Phoenix Sub Zero

by Michael Dimercurio

  We’ll go back deep and try to trail the Destiny without being detected. Jensen, you got any kind of fix from that GPS?”

  “It’s within fifty miles, sir.” Jensen, the plot coordinator at battle stations, with all the casualties was reduced to being a manual plotter. Mcdonne was doing the plot evaluation.

  “We need to come up to PD and get a Navsat fix.”

  “XO, rewrite the message you did. Make it a contact report on the Destiny with a paragraph on our encounter at Gibraltar.

  Dive, make your depth one five zero feet. Sonar, making preparations to come to periscope depth. Radio, stand by to code in a contact message.”

  The room grew busy as the ship came shallow, the range to the Destiny ahead fading to 10,000 yards, the hostile submarine still loud and tracked on broadband sonar. In sonar, the narrowband processors were finally coming up in a reduced status. Sanderson was ready to ask the conn to stream the alternate towed array—the advanced thinwire unit had been mangled and amputated by the maneuvering to get off the bottom, its continuity check showing a complete open circuit. The TB-16 array was shorter and not as sensitive and had fewer bells and whistles, no caboose array for one thing, but was still capable. It would give them much more capability than broadband sonar alone.

  In fact, had the TB-16 been streamed, it might have classified the noise that Sanderson had heard as the gyro of a Nagasaki torpedo being warmed up.

  CNFS hegira The Second Captain continued northeast, driving away from the hostile 688, which had turned to a parallel course after running away. The three-dimensional model of the sea in the Second Captain’s navigation and ship-control process-control modules showed the 688’s course to be a Z-shape, a classic target-range-analysis maneuver. The 688 was trying to get a passive sonar range and determine the Hegira’s

  course and speed. The Nagasaki torpedo was taking forever to warm up. It occurred to the Second Captain’s higher level functions, from a nagging impulse sent by the weapon-control process-control module, that it had a poor idea of the 688’s range and course and speed. It had to be fairly close the way its bearings drifted around the compass as it maneuvered, but how close and how fast was it going? The Second Captain should be turning the ship in its own target-range maneuvers, curving into a Z-shape and driving the bearing and bearing rate to the 688, but the Second Captain hesitated again—the 688 suddenly slowed down, its noise patterns quieting, and came shallow, its hull popping as it ascended to a higher elevation. It was drifting further astern, going above the thermal layer—going to the surface? Or to mast-broaching depth? And what would it accomplish by doing that? Could its sudden maneuver merely have been preparations to come to mast-broach depth? Maybe the 688 was just clearing its baffles, its sonar cone of silence astern of it, trying to make sure there were no surface ships close aboard just prior to coming above the layer. Maybe it was simply a routine maneuver, and the nervous weapons-control-process controller had made too much of it.

  Something then transcended the weapon-control processor, something a human might call a judgment call or a hunch, that is if the human were not an artificial intelligence engineer who would call it a neural flux resonance phenomenon induced by a data-starved environment in an action-indicated scenario. No matter what the flux patterns were called, the result was that the Second Captain decided that the 688 was not

  acting in a hostile manner after all. As it halted further overt action in favor of action-restraint—in human terms, as it held its breath—the 688 faded further astern, ascended above the layer and made mast-raising noises. The whole maneuver had been a prelude to coming shallow, not a counterdetection after all. The weapon-control process-control module still doubted, urging the assemblers to consider that the maneuvering speeds of the 688 during the encounter had been too high and too deep to resemble a layer-depth-penetration maneuver. The Second Captain’s assemblers scoffed at this, insisting to the weapon-control module that if the 688 were indeed hostile and had counterdetected, it would have fired a torpedo by now, and it definitely had not, not even after the Hegira had opened a torpedo bow-cap door and spun up a Nagasaki torpedo gyro, clear indications that weapon firing was imminent. The weapon controller responded that perhaps the 688’s computer controller was as gun-shy as the Hegira’s Second Captain.

  Gun-shy! The assemblers cut off further uplinking from the weapon-control process controller, irritated, insulted.

  Gun-shy, when, the intent had been to mimic the crew’s own actions along the threat-risk gradient, to think of the mission first? The bloodthirsty weapon-control module seemed to see the entire encounter with the 688 as a chance to play with its weapons, not as the assemblers did in the broader context of mission completion. The Second Captain’s assemblers sent down an instruction to shut the bow-cap door to tube six

  and power-down the Nagasaki. The weapon controller obeyed, its interface pulsing with an accusing thought that the assemblers refused to let through. The bow cap came closed and the Nagasaki gyro whined down.

  So the encounter ended. Within a few minutes the 688 was barely detectable, far behind and above the thermal layer, the layer a barrier to surface-noise penetration to the depths. The Second Captain continued along its course, feeling vindicated, though slightly embarrassed at its fear at the start of the 688 close contact, but that was understandable.

