Nightwatch

Chapter 47

Captain Benjamin Kram was informed of the Priority One transmission from TACAMO while in the midst of a routine inspection of the engine room. He quickly left Polk Power and Light behind, and headed forward to the radio room. He was met there by his XO, and together they read and reread General Spencer’s rather complex, strangely compressed EAM. Neither officer had ever received such a peculiar message, which Kram conveyed to his stateroom so that they could discuss it in private.

“What do you think. Skipper?” asked the XO as he sat down on the stateroom’s only chair.

“Do you really think Admiral Warner could be responsible for orchestrating a coup and authorizing the release of nukes against our own citizens? Not to mention assassinating the President and attempting to kill the VP. It sounds to me like General Spencer has gone off the deep end.”

Kram sat down heavily on the edge of his bunk, the dispatch still held tightly in his hands.

“I’ve got to admit that it’s a wild accusation, but General Lowell Spencer is one of the most levelheaded individuals I’ve ever met, and he’s definitely not prone to paranoid delusions or outlandish exaggeration. I served with him for a short time while I was assigned to STRATCOM, and I got a chance to know both the General and his wife. Believe me, Dan, they don’t come much better.”

“Then if he’s telling the truth, do you think that Trent Warner is capable of such heinous behavior? I mean, the Admiral’s a fellow submariner. Skipper, and one of our proudest days was when he was named Chairman.”

“I realize that, Dan. But what do any of us really know about the man?”

“Graduated at the head of his class at Annapolis, one of the few submariners to see combat during Korea and Vietnam, personally selected by Rickover to command one of the first Tridents, a tireless proponent of continued submarine development in the post-Cold War Navy — I believe his resume is pretty much a matter of public record. Skipper.”

“I’m well aware of that, Dan. But beyond his professional accomplishments, what kind of man is Trent Warner. What are his personal beliefs, frustrations, fears? Have you ever worked directly for him?”

The XO shook his head, and Kram added, “Well, neither have I, though I have several colleagues who served with him as recently as last year, during his short stint as CNO. From what I gathered from them, the Admiral was a difficult man to serve under, much like Hyman Rickover. Like Rick, Warner is incredibly intelligent, prone to fits of rage should his subordinates fail to meet his high standards. I also heard him described as hard driving a perfectionist, with an enigmatic dark side to his personality.”

“Did you say dark side. Skipper, as in evil?”

“I wouldn’t go that far, XO. What I’m referring to is a conversation I remember having with a neighbor of mine who served on one of Warner’s submarines as weapons officer. I’ll never forget his detailed descriptions of then Captain Warner’s infamous wardroom chats. It seems Warner liked to use his wardroom as a bully pulpit.

“He demanded that his officers remain at table after dinner in particular, so he could preach to them on his favorite subjects — the dangers of American involvement with organizations such as the United Nations, the World Bank, the IMF, and the G-Seven. He had a particular abhorrence of strategic-arms-control treaties with the Russians, and constantly preached about the dangers of SALT Two.”

“Then I can imagine what the Chairman thought about the President’s support of the Global Zero Nuclear Alert agreement,” the XO interjected.

Kram met his XO’s stare, his eyes wide with sudden enlightenment.

“You could be onto something, Dan. The grapevine had it that the President was on his way to the Crimea, preparing to sign that very same treaty. What an opportune time for a coup formed by opponents of this treaty to remove him from office.”

“But why go and launch an attack using American nuclear warheads against our own people?” the XO countered.

“It’s apparent that there’s somebody at ground zero whom they’ve got to eliminate, and that they’ll go to any extreme to do so,” said Kram, who knew then that it was imperative for him to act on General Spencer’s request with all due haste.

“I see no harm in launching the mini-sub and sending the SEALs over to the Rhode Island. We’re not in a state of war, and with their underwater telephone out of commission because of the collision, sending in Gilbert and his men is the only way we’re going to get to Captain Lockwood and stop those nukes from being launched.”

Kram stood up to implement this order, and his XO also rose, leaving him with one last question.

“Even if we do manage to get over to the Rhode Island, why should he believe the SEALs?

Wouldn’t he consider them a possible enemy diversion, a bunch of spies he should lock up or shoot on sight? What’s to keep Lockwood from meeting our boys with force, following his original EAM, and launching?”

“To guarantee that they’ll take a moment’s pause and listen to our argument, XO, I’m going to accompany SEAL Team Two myself!”

“It’s true, all right,” said Brad Bodzin to the members of his sonar watch team, after hanging up the intercom and shaking his head in wonder.

