Arctic Gambit

11 DEEP THOUGHT

“And they can’t put a cover over Shippingport,” RADM Sanders confirmed, hanging up the phone. “Their best estimate was a week to make the modifications — once they figured out how.”

Chatham shrugged as he typed. “We had to ask, sir.” He reviewed his work, then hit the print button. “Here you go, Admiral, the draft press release for your review.” He offered the hard copy to his boss. “I put this together in a hurry, and that’s when people make mistakes.”

Sanders carefully read the hard copy statement.

The admiral handed it back. “That looks fine, Russ. Given that the earlier release put her in dry dock for ‘propulsion repairs,’ this one definitely says ‘there’s more wrong than we thought, and EB’s going to be working on her for a while.’”

“And one of EB’s graving docks can be covered,” Chatham remarked as he hit send. “Public Affairs will have this out shortly, but word’s already gone out to everyone from EB to the harbormaster. They’ve ordered the tugs to stand by to move Carter out of Shippingport as soon as the EB dock is ready.”

An aviator, Chatham had only a passing knowledge of things like dry docks. “How long will it take them to cover the dock, sir? It’s not routinely covered, is it?”

“No, but it’s pre-assembled arches. It takes about half a day to rig the frames and spread them over the entire length of the dock. They can put the frames up while they prep the keel blocks Carter will rest on. They’ll bring her in, pump the water out, and let everyone see her sitting there. Then they’ll spread the canvas over the riverside opening. To get her out, we wait for a window at night when there won’t be any satellites overhead. It takes two or three hours to flood the dock, and about another six to get her propulsion plant up and running. We get Carter headed down the Thames River, then de-ballast the dock and run the canvas out so it covers the end. Nobody will be inside, but the Russians won’t know that.”

The admiral smiled. “I’m going to see if we can get a few ‘yard workers’ spreading tales in Groton’s bars about how ‘totally messed up’ Carter’s propulsion system is. We’ll build a legend — figure out exactly what’s supposed to be wrong, maybe even put in urgent orders for parts…”

“But all this is actually costing the Navy real money, Admiral,” Chatham protested. “Electric Boat will charge us by the minute for using one of their graving docks…”

“It’s money well spent if we can convince the Rooskies they ‘know’ where Carter is, when she isn’t.”

It wasn’t the first time he’d gotten an evening phone call from the Pentagon. Daniel Cavanaugh was an explosives expert, a civilian working out of the U.S. Army Explosives Laboratory in Adelphi, Maryland. He was good enough at his job that the army let him pick his own research projects, and would lend him out when his skills were needed.

As per the phone call, the car picked him up at his home in the morning. It was early enough to be cooler, but it was high summer in the south and it was going to be hot and muggy again. He left a little earlier than he normally did for work, but it was worth it to get ahead of the Washington traffic. The driver had orders to drop him at the south entrance, where he would be met.

“Dr. Cavanaugh?” The young civilian who met him and ushered him through security never identified himself, but led him through the passageways and down to a gray metal door labeled “PLAN 1.” After buzzing the intercom and announcing their arrival, at 0800 hours sharp, he disappeared down the hall.

Probably not cleared into whatever was going on, Cavanaugh thought. This wasn’t his first visit to some high-security project. He was glad to be of use, and flattered to be in demand, but expected just another routine technical question-and-answer meeting.

He was wrong, of course.

A crew-cut officer whose name tag read “Forest” brought Cavanaugh inside, both literally and figuratively, getting the civilian’s signature on several security forms before letting him past the entryway. Inside, he found a suite of offices, complete with its own restrooms and small kitchenette. Forest, a lieutenant commander, introduced him to Commander Gabriel, the team leader, and Petty Officer Brady, their assistant and computer specialist. The two officers both wore gold dolphins, and Gabriel a command pin. Brady’s dolphins were silver.

“This is the entire team, Doctor,” Gabriel said, shaking Cavanaugh’s hand. It hurt, just a little. Although the two were about the same age, Gabriel had obviously worked at staying in shape. Cavanaugh’s exercise program consisted of twenty minutes on a treadmill, when he couldn’t think of an excuse.

“Please, just Dan is fine.”

“Fine, Dr. Dan. Everything you see and hear is Top Secret, including the existence of this planning cell,” Gabriel continued.

