The Trident Deception

34

It was just before midnight, with Section 3 relieving the watch, when Commander Brad Malone entered Control.

“Captain in Control,” the Chief of the Watch announced.

As usual, Malone began his midnight tour of the submarine at the top of the Operations Compartment. Glancing around, he verified the enlisted watchstanders had already turned over, while Tom, the oncoming Officer of the Deck, was still reviewing the ship’s status with the offgoing OOD. As the two officers completed their turnover, Malone couldn’t help but notice how much Tom was like his father.

Malone had served as Engineer Officer on the USS Buffalo under Tom’s old man and had learned almost everything he knew about submarine tactics from the seasoned veteran. When Malone reported as the Kentucky BLUE Crew commanding officer, he’d been pleased to discover Tom was one of his junior officers, giving Malone the opportunity to pass along the valuable insight he’d received from Tom’s father. Tom had been a quick learner, easily grasping complex tactical concepts, qualifying as Officer of the Deck earlier than most, and establishing himself as the most capable junior officer in the Wardroom.

Malone felt a sense of pride in the fine officer Tom had become — the same pride, he was sure, felt by the young officer’s mother and father. If there was one thing he was sure of, it was that he could depend on Tom, no matter what the circumstance.

Malone continued his midnight tour, stopping in Radio and Sonar, then dropped down to the second level of the Operations Compartment. The doors to the officer staterooms were closed. As the smell of fresh pastries wafted up from below, Malone descended another level and entered Crew’s Mess. In the adjacent Galley, the Night Baker was busy cooking the desserts for tomorrow’s meals. Petty Officer Ted Luther had just pulled six apple pies out of the upper oven and was busy crimping the dough along the edges of the next batch.

Luther seemed not to notice the Captain’s arrival in Crew’s Mess and Malone continued his midnight tour, heading down to the lowest of the four levels in the Operations Compartment. On duty tonight as the Torpedoman of the Watch was 3rd Class Machinist Mate John Barber, sitting under the Weapon Control Console by the ship’s four torpedo tubes. Barber, alone on watch with thirteen green warshot torpedoes in their stows, stood as Commander Malone entered the Torpedo Room.

“Good morning, Captain.”

“Morning, Barber. How are things going?”

“Good, sir. The only issue we have is a small hydraulic leak from tube Three flood valve.”

Malone stopped by Barber, kneeling on the deck grate to get a clear view of the offending valve, just as a drop of hydraulic fluid fell from the valve body into the bilge.

“What’s the plan?” Malone asked as he regained his feet.

“The chief wants to tag out the tube on the morning watch and replace the valve’s internal O-rings. I’m working on the danger tagout now.”

“Who’s doing the maintenance?”

“I am, sir.” Barber’s eyes brightened with pride. “It’ll be my first valve rebuild.”

“I’m sure you’ll do fine,” Malone replied. “I’ll stop by in the morning to see how things turned out.”

Malone headed aft toward the ladder leading up to the next level, passing between the Kentucky’s warshot torpedoes on his way. The nineteen-foot-long, two-ton MK 48 Mod 6 torpedoes the ship carried were the mainstay weapons of the U.S. Submarine Force, being slowly upgraded to the even more advanced Mod 7 torpedo, carried by the fast-attack submarines in small quantities. As Malone passed between the warshot torpedoes on both sides, there was something reassuring, yet frightening, about the torpedo’s autonomous nature, so different from the World War II version.

World War II torpedoes were straight runners, not much more than a bomb propelled though the water in a straight line. The crew’s job was to calculate the bearing rate and range of its intended target, then shoot the torpedo at the required lead angle, not much different from a quarterback judging the distance and speed of his receiver cutting across the field, throwing the ball to the spot where the receiver and the ball would converge.

Today’s torpedoes were artificially intelligent weapons with their own sonars and computerized brains. After launch, they would analyze the returns from the sonar in their noses, sorting through what could be a submarine or a surface ship, or a decoy launched or trailed behind them. Reassuring in their capability, the torpedoes also had an independent nature that was quite disconcerting. They could not distinguish between friend and foe, and there was always the possibility a torpedo, while searching for its intended target, could lock on to the submarine that fired it.

There were safeguards to prevent that, as well as a guidance wire attached to the MK 48 torpedoes the U.S. submarines fired. The thin copper wire, dispensed from both the torpedo and a spool in the torpedo tube, carried data between the torpedo and the submarine’s Combat Control System. Over the guidance wire, the crew could send new commands after the torpedo had been launched, changing its initial course, depth, or other search parameters. Likewise, the torpedo would send information back to the submarine: status reports as it searched the ocean and details on the decoy or target it was evaluating or had decided to attack.

