Shattered Trident

5. SORTIE

26 August 2016

1500 Local Time

USS North Dakota

Off Hainan Island, South China Sea

Control was buzzing with activity as they prepared to launch one of the UUVs, but Jerry’s mind was elsewhere. He was back on Guam.

After the brief, Commander Richard Walker, the squadron’s operations officer, quietly whispered to Jerry, “The commodore wants a few words, if you’re available.”

Well, of course he was available. Jerry was a commander, Simonis was a captain. Jerry was a sub skipper, Simonis was his squadron commander. He’d damn well better be available.

Simonis was waiting in his office, and stood as Jerry entered. “Commander Mitchell… Jerry, thanks for coming by. This won’t take long. Coffee?”

Walker quickly served them both cups of what smelled like really good coffee, then left, closing the door behind him.

The commodore smiled broadly. “I couldn’t say this in front of my other three skippers. I certainly don’t want to show any favoritism, but I’m really pleased to have you and your boat attached to the squadron. It’s a little embarrassing, but I’m not as familiar with a Virginia class’s capabilities as I am with the Los Angeles boats. And I know even less about a flight three Virginia.”

The commodore was speaking directly to him, but kept shifting his gaze downward. Jerry wondered if he’d skipped a button on his shirt, and automatically checked, thankfully not finding anything, but his hand brushed against the “fruit salad,” the rows of ribbons on the left side of his shirt, under his dolphins. He was understandably proud of his decorations: the Navy Cross and Purple Heart he wore drew attention, and then mystery when people found out that he couldn’t talk about what he’d done to earn them.

Simonis perched on the corner of his desk. “I’ve given you the hot spot, right off Yulin and Yalong Bay, because you’ve got the best boat and…” He paused for a moment, then said, “I’ve heard some stories, and I won’t ask which ones are true, but I have high expectations.”

Jerry wondered just what the commodore had heard. The submarine force might still be nicknamed the “silent service,” but that only applied to outsiders. Inside the community, sea stories spread faster than the speed of truth. Jerry had heard accounts of his own exploits that he hardly recognized.

“There’s no time to go over my command policies, but I encourage open discussion with my boat captains, and Jerry, I promise I will listen carefully to any recommendations you make—about your boat’s capabilities, the tactical situation, anything that you think I need to know.”

“Thank you, sir,” Jerry acknowledged. He had wondered what type of squadron commander Simonis was. He’d heard little before coming to Guam, and obviously there’d been no time to sound out the other skippers. But this was a good start.

“There’s one other matter.” Simonis’s tone had an uneasy note in it. Again, he didn’t meet Jerry’s eyes, his attention still fixed on his ribbons.

Simonis sighed, then walked back and sat down behind his desk. “I’m like most of the fleet. Politics is something you read about in the newspapers. Getting a squadron command meant learning a new skill set. I keep abreast of Asian politics. I have to, or I can’t effectively implement U.S. policy out here. I get a lot of guidance from PACOM and others, but it’s no different from knowing the acoustic environment around your boat.”

Jerry nodded and prompted, “Of course.” Was this fatherly advice? Jerry might command a squadron someday.

“This Dr. Patterson. You know her well. That’s very valuable to me, Jerry. I may be up to date about Asia, but I don’t understand Washington. You’re an insider. Your old skipper’s a senator, and his wife, the deputy national security advisor, has shown up here to give us a personal briefing on our mission. I’ll be honest. I’m not comfortable with this level of attention.”

Jerry wasn’t surprised. Some people enjoyed being in the spotlight, but many did not. Evidently, the commodore liked to keep a low profile. Maybe he wasn’t the type to take risks, or he might have doubts about his own abilities. What kind of boat captain had he been? Jerry was also a little irritated. Simonis wasn’t the first officer to think he had a hotline straight to Washington, but it always rubbed him the wrong way.

When Jerry didn’t respond immediately, the commodore continued, “Let me say this clearly. This is an important mission, and I’m worried that she hasn’t told us everything.”

