Shattered Trident

6. SPOILER

30 August 2016

0200 Local Time

USS North Dakota

Off Hainan Island, South China Sea

“CAPTAIN TO CONTROL!” The blare from the general announcing system violently wrenched Jerry from a deep sleep. Propelled out of his rack by the sudden spasm of every muscle in his body, he was still shaking as he jumped into his loafers. Throwing open his stateroom door, Jerry dashed for the control room not more than thirty feet away. Thigpen was right behind him, equally disheveled and groggy.

Bursting into the control room, Jerry was momentarily confused. Why isn’t control rigged for red? he wondered. As his brain dragged itself into a lucid state, he remembered, no periscopes on this boat. Electro-optics didn’t need to worry about becoming night-adapted.

“Sorry for the sudden wake-up call, Skipper,” apologized Lieutenant Commander Phil Sobecki, the ship’s engineer and third ranking officer. “But things just got really screwy.”

As the engineer spoke, he motioned for a young sailor to come forward. In his hands was a steaming cup of coffee. Still a little fuzzy, Jerry gratefully accepted the offering and nodded his thanks to the young man, who was maybe all of nineteen years old. Taking a sip, Jerry felt the world start to come into focus.

“Define screwy, Eng,” he said wearily.

“Sir, we just picked up four loud explosions. Two to the west and two to the southeast.”

Jerry’s head snapped up from the cup. He was amazed by the report. “Four explosions? They’re sure of this?” he asked while tilting his head toward the sonar techs.

“Without a doubt, Skipper.”

“Show me what you’ve got,” ordered Jerry.

“Yes, sir. Ollie, bring up the merged track data. Sonar, recall the audio on both events.”

Ensign Olivia Andrews quickly manipulated a few buttons on the fire control panel, and the bottom screen on her console changed to an electronic Geoplot display. “Merged track data sent to the port VLSD, sir,” she reported.

“Very well,” replied Sobecki. The plot popped up onto the big screen; two bearing lines jutted out from North Dakota’s track. One was on a bearing of two six six, the other down one one zero. Jerry noticed immediately the lack of range information.

“You didn’t get a range off the wide-aperture array?”

Sobecki shook his head. “No, sir. The explosions were pretty far away, at least thirty nautical miles. Sonar, play the audio for the western event.”

The sonar supervisor acknowledged the order and soon the sound of the ocean filled the control room. At first, all Jerry heard were the noises from local biologics and the occasional fishing boat. Then came the first explosion, followed soon by the second. They were clearly explosions, and they were distant; beyond the ranging ability of the passive arrays along his submarine’s flanks.

The second set of explosions was a mirror image of the first. Again, there was no doubt as to what they were. A cold chill ran down Jerry’s spine. Was this just the beginning?

“The explosions in both cases were five or six seconds apart, Captain,” said Sobecki.

“Sounds about right for a salvo interval from a Kilo-class boat,” Thigpen interjected.

Jerry agreed. “Yes, it does. Unfortunately.” Then pointing toward the western event, he asked, “Was Fargo still in contact with that new Kilo?”

“As of the last data dump, yes, sir. Our little drone was firmly in trail,” Sobecki replied.

“When’s the next scheduled comms window?”

The engineer pointed to an open menu on one of the command workstation’s displays. “A little under three hours from now, sir.”

Jerry frowned; three hours seemed like an awfully long time to wait.

“We could send it a coded pulse to command it to come up sooner,” suggested the engineer.

“But that means transmitting,” Thigpen warned. “Our orders are pretty explicit about remaining undetected, sir. If Fargo is still in trail of the Kilo, there’s more than a good chance they would pick up the pulse as well.”

“A good point, XO,” Jerry conceded. “But do you think they would be able to recognize the pseudo-random noise pulse as being a valid contact? Or would they be more likely to blow it off as spurious noise?”

“Skipper, I wouldn’t know a funky pulse from snapping shrimp. My point is that we don’t have a good understanding of the modifications to the Vietnamese boat’s sonar. We know it’s an all-digital version of the older Rubikon sonar, but is it smart enough to recognize a funky pulse? I dunno, but it is something we need to consider.”

Jerry nodded silently, translating Thigpen’s carefully spoken “we” to mean “you.” Sipping at his coffee, Jerry took a hard look at the information on the VLSD. Thigpen’s concerns and Admiral Burroughs’s stern admonition, “You cannot be detected. Clear?” echoed inside his head.

