Fatal Thunder

16 EN ROUTE

The Indian Navy P-8 aircraft descended smoothly toward the tarmac, two short puffs of smoke marking when the tires touched the concrete. The aircraft rolled to the far end of runway 24R, passing by a half dozen B-52s parked in the center of the field, before turning left onto a taxiway that led to the air base terminal.

Glenn Jacobs paced impatiently by the car. He was anxious to collect his passengers, no, his guests, and get them to the pier as fast as he could. He wanted this bothersome evolution over and done with, preferably before his commodore suffered a severe stroke. Jacobs vividly recalled the video conversation Simonis had with his immediate boss, Rear Admiral Burroughs, yesterday evening. The chief staff officer had never seen that shade of purplish red on Simonis’s face before, and if Jacobs had anything to do with it, he didn’t want to ever see it again.

“Yes, sir, I get it that we have to work with India and Russia, truly,” complained Simonis bitterly. “But that can easily be accommodated by having them observe the operation from my watch floor! Putting them on North Dakota is just a boondoggle, and a violation of every security safeguard we’ve ever put in place!”

“I’m sympathetic, Chuck, but those security regs were written for more ‘normal times.’ This current crisis is far from normal,” Burroughs countered.

“Admiral, Dr. Patterson has gone too far by demanding we put two foreign senior naval officers, both qualified submarine commanders, onto our newest class of attack submarines! They’ll be able to understand every single detail they see!”

“For the record, Chuck, she didn’t demand. She made a recommendation to the president, who agreed with her argument — as did the CNO, and Pac Fleet, for that matter. Captain Samant knows Chakra’s current commanding officer intimately. He trained him and knows how he thinks. Captain Petrov personally supervised the modifications to the submarine’s sonar system, and he’s bringing a complete set of technical manuals with him. The information these men possess will be of tremendous value in finding and neutralizing the Akula, hopefully before it can deploy any nuclear weapons. And since North Dakota is our first line of defense, it made sense to put the two men on her.”

“And the fact that both Samant and Petrov are on friendly terms with Patterson, and Mitchell, didn’t influence this request at all?” grumbled Simonis sarcastically. “Sir, neither the CNO nor the Pacific Fleet commander are submariners, they don’t fully understand why those regulations were created in the first place! To prevent our critical technological advantage from being compromised!”

Burroughs’s expression hardened. He was visibly losing patience with Simonis.

“Commodore, if anyone doesn’t understand this present situation, it’s you. We are desperately trying to prevent an escalation of a conventional conflict into one that sees the wide-scale use of nuclear weapons. Can you not grasp that? How can the knowledge of these two individuals be of any help to Commander Mitchell when they are stuck in Guam and he’s out searching for a very quiet boat that had just been updated, and is doing its damnedest not to be found. Is he going to spend his whole patrol at periscope depth just so he can call in at a moment’s notice for tactical guidance?!

“The president has ordered our full cooperation with those nations who have offered assistance to stop this rogue boat. Let me repeat, full cooperation, and it was he who told the Navy to put the two captains on North Dakota. Given the circumstances, Commodore, are you that surprised the security manual just got tossed into the bilge? You can place whatever reasonable restrictions you believe are necessary to limit access to the more sensitive areas on North Dakota, but your orders are to get those men on board and Mitchell out to sea, expeditiously. I suggest you carry them out.”

Jacobs had felt bad watching his boss get smacked by another senior official. Once was bad enough, but twice! In the same day — ouch!

Ironically, the CSO completely understood where Simonis was coming from. The commodore was a strictly “by the book” naval officer. He knew exactly what had to be done, and how to meet the incredible amount of bureaucratic bookkeeping required by a peacetime navy. The problem was, the squadron wasn’t exactly operating in a peacetime mode right now, and one of Simonis’s precious books had just been cast aside. And while the CNO’s decision might have been influenced by political expediency, Admiral Hughes was an acknowledged “horse trader” within Washington circles. The truth of the matter was, it just made good sense, and the risk of compromise had been deemed acceptable by a competent authority.

