NationStates Jolt Archive

OOC: Participants know who they are. If anyone has a problem with it being here, I'll move it to the other boards.

Red Star Industries (Shipbuilding) Star Point Shipyard
Advanced Naval Facility (Submarines)
03.00

“Hurry! Hurry! Everything must be ready in good time, people! Testing, testing, one, two, three, four…” A suited, bespectacled Imperial Ministry of Defence official gabbled out this utterly superfluous “advice” from the small viewing stand at the top of the ANFS’s Number Five dry dock, his voice repeated through tinny loudspeakers positioned at appropriate points throughout the cavernous, echoing space.

“Son of a bitch, I wish he’d shut up,” grumbled Robert MacAlpine, Head of the Department of Naval Construction, as he descended a damp metal ladder towards the ANFS building’s ground floor.

“Why not tell him so, then?” The question came from his long-time colleague and the Managing Director of the gigantic nationalised company, Red Star Industries, Namaku Kasutaki, who followed his “boss” down the ladder rather more easily than MacAlpine’s ageing and slightly bulky frame would allow. He grinned dryly as he asked the question.

“Oh, yes! I can see that going down brilliantly. ‘’Scuse me, IMoD official type, but I don’t suppose you could shut up and piss of so that we can get this place readied ourselves?’ I don’t think that’d lead to the kind of performance evaluations you’re looking for, or for that matter the kind of end-of-career prospects I’m looking for.”

Kasutaki conceded the point. “Ah, so true. Still, it’s nice to dream, is it not?” He raised his voice to defeat the frantic sputter and crackle of tens of electric arc welders as the two men walked past the underside of the ANFS’s latest product and most impressive charge to date. Above him, the submarine’s long hull, as yet unpainted, loomed ominously, supported by the colossal steel columns that the two men now leaned on, consulting their information once more and now entirely serious.

“How far are you?”

Kasutaki considered. “Far enough, I think. The hull’s entirely complete, internally and externally; we’ve got the reactors, engines and generators installed, although we’ve not yet tested them. But most of the internal electronics are still missing - the SONAR domes aren’t connected to anything for instance - and we need to get the accommodation stuff filled in… and of course there are a lot of bits and pieces need doing, conduits, pipes and so on.” He looked up at the dull mass of metal over his head. “We’ve got something worth showing him, though, and we’re well on schedule.”

MacAlpine nodded in reaction. “Will she really perform to specification?”

”Yes,” replied Kasutaki, after a brief pause, “I see no reason why she should not.” He smiled, but it was a drained smile. “If not…”

“If not, then we won’t be finishing on quite the high note we were looking for.” MacAlpine laughed gently. “Fancy a tea?”

Kasutaki nodded, and the two men walked through the steel double-doors of the dry-dock, happy thoughts of a hot drink on this frozen night distracting them from their worries. By the time they had finished, some twenty minutes later, the front courtyard/entrance hall of the facility was filled with stern-looking Guardsmen and their vehicles, being probed and prodded by men with sniffer dogs on the off-chance that someone at RSI harboured a grudge against the man who had given them their first real employment in years, a supposition not particularly likely to be true. Presently, and with a tooth-curling squeal from the shipyard’s enormous steel main gates, a long, sombre black limousine drew to a halt. It was instantly surrounded by a cocoon of plain-clothes NSB personnel who escorted the figure in their midst towards MacAlpine and Kasutaki, now standing in front of the ANFS’s unprepossessing main entrance. The phalanx parted, their work done, to reveal the six feet of thin, taut muscle that was Mikhail Kazakov, former career soldier and Imperial Minister for defence, his face coloured an unnatural tinge of orange by the flaming chimneys of Star Point’s immense blast furnaces. He glanced momentarily into the clouds of choking orange-grey smoke above him before turning his face to the two engineers, a demonic half-smile tugging at the corners of his mouth and accentuating the extraordinary appearance given to him by the flaming skies and his long overcoat, which enveloped his body in unison with the shadows from the ANFS’s graving dock.

“Bob,” Kazakov breathed, “it’s good to be here again.” He peered up for a second time at the lofty brick chimney-stacks. “Yes, very good indeed.” He nodded to Kasutaki. “How is she?”

“Good enough, Minister. I will give you a more thorough run-down when we get to that point. Suffice it for now to say that I think she’ll be ready by the required date. Assuming, of course, she’ll have a base to go to.”

“I’ve sent Harwood out to scout number eleven,” said Kazakov. “No sense in changing a perfectly sound system, after all.” He referred to Star Point naval base, “11” in Naval reference (Northern Fleet, Primary base), the home of the Navy’s latest technologies since the Freedom Wars and the most heavily-defended military facility in the Imperium.

Star Point Naval Base
26 miles West of Star Point shipyards
03.20

Star Point base, home port of the Northern Fleet. Lying in the centre of a trio of islands, with sprawling base facilities at the foot of a range of steep, scree-covered hills. Perennially coated in mist and fog, inaccessible by either road or rail from the mainland, and cordoned off from anything foolish enough to come to the three islands of the Star Group by electrified, cruelly-barbed perimeter fences extending some four miles from the main facility, patrolled by vicious Dobermann-Rottweiler cross-breeds whose handlers carried unslung and cocked AKMSU submachine guns at all times, and glanced nervously at their barely-controlled charges in between watching the wall-like slopes around them for intruders. Searchlights played across the barren land, casting strange shadows that were watched only by infra-red security cameras’ lifeless eyes. Above the three enormous rows of piers and submarine pens and airfields, chattering through the unusually low cloud, aged Mi-24VM helicopters circled protectively, electro-optics and radar scanning the frozen, scrubby rock. Out to sea, equally aged but still very lethal Tarantul-III patrol-boats chugged through the choppy waves in a four-mile radius hemisphere. The base’s garrison, roused early from their icy brick barracks, rubbed their cold hands together as they strode around the second, internal perimeter fence. Those on the waterfront were especially alert this bitter morning, for their guest was none other than the newly-renamed Grand Admiral of the Imperial Navy, Admiral Harwood himself, here to visit the ordinary and anonymous concrete submarine pen simply known as Number 46. Not one of them, not even Star Point’s commanding officer who was himself a four-star Admiral, had even the faintest idea what lay, or rather was to lie, in 46; only that it had been cordoned off to all but a very few people for the past week, triple-locked and protected by a detachment of Imperial (formerly Red) Guards whose empty faces and readied rifles admitted no-one.

Harwood’s personal jet, a venerable Yak-40, yawed and rolled as the fresh wind buffeted it. He stared out of the windows to the turbid black waters mere metres from his face, regarding their white tops with disdain. Too long had the seas, combined with the scarcity of funding foisted upon their nation’s armed forces, kept his once-proud Navy hiding in its home ports. He was determined that with this stroke, he would herald a new era for his country, an era of pride, strength, and safety, safety above all else. In more reflective moments, he had often wondered what this indicated about his personality, but now was not the time for such thoughts. He turned away from the blank vista and his own reflection in the window, back to the sheaf of papers on his compartment’s desk, and was still re-reading them when the plane’s tyres squealed and it jerked to a halt at the airfield’s terminal building.

No rest for the wicked. Harwood’s nose seemed instantly to freeze as he stepped down from the warm aeroplane, his shoes crackling on the frost-covered, unyielding ground. Towards the nose, away from Harwood’s private cabin, the technicians travelling with him stood in the lee of the still-humming plane, carefully positioning themselves as close to the hot engines as possible and shivering in the cold wind that whipped around the machine’s sides and beneath its slender body. At least one female tech had, for some reason best known to herself, chosen to wear a light skirt in the middle of winter, with the result that it billowed absurdly around her chilled legs and added to her obvious misery at having to be awake at this ungodly hour to explore a half-disused Naval base while being leered at by uniformed proles. Careful to avoid being seen doing so, Harwood inspected her up and down, a slight smirk emerging to his lips, but was tugged back to reality by the saluting form of Star Point’s Admiral. Harwood returned the salute snappishly.

“Your men have been informed of what to do, I trust?”

“Yes sir. Nobody enters or leaves until you’re done.” The Admiral said it edgily, knowing Harwood’s reputation as a stickler for security.

Nodding, Harwood indicated the long line of submarine pens. “Do we get transport, or do we have to walk?” he asked, smirking again and leaning conspiratorially towards his junior. “I don’t think our civilian friends are used to Star Point’s uniquely attractive weather.”