The Vietnamese were new to submarines, and the Russians were notorious for providing only basic system and operational training. The upgraded Rubikon sonar suite on the Vietnamese Kilos was theoretically capable of picking up the signal, but Jerry doubted very much that a newly trained operator would recognize it as something worthy of interest.

And there was the sense of urgency nagging at him. Three hours was a long time to wait for the data from his UUV. It very likely had information on the attack to the west that he needed to pass up the chain of command as soon as possible. If the balloon had just gone up, as he feared, he had to report now, not three or four hours from now. He made up his mind.

“Engineer, send the coded pulse to Fargo and come to periscope depth to receive the satellite downlink. Get the CTs ready as well; there is probably a hell of a lot of chatter going on up there right now. XO, get the commo up and prepare another OPREP-3 message. I think the war we’ve been told to watch for has just started, and we need to let our bosses know ASAP,” ordered Jerry.

Thigpen and Sobecki acknowledged their orders, and the control room became abuzz with activity. Jerry had watched his XO’s face as he gave his instructions. If Thigpen disagreed, it didn’t show.

Jerry thought about hanging around in control, but that would send the wrong message. He had to show he trusted his people if they were to believe in themselves. Instead, Jerry headed back to his stateroom. He was awake now; he might as well get some work done while he waited for Fargo’s data.

On his way out, Jerry overheard Thigpen telling the messenger of the watch to wake up Mr. Franklin. The young lad dutifully answered, “Aye, aye, sir,” but then added, “XO, would you like a cup of coffee, too?”

“Coffee!?” uttered Thigpen cynically. “I don’t need no stinkin’ coffee. I have adrenaline!”

Jerry tried to review the previous week’s reactor plant chemistry logs for the third time. He just couldn’t concentrate long enough for them to make any sense. He knew the logs were important—reactor plant safety was a major consideration in any submarine CO’s evaluation—but it was extremely difficult to focus on something so mundane when a war was starting around you. Mercifully, the Dialex phone rang, rescuing him before he tried yet again.

“Captain,” Jerry answered.

“Skipper, CDO. We have the data from Fargo, and you’ll want to see this.”

“Very well, Engineer. I’ll be there shortly.” Jerry hung up and gratefully slid the chemistry logs back into his inbox. They’d keep.

Jerry deliberately walked casually toward the control room, taking deep breaths to help calm himself. He had to look composed, confident. “You should never look frazzled,” he’d been counseled by Kyle Guthrie, his old skipper on Michigan. “The crew looks to you for stability, particularly when things start getting crazy.”

Strolling past the radio room, Jerry paused and stuck his head in to see how the message was progressing. Inside he saw Thigpen, Franklin, and one of the info techs working furiously.

“How’s that message coming, XO?” Jerry inquired. He really didn’t need to ask, the three were clearly going at it with hammer and tongs, but every once in a while it was kind of fun to pull Thigpen’s chain. You never knew what kind of response you’d get. Jerry remembered, with the type of fondness that only comes with the passage of time, how often Guthrie had tugged on his line.

Thigpen was hovering over the console, twitching as he pointed toward the screen. “No! Move that part here. No, not there, here! Yes, right there. Good!” blurted the XO. Looking up and seeing Jerry in the doorway, Thigpen held up one finger as he bounced from one foot to the other. “Give us another minute, Skipper, then we’ll have something for you.”

Jerry smiled, nodded, and continued on. Upon entering control, he saw LT David Covey hard at work on the spare console. The port VLSD had the output from one of the photonics masts on it, while the electronic support system’s audible signal kept beeping in the background. Sobecki sounded a little stressed as he gave rudder orders. The track display on the starboard big screen showed a large number of contacts. It sure was busy up here.

“Command Duty Officer, report,” Jerry ordered.

“Sir, we’ve downloaded Fargo’s data and you were right, she saw the whole thing. Dave has been busy sending the highlights to the XO for the OPREP-3 message,” responded Sobecki.

Before Jerry could ask for any details, a warning alarm suddenly sounded in control.

“Conn, ESM. Have an APS-504 radar, signal strength three, bearing zero one three, closing fast.”

Sobecki didn’t acknowledge the report right away; he had to move quickly, as a Chinese Y-8 maritime patrol aircraft was getting dangerously close. The aircraft’s surface search radar was a significant detection threat to the two exposed masts.