He saw Jerry begin to react, and quickly added. “No, not in that sense. Of course Dr. Patterson isn’t deliberately sandbagging us, but what’s the background? Is there an agenda that we need to know about?”

Now Jerry looked confused, as well as a little irritated, and the commodore asked, “Do you think she could be looking for us to prove or disprove something? When you spoke with her, did she say ‘We’re looking for this,’ or ‘I need you to find out if this is true’?”

Jerry sighed. The commodore was asking an honest question, even if it implied an ugly truth. Still, Jerry resented being asked, and it was a question he never would have thought of.

“I understand, sir. No, I don’t believe so. She hasn’t shared anything special with me. I’ve known Dr. Patterson for a long time and she isn’t one to grind axes.” Not anymore, anyway, Jerry added to himself. He stated flatly, “In my opinion, sir, they’re looking to us for information, to help them understand what is going on. They don’t know enough yet to have an agenda—or shouldn’t, anyway.”

Simonis didn’t answer right away. Jerry realized that the commodore was now evaluating his credibility. In his mind, anything touched by Washington was suspect until proven otherwise.

Four days out from Guam, Jerry kept going over the conversation in his mind. He thought about Simonis’s worries, not about armed conflict between China and Vietnam, but about what his bosses wanted to hear. He was driven, at least in part, by fear, and Jerry resolved to remember that, both while he commanded North Dakota, and if he ever got a squadron. Fear replaced more useful motivations.

“Five minutes to launch, Skipper.” Lieutenant Kurt Franklin, the boat’s communications officer and current officer of the deck, had given him periodic updates, and Jerry acknowledged the report that began the launch sequence. Jerry wouldn’t say a word unless Franklin made some mistake. “Command by negation” was all about letting your officers practice their trade and become independent thinkers. It was ironic that one of Jerry’s most important duties as captain was to teach his people how to work without him being there.

Franklin ordered, “Pilot, all stop, prepare to hover.”

A senior petty officer automatically repeated the command, and changed the speed setting. “Officer of the Deck, Maneuvering answers, all stop, indicated speed is four knots.”

The UUVs could be launched at low speeds, less than five knots, but the smoothest launches occurred when the boat was stationary, or “dead in the water.” Jerry didn’t like the latter term, and discouraged its use, one of the prerogatives of command.

Franklin keyed the intercom. “Torpedo Room, Conn, we’re slowing. Flood payload tube one.”

“Flood payload tube one, Conn, Torpedo Room, aye.” The trick was to spend as little time at a standstill as possible. Jerry had emphasized that the evolution didn’t need to be done quickly, just smoothly. “Conn, Torpedo Room. Payload tube one is flood and equalized with sea pressure. Minot is ready for launch. All indications green.”

“Speed two knots and falling,” reported the pilot.

“Torpedo Room, Conn. Speed is two knots, unlock and open the hatch on payload tube one.”

“Unlock and open the hatch on payload tube one, aye. Payload tube one hatch indicates open.”

The two payload tube hatches in North Dakota’s bow were big, about seven feet in diameter, but tube one’s now-open hatch was edge-on to the flow. It wouldn’t cause much drag. The Virginias were big boats, with a lot of momentum, and it took a few minutes to coast to a stop.

“Sonar?” Franklin’s question wasn’t shouted, but the operator heard it clearly in the quiet control room. Unlike earlier U.S. subs, the sonar operators on Virginia-class boats were no longer sequestered in their own little space, but located in control. A controversial design change, it was done to improve the flow of information to the captain and fire control team.

“Three contacts, the closest is Sierra-three three, bears one seven zero, range eleven nautical miles and opening, course one nine zero at twelve knots.” That matched the information displayed on the big screen. They’d set up their UUV deployment box with some flexibility, so they could pick a spot with the thinnest merchant traffic.

“Speed one knot and falling,” the pilot called. Jerry studied the trim indicators, although the OOD and chief of the boat were both watching them as well. Jerry knew the last knot would come off quickly. He’d actually taken time to practice coasting to a stop, timing how long it took from different speeds. Conning a sub should not involve guesswork.