“Walk, I’m afraid, sir. It’s not far, anyway,” said the Admiral, evidently calmed a little by his superior’s good humour. Gesturing to the nearest rank of five slab-sided concrete structures, he marched off, motioning Harwood and his group to follow.

The technicians fell in behind Harwood’s striding form, exchanging significant eyebrow-raises with one another and casting fleeting looks at their surroundings. Star Point had been quiet for a decade as the Liberal government quietly ran down both the Defence budget and the state support for RSI’s massive shipyard, and the effect was plain to see. The concrete submarine pens’ painted numbers were peeling away from the pock-marked surface. Electrical cables, long-since given up to the elements, sat unused, water dripping from broken guttering and cascading over their worn-out insulation to form rusty puddles on the ground, which had now frozen into dirty, reddish-brown ice. Even the door squealed tooth-grindingly on its hinges as the Admiral shoved it open, holding it there until the party had entered the falteringly-lit room before dutifully swinging it closed behind them.

Red Star Industries (Shipbuilding) Star Point Shipyard
Advanced Naval Facility (Submarines)
03.35

Kazakov stepped towards the makeshift podium erected at the foot of the dry-dock, looking intently into the small cluster of officials and shipyard workers before him. Above his thinning hair, the slim, cigar-like hull of the Navy’s first new submarine class in a decade hung in its heavy cradles, occasional sparks still dripping from her upperworks as a few yard personnel kept working to perfect her outer plating, finishing off hatches and covers for retractable hull fittings. He coughed loudly into the microphone, noting happily that the huddle of heads spun round instantaneously.

“Gentlemen, ladies… those of you who may be undecided. My thanks to you all for your magnificent work in constructing this behemoth above my head. It stands as testimony to the will of our country and our people, a will that has decided that it will no longer be bound by the fetters of false liberty!” A spate of polite applause broke out. “A mere six months ago, this facility, like our great island nation, was in the most ruinous state we have suffered in one hundred and fifty years. Work was scarce, morale was low, and the pride we fostered for so long had, I thought, been destroyed by a decade of slackness and running-down from the Liberals.” He gazed emotionlessly over the crowd. “Thankfully, I was wrong, more wrong than I could have hoped. This,” he intoned, jabbing a long forefinger towards the submarine’s underside, “is proof that not even the weak, divisive, destructive nonsense under which we have laboured for these last ten years could destroy the spirit of our country, a spirit forged by blood and iron, and the right of our sun-blessed people!”

“I like the Bismarckian reference.” Kasutaki sniggered as Kazakov’s speech built into what was, evidently, a rousing crescendo invoking the Sun-God, Tashki, and some of the other, more minor deities besides. With its conclusion, a sound like a fusillade of muskets echoed throughout the submarine pen as the yard personnel gave Kazakov a standing ovation, most of them with a bestial glint to their eyes.

Star Point Naval Base
04.30

More than an hour’s painful, painstaking exploration and scrutiny after they had entered the damp, clammy confines of Pen 46, Harwood and his team emerged, sweating and somewhat dishevelled-looking. The Admiral’s old anxiety appeared to have returned with a vengeance; he wringed his hands and looked like a rabbit staring into a gun-barrel as Harwood strode up.

Clapping his subordinate on the shoulder with mostly-false warmth, he said simply, “she’ll do.” Without further ado, he waved to his technical assistants and the group started on its way back to their airfield, leaving the same question on the lips of every one of the base’s staff: “do for what?”

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Finding out what Pen 46 was destined to accommodate would be impossible, it seemed. The Admiral had been trying for a month following Harwood’s visit, but had managed to unearth not a scrap of information concerning the empty concrete shell’s future occupant; every avenue of enquiry, no matter how discreet, had run straight into a brick wall composed of both ignorance and lies. He was convinced that there must be records and plans somewhere within his reach, but finding them was just too difficult. He groaned as he finished leafing through another folder full of unmissed paper handed to him by one of his many friends and contacts in the Navy’s various departments, knowing that its very possession was a ticket to an instant prison sentence followed hotly by a firing squad, and cursed the vanity of his futile search. Really, it was pointless to keep trying; whatever was going to occupy 46 had arrived tonight, under cover of darkness and with a considerable escort. Without warning a loud banging sounded on his office door. He shoved the papers into his drawer and locked it swiftly, wondering who could possibly have seen what the file contained, composing himself as he opened the door. To his surprise and barely-concealed dread, Harwood was waiting in the hallway. He saluted smartly.

“Admiral!” he smiled with evident satisfaction, “come with me. I think you ought to see your charge; it’ll help you appreciate her true importance, eh?” Again he clapped the Admiral on the shoulder jovially, unaware that his skittish subordinate was practically green with nervous tension. “Come, come!” He marched off towards Pen 46, which was some 500m from the base commander’s office, whistling the Song of the Volga Boatmen and quite at ease, with the Admiral trailing behind, feeling rather perkier and not a little foolish. “I put in so much bloody effort to find out what this thing is,” he growled to himself, “and now he gives me a show-and-tell of it. Figures.” A mental shrug, and he continued towards the concrete shell, Harwood very kindly letting him into the pitch-dark interior before swinging the steel door firmly shut.

“And now”, Harwood breathed, the star of the show.” Both men squinted, eyes watering as the bright halogen floodlights within the confined space buzzed into life, filling the pen with dazzlingly clear, white light. The Admiral blinked furiously, letting his eyes gradually adjust to the change. It was only when he let them open fully that he saw what Pen 46 was holding within its confines.

From the murky, oil-filmed water within the pen, a rotund, whale-like black shape protruded; the hull of a submarine, the Navy’s first new submarine in thirty-five years. It gleamed softly, bathed in the brilliant halogen light, tapering bow hidden in shadows at the far end of the building. From the almost perfect cylinder of the forward hull, a gigantic conning tower rose up towards the flat, girdered ceiling, thin and long like a whale’s fin, leaning forward as though to urge the submarine forward. The Admiral craned his neck upwards, attempting to see in through the thick quart crystal windows on the tower’s top front, but without success, and turned his eye back to the hull itself. Water lapped ever-so-gently around the white-painted water marks on her flanks, occasionally exposing to view the ship’s blood-red underbelly and running in and out of the open free-flood holes with a merry gurgling. The enormous, straight-sided sail was capped by two wide, flat-topped hatches, its side marked, in six-foot white letters, with the ship’s identification number, 711, and her fleet and port number, 12; below them, and in much smaller letters, came her name: Imperceptible.

“Beautiful, isn’t she?” Harwood’s voice was a quiet, reverent whisper. “The beginning of a new age for our Navy. She’s quiet, deep-diving, and she can hear anything long before it can do the same to her. A potent weapon; do you not agree?”

“Yes… my God, she’s beautiful!” And so familiar… but why? “Is she actually ready for sea?”

“Almost. Her crew is being flown out tomorrow,” Harwood said, still muffling his voice. “Would you like to see her?” he asked, sounding like a waiter asking for someone’s order.

The Admiral stared at the giant ship for some time, and then realised what it was that was bothering him: he had seen her before. So long ago it had been that he had almost forgotten; but now the memory came back to him, of training with the old, proud Northern Fleet, back in the good old days, the days of the red star and the Party. Imperceptible, he realised, was the living image of K-19, that ill-starred boat that had been the first to sea of the equally ill-starred Hotel class vessels. How many times had he seen that same shape, right down to the canted tower with its missile tubes and the straight stem with its HF sonar set? What luck would befall this boat?

“Yes. Yes, I should like that very much,” he whispered, and followed Harwood up the gangway to the entrance hatch on her bow.

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Pen 46
Two weeks later

“The ship’s crew are settling in well,” the Admiral reported. Harwood listened intently. “They are, from what I can see, familiar with the ship; they’re completing all the standard drills in good time, on most occasions. A few times there have been equipment failures, of course, but that is to be expected.”

“Yes, of course,” agreed Harwood, sounding suddenly very tired. “And the Captain?”

“He seems pleased with his boat, sir. Spends most of his time there, getting the feel of her, so to speak. I think he’s looking forward to getting her out.”

“Good. An enthusiastic commander is always a good thing. And what of the crew?”

