506: Chapter 506 Forces 214 to Surrender at Sea

Senior Colonel Lin Haisheng pressed the intercom.

"Shan State, active sonar at full power. Aimed at the bottom of the Pacific Dawn, single pulse. Fire."

The active sonar pulse exploded beneath the surface.

The high-frequency sound wave struck the bottom of the Pacific Dawn, piercing through the thermocline and continuing downward.

The echo returned two seconds later—one hundred and twenty meters below the hull, a second metallic reflector appeared.

It was not the bottom of a merchant ship, but a submarine's teardrop-shaped hull.

That Type 214 had been hiding directly beneath the merchant ship, using the merchant ship's propeller noise to mask its own acoustic signature.

Acoustic masking—a classic tactic for submarines to evade anti-submarine searches.

"Found you."

The sonar officer's fingers tapped out a flurry of sounds on the keyboard, "Target locked.

Depth one hundred and fifty-two meters, heading zero one seven, speed six knots.

Maintaining vertical synchronization with the Pacific Dawn."

Senior Colonel Lin Haisheng opened the encrypted channel.

"Chief Zhang.

Target locked—Type 214 submarine, acoustically sheltered by a Panama-flagged merchant ship.

Requesting further instructions."

Zhang Cheng's voice came over the encrypted channel, his tone steady: "Are you confident you can force it to surface?"

"One hundred percent.

Active sonar has locked on, and the three-ship anti-submarine formation has blocked all deep-water escape routes from three directions.

If it doesn't surface, two light anti-submarine torpedoes can force it into the shallow water layer."

"Do not sink it."

"Understood.

Do not sink it."

Zhang Cheng fell silent in the channel for two seconds.

Senior Colonel Lin Haisheng heard the sound of fingers tapping on a tablet screen, the prompt tone of the system exchange interface opening, and then Zhang Cheng's voice sounded once more:

"I'm sending something down.

It will force the submarine to surface.

Have your men ready for boarding."

Six nautical miles east of Nacala Port.

A hypersonic transport delivery pod plunged from an altitude of thirty thousand meters, deploying a deceleration parachute three hundred meters above the surface, and dropping three cylindrical sealed tubes.

The sealed tubes automatically activated upon entering the water, their walls unfolding to reveal three Deep Diver unmanned underwater vehicles—equipped with active sonar arrays, micro-torpedo launch tubes, and high-pressure water cannons.

The three Deep Divers simultaneously started their thrusters, and their rim-driven pump-jet systems emitted low-frequency pulses.

After completing self-checks at the entry point, they immediately dove, spreading out in a fan shape and heading straight for directly beneath the hull of the Pacific Dawn.

Senior Colonel Lin Haisheng saw three new signal sources join the battlefield on the sonar screen.

Their volume was only the size of a life raft, yet their speed was pushed to thirty-five knots, dragging three straight bubble wakes underwater.

Inside the command cabin of the Type 214 submarine.

Captain Otto Kramer's forehead pressed against the periscope's rubber eyecup.

What he saw was not the sea surface—the periscope was still locked inside the hull.

He was merely using this action to isolate himself from the increasingly thick tension inside the command cabin.

"Three high-speed acoustic sources!

Speed thirty-five knots, they are surrounding our submarine from three directions!"

The sonar operator's voice cracked.

He had spent twelve years in NATO submarine units before his service, yet he had never heard this kind of acoustic signature—it was not a torpedo, not an anti-submarine missile, not any known anti-submarine weapon.

The propeller rotation frequency automatically adjusted between five hertz and forty hertz, completely defying the design rules of conventional blades.

"Active sonar pulses!"

The sonar operator took off one headphone, "High frequency—they are scanning the submarine hull with active sonar.

The pulse interval is zero point three seconds, and the precision can distinguish the seams of every single anechoic tile."

Kramer turned around—the command cabin ceiling was cramped, and standing straight required bowing his head.

The emergency red lights pressed the nasolabial folds on his face into two dark shadows.

"Release bubble curtain generators.

The entire submarine enters silent mode.

Reduce fuel cell power to forty percent."