“The boat is stationary.” Franklin took just long enough to verify the pilot’s report, then passed the word over the intercom. “Torpedo Room, Conn. We’re hovering. Launch Minot.”

The big ISR UUV, nicknamed “Minot,” was designed for quiet launch. Using its own electric propulsion, it simply pulled itself out of the vertical tube, pitched over into a level attitude, and swam off to the west at three knots. The vehicle’s entire track was programmed, along with several alternative plans that could be triggered by satellite downlink, acoustic modem, or on its own, depending on what its sensors detected.

North Dakota’s two UUVs, Minot and Fargo, allowed Jerry to extend his patrol area. While the vehicle’s sonar wasn’t as good as a Virginia’s, the UUV was a hair quieter and much smaller than the sub, making it harder to detect than the submarine.

By the time Minot was headed to the west, the payload tube hatch had closed and the torpedo room watchstanders began pumping down the flooded tube. Franklin had ordered the boat back to her eight-knot patrol speed and turned it toward the next patrol waypoint, all without Jerry having to say a word.

Three or four days from now, in a different spot along the western edge of their zone, they would recover Minot and replace it with Fargo, the second UUV. Until then, the submersible robot was on its own, to listen and report.

“Next waypoint bears zero seven five, twenty-two miles.” Lieutenant Ed Rothwell, the navigator, had made the announcement almost as a formality. The waypoint was marked on the starboard big screen and also showed as the indicated course on the pilot’s console.

The waypoints had been carefully chosen to be as random as possible, while also taking into account the current weather, the acoustic conditions at that time of day, and the likely movements of the ships they were supposed to be listening for.

North Dakota prowled and listened inside a bent rectangle wrapped around the southern end of Hainan Island, with the UUV’s zone an angled box at the western end. Santa Fe’s area lay to the east, separated by a buffer zone. Although this was only a surveillance mission, it was vital that if North Dakota or Santa Fe heard another submarine, there would be no time wasted making sure it wasn’t an American boat.

Slipping quietly through the water at three hundred feet, there was little for most of the watchstanders to do: no maneuvers except turning from one waypoint to the next, not even many depth changes. All the action was at the sonar watch station, as they listened and waited.

Lieutenant Stuart Gaffney, the sonar officer, watched his troops at work, making sure they and their gear were in top shape. They were, but even the best sonarman has to wait for something to hear.

“So she really hugged him? In front of everyone?” Lieutenant Lymburn’s question was directed to the XO, also standing near the sonar station. She gestured toward Gaffney. “I can’t believe either half of what this guy says.” Gaffney, surprised at being identified as the rumor’s source, did his best to fade into the bulkhead.

Thigpen nodded sagely. “I heard it from two guys on the squadron staff when they ‘came by to check on our supply status.’” He gave a short laugh. “Right. What they really wanted was to pump me about how the skipper knew Dr. Patterson. I said they’d been shipmates and longtime friends, back to when he’d solved that bomb plot at the Naval Academy when he was a midshipman.”

“You know, I’m right over here,” Jerry remarked acidly. They’d been speaking softly, of course, but not that softly, and the well-run control room seemed even quieter than normal. “And I never did anything like that!”

“Well, sir, you did go to the academy. There could have been a bomb plot, and of course it was kept out of the papers. They thought it was fascinating.”

Jerry rubbed his face and groaned. Thigpen was having far too much fun at his expense.

Turning back to Lymburn, the XO answered, “In this case, Lieutenant, Stuart is correct. The deputy national security adviser did, indeed, hug our beloved captain.”

Gaffney studied the sonar consoles carefully, conspicuously ignoring the conversation.

“Wow,” Lymburn exclaimed. “Did she kiss him?”

“No. He’s not that beloved.”

She turned to Jerry. “Sir, does Mrs. Mitchell know about this relationship?” Lymburn looked serious, and a little worried.