“I just heard it from Mallott, who got the word from COB, who spoke directly with one of the SEALs — the Skipper’s in that mini-sub even as we speak, and the XO’s got the Jimmy K until Captain Kram returns from his visit to the Rhode Island.”

“Speaking of the mini-sub,” said Jaffers, headphones covering his ears, eyes glued to the BQ-7 waterfall display, “Sierra Three is purring away like a kitten, its course straight and true. ETA Rhode Island in twelve and a half minutes.”

“Did Mallott say why the Captain’s hanging with the SEALs?” asked Seaman Wilford from the BQ-21 broadband display.

“If I know our hands-on Skipper, he probably wants to be part of the first routine underwater transfer of personnel from an attack sub to a boomer,” offered Bodzin, his practiced glance scanning the glowing CRT screens.

“And then there’s always the possibility that he’s going along just to make certain that Gilbert and his gang behave themselves.”

“I’ve got a contact. Sup,” reported Wilford, in reference to the thick white line that had suddenly popped up on the left side of his sonar display.

“Designate Sierra Six, biologic.”

Bodzin checked this screen himself, and isolated the frequency that the screen was displaying on his headphones. The familiar crackling sound of shrimp met his ears, and he picked up the intercom handset that hung from the ceiling.

“Conn, Sonar. We have a new contact, bearing zero-six-one.

Designate Sierra Six, biologic.”

“Sonar, Conn. Designate Sierra Six, biologic. Aye, Sonar,” returned a voice from the overhead speaker.

“What’s the latest on Sierra One, Jaffers?” Bodzin questioned.

The broad-shouldered black man addressed the joystick that was situated on his console, and studied the pattern of vertical lines that filled the BQ-7’s waterfall display.

“Still not a peep out of them. Sup. They haven’t stirred off the bottom, meaning that the big lady is still completing repairs to their dome.”

“At least we’re around to provide their ears, and their launch ability wasn’t compromised during the collision,” said Bodzin.

“Sup, I think you’d better take a look at this,” interrupted Seaman Wilford, a definite edge to his tone.

Bodzin anxiously peered over his shoulder, quickly spotting the peculiar flutter in the BQ-21 display. It wasn’t another biologic, a fact that Jaffers confirmed with an excited discovery of his own.

“I have a narrowband contact, bearing one-four-zero. Sounds like it just popped out of the thermocline, and it could be another submarine. Sup!”

Bodzin hurriedly fitted on his headphones. He utilized the auxiliary console to isolate the narrowband processor, and a deafening blast of static caused him to wince in pain. He turned down the volume feed, engaged the graphic equalizer, and the static faded, to be replaced by a barely audible throbbing sound that caused him to gasp in instant recognition.

“Conn, Sonar!” he shouted into the intercom.

“We have a submerged contact, bearing one-four-zero. Designate Sierra Seven, possible hostile submarine!”

Dan Calhoun was in the narrow, elongated compartment just aft of the control room, talking with the SEALs who were responsible for launching their mini-sub, when the frantic warning from Sonar arrived. The XO dashed into Control, which was dimly lit in red to protect the men’s night vision, and joined COB behind the two seated helmsmen.

“I had a bad feeling we hadn’t seen the last of that damned bogey,” whispered COB as his eyes scanned the various digital indicators showing that the Polk was currently traveling on a northwesterly heading, at a depth of four hundred and seventeen feet, with a forward speed of five knots.

“The Skipper knew the risks, and now it’s up to us to keep Sierra Seven off our mini-sub’s back,” said the XO, suddenly aware of the heavy burden of his new command.

“How soon until they reach the Rhode Island?”

COB glanced up at the bulkhead-mounted clock and answered, “Another ten minutes and eighteen seconds, sir.”

The XO reached overhead for the nearest intercom handset.

“Sonar, Conn. Do you have anything else on Sierra Seven?”

“Conn, Sonar,” answered Bodzin’s amplified voice.

“I’m afraid not, sir. We’re barely picking up a signature, though from all initial indications, there’s a high-percentage probability that it’s another submarine.”

“Sonar, Conn. As soon as it’s available, get me Sierra Seven’s exact bearing and range. I’ve got to know if it’s headed toward Sierra Three.”

“Conn, Sonar. Aye, sir. We’ll do our best.”

The XO lowered the handset and solemnly addressed COB.

“Something bad is going on out there, COB. I can feel it in my gut, and we’ve got to be prepared for the worst.”

“We can always determine Sierra Seven’s intentions by going active,” suggested COB.

“Before we let them know that we’re aware of their presence, we’d better be ready to rock and roll,” said the XO, who raised the handset to his lips and addressed the entire crew over the 1MC.

“Man battle stations torpedo! This is not a drill!”