”Surprisingly enthusiastic as well,” the Admiral beamed. “We’ve tried to add elements of surprise to the drills; the crew are getting used to being woken at any hour of the day and night, for any reason, and seem to like it. They grouse about it, of course, but they like the feeling of being the best.” He didn’t mention the muttered comments of several former Russian sailors who had, like himself, noticed the striking similarity between their new boat and the “Widowmaker”.

“Excellent!” Harwood’s tiredness seemed mildly alleviated. “Then she will go today?”

“Come hell or high water, sir.”

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She really is a beautiful ship. And so capable! And of all the men in the Navy, I get the chance to command her! Rarely had any officer been given such a charge, reflected Captain First Rank Noma Yuksho, staring in unabated appreciation at the submarine’s tall conning tower, so thin and weak-seeming, but strong enough to withstand the greatest depths; her long, smooth hull, fast and quiet, propelled through the water by her shrouded, electrically-driven propeller and her new and ultra-quiet waterjets; thinking, too, of the delicate and sensitive machines that waited within her to explore the hostile waters of the world, under the control of his tingling fingers. Yuksho could not help smiling contentedly as he clambered up the port side access ladder to the ship’s tower, lowering himself into the confined space of the bridge. His men saluted smartly, confidently, and he returned it in the same manner, reflecting that it was refreshing to see Naval personnel taking such pride in their work, after so much neglect and waste.

“Morning, lads!” A generally agreeable mumble ran round the bridge. “Well, today’s the day! Everything all right down below, Chief?”

His Chief Engineer, a heftily-built man whose parents had both worked in the “dark, Satanic mills” of Manchester, turned round and grinned. “Sweet as a nut. We ironed out that last problem this morning, since when she’s been fine, sir.” His nametag read “Williams”, or at least the portion of it not covered in oil and grease did.

“Good man. Right, carry on lads. Only another hour until they let us loose on an unsuspecting world!” Laughter ran around the bridge as Yuksho disappeared into his cabin to examine their orders, listening to the faint shouting and clanging from outside as the last of the sub’s stores were loaded.

An hour later, at 05.55 precisely, the submarine pen’s great steel outer doors screeched open, admitting sunlight at long last. Imperceptible sat like a basking shark, a ceremonial blessing party of High Priests of the Order of the Heavenly Orb waiting poised on her bows. As the sun burst through the cloud, they began their ceremony. Incense-like candles sent smoke wafting into the ceiling of the submarine pen, whilst a specially-erected prismatic glass concentrated the sunlight streaming in through the doors into one intense beam, playing upon the Imperial sunburst emblem on the submarine’s prow. With the religious ceremonies ended, the priests solemnly bowed to the sun, then dismantled their accoutrements and slipped off the sub’s nose. Finally, Harwood spoke in a controlled, powerful shout.

“Officers and men of the Imperceptible! You are granted permission to carry out your assigned mission in defence of the Land of the Sun. May the Light go with you!”

“And also with you,” Yuksho shouted back. He leaned down into the tower. “Engines ahead dead slow.”

“Ahead dead slow, aye,” came back the voice of Hiirako Kashkun, his ever-dependable executive officer. With scarcely a sound, save for the soft swish of water over her surface, Imperceptible slid slowly from her berth of 6 interminable weeks and advanced towards the dawning sun.

With her turbines’ whispering rumble increasing minutely in amplitude, Imperceptible gradually eased herself away from the pen, leaving the saluting forms of the various personages in her wake, building her speed as she progressed over the shallow water in which the submarine pens had been built. Her electric motors were almost inaudible unless one was in her engine room; to the officers on the open flying bridge, their sound became merely the faintest of vibrations at their fingertips. Yuksho’s happiness was unconfined. Going to sea was the best part of life in the Navy, after all, and to go to sea on this boat was the greatest departure of his career, and probably his life.

Still, there was work to do. “Depth beneath the keel?”

Kashkun peered at one of his gauges. “Thirty metres, Captain.”

Nodding, Yuksho ordered speed to be built to twelve knots. He wanted to leave Star Point as rapidly as possible and submerge at the first opportunity; however, Star Point’s enormous basin, surrounded by its group of five islands set as the points of a star, was in fact the enormous caldera of a long-dead volcano. The depth within the centre of the basin dropped impressively, only to be steeply reduced towards the edges, a lesson which had had to be taught the hard way to generations of sailors. Thus, submerging was only possible when one was well outside the slopes of the Star Group’s submerged mountains, and Yuksho was acutely aware of his superiors’ specification that this mission was of greatest degree of secrecy, a state of affairs that would hardly be helped if a foreign satellite was able to get a good look at the top of his ship. Even departing in daylight seemed to him unduly risky, but the High Priestess had, in her infinite wisdom, succeeded in arranging for a dawn blessing for them. As if the Sun has any use when one wishes to remain hidden, Yuksho grumbled, pausing nonetheless to bow his head briefly in its direction.

Gently nosing her way though the Star Sea’s calm waters, Imperceptible swung away to the North and accelerated to her maximum surface speed of 16 knots. Although he was in theory meant to head East, then turn North towards their first objective, Yuksho was in no mood to wait; the North-western exit, though shallow compared to the Eastern and North-east passages, dropped steeply away toward a deep plateau that would give Imperceptible less time on the surface. Nonetheless, it was still another four hours before he was finally able to hear a half-decent depth figure beneath his keel: 164 metres.

Yuksho lowered himself into the bridge, having already ordered the other crew members down, and turned to Kashkun. “Ready the ship to dive.”

“Ready the ship for dive, aye.” Kashkun set about giving his orders, first to the ship in general, and then, once each compartment had confirmed that it was "manned and ready", to the Planesmen and the Diving Officer, responsible for controlling Imperceptible’s many ballast tanks. Slowly, the submarine took on a tilt towards the bottom or ten degrees, her electric motors still keeping surprisingly quiet despite making more than 55% speed. Williams wasn’t kidding; their quieting really was top-notch, and the motors really were performing well. Of course, just how well would be revealed when they went to full speed.

Imperceptible’s hull began, just very faintly, to creak as the pressure of water exerted itself, making not a few of his young crewmen peer upward nervously. “Depth?” asked Yuksho in his best “nothing to worry about here” voice.

“One hundred and ten metres.” Kashkun winked wryly at Yuksho. “It’ll be good to see how she performs at seven hundred, won’t it?” As he asked, the young man next to him practically turned green. Throughout the ship, many of the crew did likewise at the mere thought. Few of them could remember the old days aboard the Victor-IV submarines, where leaks seemed to spring of their own volition every time the ship dived. Those who could merely shrugged and carried on with whatever they were doing, confident in their new boat’s ability to withstand most anything, and waited for the deck to resume its normal angle. In due course, Imperceptible’s planes rose, the Diving Officer aiding his junior assistants in the delicate task of trimming the ship.

“One hundred and fifty metres, Captain.”

Yuksho nodded. “Ship’s heading?”

“Three-four-five, Captain,” said the helmsman. Yuksho nodded again.

“Very well; continue on present course. Mr. Ivanov, you have the conn,” Yuksho declared before nodding for Kashkun to follow him to his cabin. He double-bolted the thick teak door behind his XO and waved to the tray of drinks-making materiel. “Help yourself.”

“Thanks.” Kashkun poured himself a small measure of Scotch, filling the rest of the glass with lemonade. “So. What do you think? Of the crew, I mean?”

“I think they’ll do. They’re all bright young lads, I’ll give them that. Inexperienced, but bright and enthusiastic.” Yuksho pulled a green rectangular key from beneath his tunic, then placed it within the appropriate lock on the safe in one corner of his stateroom. Kashkun quickly joined him, and the two men twisted the keys in opposite directions, holding them in position for three seconds against the taut springs before the door clicked open.

“Let’s see… Yuksho sliced the envelope open with his penknife as Kashkun sat back down, sipping his drink. “From Commander, Submarine Forces, Northern Fleet… blah, blah, blah… aha.” He tossed the sheet onto the table, reading over his colleague’s shoulder. By the time they had finished fully reading the orders, the glass next to Kashkun’s arm was drained. He sat back and exhaled, eyebrows raised as Yuksho crashed down into his seat.

“They’re insane,” he declared simply. “Totally insane. Do they have no idea how dangerous this is?”

Kashkun demurred. “I can see their reasoning, though, Noma. This is a chance for us to really evaluate our performance. None of the inherent inaccuracy of wargames here, this is going to be as close as we can get to real, wartime operating conditions.”