“Dr. Mitchell, who was Dr. Davis at the time, was the maid of honor at Dr. Patterson’s wedding,” the XO interjected. “Emily used to work for her. Isn’t that right, Skipper?”

“That part of what the XO said is true,” Jerry replied. He did his best not to smile, and added, “XO, didn’t you have to inspect something, somewhere?”

“Yessir, I was just on my way to do that.”

To her credit, Lymburn had kept one eye on the control room during the conversation, but two eyes were better. She and Gaffney remained by the sonar consoles. Since it was daytime, they weren’t running with the multifunction mast up, which listened in on the local airwaves. The first sign of a contact would appear on sonar.

The southern end of Hainan Island held a large commercial port, two busy naval bases, and was home to many fishing boats and smaller craft. North Dakota’s sonarmen constantly sorted man-made ships from the abundant sea life, and then naval from civilian vessels. They depended on a computer library of marine sounds, as well as a database holding acoustic information on warships and merchant sound signatures. Even then, the final call often came down to a petty officer’s experience and judgment. Sometimes, though, the Chinese made it easy.

“Sonar contact bearing three one two, multiple sources, high blade count. Correlates with active sonars on same bearing.” After a moment’s pause, the petty officer added, “Sonars are SJD-5 and 7.”

The sonar bearing, actually a cluster of white lines, appeared on the port VLSD.

“Pointing straight at Yalong Bay,” Jerry observed. “The same time as yesterday.”

A few moments later, the fire control system changed the cluster of lines to a blurry point twenty-six miles away, and added an arrow pointing almost due south. “Just leaving the eastern naval base,” Jerry remarked.

The petty officer reported, “Base course is one seven zero, speed ten knots. But we’re getting high-speed beats as well as slower screws that sound like merchants.”

“With active sonars, they have to be escorts,” Lymburn remarked. “Looks like they’re still worried about submarines.”

“But we’ve seen lots of merchant traffic in and out of Yulin that wasn’t escorted,” Gaffney commented.

“Could be part of the exercise they’ve announced,” Lymburn suggested. “They’re practicing wartime procedures, just as if there was a sub waiting for them to leave harbor. And maybe there’s a Chinese submarine, waiting to conduct mock attacks against them.”

Jerry knew the Chinese weren’t practicing. He hadn’t shared the details of the briefing with all of his crew. Only the XO, department heads, and the COB knew the full story. But still, she’d raised a good point.

“Let’s make sure there isn’t another boat lurking around here,” Jerry remarked. “Sonar, keep a careful watch out for possible submarines,” he instructed. “We’ve been innocent bystanders once. I don’t want to be surprised by a diesel sub lying in wait. And make sure the Chinese aren’t trying to slip one of their subs out along with those surface ships.”

“Careful watch for submarines, aye, sir.”

“Q, give me an intercept course at eight knots that will get us in front of them, just inside their radar horizon. We’ll poke a mast up and see what there is to hear.”

“Aye, sir.” Lymburn glanced at the plotting board, but figured the angles in her head. “Recommend course three five zero. That will bring us within their horizon in… forty minutes.”

“Very well.” After Lieutenant Lymburn had ordered the course change, Jerry drilled her a little. “What happens next, Q?”

She considered for a moment, then said, “We should come up to periscope depth in,” she glanced at her watch, “thirty-four minutes. We extend a photonics mast for ten seconds, to see if there are any close-by radars. If the coast is clear, we raise a multifunction mast and take a quick look for any comm signals. After a few minutes, we head back down to one hundred and fifty feet.”

Jerry nodded his approval. “And what comes after that?”

That took a few moments for her to answer. “Close and get a periscope observation,” she stated firmly.

“Correct. Get to work on the best plan that can get us within five thousand yards and then out without being detected. Remember, we’re not making a torpedo approach. We just need to get close enough for a good beam-on video recording.”