  The system had performed superbly in the face of partial data, an action-indicated high-threat scenario, and the mission completion probability had been increased. Maybe it didn’t need the crew after all. The weapon-control process controller buzzed up the neural connection, speaking in spite of its direction to keep quiet, the impulse allowed since it was a new thought. The reminder that the mission was a failure unless the crew could be revived to assemble the Scorpion warheads into the Hiroshima missiles. Without the Scorpion warheads, the Hiroshimas were little more than supersonic buzz bombs, barely capable of blowing up a few floors of some Washington federal building. The workers would be back inside the next day as if nothing had happened.

  The Scorpions were the mission. It was the radioactivity that made the weapon the mass-killer it was designed to be, and the Second Captain had no way to put the warheads into the missiles, and according to its data

  on own-ship systems, neither did the crew. But without the crew, the mission success-probability was zero point zero.

  Feelings of triumph vaporized. The mission was at the mercy of the human crew. And since the detonation of the torpedo, the crew had been silent. The Second Captain strained its internal microphones to listen for any sign of human activity. The infrared motion monitors showed zero motion of people. The sounds of the air handlers were too loud to hear breathing. The Second Captain shut down the ventilation recirculation systems. The fans whirled to a halt, the sounds of rushing noise now dying. The ship was almost dead quiet, the only sounds the whining of the video screens in the control room and the buzz of the overhead fluorescent lights. The Second Captain extinguished the video screens and shut off the fluorescents. The ship was now as silent as it ever would be, the remaining noises due only to the hum of power to the Second Captain’s process-control modules the 400-cycle motor generators supplying that power and miscellaneous noises leaking from the power plant compartments astern to the command-module compartment. And in the near-silence it was clear that of the eighteen officers permanently assigned aboard and the three riders, there were the sounds of fourteen people breathing, many of them with labored wheezing breaths. The Second Captain felt a rush of hope. It remembered a truism: Where there is life, there is firm expectation of continued high mission-probability estimates. The Second Captain reenergized the fan motors and the video screens as the fluorescents clicked and flickered back to life, an idea

  forming out of impulses received from the life-support process controller. Why not, the impulse indicated, try to raise the levels of oxygen in the atmosphere?

  That would serve to make respiration easier for the humans, and increase
the probability of them regaining consciousness, the upper limit on oxygen concentration based on safety of the equipment, since a fire could more easily break out in a high-oxygen environment. And too high a level would prove toxic for the humans. The decision was made quickly, the oxygen levels climbing throughout the command-module compartment. In addition, the video screens in the control room were instructed to begin a series of noise stimulations, something the human psychological profiles stated were conducive to sudden increased levels of human consciousness—the noises described by humans as the bell of an alarm clock.

  While the system waited for human response, it responded to the insistent impulses now coming in from the weapon controller, and drove slowly in a full circle listening for any signs of the 688 class. There were none. The 688 had never known they were there. It was so far astern that it now was out of range and gone.

  Another idea came to the Second Captain, that it could further stimulate the humans by tinkering with the grounding grid that tied the deckplates into the central ground. It took several moments of processing time, but

  there was a way to cause a fluttering voltage to be induced along the planes of the steel core of the deck in such a way that even through the material of the flooring, the humans lying prone on the deck would feel electrically stimulated. The Second Captain could shock them awake. There were some uncertainties involving the end-user voltage levels received as well as risk to components of the processor modules, but it was actually an innovative means to solve a new problem. The Second Captain’s system again felt a short rush of electrochemicals, the feeling of self-satisfaction that it was functioning so well in this new environment. It was more than a subservient slave to the humans, it was capable of running a mission all on its own. The thought occurred to it that after the Scorpions were assembled, the humans were then merely redundant, a backup to the Second Captain’s capabilities. For an instant the Second Captain relished the thought that its own name was incorrect, that it should rename itself the First Captain, the idea causing neural flux oscillations akin to human chuckling. The thought was interrupted by a noise coming from the deck of the control room.

  The Second Captain halted the electrical shock impulses and turned up the volume of the alarm clock noises from the video screens, then cut off the alarm to listen for human activity.

  There was no doubt. The organism called Comdr.

  Omar Tawkidi, ship’s navigator and third in command behind Sharef and

  al-Kunis, had gotten to his feet, moaning.

  It only took one. The crew was back. The Second Captain, not used to ambivalence, felt both relieved and disappointed, relieved that the mission would proceed and that it was no longer alone, disappointed that again it would be taking orders from humans.

  A second, then a third crewman began moving within another five minutes, then several more. The Second Captain displayed the vital information of the last several hours since the torpedo hit, flashing up ship-system status in the ship-control area, navigation position and the approximate track of the 688 on the plot table, showing sonar-data history on the sensor-control area, as well as current noise detections in the ocean—with no ship contacts other than a few distant merchant ships—as well as life-support data, the oxygen increase that had helped resuscitate the crew flashing on a ship-control screen, the system asking for a decision about returning the atmosphere to normal. Tawkidi walked to the ship-control consoles and made the decision to return the atmosphere to normal specs, and the Second Captain accepted its first human order that evening, moving quickly to the duty, again feeling those strange mixed emotions. Relief that someone else was taking the burden of the decisions. Annoyance at doing chores for someone else.