“Yes, including the possibility of a torpedo up our ass! Honestly, Hiro, this is insanity. To try this with anyone would be dangerous. But with members of the OMP? It’s just asking for trouble.”

“Yes, I know, but even so, their logic is pretty irrefutable.”

“Oh, sure, it’s sound enough logic,” Yuksho admitted ruefully. “I can’t argue with that; these people have some of the best naval technology and personnel around, no doubt about it. But to risk so much by challenging the best opponents we could ever have to fight first? Lunacy, Hiro. Simple lunacy.” He shook his head. “If those lads out there hear of this, we’ll have a mutiny on our hands.”

“Then we tell only the officers. Come on, Noma, you know we can do this. We have the best submarine in the Navy, the best submariner in the Fleet. We’re quiet, we’re armed, and we can find them before they even know we’re there.”

“I hope to the Sun that your optimism is justified.” Yuksho heaved a sigh. Anyway, there’s not anything I can do about these now. We’ll inform the officers tonight, as usual.” He stood up to head back to the bridge.

“Hiro,” he asked as he opened the door, “what do you know about Pacific Northwesteria?”

*

Imperceptible sped North. Yuksho knew what he would do; his plan was to give it another hour, and then turn to a more easterly course, aiming for the deepest areas of the Pacific before he attempted their first penetration exercise. With a bit of luck, he would have deep water to play with as he neared the Northwesterians’ waters, giving him a little extra time to stay out of the more dangerous shallow waters and a little longer to sit and listen for his... opponents? He couldn’t help feeling that, if they didn’t manage to bring this escapade off, their OMP ally might just turn out not to be so pacific after all.

OOC: Sorry this took so long. And also sorry that this post is kinda crappy. I just had to throw something up so that I could get back into it, hopefully it'll be better once the fun starts.

IC:
The sun had just risen out of the black-blue sea and was climbing slowly but surely into the clearly, brilliant sky. Admiral Stevens was standing silently at the prow of the proud battleship, PNS Vigilant. Charged with defending part of Pacific Northwesteria's territorial waters to the South and East, Stevens and his small fleet knew that there was really nothing to do. Pacific Northwesteria had not been to war in many years, and had made a point of not antagonizing anyone. Also, membership in the Organisation of Maritime Powers meant that any nation who wanted to invade would have to stand against some of the largest Navies in the world, all at once. Still, here they were, to avoid getting caught with their pants down.
Admiral Stevens surveyed the defensive fleet around him: his own Mackensen Class flagship, seven destroyers and twelve frigates. He also knew that patrolling the unseen depths were an SSGN, two SSBNs, and four SSNs. More than enough for a simple patrol, but the President was adamant: no enemy force should be able to reach the shores of Pacific Northwesteria before reinforcements have time to show up.

OOC:
1x Mackensen Class BB
3x Thatcher Class Destroyers
3x Sabre Class Destroyers
1x Dauntless Class Destroyer
12x Defiance Class Frigates
4x Swordfish Class SSN
1x Dreadnaught Class SSGN
2x Sea Wolf Class SSBN
(The SSGN and the SSBNs are probably irrelevant, but they're there.)

IC:
After Stevens had already been standing on deck for about half an hour, the rest of the fleet began to wake up. Sailors changed the flags, washed and shined the decks (what else did they have to do?) and went about their daily drills.
It looked like just an ordinary day.

The Third Day
23.20

Imperceptible’s bridge was, for the moment, quiet. The “graveyard shift” personnel monitored the ship’s many instrument readouts and kept their positions faithfully, receiving periodic status reports from throughout the ship’s many compartments. The reactors’ gentle thunder vibrated around her hull, audible only in the quietest parts of the ship, and disturbing not one of the hundred-odd men sleeping soundly in their cramped, hard, comfortless bunks.

One of the few men not sleeping (indeed, quite likely the only one in the room) was Matthius Labunda. He lay propped up on an elbow, his tousled black hair hanging irksomely over one eye, thumbing through a well-worn copy of The Mighty Hood by the dim light of a dirty orange overhead lamp, augmented by a small torch, and feeling not unlike a child reading when he’d been ordered to sleep. His watch was in six hours, and really he ought to have been sleeping in preparation, but the account of that great ship’s life had captivated him since the age of 14 and had lost none of its power with the intervening decade. It was, perhaps, ironic therefore that he should have joined the submarine service, rather than the surface fleet; but as he had explained to his friends who had not joined the Imperial Navy with him, the submarine service was, for the moment at least, at the very tip of the Navy’s battered, worn spear. If he was going to see any action, any time soon, it would be aboard a submarine. And besides, he’d always been prone to seasickness.

Imperceptible was a chance he could never have even considered turning down. When the letter informing him of his posting had arrived, he had been speechless; after all, he was a mere seaman, the lowest of the low among the Navy’s personnel, and only just out of the academy at Star Point. This was a priceless opportunity, and he had seized it with both hands, practically dazzling the captain with his exhaustively-cleaned uniform and especially his shining boots. That had earned him a somewhat gruff, but nonetheless satisfying compliment, which was saying quite a bit when it came from a Captain First Rank. Yes, Matthius thought, smiling as he looked up from his book towards the sleeping forms of his shipmates and the reassuringly stable metal of the compartment, this really is the best place I could ever be in. Imperceptible creaked gently in reply to his silent praise, a sound akin to a lullaby to the young sailor’s ears as he rolled over in his bunk to catch some much-needed sleep.

Above, a brief spark of activity flared in the slender conning tower. Kashkun had awaited this moment for the past three hours: the Navigation Officer had just informed him that they had passed the “outer boundary”; they were now some 120 miles due South-East of the edges of Pacific Northwesteria’s territorial waters. Kashkun noted it in the ship’s log, along with the time: 23.32.

“Reduce speed to seven knots, maintain current course and depth. I’ll wake the captain.” Kashkun heaven himself from the captain’s chair and handed over the conn over his shoulder, the heavy thud of his boots suppressed by the deck’s rubber coating into little more than a dull pounding, a drum sounding the beginning of the first battle.

*****

The Fourth Day
06.10

Within the submarine’s tapered, rounded prow, hatches opened slowly, admitting alien seawater into the cocoon they had provided for the delicate sensors within. A FLIR probe extended slowly into the murk, to be joined by a skeletal MAD sensor probe; and within the bows, a miniature, automated laboratory catalogued the data it could discern regarding the water’s composition. Dissolved solids, temperature, oxygen levels, the light penetration of a swiftly-obtained sample; all were dutifully noted by the ever-diligent machines, feeding their data into their own hard drives and sending it to the ship’s sensor station. Yuksho and his colleagues did not appreciate the magnificence of the mechanisms designed to bring the concentrated torrent of information cascading down the vessel’s many monitors; the months of hard work necessary to construct reliable automated sampling systems that could operate, even at great depth, free from all human intervention meant nothing to them. All they were concerned with was the end product: a profile of the waters around this part of Pacific Northwesteria. It might not be perfect, or comprehensive, but it was certainly a step in the right direction.

Yuksho was back on the bridge, already feeling the first stubble of a fast-growing beard forming on his chin. He sipped at a large mug of tea, contemplating his next move and watching the ship’s computerised situation display - backed up, of course, by marks on a large paper chart in the centre of the room, lest the machine break down. Around him, the tension was presently beginning to rise. The ship had made another 40 miles beyond the outer boundary during the night, covering a third of the distance to Northwesterian waters. Occasional blips had appeared on the sonar, only to disappear again before they could be identified as anything substantial; they were, Yuksho knew, almost certainly no more than disappearing eddies, distant sea life and the other assorted noises of the deep. Not that the knowledge made him any less nervous.

The Chief Sensor Operator’s voice jolted him from his trance. “Bridge, Sonar: New contact, bearing three-one-one, designated Sonar 19.”

“Bridge here,” Yuksho replied smoothly. “Any ideas, Sam?”

Utami Samuo, the CSO, took a drag on his pipe before replying, sending an unpleasant gurgling down the interphone. “Nothing much yet; it’s distant, most likely surface, probably doing a decent speed.” He sucked again on the pipe. “At a guess, I’d say we’ve got ourselves a picket ship of some kind, but you’ll have to wait if you want her name.”

“Gotcha,” Yuksho responded with some would say surprising casualness. “Carry on, CSO.”