“Although that will probably change,” LCDR Forest added smugly.

Gabriel nodded and grinned. “It’s likely.” The pair led him to a small conference room. There were signs of long use, including plastic trays with the remains of breakfast. Papers lay in organized piles on one side of the table, while a detailed chart of the Arctic Ocean and the Kara Sea covered one wall.

A carefully drawn course line came up from the south toward an island on Russia’s northern coast. The neatly lettered annotations were too far away for Dan to read, but “Top Secret” had been written in large red marker on each corner.

Gabriel saw Cavanaugh studying the chart. “That’s our third draft of the voyage plan for USS Jimmy Carter. As soon as we can put a plan together, she will leave Groton.”

He walked over to the chart, and tracing the track with his finger, explained, “She will sail north, pass Iceland to the west, then make as straight a course as she can for here.” He tapped the island. “It’s called Bolshevik Island. They send people from there to Siberia to warm up. And that’s why we need you.”

LCDR Forest handed the civilian two hard copy printouts of a color photo. The first showed the original image. Taken through a periscope, it showed a large tube or cylinder suspended from a crane on some sort of ship. The second sheet had the part with the cylinder blown up to almost illegibility, and was enhanced with lines and dimensions.

“The Russians are building an underwater launch facility at that island for the very large Dragon transoceanic torpedo that has a SS-NX-35 Shashka missile inside. That beast there is a launch tube.”

Cavanaugh had followed the news coverage on the Shashka with interest, both professionally and personally, since he lived within four hundred miles of the Atlantic. “It’s a scary system,” he replied. “But all the reports said it’s a strategic weapon, with a nuclear warhead. If you give me the dimensional data, I can calculate what size a conventional…”

CDR Gabriel shook his head. “That’s not it, Dr. Dan. We want to blow up the launch cylinders.”

“Where are they located?”

“Underwater, just off Bolshevik Island.” He offered Cavanaugh a marked-up satellite photo of the island. “This shows our best guess at the exact location.”

Confused, the civilian didn’t take it immediately. “But this map says Bolshevik Island is Russian territory.”

“Chart,” Gabriel corrected, then added, “And it is.” The civilian saw Forest nodding agreement.

Astonished, Cavanaugh didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t sure what his expression was, but Gabriel must have thought the newcomer was reluctant to participate if it meant attacking Russian territory. Truthfully, Cavanaugh’s thought processes hadn’t taken him that far.

The commander pulled a chair up next to where Cavanaugh was, facing him. “Here’s the drill,” Gabriel explained. “The Russians are building a launch facility in secret. Its purpose is to launch weapons capable of a covert nuclear first strike on the U.S. east coast. The president has ordered that it has to be destroyed before it becomes operational.

“Only a few hundred people in the U.S. know what the Russians are doing up there. You’re the thirteenth or fourteenth person to know about this operation, and that includes the Big Skipper, who gave the order. This is all flash priority. The operation doesn’t even have a code name yet. We’ve spent two days working on how to get Jimmy Carter up there, and we’ve got some ideas about how she could do the job, but we need a reality check.

“You’re not only an explosives expert, which we are not, but you specialize in blast effects on complex structures — including underwater targets. We’re only going to get one shot at doing this, and the destruction has to be complete.”

Cavanaugh absorbed the commander’s explanation easily enough, but did he agree with the conclusion? In reality, it really didn’t matter what he thought; Gabriel was merely repeating the president’s conclusion. President Hardy thought the danger was so great that he was willing to risk starting a war with Russia.

It wasn’t his place to agree or disagree, but Cavanaugh found he did agree with the president’s call. He read the papers and watched the daily news, and the Russians were up to several kinds of no good.

Time to do his job, and the questions were simple enough. “All right. How many of these cylinders are there? What’s the water depth? What can you tell me about how they’re constructed?”

“The water depth where that cylinder was photographed was ninety-eight fathoms,” Forest reported.

Trust the Navy… Cavanaugh thought. He did the mental math and came up with 588 feet deep. Call it a 180 meters.

“We’re not sure how many cylinders there are. Our best guess is more than four, but less than twelve. We don’t think there’s anything fancy about their construction. Standard structural steel, most likely.”

“And is there a diagram of the installation?” Cavanaugh asked hopefully.

