Phoenix Sub Zero

Kane took the conn for the trip to periscope depth, knowing it would be a most risky ascent. Sonar was in a deeply reduced status, firecontrol was still down hard, the Destiny was dangerously close, within 15,000 yards and still combatworthy and hostile. On top of that, any ascent to PD was filled with risk as the ship penetrated the thermal layer, the zone near the surface stirred by the waves and warmed by the sun, the deeper regions untouched by solar warmth and uniformly at a fraction of a degree above freezing. The warm-water-layer boundary reflected most surface sounds up and away from the deep region so that many surface noises were inaudible until the ship passed up through the boundary. The effect could make an incoming supertanker as quiet as a sailboat. Their position was within the shipping lanes on the way to the Mediterranean through Gibraltar, the war effort doubling cargo traffic. There would be a dozen surface ships that they probably wouldn’t hear until they came through the layer, and if there was a supertanker pointed at them, the massive oil tanks would further quiet its engines, its keel reaching down to a depth of over a hundred feet on some of the behemoths that transited the Atlantic. A collision with such a giant would put them on the bottom as surely as a Nagasaki torpedo. They would be coming up in the darkness, the view out the periscope their only warning of trouble. “Mark the time,” Kane called, suddenly wondering, as the deck inclined to five degrees up, what time and what day it was. Would it be night or day on the surface?

The ship’s clocks had been set for zulu time, Greenwich mean time, since they had left Norfolk before Thanksgiving.

That worked well in the western basin of the Med, but they were farther west now, a time zone from Greenwich. Kane had lost track of time since they had hit bottom and fought for the ship, the New Year rung in without being noticed aboard.

“Zero three forty zulu, sir,” Houser said, his voice showing the wear of going too long without sleep or food.

The view out the periscope was dark, a slight diffuse brightness filtering down from the moon or clouds above, but they were not yet close enough to the surface to make out the waves.

“Sonar, conn, contact status?” Houser said over the headset.

“Conn, sonar, no surface contacts.” Sanderson’s voice was harsh with annoyance or stress or both.

“Nine five feet, sir,” the diving officer called.

The waves above appeared, at first blurred by the depth, then focusing as they moved closer, their outlines defined by the phosphorescence of the whitecaps in the sea breeze.

Kane rotated the periscope through almost two revolutions per second, looking for the underside of hulls.

“Seven five feet, sir.”

“No shapes or shadows … no shapes or shadows …”

Kane’s announcement was meant for the ship-control team, which would need to take immediate action should a close hull be seen, the crew trained to take the sub down on Kane’s call of “emergency deep.”

“Seven zero feet, sir. Zero bubble, ten-degree rise on the fairwater planes. Six eight feet… five-degree rise fairwater planes … six five feet, one-degree rise.”

“Scope’s breaking … scope’s breaking …” There was no monitor view of the periscope view, since the light coming down the mast at night would be diminished by the light-hungry Perivis system, robbing Kane of his full vision. He was the only thing standing between safety and disaster. The waves and foam finally washed off Kane’s view, the outside world coming into sudden sharp focus, the clouds above formed into separate large banks of cotton, illuminated by the first-quarter moon, the surface at sea-state two, slightly choppy with sprinkles of light foam.

“Scope’s clear!” Kane spun the optic module in three quick circles, and made out no details except the water in the immediate vicinity of the ship, the shimmer of the moon on the water passing by his view.

Other than the dancing light on the surface from the moon, the sea was empty. “No close contacts!”

Kane began his surface search, a slow rotation covering all 360 degrees. Still no lights of ships or dark shadows of unlit hulls.

“Raise the bigmouth antenna,” Kane called out. “Radio, Captain, Bigmouth coming up, prepare to transmit the contact message.”

“Radio, aye,” the earphones hissed.

Kane continued his search, watching the sea slowly approaching the periscope view when it was trained forward, slowly receding as he looked aft. The time seemed to be clicking by with no report from radio.

“Radio, conn, what’s the status?”

“Conn, radio … we’re …”

“Say again, radio.” Kane’s voice took on an edge. Every second at PD was another second the Destiny could be opening the range and getting away, soon getting out of sonar range or worse, circling below them preparing a torpedo attack that would be unheard until the torpedo came above the layer.

“Conn, radio, transmission problems,” Senior Chief Binghamton’s voice was on the circuit. “We need to troubleshoot. It might take a half-hour.”