Simonis’s main problem was that he was risk-averse, and he wanted to play it safe. But Jacobs also knew that his commodore would follow his orders regardless of whether or not he liked them. The combination had made for interesting times at the squadron headquarters during the Sino — Littoral Alliance War, and now that round two was just getting started, there would be more to follow. The best thing Jacobs could do for his boss was to get Samant and Petrov on North Dakota, and have Mitchell get his butt to sea. Once all the three boats were on their way to their assigned patrol areas, the squadron headquarters could get into a steady routine — establishing a sustainable battle rhythm was high on Jacobs’s list of things to do.

The aircraft slowly taxied to the parking apron, coming to a complete stop only when the marshaler crossed his batons. The airman then gave the hand signals for the pilot to cut the engines and for the ground crew to move in with the chocks for the landing gear wheels. Before the engines had even wound down, the forward fuselage door opened and a folding ladder was extended. As soon as the legs hit the ground, two men emerged from the aircraft and hustled down the ladder. Jacobs quickly moved forward to greet them.

“Captain Petrov, Captain Samant, I’m Glenn Jacobs, welcome to Guam. This way, please,” he said hurriedly.

Two airmen grabbed the men’s seabags from the Indian flight crew and tossed them into the car’s trunk. The moment it was closed, the car sped off toward the submarine piers. A military police escort accompanied them, clearing the traffic ahead.

“My apologies for the abrupt welcome, but I have to get you two down to North Dakota immediately. We’ve held her for almost twenty-fours hours while we waited for you to get here, and I really need to get that boat to sea,” explained Jacobs as the car took off. His words were polite, but his tone was stern.

“Completely understandable, Captain Jacobs,” Petrov replied. “Although, I was very surprised that your government offered to allow us to go out on Jerry’s boat. I’m certain my government didn’t make that a condition for my assistance.”

“They didn’t, but the knowledge the two of you have argued strongly that you belong on North Dakota. Your relationship with the national security advisor didn’t hurt, either. She’s the one who came up with the idea.” Jacobs was frowning as he spoke.

“I take it you’re not entirely pleased with this arrangement,” noted Samant bluntly.

Jacobs smiled thinly. “Whether or not I’m happy about this plan is irrelevant, Captain. Personally, I agree with Dr. Patterson’s reasoning. My boss, however, does not, and he’s the man I have to work for. I’m sure you can understand the complicated position I’m in. Nothing personal, but the sooner I get you two out of his hair, the better.”

Petrov and Samant nodded; they’d both experienced similar situations sometime during their careers. “Any news on the patrol aircraft search?” asked Samant.

Jacobs shook his head. “Your navy has put up almost a dozen Bear F sorties so far, and they haven’t found or heard a blessed thing. What I don’t understand is why it’s taking so long to get the P-8 Poseidon squadron involved in the hunt.”

“The 312th Squadron is under the Eastern Naval Command, the same one that Chakra belongs to. The flag officer in charge, Vice Admiral Dhankhar, is the leader of this wretched plot and he ordered our brand-new P-8I squadron, the only one we have, to stand down.” Samant glared with anger as he spoke.

“Most of the squadron’s officers, including the pilots and mission commanders, were sent to an ASW training symposium in Mumbai. At the same time, many of the aircraft were scheduled for maintenance on their engines and acoustic systems. We’re scrambling to get the planes up and running, but it will be at least two more days before the next one’s ready to fly. All that was available for immediate service were six elderly Tu-142s with outdated sensors.”

“How inconvenient for us,” grumbled Jacobs. Samant shrugged apologetically; there wasn’t anything he could say in response to the sarcastic remark. Suddenly, Jacobs’s cell phone rang. He noted the caller’s identity. “Excuse me while I take this call.” Samant and Petrov nodded their consent.

“CSO,” said Jacobs, answering the phone. After a short pause, he continued, “Yes, sir, I’ve picked up our guests and we are en route to the squadron piers. We should arrive in about fifteen minutes.”