“Sir.” Samuo’s voice disappeared with a little crackle of static.

Around him, Imperceptible continued her course.

OOC: Right fine RP, m8. I highly doubt I'll be able to keep my end up to that standard (I'll use the excuse that I haven't written creatively in a while) but I'll see what I can do :) But once again, my guys don't know what's up yet, so there's be considerably less action.

IC:

Admiral Stevens had just returned from his early-morning walk on deck, and was enjoying breakfast with his officers. They were starting their day off right, with scrambled eggs (powdered, but still...), pancakes, and sausages. Stevens thought briefly to himself about how spoiled the Navy had become, but quickly got back to enjoying his meal and the conversation.

"I’m just saying, a little action would be nice for a change!" chuckled the intense yet amiable XO, Commander Russell Markson. "Here we have this nice fleet, and these eager young sailors, ready to defend their country, and nothing! I know that we haven’t had any reason to go to war, and I’m not suggesting that we turn to bullying our weaker neighbors just to entertain the Navy, but…"

"But what, XO?" the Admiral interjected. He cursed himself on his inability to hide the hint of iciness in his voice. The chuckling atmosphere at the table evaporated immediately, and the Commander grew suddenly serious.

"Well, sir, I was just going to say that in previous generations, the Navy had a more… heroic role in the world. Is there a single Lindimese who does not know the story of the PNS Evergreen? The names of Captain Farway, of Commodore Fortino? Those were the days of heroes. Our own generation is no weaker of body or spirit. I just wish that we were given the same chance to prove our mettle."

Silence. Then, "I understand what you are saying, and I feel it too. Every man… every person," he added with a nod to Lieutenant Commander Samantha Helmers, "wants the chance to prove that they are up to the challenge. But do you know how many sailors died on the Evergreen? Over a hundred. They were all brave, they were all well-trained, they were all alert, and they all died. Some from enemy missiles, either fast or slow. But then there were those who couldn’t get off before it sank, and those who died trying to save their comrades from the fires aboard the sinking ship. And then there were those who had plenty of time to get off, but didn’t: they spent their last minutes above-water patching holes, sealing bulkheads, making damn sure that everyone else could get off. You talk of the fame of the Evergreen, and of the heroics of her crew, and of the nobility of the cause for which she gave her hull. But don’t forget why we remember the Evergreen. It is because her sailors gave their lives for their country, and for Lindim, without thinking twice. Loyal and brave sailors died who might easily have lived, if they had not been so loyal and so brave. We all want honor, we all want to prove ourselves. But never wish that such a thing happens again, because it will be the worst thing that will ever happen to you."

More silence. The Commander looked down at the table, unnaturally stiff. He was saved a second later by the buzzing of the intercom on the wall.
"Captain, sorry to interrupt your breakfast, but you might want to get up to the bridge, sir."

"Very well." He turned off the intercom. "Good day, gentlemen. Enjoy your meal."


Bridge of the PNS Vigilant 07:40


"Sir, we’ve just received reports from two of our Frigates, possible contact bearing approximately 1-3-0. It’s intermittent, sir, and there’s some disagreement, but it’s possible that there’s a submarine down there."

"You interrupted my breakfast for this?"

"Sorry, sir, but Sonar was insistent. We wanted to know your orders, sir."

"Very well. Send the two frigates that have had contact with this mystery sub of yours towards the contact, and give them an SSN. But if they decide that there’s nothing there I want them back into formation immediately, is that understood?"

"Yes sir, thank you sir!"


Admiral Stevens walked thoughtfully back to the mess, back to his now-cold eggs. He thought to himself, "I just sent two frigates and a sub after what’s most likely a whale with diarrhea. But then again, maybe Markson will get his wish afterall…"

“I have the ship.” Yuksho stepped back onto the bridge, having spent a short spell in his cabin to log the last hour’s events.

“Captain has the ship.” Kashkun nodded to his superior and resumed his easy pacing around the bridge. Scarcely had Yuksho sat down before the interphone clicked on. It was Samuo again.

“Bridge, Sensor station.”

“Bridge here. What’s new?”

“Those contacts we had.?” Yuksho nodded at the interphone’s black metal exterior. “Two of them have peeled off. Making straight for us, give or take a point or three. And there might be something else there, but if there is it's too quiet for me to identify as anything.”

“I’ll be there in a minute.” Yuksho switched his end of the ‘phone off and gave the conn to Kashkun as head headed for the sensor station. Pulling back the curtain, he stood watching over Samuo’s hunched shoulders, ignorant of the cloud of blueish black tobacco smoke hanging around him, reluctant to be drawn into the humming ventilators. A pair of steady lines, gradually becoming brighter and thicker as time went on, were marching up the sonar display. A quick glance at the tertiary display, a Russian-style annular spike system, showed them to be approaching from almost identical relative bearings to port and starboard. This was, to say the least, not what Yuksho had hoped for, and nor was the third, faint track nearby them, fading in and out of "earshot". He reached for the interphone’s removable microphone and called Kashkun, unwilling to shout across the short distance.

“What’s our depth, Hiro?”

A short pause as Kashkun checked the nearest gauge. “Holding at one hundred and ten metres, sir. Sounding diminishing, currently one hundred and two metres.” He knew what they were about to do.

“Reduce speed to five knots, engage the creep motors, and take her up to periscope depth. Slowly, Hiro; let’s not let them hear us.”

“Understood.” The interphone’s familiar click allowed Yuksho to turn back to the sensor displays. He paced down the corridor, peering at the Imaging Infrared display, the LADAR output monitors and the wake sensors, but seeing nothing. Only SONAR to hunt with at this range. Presently Imperceptible took on a five-degree upward cant, barely noticeable unless one had something liquid alongside you. The noiseless hum of the engines disappeared as the six hundred horsepower “creep motors” were clutched in, driving the submarine at about the best speed they could manage, but doing so almost silently; they ought, now, to be emitting only as much sound as one of the famed Collins-class diesel submarines - less, if the manufacturers’ claims were to be believed. If.

Imperceptible ascended with grinding slowness. At forty metres, Kashkun and the diving officer expertly trimmed her to level, accomplishing the last fifteen metres of her climb entirely by lightening the ship, until the top of her graceful tower was only three metres below the choppy surface.

“Level at twenty-five metres.” Yuksho was by now back in his captain’s chair, overseeing operations; nodding, he ordered the ship’s ESM masts raised, and sat sipping his tea as the two antennae whined up to their fullest extent. Above him, he knew, any passing fishing boat would right now be being greeted by a pair of thirty-five foot whip antennae emerging from the middle of the sea. He grinned at the mental image, listening to Kashkun’s reports from his own repeater.

“Nothing much there, sir. I make it a pair of civilian sets, most likely weather radar on commercial jets; those two contacts each have one beam from them, though, strength six and increasing.” Kashkun flicked his eyes down to the array of ten lights on the ESM board, noticing that the seventh was also flickering its baleful red at him. The ships were closing on them.

“Can we identify them?” Yuksho continued his drink. Play it cool, Noma.

“Well,” Kashkun replied slowly, “the radar seems to be a PNN set, one fitted commonly to their Vigilant class, I think. The library apparently reckons it could be fitted to at least four classes of ship, however.

“Same goes for their sounds, Captain,” added Samuo.

“Argh!” Yuksho spun around in his chair. “For Christ’s sake, Sam, don’t bloody do that!”

“Sorry.” Samuo grinned apologetically. “It’s true, though; the library’s not extensive enough to categorise them yet. I think we’re going to be getting the first detailed recordings of Northwesterian ships the Navy’s ever had.”

“Quite the privilege, don’t you think?” Kashkun chuckled. But Yuksho didn’t reply. He was only too aware that another element had just been added, one that he hadn’t thought of four days ago: that if they were forced to give up the ship, her data library would be proof enough that this had been no mere accident. The ship herself would have to be destroyed, if it came to surrender. Yuksho stared at the red key around his neck, rubbing it gently like an icon. “Yes,” he replied, at length. “Yes, quite the privilege.” He rose from his seat stiffly. “The crew deserve to be told just what a privilege it is they’re part of.”

Kashkun stared at him, surprised and not a little worried. But the Captain’s word was law on his ship, and Kashkun merely acknowledged with a slight bow as his Captain moved past to the interphone. Yuksho hesitated; he turned, lips compressed into a joylessly tight smile, to the bridge at large before switching the set on.