While the OOD worked the angles, the sonarmen continued to analyze the sounds radiated from the ships. The screws, the turbines, the electrical generators on each ship produced sounds, or “tones,” that gave clues as to its identity. The thrum-thrum of the screws also let the sonarmen calculate the contact’s speed, vital for tracking.

“OOD, Contact Sierra-four three is a Type 053H3 frigate, and correlates with the active SJD-5.”

That got Jerry’s attention. “A 53H3 frigate? That’s the Jiangwei II. It’s old, but it can carry a helicopter. OOD, allow for dipping helos in your plan. Assume they’re dipping five to ten thousand yards from the ships.”

The sonar petty officer reported, “Sierra-four four is a Type 54 frigate. It matches the other active sonar.”

“Newer class,” Jerry commented, “but it could have a towed array along with the better bow sonar, as well as a helo deck and hangar. So now they’ve got two anti-submarine helicopters to play with.”

“Should I assume they have both up right now?” Lymburn asked.

“I would,” Jerry answered. “The harbor is a high-threat area for them—for us, too, for that matter,” he observed. “They’ll shoot first and check hull numbers later if they detect anything this close.”

Lymburn refined her solution. “Pilot, come right to zero zero zero. Sir, recommend coming to periscope depth in twenty minutes. Sonar, keep a sharp lookout for high-frequency dipping sonars.”

Jerry approved her recommendation. The helos would make it harder to close on this group. Ship-based helicopters usually carried a short-ranged sonar that could be “dipped” into the water while the helicopter was hovering. The sonar “ball” was on a long cable, so it could be used to listen first above the thermocline, then below. If the sonar operator on the helicopter didn’t hear anything passively, he’d then go active. If there was nothing to find, the operator would reel in the sonar and then move on to the next spot.

One helicopter could cause problems for them, but could be evaded. Two helos, using “leapfrog” tactics, could search, detect, and localize a submarine quickly. To stay quiet, a submarine has to creep at five or ten knots, but helicopters cruise at seventy. North Dakota’s only advantage would be that Jerry didn’t want to shoot a torpedo at the ships, just get close enough to take a peek.

“OOD, we’re picking up additional screws on that bearing. They were merged with the signals from the merchants, but the left bearing drift is giving us some separation now. New contacts Sierra-four five and four six.”

Jerry and Lymburn both looked at the port VLSD. More of the fuzz had disappeared, replaced by two new vessels in front of the other four. The sonarman continued, “Sierra–four zero and four one are the merchants Hai Fu 18 and Yu He, both Chinese-flagged container ships.”

Lymburn zoomed in the VLSD to look at the formation. The two frigates were on either side of the merchants, which were steaming in column, with the two new contacts in front.

“Minesweepers,” Jerry guessed, “just like yesterday. They’re quieter than the others and we can’t hear their mine-hunting sonars this far out.”

“Seems likely, sir,” agreed Gaffney, “but my guys are still working to confirm it.”

“They really are treating it like the real thing,” Lymburn remarked.

Watching the VLSD, Jerry saw the shift the same time as the sonarmen. “OOD, possible target zig. All frequencies have shifted, down Doppler, bearing drift is also changing. Picking up changes in blade rates.”

On the big screen, symbols blurred and shifted as the fire control system struggled to predict the formation’s next move. Four course arrows swung to the right, while the front two pivoted to the west, lengthening as well.

“The formation’s turned east,” Jerry observed. “And the minesweepers have done their job, so they’re headed for the barn.”

“Skipper, you’re not leaving anything for my sonarmen to report,” Gaffney complained.

Lymburn was bent over the horizontal display. “Sir, I’m not going to be able to get inside their horizon with an eight-knot speed. They’ll pass by us to the north. If we increase to twenty knots, we can get in their forward hemisphere, but that’s where their helicopters like to search. Fifteen knots will get us in trail in approximately two hours, assuming they don’t maneuver again.”

“I don’t like either one of those options, OOD. We’re too detectable at twenty knots, and you’re right about the helicopters. And the trail position would be a long tail chase. We’ll be too close to the eastern edge of our patrol area. What will we miss while we’re running after these guys?”