  For the Second Captain, things would never be the same.

  western atlantic point bravo hold position, 500 nautical miles east of long island USS seawolf Pacino’s dreams were disjointed and troubled, and it was a distinct relief when the buzzer on the phone from the conn brought him out of his nightmare.

  “Captain,” he said, his voice cracking on the second syllable.

  “Yes sir, officer of the deck. It’s quarter to midnight, sir.

  The wardroom wanted to know if you’d be joining the officers for New Year’s Eve.”

  Pacino squinted at his watch, put his feet on the floor, and stretched.

  “What’s our position?”

  “We made point bravo at twenty hundred. We’ve been orbiting ever since.”

  “Any traffic?”

  “Nothing on ELF calling us to periscope depth. We’re due up by zero two hundred in the morning to grab our messages.”

  “Any contacts?”

  “One inbound tanker, probably enroute Port New York, bearing two six five at 27,000 yards, outside his closest-point-of-approach and opening. That’s it.”

  “I’ll be in the wardroom in a few minutes.” Pacino replaced the handset and stood up, feeling groggy.

  He threw his sweaty clothes in a net bag, stepped into the stainless-steel head, turned the shower on and took a forty-five-second shower, toweled off and stepped into a fresh poopysuit and cross-training shoes. He glanced at himself in the mirror, seeing dark stubble on his face. He decided for the first time at sea he would let the beard grow, even though it reminded him too much of his father. So many things did these days, he thought. The old man had died at an age four years younger than Pacino was now; often the sound of Pa-cino’s own voice—when talking to Janice or trying to discipline Tony—would sound exactly like his memory of his father’s.

  He walked into the passageway, decided to go aft, knowing if he stepped into the control room he would get involved in the data and would be late for the wardroom celebration. He climbed the aft stairway steps to the upper level passageway and went forward past the opening to the crew’s mess. He greeted the men and the chiefs, accepted a cup of bug juice, a rancid Keel-Aid imitation, and toasted the new year. He noted the faces around him had forced smiles. Who could blame them? In the

  wardroom it was the same, the men distracted by the mission and disoriented at being immobile in the shipyard one moment and on an attack mission the next. Pacino knew the only thing that would get them through would be his and Vaughn’s leadership.

  He would have to push the officers, cajole them, encourage them, all in the name of being their captain, a man who would order the men to go to an encounter that might well mean their end.

  Vaughn seemed to be relishing the trip, the feel of being at sea again. The XO wore a blue poopysuit with a leather belt and a saucer-sized Texas belt buckle. His alligator-skin cowboy boots had crepe soles, Pacino saw, wondering where the hell he had gotten them.

  “Skipper, you won’t believe what the engineer found in the lower level of the aft compartment,” Vaughn said. “The mechanics have been distilling this for a few months.”

  Vaughn pulled a Mason jar of clear fluid from under the wardroom table.

  “What the hell?”

  “Moonshine, sir. The M-Div grunts have been making it in a still in engine room lower level. What do you say. Skipper?

  Let’s toast the new year.”

  Pacino glared at the XO. “Bring in the M-Div chief.”

  “He’s waiting in the mess.” Vaughn opened the door and shouted, “Chief Tucker!”

  Tucker appeared, red-faced. He was a Paul Bunyan sort, looking like he should be wearing a checkered lumberjack shirt and gripping an ax, his beard thick and full, his neck tree-trunk thick, poopysuit arms bulging with his biceps.

  “Tucker, are you aware of U.S. Navy regulations concerning alcohol aboard ship?”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “Good. XO, get out the coffee cups and pour us a round.

  Chief Tucker, you go first—if this stuff makes you blind we’ll know not to drink it.”

  Vaughn poured Tucker a cup of the corn squeezings. He slurped it, coughing, and smiled.

  Pacino took his cup, handed the half-empty jar back to Tucker.
“Take this to the mess, Chief, and make sure the men who made this get some. Then chew out their asses for making it.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Pacino raised his cup, seeing the second hand approach twelve, only ten seconds left till midnight, “To the new year.

  May it bring Seawolf good luck and good hunting.”

  Pacino stayed for a few more minutes after he finished his cup, then went back to his stateroom. He tried to sleep but tossed and turned. Finally he called the officer of the deck and asked for a tech manual and several electrical schematic drawings. When the firecontrol technician of the watch came in with the manual and drawings Pacino thanked and dismissed him, then stared at the circuits and began sketching on a notepad.

  When the sketch was done he put it in the tech manual and returned to his bed, thinking that he still hoped his toast would come true, that Seawolf would indeed have good luck.

  But if she didn’t, he had a backup plan, he hoped.

  Wednesday, 1 January eastern atlantic, west european basin 80 nautical miles southwest op cabo de Sao vicente, portugal USS phoenix 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?