Jerry found it a bit strange scanning the road leading up to the wharf with his binoculars. Usually he would look for contacts at sea or in the air; concentrating his search landward was definitely not the norm. Then, in the distance, Jerry saw the flashing lights of a police car. Followed close behind by another vehicle. Leaning over the flying bridge, he raised the bullhorn and shouted down to Thigpen. “XO! Incoming!”

Thigpen signaled his response by waving his ball cap and sent two sailors quickly across the brow to help with their riders’ gear. Turning to Lieutenant Covey, the officer of the deck, Jerry ordered, “Dave, get us under way the moment our guests are aboard.” The junior officer acknowledged the order, and radioed the tug to stand by.

A minute later the two cars pulled up to Wharf B and came to a screeching stop just short of the small crane that was ready to remove the gangplank. Jerry saw the squadron CSO jump out, call over to the two sailors, and point to the opening trunk. As the men ran over to grab the seabags, Jerry saw Petrov and Samant getting out of the car. Thigpen rushed toward the two and rendered a smart salute. Gesturing toward the brow, he urged them to board. Jerry waved a quick greeting when they looked up at the sail. Once the two sailors with the seabags were clear of the gangplank, the small crane lifted it off the hull.

“On deck,” announced Covey through the bullhorn. “Take in all lines!” As soon as the last line came over from the pier, a loud prolonged blast blared from the ship’s horn: North Dakota was leaving port. The deep throbbing of a diesel engine abruptly roared to life as tug Goliath started to pull the submarine from the wharf. Down on the pier, Jacobs was walking along the edge, repeatedly motioning with his right arm for the sub to leave. Jerry tipped his cap in deference to the squadron’s second-in-command, and then saluted. Jacobs returned the honor and waved good-bye. His face wore a broad smile of relief.

The squawk from the intercom on the bridge suitcase informed Jerry that his guests had dropped off their gear in the XO’s stateroom and were making their way to control. They had requested permission to come up and pay their respects to the commanding officer. Jerry nodded his approval, and the OOD answered, “Permission granted.”

A toot from the tug’s whistle told Jerry and the OOD that Goliath had detached herself from North Dakota’s hull. As the submarine gradually started to get way on, the tug took up a supporting position astern. The concrete walls of the inner harbor channel passed by slowly, as if one were on a leisurely stroll. Just ahead of them was the exit into Apra Harbor proper, and beyond that, the open sea.

Moments later, Samant and Petrov emerged from the access trunk, squeezed past Covey and the pilot in the crammed cockpit, and climbed up to join Jerry and the lookout on the flying bridge. Each man sported a brand-new North Dakota ball cap, complete with scrambled eggs on the brim. Grabbing Petrov’s right hand, Jerry gave him a brief pull to get him up and over the railing.

“Thank you, Jerry,” grunted Petrov as he gained his footing. “My God, this is a very cramped bridge.”

“Yeah, well, I suppose in comparison to a big Russian nuke boat this would be a little on the small side. But we like to keep things sleek and trim,” Jerry replied a little defensively.

“Trim?” challenged Samant, trying to find some more space without bumping into the lookout. It was cozy up on the flying bridge with the four of them. “This is even more compact than what I had on my Kilo!”

Jerry shrugged; there was no way he was going to win this debate. Resigned, he politely changed the subject. “Once we clear the breakwater, we’ll disembark the pilot and then crank her up to warp nine. We have to dogleg our way out of the harbor because of the numerous spots of shoal water.” Jerry pointed to the large splotches of blue-green seawater dotted all around the boat.

“Is that the channel to our left?” Samant asked, pointing to a very slender band of darker water off the port bow. He had a slight frown on his face.

“That’s it,” responded Jerry. “It’s wider than it looks from here. We have a good two hundred and fifty meters between the two reefs.” The Indian nodded and seemed to relax. He then started a complete 360-degree visual sweep, looking around at the water, nearby landmarks, and the sub’s position within the channel; exercising a well-rehearsed routine. Jerry then noticed the Indian dolphins on Samant’s uniform. They were very similar to the U.S. Navy’s submarine insignia. Except where the submarine conning tower was on the U.S. badge, the Indians had a pedestal with three lions arrayed back-to-back.