The Kentucky’s crew was well trained in torpedo employment, but its main mission was launching ballistic missiles. As Malone ascended to Operations Compartment 3rd Level and headed aft toward the Missile Compartment, his thoughts turned from the ship’s tactical weapons to her strategic ones; the twenty-four missiles she carried. After reaching the watertight door leading into the Missile Compartment, he ascended another level and stopped in Missile Control Center, where two missile techs stood watch at all times. The cool air greeted him as he entered; the air-conditioning system kept MCC around 60 degrees, dissipating the heat generated from the rows of computers that controlled the launch systems.

After reviewing the status of the strategic launch systems, Malone left MCC and entered the Missile Compartment on its third of four levels, passing by the nine-man bunk rooms between each pair of missile tubes, their curtains drawn. Continuing aft, he traveled through the Reactor Compartment passageway and entered the Engine Room. He decided to stop by Maneuvering, a ten-by-ten-foot Control Room where the Engineering Officer of the Watch and three of the nine enlisted personnel stood watch.

The three enlisted watchstanders in Maneuvering managed the reactor, electric, and steam plants. The Reactor Operator in the middle adjusted the height of the reactor’s control rods, which controlled the rate of fission and core temperature, as he also controlled the speed of the pumps that pushed cooling water through the core. The Electrical Operator on the right controlled the submarine’s two electrical turbine generators, producing electricity as steam passed through their turbines, as well as two motor-generators connected to the submarine’s battery. The Throttleman on the left monitored the steam plant and controlled its most important valves — the main engine throttles, which he spun open to the appropriate point based on the propulsion bell rung up by the Helm in Control.

Malone reviewed the status of the propulsion plant, then continued his tour of the engineering spaces, stopping in Engine Room Upper Level between the submarine’s main engines. It was here, between the two twenty-foot-tall turbines, that Malone felt the strength of his ship. It wasn’t in the nuclear weapons they carried that would destroy others, or the torpedoes that would protect them. It was the Engine Room, creating the drinkable water and oxygen they needed to survive, generating the electricity that brought the ship to life, and the propulsion that would carry them away from danger.

Commander Brad Malone held his hands out to his sides, feeling the heat radiate off the main engines, replacing the chill in his bones created by the always cool Operations Compartment. Here, between the main engines, not far from Maneuvering, where he had started his career as a junior officer almost twenty years ago, he felt at peace. Only a few short days ago, looking at the twenty-nine-point cribbage hand, he had expected this, his last patrol, to be his most rewarding one. But the nuclear launch order had changed everything.

Malone sighed heavily as he dropped his hands, then headed forward.

35

“Pilot, ahead two-thirds.”

Commander Gallagher stood next to his Officer of the Deck as he ordered the submarine to slow from ahead full to ten knots, preparing to search the surrounding waters again. After heading west at ahead flank for twenty-eight straight hours, they had slowed as they entered the back edge of their target’s Area of Uncertainty. Finding nothing, they had proceeded toward the center of the AOU. But the target’s AOU was large and growing bigger by the hour, so Gallagher had elected to use the sprint and drift tactic, cutting across the AOU at ahead full, slowing to ahead two-thirds periodically to search for their target.

The North Carolina was vulnerable during her ahead full sprints, her sensors blunted, but Gallagher was reassured by the stealthy nature of his new submarine. The North Carolina, the fourth in the Virginia-class, was quieter at ahead full than a 688 was tied to the pier. And he was certain they were much quieter than their target, even if the Chinese counterfeit they were chasing was as quiet as the Trident design they had copied. The North Carolina’s only vulnerability, Gallagher figured, was the weapons she carried. Or lack thereof.

Gallagher had just toured the barren Torpedo Room; the submarine’s only two warshots were loaded into Torpedo Tubes One and Two. But at least they were the new Mod 7 variant, the most capable in the U.S. arsenal. However, in less than a minute, both bullets could be spent with no guarantee they would find their mark, leaving the North Carolina defenseless. Additionally, they were far from the proficient crew they’d be after a six-month workup for a WESTPAC deployment. Fortunately, Gallagher was the most seasoned fast-attack CO on the waterfront.