“Lower all masts!” he cried.

The optics mast operator and copilot echoed the command as they manipulated their controls, dipping the masts below the ocean’s surface. Jerry could feel the tension rising in the air. The watchstanders had acted properly, but they were all on edge.

“Sorry, Skipper, it’s been hectic,” apologized Sobecki. “A lot of search-and-rescue traffic popped up in the last fifteen minutes. That was our second Y-8 MPA, probably one of their alert aircraft.”

“You’re doing fine, Phil,” Jerry reassured his third in command. “Now, tell me what’s going on.”

Sobecki wasn’t able to utter a word before Thigpen interrupted him, “Here you go, Skipper. This is the Reader’s Digest version of the story; if you’re happy with this we can send it out as soon as the airspace clears.”

Jerry took the hard-copy message from his XO and quickly scanned it. He skipped through the preamble after making sure the “Z” prosign for “Flash” precedence was present. Jerry was less interested in proper format right now than he was in the content.

Jumping to the body of the message, he noted the location of the first set of explosions—latitude 17° 54’ N, longitude 108° 46’ E—almost forty-nine nautical miles to the west; the time, 0159 local; and the tactical assessment. His eyes quickly homed in on the sentence: “ISR UUV acoustic data showed two TE-2 torpedoes fired by probable Vietnamese Kilo-class submarine at a Chinese merchant, subsequently identified as the China Ocean Shipping Company tanker Yan Shui Hu, 25,428 gross registered tons.”

Jerry shook his head as he continued reading. The information content of the message was good; its implications were anything but. He moved on to the second set of explosions, which had far less data. However, the conclusion that it was possibly due to another submarine attack made it just as stark. Grunting his approval, he handed the draft back to Thigpen.

“Send it, XO.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Thigpen, visibly relieved. As he headed back to the radio room, Jerry called back to him.

“XO. Nice work, Bernie.”

Ten minutes later, with North Dakota back down to 150 feet, the atmosphere in control began to ease. Jerry hovered over the spare common console as LT Covey walked him through the engagement. The Kilo had positioned itself off the starboard beam of the tanker and fired a two-weapon salvo at a range of 4,500 yards. It was a textbook Russian attack, deliberate and premeditated; there was no other way to describe it.

While Jerry, Thigpen, and Sobecki dissected the Kilo’s tactics, one of the electronics technicians poked his head out of the ESM bay. “Skipper, XO. We picked up something you’ll be interested in.”

Jerry and Thigpen crammed themselves into the tight ESM shack, while Sobecki leaned in from the doorway. “What goodies did you vacuum from the ether, Petty Officer Fleming?” asked Thigpen with a lighthearted tone.

Fleming smiled as he pointed toward a young third class. “Petty Officer Kalinsky here has been going over the material we collected while we were uploading the message, and he found some pretty interesting stuff. Go ahead and tell the skipper, Gus.”

Kalinsky was one of the CT riders, a cryptologic technician attached to North Dakota in support of the special operations mission. Linguistic experts are often added to a submarine’s crew to provide on-the-spot information by monitoring the local radio frequencies. Many an intelligence gem had been harvested in the past by the careless transmission of someone who thought they wouldn’t be heard.

“Yes, sir, Captain,” stammered the young sailor. “While the boat transmitted the message, I picked up a lot of voice traffic from the port authority at Yulin. Most of the chatter was from rescue ships asking where they needed to go to assist. Well, one of those rescue ships was heading in the direction of the second set of explosions, and that dude was really confused. The guy at the port authority started shouting at the captain and repeated the location and identification data for another ship. I wrote it down as quickly as I could. Here it is, along with a rough translation.”

Jerry took the sheet of torn paper and looked at the hastily written notes. The top lines contained Chinese characters. Sloppily written, they looked like a child’s chicken scratches. Below them, however, were neatly printed English words—their meaning electrifying. Jerry read them out loud.

“Distress beacon transmission, merchant vessel Chang Chi, lat 17° 25’N, long 111° 10’ E. No response to radio hails.” Jerry handed the notes to Thigpen. “Eng, look up the Chang Chi.”

“Already did that, sir,” Fleming exclaimed. “It’s another tanker, Skipper. Motor vessel Chang Chi, crude oil tanker, 27,155 gross registered tons, owned and operated by the Nanjing Tanker Company.” Fleming handed the report chit to his CO.