Samant’s dolphins dragged Jerry back to his last conversation with Captain Simonis. The commodore had issued direct orders that neither foreign officer was to have access to the radio room or the engineering spaces. Simonis was less than happy at the very thought of two senior, submarine-command-qualified naval officers running around loose on one of his newest boats — and at sea!

He grumbled at first about Patterson’s “casual disregard” of the security risk, but Simonis at least admitted she had some valid reasons for her recommendation. And she did use the chain of command this time. The only other guidance Jerry received was to put the pedal to the metal once he had submerged. Chakra had a two-day head start, and Simonis wanted all his subs on station well before the rogue Indian boat was expected to arrive in Chinese waters. Since North Dakota had the first patrol area near Hong Kong, she’d have to fly to make it in time.

Turning around, Jerry caught a glimpse of Petrov’s face. His expression was a strange mixture of confusion, wonderment, and… uneasiness? Worried that something was wrong with his friend, Jerry asked, “Are you okay, Alex?”

Petrov immediately smiled, but his face took on a slight pinkish hue. “Oh, yes. I’m fine, Jerry. It’s just that… well, I’ve never gone to sea in a short-sleeve shirt before.”

Jerry bit down on his lower lip, while simultaneously taking in a slow, deep breath. He was trying very hard not to laugh at Petrov’s awkward confession; his friend was already embarrassed enough as it was. Samant either didn’t try, or failed utterly, as a hearty guffaw burst out. As soon as he was done laughing, he said, “Pay no attention to him, Captain Mitchell. Aleks has done nothing but complain about the fine Indian spring we were having.”

Petrov ignored Samant’s comment and tried to explain; his face had already transitioned to a deep red. “I’ve always had to wear at least a light jacket when I went out to sea, and oftentimes a heavy winter coat. It just seems very strange not to need one, that’s all.”

Feeling it was now safe, Jerry chuckled. “Well, Alex, a fifty-degree southerly shift in latitude will do that to you. You might as well enjoy it while you can, it won’t take us long to reach the dive point, once we clear the harbor.”

Fifteen minutes later, they passed the entrance to the breakwater and Jerry had the OOD slow while the pilot climbed down the rope ladder and hopped over to the tug. After another quick toot, Goliath pulled away and North Dakota was free to accelerate to a higher speed.

Slowly, the boat’s bow wave grew larger, expanding in both size and sound, becoming a loud wall of water slamming against the forward edge of the sail. Split by the unyielding metal, the frothing seawater tumbled down around the hull. Jerry always loved to be on the bridge when a submarine plowed its way through the ocean at high speed. Ever since that first time on Memphis, so many years ago, it never failed to fill him with excitement. Riding a boat on the surface with a flank bell on was just as addicting to him as flying a high-performance fighter. And he wasn’t the only one.

Samant wore a pronounced grin as he leaned casually against the railing. He relished the wind whipping past his face, and the occasional drop of seawater thrown high into the air, striking him, only made him feel more alive. By comparison, Petrov appeared calm and tranquil. He leaned forward into the brisk wind, his hands grasping the railing tightly, his feet staggered to provide the best support on the vibrating deck.

Just as Jerry thought Petrov was enjoying the ride, he saw a pained or troubled look flash on the Russian’s face. It then dawned on Jerry that his friend probably hadn’t been to sea since the collision almost nine years earlier, and that this trip was likely opening up old wounds. For a brief second, Jerry thought he saw a tear creeping across Petrov’s windswept face. Rather than encroach upon Petrov’s private contemplation by speaking, Jerry left him alone to deal with the demons that were troubling him. Sometimes, even time couldn’t heal all wounds — especially the really deep ones.

After about twenty minutes, Covey flagged Jerry’s attention and pointed to the display screen. They’d reach the dive point in another thirty minutes, and the OOD still had some work to do topside before they could submerge. Jerry nodded and turned to his guests.