A year earlier, he was finishing up his three-year tour as commanding officer of the USS Chicago and had received orders to the Pentagon. But then the incoming CO of the North Carolina pulled up lame, disqualified from submarine service due to a second episode of kidney stones. After a quick reshuffling, Gallagher ended up with orders to the Virginia-class submarine, happy to have postponed what would surely be a tortuous tour of duty with the Washington brass. On a submarine base, commander was a prestigious rank. But Gallagher had heard the horror stories about the Pentagon, where senior Navy captains made coffee for the admirals, and commanders ran out for the sugar and stir sticks.

Thankfully, all that would wait, and in the meantime he had put his considerable experience to work. He had done two WESTPAC deployments while in command, and combined with his western runs as a JO and department head on Pearl Harbor — based 688s, he had more deployments under his belt than any other submarine commanding officer.

As his crew prepared to search the surrounding water, Gallagher looked up at the digital display of the submarine’s course, speed, and depth on the Ship Control Panel. The North Carolina had finished coasting down to ten knots, slowing now for the fourth time, having just passed the center of the target’s AOU. As a faint white trace began to materialize on the towed array display, the Officer of the Deck picked up the 27-MC microphone.

“Sonar, Conn. Report all contacts.”

36

On his way forward, Malone dropped down into Engine Room Lower Level. On watch in the bowels of the Engine Room was Petty Officer 3rd Class Bob Murphy. Halfway aft along the center passageway, Murphy examined a test tube held up to the light. Having just added two drops of silver nitrate to the water, Murphy gently swirled the test tube, checking for the milky-white evidence of a leak from the Main Seawater System, which cooled the steam back to water after it passed through the large turbines. After a negative result, Murphy emptied the clear fluid into the hazardous waste bucket, looking up in surprise at the submarine’s Commanding Officer, who had snuck up on him as he concentrated on his analysis, the whirr of the condensate pumps masking the sound of his arrival.

“Hi, Captain.”

Malone saw himself in the tall and lanky nineteen-year-old, who was from Dawson, Iowa, one hundred miles south of Malone’s hometown of Fenton. There wasn’t much difference between the Captain and the enlisted man standing before him, Malone figured. If not for a single conversation, he would have enlisted in the Navy right out of high school like Murphy, rather than receiving his commission as an officer. During his junior year in high school, he had considered enlisting, but his guidance counselor urged him to apply for a Navy ROTC scholarship instead. A year later, at age eighteen, he donned a Navy uniform for the first time as he entered Purdue University as a midshipman.

That was a long time ago, and his life had almost come full circle. Following this patrol, he would remove his uniform for the last time, returning to the home he’d left behind twenty-four years ago. The two men, one’s career beginning while the other’s ended, talked for a few minutes about Murphy’s family back in Iowa. After a while, Malone checked his watch; it was almost 0100. The two offgoing watch officers would soon be knocking on his stateroom door. He bid farewell to Petty Officer Murphy and headed forward.

Standing behind his OOD at his Tactical Workstation, Gallagher studied the faint white trace on the towed array display, waiting for the results of Sonar’s analysis. The faint trace meant the contact was either quiet or distant, and he wouldn’t know which until after the North Carolina’s first maneuver, watching what happened to the target’s bearing rate. But before he turned the ship, he would verify the contact was submerged. They couldn’t afford to waste time maneuvering for every trace picked up by Sonar.

The report from Sonar answered Gallagher’s question. “Conn, Sonar. Sierra five-seven is classified submerged.”

Gallagher turned to his Officer of the Deck. “Man Battle Stations silently.”

Standard protocols for manning Battle Stations — a shipwide 1-MC announcement followed by the loud bong, bong, bong of the General Alarm — would reverberate into the water through the submarine’s steel hull, potentially alerting the target if it was close and its sonar capable. So Gallagher had ordered Battle Stations manned silently. The Messenger and Auxiliary Electrician Forward hurried down to berthing, one swinging through the officer staterooms and Chief’s Quarters before joining the other in enlisted berthing, quickly rousing the crew. Four minutes later, the last watch station reported in.

The North Carolina was ready for combat.

Gallagher decided to wait before turning the ship, giving Sonar time to analyze the frequencies being emitted by the contact. Once the ship began its turn, the towed array would become unstable, snaking back and forth for several minutes. Only after it had straightened back out would its frequencies and bearings be reliable.

Finally, the report came across the 27-MC. “Conn, Sonar. The contact has standard Trident tonals.”

They had found their target.

“Pilot, left twenty degrees rudder, steady course one-eight-zero.”