It was a rhetorical question, and Jerry continued speaking before he put Lymburn on the spot. “Q, plot us a course to a spot well away from all surface traffic. We’ll report to squadron. We will give Captain Halsey and Santa Fe enough warning so they can get in position. They can get the periscope shots.”

The message upload went off without a hitch, without Jerry being anywhere near the radio room or the control. Once North Dakota had gotten some distance from the small convoy, he’d forced himself to go to the wardroom, get a cup of coffee, and chat for fifteen minutes before heading for his cabin.

The boat would run without him living in control. In theory, the less he was there, the more self-reliance his people developed. That was the theory.

But he didn’t want to miss anything! Most sub captains had only one, maybe two command tours before being promoted or retiring. No other ship in the navy gave its commanding officer such complete one-man control over its actions, and no other ship in the fleet was so often out of touch and on its own. It was exciting, and Jerry wasn’t shy about admitting that he liked being the “Guy in Charge.” But captains who lived in control could die there, too. “Or smell like they had,” according to Thigpen.

Immediately after taking command, Jerry and his new XO had spent a lot of time together, getting to know each other and working out Jerry’s policies as North Dakota’s new skipper. These conferences usually involved refreshing beverages and case studies often referred to as “sea stories,” but that did not diminish their value.

Prior to assuming command, Jerry attended “PCO school,” a grueling three-month course that starts in the classroom, but quickly moves to a real sub operating against other surface ships, subs, and aircraft. During the “free play” exercises, Jerry practiced torpedo approaches, trailing operations, laid a dummy minefield, and simulated launching Tomahawk cruise missiles. He’d even operated against another nuclear submarine, which sounded hard and proved to be much more difficult than that.

Three months of training and thinking about command had increased his skills and expanded his consciousness. But he’d worked for three very different commanding officers for years at a time, seeing what worked for each of them. Now he had to make up his own style. He just didn’t want to make it up at the last minute.

Jerry was lost in paperwork when the phone buzzed. It was Thigpen’s voice.

“Skipper, would you please join us in control? We have the results from the UUV’s latest data dump.”

“Interesting?” Jerry asked.

“You will want to see this,” the XO answered cryptically.

Lieutenant Russ Iverson, the main propulsion assistant, had the OOD watch, and gave Jerry the standard status report when he entered control, but there were no surprises. They were at depth and patrol speed, headed for the next waypoint. There were half a dozen sonar contacts, but all were civilian.

The action was in the aft starboard corner of the control room. Lieutenant Dave Covey, the weapons officer, had taken over a spare console and used it to display a plot of the UUV’s activity. The XO watched over his shoulder, and made room for Jerry when he appeared.

A map was overlaid with the irregular shape of the vehicle’s patrol zone. Different tracks drew colored lines through the zone, marking the progress of ships detected and tracked by Minot’s sonars. One of the tracks was different, though, a tangle of lines that looked like a coil of rope.

The track of the UUV showed on the display as a different-colored line, with small deviations, for the first two-thirds of its patrol, but then it became irregular, zigging one way and sharply angling back the other in what looked like a random pattern. Only Jerry’s experience with the UUV in the simulators told him this was not a malfunction.

“It’s reacting to this contact,” Covey reported. He highlighted the tangled track and a window with details about the vessel appeared. Time of first detection, bearings, signal strength, identity…

“It’s a submarine,” Covey explained. Jerry wasn’t sure whether it was pride or excitement in the lieutenant’s voice. “Just like it was supposed to, as soon as Minot figured out it wasn’t a surface vessel, it started maneuvering to localize the contact, but not getting too close. What’s interesting is that the contact isn’t transiting.”

Jerry studied the track’s data carefully. It had a low blade rate, as well as low signal strength. Covey volunteered, “The acoustic data’s already been sent over to our sonarmen. They’re running it through the system right now.”