“As much as I hate to say it, gentlemen, we need to go below. We’re getting close to the dive point and the OOD needs to take down the flying bridge. We can grab some fresh coffee before we submerge and you can observe the evolution from the control room.”

Samant wasted no time in moving. He slid past Jerry and crawled down toward the access trunk. Petrov, on the other hand, continued to stare off toward the horizon, remaining motionless.

“Alex?” Jerry whispered.

Petrov sighed and bowed his head. “I’m coming,” he replied with a tinge of weariness. Slowly, the Russian captain crept below. Jerry followed immediately after. At 1945 local time, North Dakota dove beneath the waves.

Dinner was really late that evening; usually the first seating was before 1800, so the watchstanders could eat before they went on duty. But with the late departure from Guam, Jerry had decided to delay dinner and make it a “welcome aboard” event for their two guests. Its execution had been a masterstroke of diplomacy by the supply officer. It certainly served its primary purpose as an icebreaker for the members of the wardroom and the two foreign naval officers who were, technically, senior to their captain.

Lieutenant Steven Westbrook, the supply officer, had his cooks dish up a traditional Southern fried chicken supper with all the fixings, to include buttermilk biscuits and pecan pie with vanilla bean ice cream for dessert. Petrov’s nostrils flared at the aroma, and he dug into the hot chicken and mashed potatoes and gravy with gusto. Samant snickered as his friend chowed down on a thigh, and teased him about his lack of tolerance for spicy food. The Indian captain then went on to ask if U.S. submarines carried something with a little more “character” than Tabasco sauce.

Westbrook’s left eyebrow cocked up in prideful defiance. But his facial expression echoed his unspoken feelings — “Challenge accepted, Captain.” Excusing himself, the suppo went back into the pantry, and soon there was the sound of bottles being moved around. Jerry looked on with amusement — that is, until he saw his XO’s face. Thigpen’s eyes were as wide as saucers and he looked worried. Jerry’s quizzical look caught Thigpen’s attention, but all the XO could do was tightly shake his head no and very subtly tilt it in the direction of the pantry, as if he were trying to say, “Don’t let him do it!”

Before Jerry could say or do anything, Westbrook appeared from the pantry and walked back over to Samant. With a hint of theatrics, the supply officer placed a small bottle in front of him and said, “Here you go, sir. I’m sure this will be more to your liking.”

As the supply officer walked behind his skipper, Jerry heard him mutter indignantly, “Accuse my food of being bland, will you!”

Now Jerry was concerned, and he took a hard look at the bottle of orange-colored sauce in Samant’s hands. The label had a grim reaper on it; the scythe blade was a small red chili — not a good omen.

Addressing Samant, Thigpen said warily, “Ah, Captain, you might want to use that stuff sparingly. It’s pretty dang hot!”

Removing the cap, Samant took a sniff and replied, “Nonsense, Commander! It smells absolutely delightful.” He then proceeded to liberally sprinkle it on a chicken leg. Thigpen winced when Samant bit down on a section of the leg with just two drops on it. Everyone at the table, including Petrov, all watched intently to see Samant’s reaction. Some of them knew exactly what kind of assault Westbrook had just unleashed on the Indian’s mouth.

Initially, Samant seemed to be enjoying the chili sauce. But then he started to chew more slowly and his eyes got bigger. After swallowing, he let out a quiet gasp, and to everyone’s surprise Samant took another bite. Once he had finished the entire chicken leg, he waved his finger at Westbrook, who had a wicked grin on his face. Samant grabbed the bottle, raised it, and asked in a raspy voice, “What is this, Lieutenant? It’s quite wonderful! Very flavorful, and the heat!”

“That, sir, is a sauce made from the Carolina Reaper, the hottest chili on the planet,” explained Westbrook with smug satisfaction. “There’s more heat in that bottle than in the entire reactor core, I can assure you.” At first, Samant nodded his appreciation, and then applauded Westbrook’s boldness. Rising, he reached over to shake the supply officer’s hand. The rest of the diners joined in and clapped as well.