Gallagher began the process of nailing down the target’s course, speed, and range, then turned his attention to his weapons. The torpedo tubes were flooded down and pressurized, but he had kept the outer doors shut during their sprint and drifts, as the flow noise across the open torpedo tubes would have been noticeable at ahead full. But that was okay, he had concluded. The North Carolina had improved outer door mechanisms, which opened much more quietly than those on other submarine classes. Now that they had found their adversary, it was time to make final preparations.

He turned to his Weapons Officer. “Open outer doors, tubes One and Two.”

Sonar Supervisor Tony DelGreco, underway on his eighteenth patrol, adjusted his headphones for the umpteenth time this watch. The headphones, with their uncomfortable earmuffs, were connected to the submarine’s spherical array sonar, providing an audible companion to the visual display in front of him. The Navy had succeeded in designing headphones that were universally unpleasant to wear, so the three sonar techs took turns wearing them in shifts on their six-hour watch, giving their ears a break in between their two hours of penance each watch.

First Class Petty Officer DelGreco was on his third sea tour aboard a ballistic missile submarine, or boomer. He had logged hundreds of watches in Trident Sonar Rooms during his eighteen patrols, and thousands of hours wearing the despised headphones. As DelGreco adjusted the headphones yet again, he cocked his head to one side, startled by an unusual sound. It was faint but unmistakable — metal grinding on metal. As he pondered the source of the sound and what type of machinery might produce it, he heard it again; the same slow, metallic grind. If he didn’t know better, he would have sworn it was a torpedo tube outer door opening. But it was lower pitched and smoother. Plus, they hadn’t received any water space advisories announcing the nearby passage of a submarine. One thing he was sure of, however, was that it wasn’t biologics. The sound came from something man-made.

Looking up at the sound velocity profile, DelGreco checked the temperature of the ocean from the surface down to the Kentucky’s depth. Since they held no contact, the noise must have traveled along a sound channel, trapped between a positive and negative temperature gradient, channeling the sound much farther than normal ocean conditions allowed. But there was a negative slope the whole way down, the water consistently cooling from the surface to the Kentucky’s depth. There was no sound channel.

Petty Officer Bob Cibelli caught the perplexed look on DelGreco’s face. “What’s up?”

“Mechanical transients. Sounded like a torpedo tube shutter door opening, but not quite. Take a listen.”

DelGreco rewound the digital recording, rubbing his ears as he handed the headphones to Cibelli. He hit Play, letting the junior technician listen.

“It’s different from the recordings in the trainers,” Cibelli agreed as he handed the headphones back to DelGreco. “Think we should inform the OOD?”

DelGreco mulled over whether they should bother the Officer of the Deck with what they had heard. The ocean was filled with hundreds of sounds they could never quite place.

“Naw,” DelGreco finally decided as he replaced the headphones around his ears. “Must be a trawler having a bad day somewhere.”

“Steady course north.”

“Very well, Pilot,” Gallagher replied.

The North Carolina had completed its latest maneuver, reversing course from the southern trajectory it had remained on for ten minutes, long enough to calculate a bearing rate to the contact and determine it was close. Much closer than Gallagher had expected. Their target was a quiet one indeed, truly on par with U.S. Trident submarines.

Gallagher had assumed the Conn when the North Carolina manned Battle Stations. Under routine operations, the submarine’s Officer of the Deck held both the Deck and the Conn; responsibility for the Deck meant overseeing the basic operation of the submarine, while the Conning Officer controlled the ship’s course, speed, and depth, and issued all tactical commands. These two functions were split during Battle Stations, the Deck Officer managing the ship’s routine evolutions while the Conning Officer led the submarine into battle.

The North Carolina’s towed array steadied, and reliable bearings began streaming into the Combat Control System. Slowly, the two fire control technicians and one junior officer began generating target solutions, adjusting parameters for course, speed, and range, constantly improving their solution. The XO, in charge of the Fire Control Tracking Party and responsible for determining the target’s solution within acceptable tolerances, hovered behind the three men as they refined their solutions.

They had held the target on three legs now — their original westward path, and on southern and northerly courses. Against a steady, unsuspecting contact, that would normally provide enough data for the operators and the Combat Control System algorithms to develop an adequate solution. The XO monitored all three combat control consoles, comparing the three solutions against each other as well as the automated result from the Combat Control System. For a given bearing rate or even several legs of data, there were multiple possible solutions for the target. How well the solutions tracked with each other as well as the raw sonar data on the screen was an indication of how solid their estimates were.

