The Sum of All Fears.pdf - Delta Force

'Is that what you want?'
'This work does get in your blood, Cathy. Would you like to leave Hopkins and
just be a doc with an office and patients and glasses to prescribe?'
'How much?'
'Couple times a year, probably. Special areas I happen to know a lot about.
Nothing regular.'
'Okay, that's fair – and, no, I couldn't give up teaching young docs. How soon?'
'Well, I have two things I have to finish up with. Then we have to pick someone
for the job . . .' How about the Foleys, Jack thought. But which one . . . ?
***
'Conn, sonar.'
'Conn, aye,' the navigator answered.
'Sir, I got a possible contact bearing two-nine-five, very faint, but it keeps
coming back.'
'On the way.' It was a short five steps into the sonar room. 'Show me.'
'Right here, sir.' The sonarman pointed to a line on the display. Though it
looked fuzzy, it was in fact composed of discrete yellow dots in a specific
frequency range, and as the time-scale moved vertically upward, more dots kept
appearing, regular only in that they seemed to form a vague and fuzzy line. The
only change in the line was a slight drift in direction. 'I can't tell you what
it is yet.'
'Tell me what it isn't.'
'It ain't no surface contact, and I don't think it's random noise either, sir.'
The petty officer traced it all the way to the top of the tube with a grease
pencil. 'Right about here, I decided it might actually be something.'
'What else you got?'
'Sierra-15 over here is a merchant, heading southeast and way the hell away from
us – that's a third-CZ contact we been trackin' since before turn of the last
watch, and that's about it, Mr Pitney. I guess it's too bumpy topside for the
fishermen to be out this far.'
Lieutenant Pitney tapped the screen. 'Call it Sierra-16, and I'll get a track
started. How's the water?'
'Deep channel seems very good today, sir. Surface noise is a little tough,
though. This one's tough to hold.'
'Keep an eye on it.'
'Aye aye.' The sonarman turned back to his scope.
Lieutenant Jeff Pitney returned to the control room, lifted the growler phone,
and punched the button for the Captain's cabin. 'Gator here, Cap'n. We have a
possible sonar contact bearing two-nine-five, very faint. Our friend might be
back, sir . . . yes, sir.' Pitney hung up and hit the 1-MC speaker system. 'Man
the fire-control tracking party.'
Captain Ricks appeared a minute later, wearing sneakers and his blue overalls.
His first stop was to control, to check course, speed, and depth. Then he went
into sonar.
'Let's see it.'
'Damn thing just faded on me again, sir,' the sonarman said sheepishly. He used
a piece of toilet paper – there was a roll over each scope – to erase the