Jerry looked up at the port VLSD. The sub was loitering to the west of Hainan Island. Minot had gotten close enough to get elevation data on the signal, which allowed them to calculate the contact’s depth. The water wasn’t terribly deep there, and it looked like the boat was almost hugging the bottom, creeping at bare steerageway, conserving its battery power, drawing large ovals in the water.

Lieutenant Gaffney came over from the sonar consoles. “My guys say it’s a late Kilo, a Project 636. Blade rate’s consistent with three knots.”

Jerry had an uneasy feeling. Why would a Chinese diesel boat be hanging out to the west of Hainan Island? It was out of the exercise area the Chinese had declared, and away from the shipping lanes. “XO, did we update the intel plot during the last comms window?”

“Of course,” Thigpen replied. “Squadron Fifteen’s update is about three hours old.”

“How many of the Chinese Kilos are we tracking?”

Thigpen sat down at the next console and called up the intelligence summary. “They have twelve Kilos, all Russian-built, purchased in ’94 and ’97. Two are older Project 877s, the remaining ten are the later models, Project 636.” He paused for a minute, scrolling.

“And as of three hours ago, two were reported as being in the yards, and the rest in harbor. Three are assigned to the sub base at Yalong Bay, and they’re still there, if the intel is right.”

“Assume it was right three hours ago,” Jerry said. “There’s no way one could have taken station that far to the west without us seeing it.”

“Not without it having a warp drive,” Thigpen added. “At a top speed of nineteen knots for one hour, it would have a flat battery a third of the way to that location.”

“Then we have to assume it isn’t a Chinese boat. Stu, go back and tell your techs to take that signal apart. XO, punch the intelligence database and see who else might be operating a Kilo, besides the obvious answer.”

Jerry studied the screen with Covey, trying to pull more information out of the display. Was the sub skipper following a pattern?

Five minutes later, Thigpen reported back to Jerry. “Aside from China, India’s got ten and Vietnam currently has three. The Indian boats are early marks, Project 877. Vietnam’s are Project 636s. The latest unit was just delivered this year.”

Jerry nodded solemnly. “That’s what I remembered, but I was hoping there was another possibility.” He turned around, toward the sonarmen, with Gaffney standing behind them. Gaffney noticed the movement and hurried over.

“Nothing yet, sir,” the sonar officer reported. “It’s definitely a 636 Kilo. It doesn’t match any of the recorded signatures, but then we don’t have all the Chinese boats in the library.”

“Do we have any signatures at all on the Vietnamese subs?” Jerry asked.

“No, sir. The library would have automatically…” He paused, processing the question. “You think this is a Vietnamese boat? Payback for Vinaship Sea? But why are they way over here?”

“Damfino, Stu. We need more data.”

Gaffney shrugged. “Well… one of my techs noticed that the tonals were very ‘clean.’ There was very little noise around each of the lines.”

Jerry understood the sonar officer’s reference. New machinery ran smoothly, but as gears and bearings wore down, the sound each piece of equipment made became fuzzier, less a single tight frequency and more a band of sounds centered around the tone. Some civilian engineers used frequency analyzers to diagnose problems with turbines and generators. North Dakota’s sonars were sensitive enough to hear it as well, even when it wasn’t bad enough to need fixing.

“So it’s a new Project 636,” Jerry said. “Go compare the newest Chinese 636 in our library with this signal.”

Gaffney answered, “Aye, sir,” and headed back to the sonar station. It only took a moment to set up the comparison, but then several minutes for the techs to examine the displays. Gaffney came back, reporting, “The latest Chinese boat we have in the library was delivered in ’07. My techs, especially Andersen, can see the difference. If a cleaner signal means a new boat, then this one is newer than 2007. Maybe a lot newer.”

Jerry studied the UUV’s data, looking for another answer besides the ominous one, the possibility he couldn’t ignore. “It would be nice to come up with some other reason for a Vietnamese diesel attack boat to take station off Hainan Island. Can any of you think of something else?”