“I’m afraid not.” Forest shrugged. Gabriel looked apologetic. “All we really have is the photo. Everything else is deduced from that.”

“Then how can I tell you where to place the charges?”

“We can’t use demolition charges. Jimmy Carter’s unmanned underwater vehicles can’t carry anything heavier than thirty pounds. But the submarine carries as many as fifty Mark 48 torpedoes. Their warhead is six hundred fifty pounds of PBXN-103.”

That was something he could hang his hat on. “All right,” Cavanaugh announced. “Given that warhead, I can tell you what it can do to that cylinder at different distances. But how will the torpedoes find the cylinders? Aren’t they acoustic homing? And what type of fuzing are you looking at?”

“We’re working on those,” Gabriel said hopefully.

They clustered at one end of the long table near the podium. They certainly didn’t need all the space. There were only a dozen people involved in planning or approving the mission, and for the time being, it was going to stay that way. Besides CDR Gabriel, LCDR Forest, and the somewhat surprised Dr. Cavanaugh, it included Admiral Hughes, the chief of naval operations; General Schiller, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff; and the secretaries of the navy and defense.

Gabriel sat at a laptop, working the mouse and keyboard as the others stood behind him, studying the notes on the laptop’s screen.

It had been a long day and a half for Cavanaugh, with meals inside the small planning cell as they worked out ways to get the torpedoes to home on target, the warheads to detonate, and what their effects would be — thank Heaven at least the depth was known. Then they spent almost as much time trying to imagine what could possibly go wrong, and how they could adjust to still get the job done. He’d been outside exactly once, with LCDR Forest as an escort, so that he could call a neighbor to ask them to feed his cats. He’d spent the ride from the Pentagon to Pennsylvania Avenue rubbing his chin and wondering how scruffy he looked.

President Hardy entered unannounced, with a navy commander close behind, and everyone quickly stood. Hardy introduced the commander as Lou Weiss, skipper of Jimmy Carter, a submarine. He’d arrived only a short time ago from Groton. While everyone exchanged introductions and greetings, Cavanaugh noted the contrast between the officers’ crisp summer uniforms, de rigueur for the White House, and his own bedraggled sport coat and tie. Even Hardy managed to make slacks and a polo shirt look military. The shirt was navy blue with a submarine and the name “Memphis” embroidered in gold.

Hardy sat as Gabriel moved to the podium and called up the first slide. “Mr. President, Captain Weiss, this is Jimmy Carter’s route north. It’s nine days, five hours, transiting at an average speed of about twenty-two knots. We optimized speed while maintaining a high level of covertness — especially for the last twelve hundred miles where interactions with Russian navy assets have a greater chance of occurring. We’ve prepared a draft of a complete voyage plan for your review.”

Hardy nodded and looked to Weiss, who observed, “Having just been up there, the final approach leg has to be at a much slower speed, of course.”

Gabriel shrugged. “We weren’t sure how you’d want to use your UUVs during the final leg, nor do we have any insight into changes in the area’s defenses, so that last part’s pretty much a placeholder.” He gestured to the rest of the planning cell. “We’re a little thin on experience with unmanned underwater vehicles, and again, you were just there.”

“And I can’t decide how I’ll make my approach until I see how we’re going to make the attack.”

Gabriel grinned. “We’ve made a lot of progress with that.” He pressed a key, and the slide shifted to show an acoustic target transponder beacon. The two submariners had explained the device to Cavanaugh that afternoon. The navy used them in torpedo tests and in live fire exercises when they wanted a torpedo to home in on a particular target.

The commander explained, “We’ve arranged to fly in every beacon in the Navy’s inventory from Norfolk, Bangor, and San Diego. They should arrive in Groton late tomorrow. Counting the beacons already in storage in Groton, that will give us eighteen. Captain Weiss, these weigh about ten pounds each. They’re cylindrical in shape with a length of fourteen and a half inches and a diameter of three and a half inches. How many do you think each UUV could carry?”

Weiss looked thoughtful. “The vehicles have a small cargo module that can carry a total weight of one hundred and fifty pounds. So weight won’t be an issue. The trick will be packing the beacons into the existing deployment tubes we currently use for the deep-water positioning beacons. The two beacons are similar in size, more or less. I’d say four, maybe as many as six if we get creative.”