All three operators and the Combat Control System’s automated algorithm converged on a single solution for their contact, varying by only one hundred yards in range, a few degrees in course, and a fraction of a knot in speed.

The XO tapped one of the fire control techs on his shoulder. “Promote to Master.” The Fire Control technician complied, and the submarine’s geographic display updated with the Master solution to their target. Turning to the Captain behind him, the XO reported, “I have a firing solution.”

Gallagher announced loudly, “Firing Point Procedures, Sierra five-seven, tube One.”

A few minutes earlier, Commander Malone had returned to his stateroom, expecting to find the two offgoing watch officers waiting to report their relief. Every six hours, from the moment the submarine cast off the last mooring line until the ship returned to port, the offgoing Officer of the Deck and Engineering Officer of the Watch reported to the Commanding Officer what had transpired during their watch and the current conditions throughout the ship. Even if the Captain was asleep, the two officers would wake him to report their relief.

Rather than be awakened each night, Malone toured the ship, arriving back at his stateroom in time for the officers’ report. But tonight no one was waiting. The two officers must have had a second helping of midrats, or perhaps they were discussing some issue with one of the watchstanders on duty. Rather than wait, Malone decided to swing back through Control. The offgoing OOD was the Sonar Officer; perhaps he was tied up with an issue in the sonar shack.

A moment later, Malone was back in the Control Room, opening the door to Sonar. Three petty officers were in the darkened sonar shack — the lights were extinguished to aid in detecting the faint traces on their displays. Malone closed the door behind him to keep out the light.

Petty Officer DelGreco looked up from his display. “Evening, sir. What brings you back to Sonar tonight?”

“Have you seen Lieutenant Costa?”

“He came through a few minutes ago on his after-watch tour. It seemed like he was running a bit late.”

“Yes, it does seem that way,” Malone agreed. He glanced at the sonar displays; there were no automated trackers assigned. “Looks pretty dead out there.”

“Yes, sir,” DelGreco replied. “Not a single contact this watch.”

Malone was about to leave Sonar — the two watch officers would arrive at his stateroom momentarily — when DelGreco added, “We did hear an unusual mechanical transient awhile ago, sir. Cibelli and I both listened to it, but couldn’t place it. Do you want to take a listen?”

“Sure,” Malone replied.

DelGreco handed Commander Malone the headphones and pulled up the recording.

Commander Gallagher stood patiently between the sonar and combat control consoles, waiting for the three reports required before the North Carolina could launch its torpedo. It would take less than a minute, but after commencing Firing Point Procedures, the submarine’s Commanding Officer would wait for the XO to inform him the firing solution had been fed to the Weapon Control Console, the Weps to report the appropriate weapon presets had been selected and sent to the torpedo, and the Navigator to reply that the submarine was prepared for potential counterfire. At that point, Gallagher would give the order to launch one of the North Carolina’s two MK 48 Mod 7 torpedoes, which at this range would be a sure hit. Even if the target alerted the instant the North Carolina fired, it was too close to successfully evade, and no decoy they could eject into the water would fool their new Mod 7 torpedo.

Gallagher looked up as the lights in Control flickered. The Electrical Operator in Maneuvering had apparently just split the electrical buses, isolating the turbine generators from the motor generators and the essential electrical loads they carried. A second later, the Engine Order Telegraph, normally controlled by the pilot, shifted to all stop. The explanation came across the 7-MC a moment later.

“Conn, Maneuvering. Reactor scram.”

Gallagher stared at his XO in disbelief. The reactor had been instantaneously shut down by the reactor plant’s protection circuitry, driving the control rods to the bottom of the core in less than a millisecond. In twenty years aboard nuclear-powered submarines, not once had he experienced an unexpected scram. They trained for the fault constantly — verifying watchstanders knew the appropriate actions — but Gallagher had never seen it occur outside of a training exercise. The core was no longer generating heat. And without heat, there was no steam for the submarine’s turbine generators or main engines.

The North Carolina had just lost propulsion and was now coasting to a stop as she cut across their target’s path eight thousand yards ahead. Without propulsion and the ability to evade a counterfired torpedo, they were a sitting duck. Once their target detected the North Carolina’s torpedo launch, it would return fire down the line of bearing of the incoming torpedo, right down their throat. Without propulsion, the North Carolina would not engage its target unless it was fired upon first.