“Well done, Petty Officer Fleming. You too, Petty Officer Kalinsky. That was mighty fine detective work.” Jerry was pleased with his people’s performance. He briefly looked again at the Chang Chi’s information, and a frown formed on his face.

“Two tankers. Just a coincidence, or an indication?” Jerry asked openly.

Thigpen chuckled. “Just a coincidence, Skipper? An ice cube has a better chance in a blast furnace. These were deliberate attacks. In my opinion, it’s an indication.” Then, deftly snatching the report chit from Jerry’s hand, Thigpen added, “Well, it looks like I have another message to write.”

“I believe you do, too,” agreed Jerry.

30 August 2016

2100 Local Time

USS North Dakota

Off Hainan Island, South China Sea

Jerry paced back and forth in his stateroom. There hadn’t been any response from squadron on his two messages, nothing. There were snippets of information in the routine broadcasts that hinted at possible attacks elsewhere along the Chinese coast, but nothing with any substance, no details. Adding to his frustration, Fargo had lost contact with the Kilo. Whoever the captain was, he knew his business. He craftily merged with a small fishing fleet before he started snorkeling. The UUV’s autonomous detection algorithms couldn’t differentiate one marine diesel from another, and dutifully locked on to the loudest source around the Kilo’s last known bearing—a large fishing boat. The sonar techs had plowed through the last data dump and were confident the UUV had been tracking the fishing vessel for at least an hour.

“I don’t want to let this guy go,” he had said earlier to his XO and department heads. “He’s a known bad actor, and I’ve got a nagging feeling we’ve only seen the beginning.”

“But Skipper, why couldn’t these two attacks just be a tit-for-tat retaliation for the 093’s sinking of the Vinaship Sea?” asked Rothwell.

“That’s a possibility, Nav, but the dots don’t stack up very well for that hypothesis,” Thigpen argued, referring to the fire control’s visual display of a neat vertical line of bearing dots when the solution was a good one. “This would be the second rotation on the retaliation merry-go-round. Remember, the Vietnamese mined the carrier first. I doubt the Chinese will let these attacks go unanswered.”

“The XO’s correct,” observed Jerry. “But it doesn’t matter what the Kilo skipper’s motivation is right now. We need to find him, and pronto.”

“And do what, sir?” objected Thigpen testily. Jerry noted the fatigue in his XO’s voice. Both men had been up since the initial attacks some twenty hours earlier. Thigpen rubbed his forehead, then continued with a more restrained tone, “It’s not like we can shoot him to get him to stop.”

“That’s a reasonable question, XO. I don’t know what we can do, if anything. But we can still learn something by observing his actions, even if all we do is watch him kill more ships. However, the first order of business is finding the guy.” Jerry then looked down at the electronic navigation chart on the horizontal large-screen display, and motioned toward the left-hand side of a large square drawn on the chart. “So, we’ll head toward the western edge of our patrol box and look for him. Once we reacquire the Kilo, we’ll direct Fargo back into contact and then turn about and head back east.”

“But that means we’d be leaving the Chinese navy bases uncovered, won’t it?” Covey asked hesitantly.

Jerry shook his head. “No, we’ll leave Minot behind to keep the bases under surveillance while we head off to find the Kilo.”

Covey looked confused. “Sir, I thought you didn’t want to deploy both UUVs at the same time?”

For a brief instant, Jerry felt a little irritated by his weapons officer’s response. Then Jerry remembered that he too was very tired. Taking a deep breath he said, “That was the original plan, Dave. Circumstances have changed, and the plan needs to adapt accordingly. Now, launch Minot, get her on station, and then get us heading westward at best tactical speed.”

The electronic ring of the phone dragged Jerry back to consciousness; he’d fallen asleep while reviewing the chemistry logs. Groping for the handset, he yanked it from the cradle. “Captain,” he mumbled.

“Skipper, CDO. My apologies if I woke you, but we’ve reacquired the Kilo.”

“Ahh, excellent. I’ll be right there,” Jerry croaked.

Stumbling into the head he shared with Thigpen, Jerry nearly collided with his XO as he tried to splash some cold water on his face. Amused by Jerry’s semi-comatose expression, Thigpen hunched over and shrieked softly, “It’s alive!”