“This is the Captain”, he began. Now what the hell do I say?

“This is the Captain. We are presently approaching the territorial waters of our ally in the Organisation of Maritime Powers, Pacific Northwesteria. As you are all aware, we are at periscope depth, and running silent. However, there are some things which I think you all deserve to know.” He stopped, trying to word his next ‘paragraph’.

Kashkun’s hand tensed into a fist in his pocket.
“Pacific Northwesteria is our nearest OMP ally. Their Navy is a fine Navy indeed; equipped with excellent ships, crewed by excellent personnel. And it is for that reason that we are here now. The Admiralty wishes to test us, to see just how good we actually are. They wish to see if this ship and this crew, together, are a match for the best Navies in the entire world. And I believe that you - we - are.”

*****

Deep belowdecks, in the port torpedo room, Torpedo Officer Labunda looked first indifferent, then interested, then frankly affronted at the suggestion that Imperceptible and her crew might not be up to the task they had evidently been set.

“Who the hell do those suits think they are?” he snarled to a young seaman as they checked number one torpedo tube. “’Course we’re up to the fucking job.” He flicked the younger man’s cigarette out of his mouth. “Don’t smoke near the torpedoes. Hydrogen peroxide and naked flames are a bad idea.”

*****

“There are, at present, two Northwesteria frigates approaching us” - Yuksho didn’t feel any urge to give the men that much detail yet - “- we will evade them. And while they search for us, we will conduct attack drills, and leave without them ever hearing us depart. We will pass their sonar nets, pass their battlegroups, pass any submarines unlucky enough to be tasked with finding us! We will prove to the admiralty that we are the best submarine in the Fleet; and when we return home, we will show the world the photographs of their warships, taken from our periscopes while they search in vain for us!”

*****

“Torpedo drills!” Labunda grinned to his comrade. “How about that, eh? What say we let one off?” He listened to Yuksho’s speech with a rapidly broadening smile, staring fixedly at the Imperial sunburst that hung from the bulkhead door, watching over the compartment. For once, after so many years of isolation, of weakness, of being mocked by the world at large, they would catch that world with its trousers firmly round its ankles. The thought gave him renewed energy as he checked the second torpedo tube, whistling “Land of Hope and Glory” (a song which the nation had taken to heart at some distant time past), his mind filled with glorious visions of foreign Navies’ men and women humbled by their ship, by their skill and tenacity. A fitting revenge, for all the years they have sneered at us!

*****

“We are silent. We are observant. We will not fail! Do your best, and the glory of this mission’s successful conclusion will be ours forever!” Yuksho swallowed, calming himself down a little. “May the Light go with us - and may our enemies be cast to the shadow. That is all.”

“Light go with us!” the shout reverberated briefly around the bridge from the beaming officers. Even Yuksho’s misgivings were lost beneath the wave of patriotic zeal now washing over his spirit. Cast to the shadow!

“Lower the ESM masts! Set depth two hundred metres! Ten degrees dive, maintain present speed and steer zero-three-zero. And pay out the towed array to three hundred metres.” Imperceptible’s whip antennae withdraw into her tower as she sank back beneath the gloom.

OOC: Sorry, I made a few assumptions here. I presume your frigates are using their radars as well; if not, I'll edit accordingly. Since I didn't seem able to find information on any specific radar types or what-have-you, I've also assumed that their surface-search and air-search sets are fairly common among your ships. Again, if that's a problem I'll remove it. I also assumed them to be coming one to each side of the contact, mainly because that makes the evasion a bit more interesting. Third, I've said that Imperceptible has picked out the SSN. Again, if that's not all right that's up for changing, but I thought that since it's likely using a PWR and suchlike it'll be detectable (though not remotely identifiable) by the best SONAR I have at a range of about 70 miles. As I say in the post, they're not sure whether it's a submarine, something else or nothing at all, so for the moment that doesn't matter too much.

OOC:
Don’t worry about it, your assumptions were good ones, and necessary for the RP I think. Some of that stuff I probably should have specified myself, but as I’ve already said, I’m rusty. Yes, my frigates are using their radars: they’re on patrol, and so their main role is to see potential threats coming. For information on the frigates, you can go to the Doujinshi Corp storefront website, http://www.geocities.com/doujincorp/index.html. It also makes sense for them to be coming from slightly different directions, because they’re part of a perimeter, and it would have been the two closest ones that picked you up. It’s also fine that you picked up my SSN, as I did the same with your sub. I tried to make it fair by having my frigates pick you up several hours steaming after you picked mine up, but still.
I just wanted to let you know one thing: there is no such thing as a "Vigilant Class" in my fleet. The PNS Vigilant is a Mackensen Class BB, and the frigates are Defiance Class. I wasn’t sure if you weren’t aware or if you just wanted to RP your guys as being mistaken, so I let you know.

IC:
Bridge of the PNS Vigilant

"Comm, do we have a report back from the ships we sent out?"

"Sir?"

"The ones chasing that damn shadow, I mean."

"Not yet sir, no."

"Will you see what’s holding them up, then?"

"Aye, sir."

The Communications Officer aboard the Vigilant moved quickly to contact Captain Ornwald aboard the lead Frigate to ask for a report, with Admiral Stevens pacing the bridge behind him. He wasn’t used to having to wait for a simple status update. It came soon enough.

"Admiral, the Captain says that the signal that they caught earlier has since disappeared. He reports that he was able to determine an approximate range before it disappeared, but that in order to search the area properly he’ll need…"

"Don’t tell me he’s asking for more ships… does he think we have all day for this goose chase?"
"He does request more ships, sir. Shall I inform him that his request has been denied?"

"Tell him that he’ll get more ships if he finds anything that suggests that there’s actually a hidden submarine down there, and not just some sensor ghost."

"Aye, sir."


Bridge of the PNS Lordship

Captain Ornwald was frustrated. Wasn’t it the mission of this patrol to guard these waters against enemy incursion? All enemy incursion, not jus the kind that walks up the front path and knocks politely at the door? He needed the entire patrol to cover these waters properly, and all he had were two frigates and a sub. Hardly an inescapable dragnet.

Still, he hadn’t been ordered to return, yet. That at least showed some promise. He was following the path to the last known contact with whatever was down there, knowing that even though it would be long gone by the time he got there, there was no better way to start looking. Shutting down the task force’s engines at random intervals to check for the possible enemy below made the going slow, but he was determined not to let them simply slip under him and to the rest of the fleet.

They were nearing the last known coordinates of what he could only assume to be a hostile sub, maybe some sort of new Freekian design.

"XO, order the task for to fan out, we want to cover as much area as possible." If I only had more ships… "Helm, make our bearing 3-4-0. If those bastard are trying to get to our coast, that’ll at least make them do a little extra legwork."

At the Captains orders, his frigate turned to port along a course just west of north, and the companion frigate worked the other way, following course 2-6-0 towards the southern tip of Pacific Northwesteria. The lone sub went silent, turning into a mobile submerged listening post, working its way East.

Captain Ornwald crossed his fingers, and hoped that his sheet-thin defensive net, together with the randomly placed stationary sensors at the bottom of the shallow ocean, would be enough to secure Pacific Northwesteria from this threat.

OOC:
I’m not sure where you want to go with this. I can keep ad-libbing it like this, or, if you have any ideas or comments, you could leave me an OOC note. I probably won’t be checking TGs often.

Imperceptible’s slender hull parted the caressing Pacific waters ahead as she headed back into her element. Again her metal creaked and groaned softly under the pressure of untold thousands of tonnes of water as the submarine dived, a tiny trail of rushing water and dead creatures in her wake. Beneath her keel, half a mile of frigid ocean invited her black form downward.

Torpedo Officer Labunda shook his head violently to remove the water that had dripped slowly downwards from the roof of the compartment, clearly eager to spread itself over his forehead before running painfully into his eye. As painful as the sensation of salt water on his eyeball was, he was acutely aware that it would be infinitely more painful to experience the sensation of his body being blown apart by the ignition of the several tonnes of hydrogen peroxide fuel and HE warhead that the torpedo he was now straddling carried. So he shook his head once again and concentrated his swimming, bloodshot eye on the delicate task of removing the burnt-out control circuitry from the machine’s controlling computer. His understandably tense mood was not at all helped when, after a few seconds’ prodding around with a screwdriver, a shower of sparks erupted from the torpedo’s innards.