Cavanaugh saw LCDR Forest making notes. Gabriel continued, “The beacons are built with a transponder mode that transmits a frequency-shifted chirp. We can set it up so each beacon will respond to a particular torpedo, and that torpedo will only home in on that beacon.”

Carter’s skipper nodded understanding, and looked a little relieved. “I like the transponder idea. It won’t make any noise until the torpedo goes active, which will be at short range. The Russians would almost certainly detect the beacons if they just started pinging as soon as they were planted. The less warning time the Russians have, the better.”

Gabriel nodded agreement, but he wasn’t smiling. “That’s true, Captain, but we can’t depend on the Russians being complacent. We’ll have to use the UUVs to first scan the perimeter, then we need to get a good look at the facility so we can see how the launcher is laid out.”

“We have no idea what it looks like?” Weiss was asking Gabriel, but he looked at the others as well, almost begging someone to say he was mistaken.

“Captain, the only way we even know where the facility is located is because we know the locations of the ships supporting the construction. We’re reasonably sure that the launch facility will be within a hundred yards of the location Toledo provided.”

“So we will preload the UUVs with beacons, send them out to do a reconnaissance, and then…” Weiss trailed off.

Gabriel explained, “Once we know what the facility looks like, you figure out the best spots for the beacons, and then drive the UUVs to each location. After the last beacon is in place, the vehicles can head back to the sub, and you commence launching torpedoes.”

“It’s better if the UUVs stand off and watch,” Weiss replied. “That way we can get a real-time battle-damage assessment. If we need to set more beacons, the UUVs will already be in the neighborhood.”

“Good point,” Gabriel responded. Forest took some more notes.

The lieutenant commander asked, “Captain, how far away can you control the UUVs?”

“Six thousand yards, maybe eight, in good conditions. It was pretty noisy up there, and my controllers had problems with anything over five thousand yards.”

“Which means you’ll have to get through the minefield,” Gabriel concluded. “We were pretty sure of that, and neither of us could figure a way to program the UUVs without bringing them all the way back to Carter after they scout the target.”

Carter’s skipper and the president both shook their heads at the idea. “They don’t have to come all the way back,” Weiss replied. “They just have to get close enough for us to communicate reliably with them.

“We can also use the vehicles to place small neutralization charges on some of the mines.” Weiss sounded confident. “My crew has actually practiced that in the simulators, and we know exactly what type of mine the Russians laid.”

“We budgeted time for that in the plan,” Gabriel added. “Still, the torpedoes have a range of ten miles at high speed. If we could operate the UUVs at a greater distance, Carter herself would never have to enter Russian territorial waters.”

Hardy cut in. “I think the subtle difference would be lost on Moscow.”

“I’m comfortable with making a gap in the minefield and taking Carter inside if we need to, but I can see if my crew can boost the communication range while keeping us covert,” Weiss decided. “The biggest unknown is how long it will take to reconnoiter the place and how many beacons to use, as well as where we’re supposed put them. Have you put together any guidance for us on how to do that?”

Gabriel nodded. “That’s what we have Dr. Cavanaugh for. Go ahead, Doctor,” he urged the civilian.

Cavanaugh had not expected to be briefing the president that afternoon. Especially after working nearly thirty-six hours with little time for rest or basic cleanliness. He suppressed his nervousness by focusing on the numbers. “I’ve calculated the optimum and maximum distance at which a Mark 48 warhead will completely wreck the steel launch tubes. We investigated using two torpedoes homing on the same beacon, or two beacons next to each other, but that wasn’t reliable. There are many possible layouts the Russians could use, and I’m halfway through writing guidance…”

Hardy interrupted. “How confident are you of these possible layouts?”

Cavanaugh shrugged. “They’re all likely, Mr. President, and I can’t say it’s exhaustive. There are many different possible configurations, depending on what assumptions—”

“That’s what I thought,” the president intruded. Turning to Carter’s captain, Hardy asked, “Captain Weiss, do you have any issues with letting Dr. Cavanaugh ride with you?”

“None at all, Mr. President. We’ve plenty of space. He’d be our honored guest.”