Jerry looked over the towel as he dried his face; he attempted to give Thigpen an evil stare, but failed, his eyes only opened halfway. “That, Mr. Thigpen, is a matter of debate,” he finally replied.

Thigpen laughed as he finished combing his hair. “Was that Phil?”

“Yeah, we’ve picked up the Kilo again.”

“Oh goodie! Just in time for my CDO watch,” exclaimed the executive officer.

“What time is it?” Jerry asked, confused. He still wasn’t entirely awake yet.

“It’s 2330. Give or take a couple of minutes.”

“Really? Is it that early? The Kilo must have been heading east the whole time,” said Jerry, more to himself than anyone else. His brain was beginning to process data again.

“Sounds about right. He was heading easterly when Fargo lost contact,” answered Thigpen. Looking down at his watch, he added, “I need to go do the prewatch tour with Q. I’ll see you in control in about twenty minutes.”

Jerry acknowledged the XO’s departure with a curt wave. His mind was on the Kilo. After a quick rinse with mouthwash to get rid of the old-sock taste in his mouth, Jerry headed up to control. He’d just closed the door when he heard the sonar supervisor announce, “New sonar contact. Designated Sierra-seven nine, bearing zero five one. Sounds like diesel engines starting up.”

“Very well, Sonar Supervisor,” Covey responded, then, turning to the section tracking party, ordered, “Begin tracking Sierra-seven nine.”

Walking up to the command workstation, Jerry saw Sobecki and Covey hunched over, focusing on one of the displays. The engineer was furiously moving the trackball, while Covey punched some buttons. Both looked a little worn.

“CDO, report.”

“Yes, sir. Our friend is contact Sierra-seven eight. He bears three two zero, range about eight thousand yards, drawing right.” Sobecki pointed to the port VLSD, where all the pertinent data was enlarged just above the tracking symbol. Jerry noted they were on the Kilo’s starboard beam and drawing behind him, very nice. They would soon be in his baffles and they could close from that advantageous position.

“We’ve just picked up a new contact, Sierra-seven nine, off to the northeast. We’re working on a solution now. Say, Skipper, do you want me to get you a cup of coffee?”

“No thanks, Eng, I probably drink too much anyway,” Jerry replied as he studied the tactical situation on the display. “Have you attempted to contact Fargo?”

“Not yet, sir. The last fix we had indicated the UUV was still well outside of acoustic modem range; it won’t be close enough for about another hour.”

“Hmmm, I guess we’ll have to dog this fellow ourselves for a little while then,” lamented Jerry with feigned inconvenience.

“What a shame,” Sobecki replied cynically. Both men sported large grins. This was exactly the kind of action that any submariner worth his or her salt longed for.

“OOD,” sang out the sonar supervisor, “Sierra-seven nine is classified as a Type 039 Song-class submarine, snorkeling.”

Jerry, Sobecki, and Covey all looked surprised. There was nothing in the intel reports that suggested a Song-class boat had deployed. “Very well, Sonar Supervisor,” said Covey over his shoulder. “This complicates things a bit.”

“Indeed it does,” Jerry admitted, “but we’re still in a good position to control the tactical situation.”

Sobecki nodded his agreement. Then, leaning past Covey to get a clear line of sight to the tracking party, he grumbled, “Hey, Ollie, don’t you have a solution on Sierra-seven nine yet?”

“Coming up now, Eng,” Andrews shot back. “It should be up on the port VLSD.”

The data popped up on the display along with a tracking symbol in the approximate position and an error circle. The Song bore zero four eight, range ten thousand yards, heading due south at three knots.

“He’s chugging along, fat, dumb, and happy, recharging his battery,” Covey observed.

Jerry frowned. The picture just didn’t look right. “CDO, what’s the range between the Kilo and the Song?”

Sobecki spun the trackball, moving the cursor over the Kilo, and then dragged it to the Song. “Range is about 12,800 yards, Skipper.”

Jerry’s frown morphed into a disappointed grimace. “Are you serious? They shouldn’t have any problems at that range hearing the Song when it’s making such a racket!”

“Maybe their sonar isn’t as good as we’ve given them credit for, sir,” commented Covey.

“My aunt Agatha with a hearing trumpet couldn’t miss that!” Jerry’s voice was laden with sarcasm. The Vietnamese were new at this game, but surely they weren’t incompetent.

