"Looks like they're steaming as before, sir, about ten thousand yards behind us. I think this one's Boston. She's maneuvering a lot more. Providence here is plodding along pretty straight. We got a good fix on her."
"Left ten degrees rudder, come to new course three-five-five," McCafferty ordered.
"Left ten degrees rudder, aye, coming to new course three-five-five. Sir, my rudder is left ten degrees."
"Very well." The captain sipped at a cup of hot cocoa. It made a nice change of pace from coffee. Chicago turned slowly north. In the engine spaces aft, the submarine's engineer crew kept watch on their instruments as the reactor plant turned out an even 10-percent power.
About the only bad news was the storm on the surface. For some reason a series of squalls was parading around the top of the world, and this one was a real growler. The sonar crew estimated fifteen-foot waves and forty-knot winds, unusual for the arctic summer. It knocked 10 to 20 percent off their sonar performance, but would make for ideal conditions as they approached the icepack. The sea conditions would be grinding acre-sized ice floes into ice chips, and that much noise would make the American subs very hard to detect in the ice. Sixteen hours, McCafferty told himself. Sixteen hours and we're out of here.
"Conn, sonar, we have a contact bearing three-four-zero. Not enough data to classify at this time."
McCafferty went forward to sonar.
"Show me."
"Right here, skipper." The chief tapped the display. "I can't give you a bladecount yet, too sketchy for anything, Well, it smells like a nuclear boat," the chief allowed.
"Put up your model."
The chief pushed a button and a secondary screen displayed the predicted sonar range, generated by computer from known local water conditions. Their direct-path sonar range was just over thirty thousand yards. The water was not deep enough yet for convergence zones, and they were beginning to get low-frequency background noise from the icepack. It would impede their ability to discriminate sonar contacts in the same way bright sunlight lessens the apparent intensity of an electric light.
"Getting a slow bearing change here. Going left-to-right, bearing to target is now three-four-two... fading out a little bit. What's this?" The chief looked at a new fuzzy line on the bottom of the display. "Possible new contact bearing zero-zero-four." The line faded out and stayed out for two minutes, then came back on bearing zero-zero-six.
McCafferty debated whether to go to battle stations. On one hand he might need to engage a target very soon... but probably not. Wouldn't it be better to give his crew a few more minutes' rest? He decided to wait.
"Firming up. We now have two possible submarine contacts, bearing three-four-zero and zero-zero-four."
McCafferty went back to control and ordered a turn east, which would track his towed array on the new targets, plus give a cross bearing on each from which to compute range. It gave him more than he bargained for.
"Boston is maneuvering west, sir. I can't detect anything out that way, but she's definitely heading west."
"Sound general quarters," McCafferty ordered.
It was no way to wake up from needed sleep, the captain knew. In berthing spaces all over the boat, men snapped instantly awake and rolled out of their bunks, some dropping to the deck, other climbing upright in the crowded spaces. They ran to stations, relieving the routine watch-standers to head for their own battle stations.
"All stations report manned and ready, sir."
Back to work. The captain stood over the plotting table and considered the tactical situation. Two possible enemy submarines were astride his course to the ice. If Boston was moving, Simms probably had something also, maybe to the west, maybe aft. In twenty short minutes, McCafferty had gone from coolly confident to paranoid again. What were they doing? Why were two subs almost directly in his path?
"Take her up to periscope depth." Chicago rose slowly from her cruising depth of seven hundred feet. It took five minutes. "Raise the ESM."
The slender mast went up on hydraulic power, feeding information to the electronic-warfare technician.
"Skipper, I got three J-band aircraft search sets." He read off the bearings. Bears or Mays, McCafferty thought.
"Look around. Up scope." He had to let the periscope go all the way up to see over the wave tops. "Okay, I got a May bearing one-seven-one, low on the horizon, heading west-she's dropping buoys! Down scope. Sonar, you have anything to the south?"
"Nothing but the two friendly contacts. Boston is fading out on us, sir."