Even worse, the North Carolina was coasting to a stop directly in front of their target. Their target would close to within a thousand yards, and the North Carolina would almost surely be detected. If the reactor wasn’t back up before then, they would be in trouble. Deep trouble.

If the watch section in the Engine Room quickly identified and corrected the fault, they could commence an emergency reactor restart, bringing the reactor back into the power range in a matter of minutes. If not, they’d be defenseless, unable to evade an incoming torpedo. They might take out their target, but there would be no hope for the North Carolina. Everything hinged on whether they could quickly identify and correct the problem.

The report over the 7-MC answered that essential question. “Conn, Maneuvering. Dropped control rod. No fault found. Unable to commence Fast Recovery Start-up.”

Gallagher shook his head, his disbelief turning to frustration.

Un-fucking-believable.

They had been only seconds away from launching their MK 48 torpedo. Had the reactor stayed up a minute longer, their target would have been sunk. But now, without propulsion, the North Carolina could not fire. After the Officer of the Deck acknowledged Maneuvering’s report over the 7-MC, Gallagher terminated the pending torpedo launch. “Check Fire. Continue tracking Sierra five-seven.”

He debated whether to stay in Control or head aft to assess the situation. The ship was at Battle Stations and his place was in Control, guiding them as they engaged in combat. But they could not prosecute the target until the reactor returned to power. And the North Carolina itself would soon be in peril if the fast-attack submarine was still powerless when their target passed by.

They had to get the reactor back up. And fast.

Gallagher decided to head aft, transferring the Conn back to the Officer of the Deck. Before departing Control, he ordered his OOD, “Inform me immediately if the target maneuvers.”

Malone pressed the headphones against his ears as DelGreco played the recording. The sonar techs were right — it was definitely a mechanical transient. He had never heard this type of sound before, but his instinct told him there was something important about it. That DelGreco had thought enough about the unusual sound to bring it to his attention meant there was potentially something there; something worth investigating.

“Good ears, DelGreco,” Malone said as he handed the headphones back. “Tell you what. We’ll slow down to five knots and see if we hear anything else. Sound like a plan?”

“Sure does, Captain.” DelGreco placed the headphones around his ears, returning his attention to the sonar displays.

Malone stepped out of the sonar shack and approached Tom, sitting on the Conn. “Sonar picked up some unusual mechanical transients. Slow to ahead one-third so we can perform a better search.”

Tom acknowledged the Captain’s order, then relayed it to the Helm. Gradually, the Kentucky slowed to five knots, reducing the flow noise of the water passing over the hull and past the towed array hydrophones.

As Gallagher approached the watertight door leading into the Reactor Compartment passageway, two reactor technicians assigned to the Forward Damage Control Team during Battle Stations raced past him. Grabbing the handle above the door without slowing, they launched themselves through the hatch feetfirst on their way aft to join the rest of their division. Gallagher followed them through the RC passageway and into the Engine Room, where the machinist mates were busy shutting it down, securing the steam loads on the reactor plant to keep it hot.

Keeping the North Carolina’s reactor hot was imperative. In its simplest terms, the submarine’s reactor was just a sophisticated teakettle, generating the steam required to power the ship’s engines and electrical turbine generators. Keeping the reactor hot, conserving its stored energy, was an essential casualty response to an unexpected reactor shutdown. Unless the steam loads were quickly secured, within a few minutes the reactor would cool to the point where it could no longer generate steam, and without steam, the ship had no emergency propulsion.

The throttles were already shut, stopping the largest heat drain on the plant, but the two electrical turbine generators were still spinning, draining heat from the core. The steam-driven generators would stay operational, providing the ship with power until electrical loads were reduced low enough for the battery to take over. Throughout the submarine, the crew rigged the ship for Reduced Electrical Power, securing pumps, motors, and electronic consoles, crippling the fast-attack submarine even more than when the main engine throttles had been shut.

How long his submarine would remain crippled was the question. Gallagher stopped next to his Engineer, standing between two rows of cabinets containing the computerized reactor control circuitry. The indicator light for rod 2–3 glowed an ominous red, and the Engineer quickly informed Gallagher they had been unable to relatch the wayward rod. The Reactor Controls Chief and two RC Division petty officers were huddled around a time domain reflectometer, which sent light pulses down electrical cables and measured the time it took for the light to travel to the end and reflect back. Cables ran from the TDR to the Control Rod Drive Motor cabinet.