Standing there staring at the large-screen display, Jerry wrestled with the inconsistency. Maybe Covey was right and the updated Rubikon sonar wasn’t all that the advertisements claimed it to be. But still, even the older version would have been able to detect a relatively loud target this close. It just didn’t make sense. Perplexed, Jerry started going over possible alternatives in his head. He didn’t get far before the sonar chief blurted out, “Possible target zig, Sierra-seven eight, based on frequency. Target has either turned towards or sped up.”

“Confirm target zig, based on bearing rate,” cried Andrews. “Sierra-seven eight has altered course to starboard.”

The expression on Jerry’s face must have changed, as Sobecki started chuckling. “There, are you happy now, Skipper?” he teased.

His head hanging low, Jerry let out a long sigh. “Well, at least it now makes sense. But…”

“But,” interrupted Sobecki, “the Kilo is now heading straight for the Song.”

“Yup, that about sums it up.”

“Do you want me to summon the XO to control?”

“Yes, please, Engineer.”

As Sobecki called for Thigpen over the 1MC, Jerry moved closer to the large display on the port side—his thoughts focusing on the tactical picture. The situation was degrading slowly. It would be at least half an hour before the Kilo would reach a firing position, assuming the Song didn’t change course. But what could he do with that time? Would it even be possible to break up the attack? His orders were pretty straightforward, and everything that came to mind violated those orders.

It didn’t take Thigpen even a minute to reach control, and by then the fire control system had determined, conclusively, that the Kilo was on a perfect intercept course. There was no mistaking what was happening. The Vietnamese Kilo captain was getting into position to ambush the Chinese submarine. Jerry’s mind was racing. Shooting tankers was bad enough, but attacks against another country’s naval vessels kicked things up a notch. And then there were the safety concerns for his own boat. They weren’t far enough away to be immune from a stray torpedo. Should he just bug out and put more distance between the warring parties? He really didn’t like that option, but there seemed to be nothing else he could do. If only they could come up with a way to spook the other subs without giving themselves away.

“Skipper, I understand your desire to prevent bloodshed, but what can we do without revealing our presence?” pleaded Thigpen.

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out, Bernie!” snapped Jerry. He stopped and took several deep breaths. His XO wasn’t the enemy and Thigpen was only doing his job—perhaps, annoyingly, a little too well at the moment. His mind refocused, Jerry reapproached the problem.

“Okay. Active sonar is out. It’s a big neon sign that says ‘shoot here.’ The UUV is too far away, so we can’t use it as a diversion. And the mobile decoys are tuned for acoustic homing torpedoes.” Jerry ticked off the options on his fingers one at a time.

“And we can’t use any of our ADCs, as their electronic noise would be easily ID’d as American,” added Thigpen.

It was Thigpen’s last words that suddenly gave Jerry an idea. One that just might work. “Weps, we still have a few of those old NAE Mark 3 beacons on board, don’t we?”

“Yes, sir. We use them during exercises. They’re a lot cheaper than an ADC Mark 4.”

“Captain… what are you thinking?” Thigpen asked suspiciously.

“It’s quite simple, XO.” Jerry looked around for a piece of paper to draw on. Then remembered that there weren’t any paper plots—there wasn’t any room for them with all the electronic displays in a Virginia-class sub’s control room. Grabbing a pen from his pocket, he pointed to the geoplot display on the command workstation.

“We pull in behind the Kilo, overtake him, and drop an NAE with a time delay between the two boats. We then pull off to the north before either party has a chance to figure out what the hell happened.”

“But, sir, we’ll give ourselves away if we drop a countermeasure. They’ll detect it and know we’re here. There is no way to avoid that!” insisted Thigpen.

“You’re right, they’ll detect the NAE—but they won’t know it’s us. They won’t suspect it’s from an American sub!” Jerry exclaimed.

Thigpen was confused, frustrated, and it showed. “Huh? Come again? I’m not following you, Skipper.”

“Okay, look. The NAE is a very old countermeasure; the first models were designed in World War Two, over seventy years ago. It generates noise mechanically, not electronically. Neither the Vietnamese nor the Chinese would suspect the U.S. still has, or would even use, such a low-tech device.

“Also, when I was reviewing the log entries from Michigan’s engagement with the Iranian Kilo, my skipper, Kyle Guthrie, noted that the countermeasures deployed by the Iranian boat sounded almost exactly like an NAE. Don’t you get it? Both sides have Russian gear, including acoustic countermeasures! Each captain will think the other guy detected him and shot out a decoy! They’ll both be spooked and start evasive maneuvers, while we slink off to the north.”

