The Lotus Eaters

SdL Orca, Shimmering Sea, Terra Nova

The torpedo man didn't expect to be used, this cruise, and so sat back in his very comfortable chair—comfortable enough to allow sleeping at battle stations if one cared to put it into its reclined position—with his fingers intertwined behind his head. His control board, in any case, showed nothing but green, fourteen lights for fourteen torpedoes carried external to the pressure hull, just inside the oil-smooth outer fairing.

Seated behind the weapons station, Miguel Yermo, Orca's chief of sonar could hear the Gallic flotilla much more clearly than could Auletti on the Meg. This was to be expected, as the Orca was considerably closer to the surface and, more importantly, above the thermal layer under which Meg sailed. Sadly for Yermo, he, too, hadn't the first, faintest clue as to the location of the submarine presumed to be escorting Charlemagne. He didn't like that lack of knowledge any better than did Auletti, presumptively still trailing his own boat by about eight kilometers.

And I have to guess at that, because a) my bloody sonar is primarily oriented forward, b) the towed array is just that, towed behind us, and c) the Orca is not using its clicker and is as quiet as . . . well . . . as quiet as if it wasn't even there.

And . . . what the hell's that? Yermo wrapped one hand over his headphones and pressed, listening intently.

"Skipper I've got sonar contact . . . faint . . . about . . . a thousand feet down, under the layer . . . bearing . . . one-seven-seven . . . three to three and a half kilometers range." Yermo's finger requested the sonar computer to match the sounds coming off the contact. "She's moving fast to pass underneath us. I make it an Amethyst Class, skipper."

"That assumes the recordings the Volgans sold us are accurate," answered the Orca's captain, a young man named Quijana with a very fatalistic outlook on life. Truth be told, Quijana was quite certain he should have been dead years ago, along with the entire crew—minus himself, of course—of his first boat, the Santisima Trinidad. Only luck and a commander who wanted to save what could be saved had spared him.

"I believe the Volgans, skipper," Yermo replied. "And anyway, what other class would it be with a Gallic fleet? The Pike Class isn't due to launch for another two years."

"Fair enough," Quijana agreed. "What's she doing away from her carrier, though?"

The XO of the boat, Dario Garcia, ventured a guess. "Training, skipper. The Amethyst Class is going to try to break through the cordon to get in a position for a shot at the Charlemagne. Hell, we're slated to do the same thing next year with Dos Lindas."

"Yeah . . . or maybe they're looking for us."

Garcia thought not. "Skipper, with the clicker going nobody has to look for us. They already know where we are."

The Exec thought about that for a moment, then said, "But, you know, since we are that noisy, when we want to be, they really shouldn't be ignoring us like they are. It's odd."

Quijana nodded. "Mark the sub as target seven," he ordered. In a few seconds the screen updated with the designation.

"Skipper," Yermo said, "the frigate that was going to meet the battle group and two of its own escorts are heading toward the sub."

Quijana looked again at the screen and saw the targets designated as "two," "five," and "six," changing course to intercept the submarine labeled as "seven."

"And I'm picking up some noise that suggests one or more helicopters enroute, too," Yermo added. "Ummm . . . skipper?"

"Yeah, I know. If they're heading toward the Gallic sub they're also heading toward us. Lemme think, for a bit."