The chief looked up. “There’s a break in the wiring between the rod control cabinet and the reactor core, at the fifty-foot point.” Laying a schematic on top of the TDR, the chief traced his finger along the diagram. “Which puts the break right here. Directly on top of the reactor core, where it connects to the rod latching mechanism.”

The Engineer exchanged glances with Gallagher as the Reactor Controls Chief continued. “We’re going to have to enter the Reactor Compartment to fix it, if it’s repairable at all. We won’t know until we get in there. The only other option we have is to bring the reactor back up with the rod still on the bottom, but we’ll be limited to thirty percent power.”

Gallagher contemplated the chief’s suggestion. The inherent stability of the submarine’s nuclear reactor now worked against them. If the nuclear reaction in any part of the core increased or decreased, the rest of the core immediately compensated, maintaining overall core flux at an equilibrium level. With a rod on the bottom and the surrounding fuel cells shut down, the unaffected fuel cells would exceed their temperature limits if the crew tried to bring the reactor up to full power.

While the purpose of the reactor was to generate heat, it was vital the reactor be kept from getting too hot. It was protected by sophisticated automatic protection circuitry constantly monitoring the condition of the core, and also by the operating procedures the crew was trained to follow. If the guidelines were violated and the reactor operated outside its design parameters, the core could overheat. If the core overheated and the uranium melted through the fuel cells’ protective cladding and into the reactor cooling system, massive amounts of radiation would be released, overwhelming the primary and secondary radiation shields protecting the crew. And if the increasing temperature within the core wasn’t reversed by the reactor’s cooling systems, the ultimate catastrophe would occur — a complete core meltdown.

If they brought the reactor back up with a dropped rod, they would have to limit power to ensure the core didn’t overheat. Gallagher converted the 30 percent power to speed in his head; they would barely be able to achieve ahead standard. If they had to evade a torpedo, ahead standard wouldn’t cut it. The only way they could engage their target and survive was to complete the repair and restore the reactor to full power.

Eight minutes had already passed since the reactor scrammed, meaning their target would pass within a thousand yards in fifteen minutes. That wasn’t enough time.

As Gallagher weighed his options, the ICSAP circuit next to him activated. He picked up the handset. The OOD was on the other end; their target had maneuvered, slowing to five knots, and it would now be thirty minutes before their target crossed their path. Just enough time, perhaps, to complete the repair.

Gallagher turned to his Engineer. “Enter the Reactor Compartment.”

37

Joseph Radek, the Reactor Controls Division Chief, waited in the Reactor Compartment passageway, already sweating in the head-to-toe yellow anticontamination clothing he had hastily donned. Next to him, an engineering laboratory technician spun the hand wheel, the RC door creaking slowly inward in response. A blast of heat hit Chief Radek in the face as the door cracked open and the ELT paused, poking the suction tube connected to the portable air sampler into the RC to check for airborne radioactivity. As Radek waited for a report, he tried to hide his nervousness; neither he, nor anyone else aboard the North Carolina, had ever entered the Reactor Compartment at sea.

Entry into the RC was not allowed when the reactor was operating — the radiation level was too high. A nuclear-powered submarine never deliberately shut down its reactor at sea, except temporarily while simulating casualties or, in rare instances, like now, when repairs were required. The reactor had been shut down for only a few minutes, and the radioactive by-products of the nuclear reactions were still sizzling inside the core, emitting high levels of neutrons and gamma rays. Radek held his digital pocket dosimeter up to his eye to verify it had been set to zero; he could remain inside only twelve minutes before he exceeded his exposure limit.

Radek didn’t know which he feared more — the radiation or the heat. The North Carolina had been running at ahead flank for twenty-eight hours and intermittently at ahead full for the last four, the reactor generating an enormous amount of heat during that time. The air inside the Reactor Compartment was blisteringly hot, hovering at 160 degrees Fahrenheit. It would hopefully be a dry heat, Radek thought to himself to lighten the situation. But with his body sealed in yellow plastic along with rubber boots and gloves, only his face exposed, he figured he would soon know what a pork roast felt like in a Crock-Pot.

Standing next to Chief Radek, also dressed in the yellow protective clothing, was Mike Tell, his leading first class petty officer. The two men would enter the RC together, simultaneously disassembling the top of the control rod drive mechanism to allow access to the end of the cable run, quickly reassembling it after the repair to the wire underneath. If all went well, the whole process would last ten minutes, leaving fifteen minutes to restart the reactor and restore propulsion.