“Something other than what?” Gaffney was still thinking about the sonar signal, and hadn’t made the connection. Thigpen and Covey had figured it out.

Jerry explained, “He’s waiting for a ‘go’ code.”

26 August 2016

By Water

Halifax, Nova Scotia

Mac sat back and reread the entry before hitting the “Return” key. It would be interesting to see how successful the Chinese exercises were. They seemed to be serious about becoming a blue-water power. But now he had that article to write.

The phone rang as Mac tried to confirm the manufacturer of a ship’s steam propulsion plant. This was not net research. Centuries-old copies of Brassey’s Annual and Scientific American were scattered across the library floor, and he had to first disentangle himself from the pile of reference books, carefully stand, and then hurry to get the handset. He made it on the fifth ring.

He hadn’t bothered to check the caller ID, but would have picked up the phone in any case. “Mr. McMurtrie, it’s Christine Laird from CNN again. Is this a good time to talk?”

She barely gave Mac time to say “Of course,” before she was off at high speed. “Well, you were so knowledgeable about the mystery ship and its loss that I took up your suggestion. We had one of our Asian branches locate the Hanjin Malta and interview its captain. They’d just arrived in Karachi, and our stringer there was able to talk to both the captain and some of the crew who saw the explosion. They were all very eager to tell him about it. One of the crew, the lookout, said he thought the explosion was ‘whitish,’ at least at first. Then it became bigger and dark gray or black. And several people on the bridge claim they heard two explosions, one small, and then another much larger one.”

Mac remembered his earlier calculations. “Did any of them say how far their ship was from the explosion?”

“I think so.” She paused for a moment, then said, “A little over sixteen nautical miles, based on their navigator’s plot.” After another pause, she asked, “Why would there be two explosions, and what would make an explosion white?”

Mac answered almost immediately. “The answer to the first part is straightforward, Ms. Laird. I believe the mystery ship was carrying explosive cargo, possibly even munitions. That would explain why no nation has claimed it. The first blast detonated that cargo, resulting in the larger explosion. Ms. Laird, if you can find out who owned that vessel, or where it was going, that will be a real story.”

“Please, just Christine. That’s what we’re hoping to do. What about the ‘white explosion’? Could this be some sort of gas that was released from the ship, and then ignited?”

Mac frowned and shook his head, then remembered she couldn’t see his reaction. “Unlikely. To be visible at that distance, the column would have to be over a hundred feet high. I’ve never heard of a jet of flammable gas like that, and to be white…”

He paused for a moment. “What will throw a white column, not of gas but of water, a hundred feet or more in the air is an underwater explosion—a mine, or more likely a torpedo. There are dozens of photos of a torpedo exploding under a ship, creating a plume of white spray and vapor that high.”

“A torpedo?” She sounded incredulous. Mac was also surprised by the thought, but it did fit the data. “But what about it being a mine, an old one left over from World War Two?”

“An old, forgotten mine, broken free from its moorings and sitting in the path of the unlucky vessel?” Mac realized he was being dramatic, but it was a dramatic idea. And highly unlikely.

“There was fighting all through that area, Christine, and I’m no expert, but I don’t know of any minefields laid near that location, although it could always have drifted there from Heaven knows where.” He sighed. “But more to the point, there haven’t been any ships striking old mines in that part of the world for decades. Anything’s possible, but I believe a torpedo is the more likely culprit.”

“Adding a mystery sub to the mystery ship,” she answered. “Is there any other alternative?” She sounded desperate. “My choices are the unlikely and the incredible.”

“I’ll work on the question, at least to rule out the mine theory,” Mac offered. He decided he liked talking to Ms. Laird… Christine. He was willing to spend some time on it. This was more interesting than the article on steam plants. Well, a little more interesting.

“I’d be very grateful, Mr. McMurtrie. We’ll mention your blog in the feature.”

“Then it’s my turn to be grateful, and please, just call me Mac.”

“I’ll call again, Mac, before we run the piece.”

Mac answered, “I’ll look forward to it,” and hung up.