After the meal, Jerry had those officers not on watch attend the mission overview and intelligence briefings. Before they left Guam, the squadron operations officer, Commander Walker, had condensed all the available information into a short presentation, with more detailed data and explanations in a written report. It was incomplete, but the information would be useful to the three American submarines. Walker promised updates on Chakra’s position, as well as the location of Chinese and Littoral Alliance forces, as new information was received.

Lieutenant Commander Thigpen led off with the intelligence community’s estimated target list. While the crumpled-up piece of paper that Petrov and Samant found in the torpedo workshop had only ten ports on it, the actual number of possible targets was twelve. Both Hong Kong and Shanghai had two large port facilities. They were far enough apart that two separate weapons would be needed to take them both out.

“Fortunately for us, a number of the targets just aren’t reachable by a submarine-launched torpedo: too far up a river, and a couple of the ports are way, way inside the Bohai Gulf, which is not exactly prime submarine water. So the list gets whittled down to the seven most likely: the two ports at Hong Kong, the two at Shanghai, Ningbo-Zhoushan, Qingdao, and Dalian.

“According to a joint State Department/CIA economic assessment, taking out five of these ports will result in the destruction of fifty to fifty-five percent of China’s export capability, along with several large oil refineries, two major shipyards, and the two largest financial centers. Civilian casualties are estimated to be, at a minimum, four to five million from the blast, tidal surges, and radiation-induced illness. In short, China gets royally hosed if we don’t find Chakra before she deploys her five packages of liquid sunshine,” concluded Thigpen, sitting down.

The junior officers present just stared at the screen in stunned disbelief. The XO’s overview was beyond scary — it was horrific!

The ship’s engineer, Lieutenant Commander Philip Sobecki, finally broke the shocked silence. He turned slowly to Samant. “This is for real, sir? I mean, your old boat has been given orders to do this?”

Samant sighed. He was getting used to the fact that when a rational person was first exposed to the plot, they simply couldn’t comprehend that someone would actually attempt to murder millions. “I’m afraid so, Mr. Sobecki. And anything I could say would not answer your next question as to why. All you can do is accept what your first officer said and work with it.”

“Okay, people,” Jerry announced, “our squadron has been given this job because there isn’t another U.S. boat that has a prayer of getting into position before Chakra could arrive. Based on the scrubbed target list, the commodore has decided to have our boat guard the waters around Hong Kong. North Carolina has Ningbo-Zhoushan to Shanghai, and Texas is covering Qingdao and points north. The going assumption is that Hong Kong is the first target, and that’s why we’re here. This represents a best guess, folks, nothing more. And while I accept the squadron’s initial call, we can’t afford to focus on just one avenue of approach. So we’re going to have to develop our search plan with a lot of flexibility.”

Jerry turned to Petrov and asked, “Captain Petrov, in general, what were the improvements to Chakra’s sonar during her refit?”

“All the improvements were to the towed array,” began Petrov. “The new array is completely digital and the signal processing uses algorithms that were derived from the Irtysh-Amfora sonar suite that was on… on my old boat. Theoretically, you are looking at a potential four-to-five-decibel improvement in the signal-to-noise ratio.”

“Damn! That’s huge!” blurted Gaffney, North Dakota’s sonar officer.

Petrov smiled at the young officer’s outburst. “Yes, indeed, Lieutenant. I’m afraid this will complicate your search planning considerably.”

“Stuart, I want you to work with Captain Petrov to update Chakra’s sonar characteristics in our threat database. I need to know how much of our acoustic advantage we’ve just lost,” ordered Jerry.

“Aye, aye, sir,” replied Gaffney.

He then looked toward Thigpen and added, “XO, you and the nav will work with Captain Samant to figure out Chakra’s best avenues of approach and a list of potential firing positions. I want contingency options if she doesn’t behave the way we think she will.”

Standing, Jerry finished his instructions to his crew. “We have a little more than two days before we reach the coast of Hong Kong. I need to have all this work completed and double-checked before we assume our station. Since it’s late, we’ll start first thing in the morning. Sleep well tonight, it will probably start getting a little hectic tomorrow.”