Thigpen still wasn’t convinced. “But they’ll both be able to hear us when we pull in front. We’d be, what? Maybe two or three thousand yards away for either sub. We’re really quiet, but that’s way too close.”

“Correct again, we’d be too close. Both the Kilo and Song captains are boresighted toward the surface. The Song, so he doesn’t get run over by a passing merchant, and the Kilo as he’s setting up his attack. Neither sonar system can look at more than one depression/elevation angle at the same time. So we come in right off the bottom, below their sonar’s field of view. The water is shallow here, which will help hide our signature, and we have a negative sound velocity profile down to the bottom—everything is in our favor. Trust me, this will work!”

Jerry watched as Thigpen worked the problem through. He was still unsure, but his CO’s confidence overwhelmed him. Swallowing hard, Thigpen finally said, “It’s your call, sir.”

With a beaming smile, Jerry slapped his XO on the arm. Turning to Covey, Jerry ordered, “Weps, load an NAE in one of the signal ejectors. Set a two-minute time delay.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” replied Covey.

Looking back at Thigpen, Jerry nodded and said, “XO, man battle stations.”

Once the crew was at general quarters, Jerry explained his plan to the control room watchstanders. He took extra care to make sure everyone understood what they were about to do, and why. The junior officers were awestruck and excited; the more senior ones were apprehensive. Even though the odds were very much in their favor, this was not a risk-free evolution.

As soon as the Kilo was on their starboard beam, Jerry made a sharp turn to the northeast and moved North Dakota into the Vietnamese boat’s baffles. Blocked by the submarine’s hull, the large cylindrical array in the Kilo’s bow couldn’t hear them and Jerry accelerated to fifteen knots.

It was a long, slow overtaking geometry, but twenty minutes later, the Kilo was five hundred yards to port and a hundred feet above them. With only fifty feet between the hull and the sea floor, Jerry slowed to ten knots as North Dakota slowly pulled in front. For the next six minutes, hardly a sound was made in control; even the watchstanders’ breathing was hushed. When they reached the designated point, Jerry ordered the NAE launched, turned north, and slowly increased speed to twelve knots. Thigpen started a stopwatch on the command workstation and called out the time in fifteen-second intervals.

“Fifteen seconds… ten, nine, eight…” Thigpen’s voice was just above a whisper.

“Pilot, ahead standard,” Jerry commanded.

“Ahead standard, Pilot, aye, Captain. Maneuvering answers ahead standard.”

“Very well, Pilot.”

Seconds later the NAE fired up and began rotating the rings of ball bearings inside at high speed. The noise it made was deafening.

Both the Kilo and Song were taken by complete surprise. The Kilo popped a countermeasure of its own, and accelerated to the southwest. The Song stopped snorkeling and headed north at flank speed. Not a single torpedo had been launched.

In North Dakota’s control room, a low cheer broke out as soon as it was clear the two hostile submarines had bolted in opposite directions without firing a shot. The plan had worked perfectly.

“Well done, all! Your execution was flawless,” gushed Jerry, clearly pleased with his crew.

“I think there are some drawers that need a changin’,” remarked Iwahashi cheerfully.

Thigpen shook his head. “Mine would if I was blasted out of the blue with Metallica at 150 dB!”

Jerry was still smiling. “Attention in control, we’ll stay in contact with the Kilo as it finishes its evasive maneuvers. After it settles down, we’ll get Fargo back in contact and then we’ll head back east. Carry on.”

A visibly relieved Thigpen moved closer to Jerry. “Congratulations, Skipper, your plan worked.”

“Thanks, XO. I was confident it would.”

Thigpen shook his head again. “You know, Captain, I think you’re a little too smart for your own good.”

Jerry laughed, but he heard his XO’s message nonetheless. “After Fargo is back in trail, we’ll break off and report in. This should make the commodore’s day after all the bad news we’ve sent in.”

“I don’t know, sir,” Thigpen replied. His face was skeptical. “Somehow I don’t think our new commodore is going to be all that pleased.”

Jerry was puzzled. “What makes you think that, Bernie? Neither side had a clue we were here, and we prevented more deaths. Surely that has to be a win in anybody’s book. I think once I explain it to Captain Simonis, he’ll agree it was the right thing to do.”