âCaptain
!
â
âNo contacts in the deep channel, sir. Propose to come up to sixty metres, and clear the surface picture. If nothingâs around, Iâd like, with your permission, sir, to return to periscope depth, raise a mast and take in the broadcast scheduled for 1814, sir.â
In the pause that followed, Cavendish imagined Hitchens studying his watch.
âSounds good. Iâm coming to the control room, but carry on
.â
Cavendish swung round to the blue-shirted planesman.
âBring her up to sixty metres, Jones.â
The rating pulled back on his control stick, keeping a careful eye on the angle-of-ascent gauge.
They came up fast and levelled out at a depth where they could hear the sounds of surface ships, hidden from them before by the temperature gradients which separate surface sounds from those of the deep.
Somewhere up here was the
Illustrious
task force, but Cavendish calculated the ships should be well north of
Truculent,
closer to Iceland, preparing to sweep the seas for submarines ahead of the
USS Eisenhower
battle group.
âControl room! Sound Room,â
the loudspeaker crackled by Cavendishâs ear.
âGo. Control Room.â
âNo contacts on sonar, sir. Surface clear.â
Cavendish smiled with relief. Philip Hitchens joined him at the bandstand, behind the planesman.
âDid you hear that, sir?â
âYes, I did.â
He looked at his watch. 1805.
âYou can proceed to periscope depth. Iâm going to the wireless room.â
Hitchens moved awkwardly across the control room, as if conscious the men were watching him. How many of them knew about the controls heâd imposed on the communications procedures?
Heâd told sub-lieutenant Smallbone the previous evening that all future communications would be for his eyes only.
The burst transmission of digital data from the satellite would be recorded on magnetic disk, then fed through a processor to be printed out in real time.
âAs soon as youâve got the stuff printing, I need you out of the room, Iâm afraid,â Philip reminded them briskly.
Smallbone and the operator Bennett nodded at him sullenly.
âIâm sorry. Not my idea. Orders from CINCFLEET,â Hitchens lied smoothly. âEverything set now?â
âSir,â Smallbone acknowledged.
Hitchens peered at his watch for the third time in a few seconds. He couldnât conceal his nervousness and spun back into the control room.
Cavendish was raising the forward search periscope.
âESM?â Hitchens snapped.
âNegative, sir. No contacts.â
The Electronic Support Measures mast was the first to be raised whenever they closed with the surface. Its sensors were designed to detect radar transmissions from ships or aircraft, transmissions that could spot their periscope or radio mast.
Cavendish completed his all-round look.
âNo visual contacts, sir. Sea-state five.â
Hitchens studied his watch again. 1814 precisely.
Philip stomped back to the wireless room. The diskdrive chattered as it filed the data.
âTransmission complete, sir,â Smallbone reported.
Philip turned on his heel and called into the control room.
âOfficer of the Watch, down periscope, and take us deep again.â
Hugo Smallbone shuffled awkwardly out of the radio room, and stood outside the door, hands clasped behind his back as if at parade-ground
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