Everyone was looking at Hardy; some with amusement, others were perplexed. Cavanaugh swallowed hard. The only submarine he’d ever been aboard was at the Nautilus museum in New London. In his line of work, he’d done his best to avoid being in the water at the same time as something that was going to explode.

It wasn’t being aboard a submarine that gave him pause. It was being aboard a submarine that was going to attack Russia — after navigating a minefield. But they would only get one shot at this, and Cavanaugh wanted it to work as much as anyone.

“I can do it, Mr. President,” he answered, feeling awkward and pretentious, and trying to sound confident. “I’ll have to get Mrs. Gray to look after my cats,” he added, thinking out loud.

Hardy nodded. “Problem solved. Don’t worry, Doctor. The food is great, and you’ll love the Bluenose ceremony.” The president smiled broadly.

Cavanaugh nodded silently, not wanting to confess he’d never heard of it. He saw LCDR Forest making more notes, and then started a list of his own.

Gabriel stepped away from the podium. “That’s all I have.”

Weiss said, “Then I should go over the voyage plan Commander Gabriel has put together. I’d like to get back to Groton as soon as possible. Tonight, if it can be arranged.”

“Definitely,” Hardy answered. “If those beacons are arriving late tomorrow, how quickly can you be ready to sail after that?”

“Six hours or so, sir, if the yard does everything properly and we warm up the reactor while we’re still in the dock.” Looking both at the president and ADM Hughes, he asked, “When will Captain Mitchell be informed, sir? Technically, I’m still part of DEVRON Five, but I’m betting he hasn’t heard about any of this.”

“No, of course not,” Hardy answered almost automatically. He appeared distracted, and after a moment said, “I wish you and Captain Mitchell could spend some time together working out tactics for using the UUVs.”

“Is there any way to bring him in, sir?” Weiss asked. “We could organize a video conference.”

Both the CNO and Hardy immediately disagreed. Hughes said, “I wouldn’t trust a conversation about this operation being transmitted, secure channel or not.”

Hardy added, “And that’s not what I meant, Captain. I mean a couple of skull sessions where you can brainstorm ideas, then beat them to death and see which ones refuse to die.” He paused for a moment, then another, and finally said, “All right, Lou. I’m putting Captain Mitchell onboard as mission commander.”

Cavanaugh watched the others’ reactions. He understood what the president’s order implied about his confidence in Weiss, but the other officers’ protests, in spite of Hardy’s position, surprised him.

Weiss looked almost like he’d been slapped. “Mr. President, if you don’t think…”

The CNO was ready to intercede, and put an arm out to stop Weiss before he said something that couldn’t be unsaid. Even Gabriel and Forest looked like they wanted to say something, although he couldn’t image what.

Hardy held up a hand, motioning them all to calm down, which they did. “Lou, I’m going to be a hard-ass here. There’s a damn fine chance that you’ll pull this off brilliantly, but it’s not one hundred percent. It never will be, but I need it to be as high as we can possibly get it — the consequences of a failure are astronomical.

“I’ve been where you are. I understand this will reflect on you no matter what I say, but this mission is more than vital. I get better vibes with both Mitchell and you aboard than with just you. I’d put your entire chain of command on Carter if I thought it would help.

“This mission has to succeed, and I want you to put the success of the mission above everything else, including your personal feelings.”

Cavanaugh watched as numerous emotions passed across Weiss’s face. He remembered that Hardy was a former naval officer, and a submariner, too. He was giving Carter’s skipper plenty of time to absorb the news and deal with his feelings.

Weiss finally nodded. “I understand, Mr. President. Two heads are better than one. We’ll get it done.” Cavanaugh relaxed a little. Carter’s captain had used the pronoun “we” instead of “I.”

Hardy looked over to the CNO, who said, “I’ll get Commodore Mitchell moving right away. I’m sure we can have him in Groton by sailing.”

“Then I’ll leave you to work out the details, and wish you Godspeed and good hunting.” The president offered his hand to Weiss, who didn’t hesitate to take it, and even managed a small smile.

The president left, and Forest hurried over to Cavanaugh. “While Commander Weiss is working with us, I’ll have a driver take you home. Pack, and don’t bother with any cold weather gear. Carter probably won’t even surface until you’re back in Groton. I’ll send the driver instructions on where to take you after that, but you’ll be flying up with Carter’s captain to Groton, probably very late tonight. I hope you can sleep on airplanes.”

