“What the bloody hell’s that?” snapped Able Seaman Jeff Cooper, staring at his screen. “I’m getting something, a rise, could be engine lines. I’d say it’s a submarine.”
A supervisor walked over and said, “Let me take a look.”
AB Cooper just had time to say “Right here, sir,” before the contact disappeared. And it did not return any time in the next five minutes. But then it did, and this time it was clearer, perhaps closer. Jeff Cooper coordinated the data quickly.
“Level of certainty they were engine lines?”
“One hundred percent, sir.”
“You thought it was a submarine?”
“I’m sure it was.”
“Well, that’s very peculiar. We have no notification that there is any submarine within two hundred miles of our track. What does the computer conclude?”
“Single shaft. Five blades. Compressed cavitation. Fits Russian diesel-electric
Five minutes later, the commanding officer was informed. Immediately, he ordered
Lt. Commander Jimmy Ramshawe stared at the signal in front of him, which had arrived direct from Naval Intelligence. It was not couched in alarming tones, nor was it regarded as urgent. It just stated:
“That, old mate,” said Jimmy decisively, to the entirely empty room, “is a bloke who was bloody sure he just heard a submarine.”
He pulled up his computer chart for the northeastern Atlantic and checked the precise whereabouts of
He hit the secure link to COMSUBLANT and spoke to a lieutenant he knew well, questioning the likelihood of a submarine patrolling the coast of Ireland.
“Jack, I think it might have been Russian,” he said. “Five blades, that’s Russian for sure, and non-nuclear. The Brits obviously think it’s a Kilo, but they haven’t said so in as many words.”
“Well, the Brits are damn reliable and wouldn’t make a mistake like this. Were you guys tracking it subsurface?”
Jimmy closed down the link and phoned the Big Man, who was, for once in his life, not betraying outright impatience.
“Listen, kid. You are sure the only submarine that has gone off the boards is that Iranian Kilo, right?”
“I am sure. COMSUBLANT has every other underwater boat on earth under observation.”
“And now a submarine, which fits the pattern, is located by the Brits twenty-four miles south of Kinsale in Ireland, right? Maybe 1,500 miles from its last known.”
“Correct.”
“Well, that Kilo can probably cover three hundred miles in a day, snorkeling. I guess that’s gotta be it. Hull 901 on the loose, way south in the Irish Sea.”
“That’s how I figured it, boss.”
“And what do you want me to do about it? Fire a torpedo?”
“Nossir. But I just had a few thoughts.”
“Don’t tell me. You think the Kilo is being driven by a barmaid from Brockhurst?”
“Close. I’ll talk to you later.”
As he said good-bye, the lieutenant commander could hear Arnold Morgan chuckling.
Which was precisely the opposite of what Jimmy Ramshawe thought. For the first time in his life, he considered the Big Man to be several steps behind. And if he didn’t shape up, he’d be several steps dead. And now Jim pulled his biggest computerized chart into zoom-out mode, showing the ocean from Gibraltar to Kinsale.