Torpedo Officer Labunda would later consider that, given his assumption that he and the starboard torpedo compartment were to be imminently disassembled and scattered over several square miles of ocean, his ill-timed (but exceptionally strident) shout of “OH, FUCK!” was entirely justified.

*****

Kashkun was in the port turbine compartment at the point of Labunda’s exclamation, engaged in quiet conversation with the ship’s Chief Engineer.

“Are you sure they’re operating properly?”

“Positive, sir,” replied Williams in an undertone. “When we ran them up last, we were totally faultless.”

“For the first time since this contraption left the damn yard, yes. And for what… fifty minutes?”

“Forty-seven”, Williams replied defensively. “No hot running, no noise, no breakages…”

“And no chance of it doing that well again. Still, the Captain wants to give it a try anyway.” Hoping to placate his evidently insulted Chief, Kashkun hastily added: “Of course, I’m no engineer. What do I know?”

Williams laughed unsmilingly. “No need to apologise, sir; I’m even a bit dubious myself, to be honest. But we shall see, eh?”

”Indeed.” Kashkun turned and stalked from the compartment, shaking his head as he closed the bulkhead door.

*****

On the bridge, Yuksho was waiting for his second-in-command to return with a glint of anticipation in his unusually lively eye. He smiled beneficently at the various crewmen on the ship’s bridge as he waited, apparently unconcerned by the hostile(?) ships presently closing on his own and the possibility of a third, well-hidden opponent lurking somewhere away in the direction of the open seas to the east. He greeted the arriving Kashkun with a simple question. “Well?”

“Williams says it’s ready.” Kashkun suppressed a strong urge to shake his head again and resumed his regular tour of the ship, disappearing through the companionway the led to the galleys.

“Excellent.” Yuksho gave a single, curt nod to the Midshipman at the ship’s propulsion controls. The young man nodded in reply, and swung the propulsion selector to “Waterjet”, then selected “Ahead Slow” from the surprisingly aged-looking, brass-covered main telegraph. With a single, quiet “ding!”, the engine room confirmed that his order was understood, and deep within Imperceptible’s decks, the great main propeller shaft slowed gently to a standstill. Abreast the stilled propeller, and toward the ship’s bows, a pair of small, rounded doors slid slowly backwards into the space between the sub’s two hulls. Williams extended the nearest interphone’s cord, waiting for all four of the lights at which he now stared to turn green before pressing the switch marked “B”. He waited further for the mechanical indicators to flick from “closed”, through “jam open”, to “full open” before he released it.

“Bridge, engineering.” He scanned the great panel of gauges before him, watching the minutely vibrating needles and flickering LCDs for the slightest change, as the interphone crackled on.

“Bridge here.” Yuksho’s voice reverberated tinnily down the plastic instrument.

“Main shaft closed down, sir. Waterjet shafts open and units engaged; speed building to five knots.”

“Well done, Chief!” Yuksho’s beaming smile followed his words down the cabling. “Any problems?”

”None yet, sir.” Williams sounded optimistic, an unusual event for him. Yuksho sounded even more pleased merely owing to this. Had he really believed his own words?

“Very good.” Then, unexpectedly, the Captain’s voice softened. “Here’s hoping it stays that way. Bridge out.” Williams replaced the microphone, suddenly feeling very alone indeed, and went back to his watchful pacing among the humming machines that made up his kingdom.

*****

Imperceptible levelled off slowly, her depth gauges reading (with some exceptions, mostly due to their being distinctly suspect machines) a uniform three hundred and fifty metres. By the sensor crews’ estimation, Yuksho had placed his ship beneath at least one thermocline layer, leaving only her long towed array floating above it, perched at the end of its long tether and held at one hundred metres by a large balloon of compressed air, listening to the gradual approach of the Northwesterian frigates. Periodically the Vigilants - the sensor crew had no idea that this was not their true designation, or name - seemed to stop and drift - as would be expected of ships hunting a submarine. The ships’ behaviour did nothing to make the personnel tasked with monitoring them any less tense, or for that matter to dissipate the unwelcome feeling in Kashkun’s gut that something was about to fail, and fail disastrously, at their end. For all he strolled around and around the bridge, affecting an air of relaxation, he couldn’t help staring intently for just a little long at the bridge repeaters for the engineering and reactor stations every time he walked past them. Sure, he murmured inwardly, the sensor suite’s working. Even that miniature lab we’ve got up front is working like clockwork. And yes, the engines are fine, the reactors are fine, the weapons are seemingly OK. But that was just it. Where are all the problems?

In the sensor compartment, Samuo’s teeth gripped the stem of his pipe as he gazed at the easternmost contact, towards which they now appeared to be heading in a fairly direct fashion. He snatched a glance at the Russian-style “spike” display. It too told him the unwelcome news that the contact, whatever it was, was becoming steadier and stronger.

Imperceptible cared not whether her second-in-command had faith in her or not. With only the faintest rumble of her pumpjet outflow in her wake, the submarine turned slowly eastwards, and eventually settled onto her new course of one hundred degrees.

The Ninth Day

For the rest of his life - although he wasn’t to know it yet - Yuksho would ask, over and over, a single, simple question.

Where did they go?

He replayed it in his mind. The Northwesterian ships had been there, he knew it. They had been moving slowly towards his position; he had turned Eastwards, running parallel to something or other; it might have been a submarine, but then again, it might just have been a particularly big eddy. They’d kept going, gradually closing in on whatever it was. But then, when they should have been practically breathing in the thing’s wake… it wasn’t there. Nothing was there. He’d brought Imperceptible to periscope depth and looked around, and nothing was there, either. Not a blessed thing. Not even the faintest crackle of electromagnetic energy for tens of miles. It was as though the entire place and everything in it had simply vanished. For half an hour he had even been up on the surface, using his binoculars to scour the horizon from the exposed flying bridge, searching absurdly in the salt spray for something of the Northwesterians. But he had searched in vain. Whatever had removed Northwesteria’s vessels from the scene had done its work with chilling thoroughness, and left Imperceptible quite alone in the frigid waters of the Pacific.

Yuksho and Kashkun had debated their next move for some time. They could hardly return home having done almost nothing to test their vessel; nor could they really afford to spend too long in the vicinity, lest they come across forces unknown and unfriendly to themselves. Allies resented betrayal, but enemies simply sank you and asked questions later. Eventually, Yuksho had made his decision: they would reverse their course, and make for the southern tip of Novacom’s territory. Novacom’s status towards their homeland was one of spectacular indifference; Yuksho nonetheless had chosen to skirt well south of their territorial waters, and had taken many hours to cover the distance to her next waypoint, running at her top speed of 27 knots and hugging the lowest depth she could manage as far as possible. There was little to be wary of out in the open ocean during peacetime, after all.

Yuksho was, at that moment, sitting in his chair again, gulping down more tea and watching the plot as the wall-mounted clock ticked away the last minute until she hit her waypoint.

“Waypoint six reached, sir,” said the Navigation officer quietly. “Proceed?”

“Bang on time as usual”, observed Kashkun genially. “At this rate they’ll make you into a timepiece.” The NO grinned, his pride hard to mask despite the confusion of the last few days. Yuksho nodded from behind his steaming mug, both Kashkun and the NO getting the message. “Engines ahead one-third. Starboard rudder, steer course zero-one-zero, and bring her to periscope depth.” The men went about their allotted tasks, the familiar thrum of the turbines dying back to a quiet tingle as Imperceptible slowed, her propeller acting as a brake and delaying her turn. Yuksho was pleased to see that the CSO needed no directive to begin streaming the towed array sonar, and nor in turn did Kashkun feel the need to monitor the diving officer and his team as they adjusted the ship’s trim. They were beginning to mesh very well. Considering the way things seem set to be, that might be just as well, Yuksho thought, though he kept it firmly to himself. The Questerians were not exactly renowned for self-restraint in matters such as this (or so he had read, anyway), and he doubted very much that they would view the vessel of a nation with whom they were not the greatest of friends wandering about getting a good look at one of their prized naval bases too well. Stop thinking about that, Yuksho chided himself. It wouldn’t do any good, he knew; and worse, the men could feel when their captain was ill at ease. He had to lead them by example.