Cavanaugh grabbed the unclassified to-do list he’d started. It was the only thing he could take out of the room.

Forest warned him again, “Don’t speak to anyone about any of this. If you have to tell someone why you’re gone, just say it’s DoD business, and you’ll be ‘on the road.’ And that ‘Godspeed and good hunting’ applies to you too, now.” Forest shook his hand solemnly. “And don’t forget about Mrs. Gray.”

Emily was just beginning the bedtime festivities when the squadron duty officer called. She could tell it was from the squadron because the phone had a different ring. It was impossible to hear what Jerry was saying over splashing water and Charlotte’s singing. It didn’t last long, and after that, she was fully occupied with bathing a four-year-old who insisted, “I can do it!” As a mom, she’d learned long ago to set aside any expectation of efficiency and just accept the sheer randomness of it all.

The normal routine was for Jerry to clean up the bathroom while Emily carried a towel-wrapped Carly into her room for pajamas and stuffed animal selection. This time, though, he wasn’t standing by at the bathroom door, and by the time their daughter was in bed, he still hadn’t appeared.

Poking her head out in the hall, she could see the bathroom, untouched and unoccupied. She could hear him in their bedroom, though, and sternly warning their little one to “Stay in the bed!” she promised to be right back.

Then she saw his sea bag, laid out on the bed, already half-full, and her heart sank. Jerry sometimes rode his subs on short trips, but those were always planned well in advance. And Jerry was in a hurry, with that expression he wore when he was focused.

Emily didn’t bother with any of the obvious questions; besides, she didn’t want to distract him. “How long?” and then, “Where?”

He looked up at her questioning face, but didn’t stop moving. As he headed for the master bath with his empty shaving bag, he answered, “Three weeks. They want me in Groton as soon as possible. There’s a plane waiting for me.”

The overalls he wore underway were already in the bag, so she knew he wasn’t spending all that time in Groton. “You’re going out on a boat,” she stated flatly.

“Yes.” His reply was just as flat. She’d always been very open and vocal about the joys of a squadron commander’s wife, who got to see more of her husband than the spouses of the submarine crews. This would be the first time he’d be gone for so long since he’d taken over the squadron.

She’d put up with it while he was a submarine captain, sometimes for many months, mostly because she didn’t have any choice in the matter. Now, she found herself resenting even a three-week separation. Must be out of practice, she thought.

Jerry had a checklist on his smartphone that he used when he packed. He glanced at it one last time, paused, and looked around their bedroom. He grabbed a paperback from the nightstand and stuffed it into the bag before zipping it shut.

Emily had stood silently for the few moments it had taken him to finish. Jerry came over to where she stood and put his arms around her waist. “I’m sorry about this. If it’s any consolation, I’m not thrilled either.”

“Like you have a choice,” she responded glumly. She leaned against her husband’s chest, already missing him.

“Actually, this time they didn’t even ask. But I’m still sorry for the extra work it means for you, and being away from you and Carly. I’ll miss her first day of preschool.”

Emily did the math and knew he was right. She hadn’t even thought that far ahead. She tried to be supportive. “I’ll take lots of pictures.”

“Thank you for being a Navy wife.” He kissed her, and added, “And for marrying a sailor like me.”

“And you can’t tell me anything about where or what.” It was a statement of fact, but she hoped she was wrong, or that Jerry could give her a hint.

“I really can’t say anything because they didn’t tell me squat. Dylan read the whole message to me, Flash priority by the way, verbatim. ‘Get to Groton ASAP, transport being arranged. Be ready for a three-week underway.’” After a short pause, he added, “You know you can call Dylan if things get crazy here. The whole squadron will come running if you ask.”

“Hopefully I won’t have to,” she answered, but felt a small tug on her leg.

Charlotte, plush owl in tow, looked up at her. “You didn’t come back. I almost fell asleep,” she complained.

Jerry laughed and scooped her up. He announced, “Group hug!”

After a collective squeeze, Emily stepped back. “Well, it’s definitely your turn to read to Carly tonight. I’ll let you explain where you are going and how long it will be.”

“To a four-year-old? I’ll do my best,” he said bravely. “The driver is due any time. Please tell him to stand by. I’ll read Goodnight Moon to her at least twice.”