His English carried a Hamburg accent, "Hard right rudder, change heading to zero nine zero.

Hug the bottom of the thermocline."

The sonar operator's fingers trembled on the keyboard as he executed the order—the three high-speed acoustic sources did not slow down by a single millisecond after passing through the bubble curtain generators.

The bubble curtain generator launch tubes on the Type 214's hull opened.

High-pressure gas expanded into millions of tiny bubbles in the seawater, forming an acoustic reflection wall.

The submarine turned under the cover of the bubble curtain, the propulsion motor speed dropped to twenty revolutions per minute, and the hull almost merged with the seawater.

The Deep Divers did not slow down when passing through the bubble curtain.

The Vega algorithm completed acoustic image reconstruction zero point seven seconds after the bubble curtain generators burst, eliminating bubble reflection clutter and leaving only the acoustic signature contour of the submarine hull.

Machine Number Three descended directly above the stern—the high-pressure water cannon slashed just once, and the outer steel plate of the diversion shroud was peeled off like opening a canned drink.

The seven-blade propeller was exposed.

At the same time, Machine Number Two flanked the left side of the sail, its robotic arm reached into the drainage hole, and its water cannon blasted open the sealed door of the electronic equipment compartment.

The two tactical screens in front of Kramer went black simultaneously.

Machine Number One stopped fifty meters directly ahead—it did not fire a torpedo, merely letting the warhead protrude halfway out of the launch tube.

Kramer felt the vibration transmitted from the steel plates beneath his feet.

He steadied himself on the periscope column.

The propulsion control officer's voice came out through the comms tube, carrying an echo: "The stern diversion shroud is damaged!

The propeller is exposed!"

Inside the command cabin, only the emergency red lights and the still-approaching acoustic source marker on the sonar operator's screen remained.

Kramer stared at the periscope base.

He did not order the launch of counter-torpedoes—the DM2A4 heavy torpedoes equipped on the Type 214 were suitable for attacking surface ships of over three thousand tons, and against these three life-raft-sized targets, it couldn't even achieve a lock.

From the moment acoustic masking failed, this submarine was just an iron shell on the seabed.

No one spoke in the command cabin.

The low-frequency humming of the fuel cell AIP system was amplified in the silence.

"Captain."

Executive Officer Gomez raised his head from beneath the tactical screen base, "When they cut open the diversion shroud, they could have completely blown up the thruster.

Torpedoes could pierce any of our compartments.

But they only destroyed non-critical equipment."

Kramer unscrewed the knob of the command cabin broadcast microphone.

"Attention all hands.

I am the Captain."

His German accent was flattened out through the submarine's internal broadcast system:

"Cease all combat operations.

Disengage all weapon system safeties.

Blow ballast tanks.

Prepare for emergency surfacing."

Thirty seconds later, the Type 214 submarine's ballast tanks blew simultaneously.

High-pressure air forced the seawater out from the bottom of the hull, and buoyancy exceeded the hull's gravity within five seconds.

The bow began to tilt upward, the surfacing angle rising from zero degrees to fifteen degrees, and then to twenty-five degrees—Kramer needed to grab the overhead pipes to maintain his footing.

The sea surface.

Two-thirteen in the morning.

Three hundred meters off the starboard side of the freighter Pacific Dawn, the sea surface was breached.

First, the bow smashed through the surface kicking up fan-shaped waves, then the sail, and finally the rear half of the hull.

Seawater trickled down the seams of the Type 214 submarine's anechoic tiles, reflecting the moonlight dazzlingly—on the sail, the painted-over hull number left behind half a string of letters: L-332.

That was the hull number format of the Israeli Navy's Dolphin-class submarines, but the hull dimensions didn't match; it was a Type 214 hull fitted with a fake identification number.

The Bhamo lowered its boarding speedboat.

Twelve marines boarded the submarine deck, their combat boots creaking as they stepped on the anechoic tiles.

The conning tower sail hatch opened from the inside—Kramer crawled out first, hands clasped behind his head, the silver oak leaf insignia on his uniform collar gleaming under the searchlight.