“All electrical systems functioning, power and air at full,” Lieutenant Michaelson reported from his post.
“Radio is down,” said Rockford, who, in addition to running the ramjet, was serving as the communications officer.
Captain Colon walked back and forth in the small area between his command chair and the control stations. His arms were folded tight around his chest and his eyes were turned up—to the surface where he wanted to be. He needed only one more report.
When it came, he wasn’t happy.
“Sir!”
Lieutenant Junior Grade Withers called out as he made his way forward through the tight corridor. He was holding the wallet-sized DRC for the electronic thermometers. The Data Retrieval Cell plugged into jacks along the hull to read the external temperature. The Ant Hill had wanted to know how heated the air became during the entire supercavitation process. They had never expected to use it to read water temperatures.
“We have a temperature range of twenty-seven to thirty degrees from just forward the rear fans to the propeller,” Withers said. “From there to here we are a very consistent twenty degrees.”
“The temperature of big slabs of antarctic ice, I’ll bet,” Colon said.
“That would be my reading of the situation.” Withers headed back to his seat. Outwardly the naval officer was calm, like the others.
“Thoughts, anyone?” Colon said.
“We don’t appear to have a choice,” Bain said.
“We have at least two,” Colon said.
“We can try to get out of this or we can stay put.”
“I didn’t realize staying put was an option,” she said.
“Even if the Abby was damaged in the collision, the Ant Hill probably has a good idea that the mission is all screwed up,” Colon said. “They’ll send help.”
“Sir, even though the D ’s systems are functioning, we have no way of projecting hull integrity,” Withers said. “The ice could be compacting, and if there’s enough pressure in one spot, it will crush us.”
“We aren’t even sure how deep we are,” Bain said. “Traditional escape procedures may not work.”
“All of that is true,” Rockford said. “But if the hull is in jeopardy anywhere, vibrations from turning on the ramjet to get out of the ice could also pull us apart.”
“Or it could bring more of the slope down on us,” Michaelson pointed out. “In both cases, staying put is the best option.”
“So what do we do, flip a coin?” asked Withers.
“Actually, I’ll be making any decisions,” Colon said.
Withers frowned. “Sorry, sir.”
“But the point is well-taken,” the captain went on. “We don’t have a lot of information with which to make an educated guess.”
There was a long silence. Rockford broke it. “Excuse me, but does anyone else hear a buzzing?”
Colon stopped pacing. He listened. He did hear something.
“Yeah, it’s coming from the hull,” Withers said. “I heard it aft when I was taking the readings. I thought it was CO2 having pressure tre-mens in the capillaries.”
“It could be,” Colon said.
The captain made his way back toward the ramjets. There was definitely a faint sound, like a mosquito close to the ear. It seemed to change slightly in pitch every now and then. He touched a bare section of the hull. It felt cool and still. The sound was coming from somewhere else.
He picked up the intercom, a wireless unit that looked like a cordless phone. It automatically connected him to the command center.
“Captain?” Rockford said.
“Put Lieutenant Bain on the line please.”
The lieutenant junior grade got on immediately. “Yes, sir?”
“Turn the sonar on.”
“Right away.”
While Colon waited he listened. The sound was definitely coming from farther aft. He got on his knees between the two rear fanjet superstructures. They looked like large, raised manholes.
“Sonar is active, sir,” Bain said. “We’re still not getting any blips.”
“Shut down all transducers except for the T-7.”
“Done,” she said.
That particular transducer—essentially a glorified microphone—was a mine-hunter. It was designed to receive broadband high-efficiency transmissions at low frequencies. Unlike the rest of the sonar system, it was passive, able to receive signals from proximity concussion devices. Unlike the other systems, the operator had to put on headphones to hear incoming signals.
“Sir, I don’t know how or why, but we’re getting a small oscillating reading!” Bain said excitedly.
“Direction?”
“The signal is coming from a two-degree spread along a very narrow acoustic range.”
“Are we picking it up through the ice?”
“No. The dome is buried or we’d be getting regular sonar,” Bain said.
“What do you think is making it?”
“Sir, it’s in the range of a standard radio frequency.”
“Can you boost it?” Colon asked.
“I’m doing that now,” Bain said. “It’s definitely a radiocast making irregular pulses. Hold on—no, not entirely irregular. The broadcast starts to repeat, more or less, at fifteen- to seventeen-second intervals.”
“More or less?”
“The patterns are very similar but not identical.”
“Could it be someone broadcasting a live SOS instead of a recording of one?” the captain asked.
“Possibly.”
“I need better than ‘possibly,’ ” Colon said.
“The signal strength is variable, so I’d say yes. An emergency beacon would be consistent.”
“Thank you.”
“But we shouldn’t be picking up a standard radio signal at all,” Bain went on. “Even if the Abby or the other submarine were broadcasting, our antenna is buried. The broadcast would get swallowed by the ice or dispersed by the water. This is weak but sharp. I don’t understand.”
Colon looked aft. He reached his hand toward the sloping wall. “It’s not coming through the water.”
“Sir?”
“Did you ever make a telephone using tin cans and a string?”
“I think that’s we have here,” Colon said.
“I don’t follow, sir.”
“Two submarines connected by a metal towline,” he said. “I think that’s a broadcast from the sub that hit us.”