Imperceptible started to rise, easing her way gradually to shallower waters as she turned gently onto her new heading. Yuksho was playing it safe again; he would come to periscope depth and have a good look around for anything threatening before making his planned, zigzagging sprint-and-drift run towards Ceylon. It took twenty agonisingly slow minutes before she submarine levelled off again, allowing Yuksho to raise the periscope and the various antennae in her conning tower to probe the air. Yuksho made a slow, deliberate pass, sure that anything he could hear all the way up here would long have been picked up by the sensors elsewhere in the ship. The sea was choppy, the sky overcast; a storm was brewing on the distant horizon, right in his path. Fabulous. The Sun deserts us, and takes a tenth of our SONAR performance for our troubles. Still, the Bloodhound system could pick up no electronic emissions; not even weather radars or trawlers saw fit to disturb the tranquillity of the open sea. With that information under his belt, Yuksho ordered his ship into a swift dive. Within minutes, Imperceptible’s sleek hull was running at 27 knots again, hugging the limits of her depth gauges as she roared up the rising seabed towards Ceylon’s distant, storm-beaten coast.

NAVAL COMMAND BUILDING, CEYLON

"Fuck me, I'm knackered!" Rear Admiral Keizo Nishimura leant back in his chair, kicked up his feet onto the smartly produced glass and wicker table, and stretched as far as he could with a mighty yawn.

"Wanna hit the station bar?" His peer, Rear Admiral Chuichi Sakonju, queried him as he too rubbed sleep out his eyes.

"What, now?" Nishimura looked over to his friend, yawning again and enjoying the cool breeze that floated through the open window into the marble and stone walls of the ancient building. He pressed a few buttons on a remote, knowing that soon a pair of immaculately dressed, badly paid but intensly loyal dark skinned servants would come up with refreshments. Being colonial masters was awesome, Nishimura reflected.

"No, at six in the morning, dipshit. Of course now." Chuichi replied.

"I dunno. There's that girl down there that I, uh, well, suffice to say I don't think she'd be too happy to see me again."

"Colonial?" Chuichi asked with a casual interest.

"Naw. You know I don't like the Colonial girls. Too dirty, too dark." Nishimura replied, lighting up a fine cigar and puffing the air into the ceiling. It would float upwards and then out through the window and into the quiet city.

"Fair enough." Chuichi replied, cocking his head to one side. The two servants, as expected, arrived and poured a pair of brandys before bowing and leaving the two admirals.

"I don't feel like getting laid, anyway." Nishimura rubbed the back of his neck, scratching at a mosquito bite. "Fucking mozzies."

"Hah. You don't have to pick a girl up every time you go down there, you know." Chuichi replied, smiling, as he watched the old film on TV. The clock struck one and both ignored it, speaking little. There was always time to relax on the Ceylon Station.

The phone buzzed once, and was ignored. It buzzed again, and was then ignored. It buzzed a third time and Nishimura let out a sigh. "Fuck off." he said, hoping that the call would not buzz a fourth time. Obviously, it did, and he leaned over with a maximum effort not to stand up, almost collapsing the chair, but finally grabbing the phone.

"Nishimura." he said. Chuichi looked over and gave his friend the "Who the fuck is it?" look. He mouthed back. Fleet Admiral Yoshika. Chuichi facepalmed.

"Yes sir. Now sir? Of course sir. Right away sir. God Save the King." Nishimura slammed the phone down and sighed again. "Wanker. The Fleet Admiral wants us onboard the Ceylon as soon as possible."

"Oh jesus christ, what now?" Chuichi pushed himself out the chair and called for a car to take them down to the dockside.

"Who fucking knows. Probably wants us to open his beer for him."

HIQMS CEYLON

Fleet Admiral Yoshika, the CIC of the Ceylon Station, met his two subordinates on the gangplank of the battlecruiser Ceylon. The night was quiet, and so was the port. Almost all lights where off, even on the ship, and the lit up moon shot its welcoming light over the dock, providing little light but a nice atmosphere. Romantic, even. But war is rarely romantic and there is rarely time for emotional mumbo-jumbo when push comes to shove and the shit hits the fan. Nishimura was thirty one and he still hadn't found a wife and settled down, and it was times like these he often wondered whether he'd chosen the right job. His uncle could have put him in administration. Stuck out here in Ceylon, seeing no action (in all respects) and doing nothing but chasing around some Fleet Admiral that got his position because his uncle had more money than Nishimura's. What a fucking waste of time, he thought.

"Admiral Nishimura, Admiral Sakonju." Yoshika shook their hands and welcomed them onboard.

The two Admirals saluted and thanked Yoshika - like they had a choice - and followed him onboard as he walked to the prow of the ship. "Unfortunately gentlemen, I've been told that what we've been waiting for might not be far off. A matter of months, in fact. In this case, we will have to deal with the Dontian Navy, with perhaps no reinforcements."

Nishimura and Chuichi gasped. As commanders of the two Hiryu class Fleet Carriers in Ceylon, Sorakazu and Hirakazu, they commanded a formidable air armada, but nothing to challenge a whole nation with!

"We're putting to sea immediately to get some training done for the Station's ships. Reinforcements have come from the Mandate, bumping us up to fourty destroyers and six cruisers, plus supports and independent subs. And of course our capital ships. I want you to take command of your vessels - we'll be putting to sea in the morning. There's alot of work to be done."

"Sir, we've just been working with 679 squadron for five hours flat, coordinating between our air groups. Isn't there some bracket for rest?" Chuichi said it much more diplomatically than Nishimura could attempt.

"I'm afraid not boys. War is on the horizon and we have to do everything we can for our Country. Dismissed."

Deep in the bowels of his ship, Chief Engineering Officer Williams half-heartedly monitored the status of Imperceptible's two natural-circulation reactor systems. He had had surprisingly little sleep, considering how well things had gone to date, and now he leaned against the polished pipes running along the wall behind him, his balding head beaded with sweat, and fingered the picture of his wife and two sons. Never the most optimistic of men, Williams couldn't shake a deep, superstitious feeling in his weary bones that something was going to go wrong on this trip. He didn't communicate it to any of the other men, but he couldn't quite be rid of it, and despite the friendly green lights staring blankly from the annunciator boards, he still kept gazing longingly at that precious photograph.

*****

"Where are we now, NO?" Kashkun drank slowly from his oversized mug of tea as he leaned over the younger man's shoulder. Seemingly unfazed by the presence of his second-in-command, the NO calmly updated the ship's track on his paper plot before pointing silently to the graphic map, telling Kashkun that they were now some 140 kilometres South of the southernmost tip of Ceylon. The NO sighed, blowing out his cheeks thoughtfully, his serioues eyes meeting Kashkun's momentarily. It's at times like this, Kashkun thought, that I wonder about this job. What would he say to young Borizoi's parents if their son were not to return? How would he explain that he had cost them their boy? But then again, Kashkun reflected, nothing had gone wrong so far. The trip had been... strange, but not foreboding. He glanced again at that chart and gave out a set of brisk orders; within ten minutes Imperceptible had slowed to five knots, and her tall ESM antennae were thrust above the choppy seas. Yet again nothing showed, and Kashkun decided to raise the photonic mast and have a look around.

"Raise the photo mast!" he called softly.

"Raise the phot mast, aye," came the Senior Watch Officer's smooth reply as the greased steel tube glided up to Kashkun's outstretched hands. Within was not a conventional periscope, but an arrangement of camera, monitor and fibre-optic calbes, far smaller than the older apparatus and providing better quality in its images. Kashkun bent awkwardly to the eyepiece, noting dourly that it was leaking ever so slightly, and made a quick sweep, revealing nothing more than a very distant smudge that might or might not have been a ship. With an almost disgusted snort he wave the instrument back down and went to watch over the recording with Samuo, mainly to have something to do.

"Doesn't look like there's anything there, sir." Samuo sucked once more on his pipe, sending a sound not unlike a thousand plugholes attempting to perform the Ode to Joy rebounding round the chamber. Kashkun grimaced momentarily, nodding and wondering why he had ever given up smoking as he left the tobacoo-fug of the Sensor Chamber for the Bridge.

"Bloody hell, that place is ripe! Dive the ship. Set depth four hundred metres, ten degrees dive, speed to eight knots and hold current heading."

"Aye sir," the Diving Officer responded. "All compartments report manned and ready. Set depth Four hundred at ten down."