The ELT finished opening the door and locked it in place, stepping to the back of the Control Point, providing a path for Radek and Tell. Radek turned to the Control Point Watch, another ELT who controlled entry and exit from the RC. “Request permission to enter the Reactor Compartment.”

“Enter,” the ELT replied.

Radek took a deep breath and stepped inside.

It felt like he had entered a furnace; the heat was almost suffocating in its intensity. Radek paused, trying to acclimate himself to the scorching heat before he climbed the ladder to upper level, where the top of the reactor protruded through the deck. Petty Officer Tell joined him, likewise stunned by the stifling heat. Radek breathed alternately through his nose and his mouth, attempting to discern which was less uncomfortable, finally settling on the nose; his tongue dried almost instantly when he tried to breathe through his mouth.

Radek grabbed the metal rungs on the ladder, a small pouch of tools gripped in his right hand. The rubber gloves and shoes made the trip treacherous, his feet sometimes slipping off the thin rungs. He kept a firm grip on his bag of tools. Submarine sonars were sensitive, and a metal tool dropped onto a deck or bilge could be heard for miles, giving away their presence. He could feel the heat through his thick gloves, and when he was halfway up the ladder, the hot metal became uncomfortable to hold. By the time Radek reached upper level, breathing had become an almost impossible chore. As Tell finished climbing the ladder behind him, Radek moved toward the top of the reactor vessel, his eyes following the cable run where it penetrated the Reactor Compartment, splitting into the individual cables leading to the control rod drive mechanisms on top of the reactor.

The S9G reactor was surprisingly small considering the thirty megawatts of power it generated. Only ten feet in diameter and fourteen feet tall, it was extremely compact, even more so after factoring in the reactor vessel’s one-foot-thick Inconel steel walls. Inside, the vessel held enough fuel to power the North Carolina for its entire thirty-three-year life span. Clambering carefully onto the top of the reactor, Radek stopped along the edge by fuel cell 2–3, checking the cable tag to ensure he had selected the correct control rod. Tell joined him a second later, and the two men began disassembling the end of the cable. The disassembly was relatively straightforward, as would be the assembly after the wire was reconnected; the end of the cable was secured by two standard bolts, their nuts lockwired to prevent counterclockwise rotation, ensuring the two fasteners remained tight despite any vibration.

After cutting the lockwires, they quickly removed the bolts. As Radek pulled back the end of the protective metal sheath, exposing the wiring underneath, he froze. The frayed copper wiring had broken at the worst possible location, only a quarter inch out of the CRDM as it began its bend toward the combined cable run. It didn’t look long enough for the splice to hold.

Pulling a crimper from the tool bag, Radek decided to give it a try. With enough exposed wire, the splice was a simple, fifteen-second job. But with only a quarter inch of wire on one end, the splice would have to be held carefully in place. Compounding the process was the effort of handling the crimper itself. It was difficult enough wearing the bulky gloves, but his hands were sweating profusely, his fingers slipping inside the insulated rubber gloves. Operating the crimper correctly under these conditions, it seemed to Radek, would be like trying to pick up a marble with a baseball glove.

He slid the splice over the wire sticking up from the CRDM, then slid the crimper in place over the end. As Reactor Technician Chief Joseph Radek squeezed slowly, but firmly, the crimper slipped out of his hand. It bounced off the edge of the reactor vessel, ricocheted off the reactor piping, and landed in the bilge twenty feet below with a loud, resonating clank.

Inside the darkened Sonar Room, Petty Officer DelGreco’s head jerked up, the metallic transient echoing in his headphones. DelGreco picked up the 27-MC. “Conn, Sonar. Metallic transient, bearing two-four-zero.”

Tom acknowledged DelGreco’s report, and a moment later, Malone stuck his head inside the door. “What’ve you got?”

“Someone just dropped a tool. And it was close, too. Very clear.”

Malone processed DelGreco’s report. With no contacts on the sonar screens, it meant the transient had come from an undetected, submerged contact. And if they were close enough to hear a tool fall onto the deck but not pick up its broadband or narrowband noise signature, it could only be a high-end submarine. But there were no American subs in the vicinity according to the waterspace advisories. And the odds of crossing paths with a Russian submarine this far out in the middle of the Pacific Ocean were minuscule. It made no sense. But not much had made sense this patrol: Washington, D.C., destroyed, a nuclear launch order, the bizarre encounter with the 688s.

Malone turned to Tom, who was scrutinizing the sonar screens on the Conn. “Man Battle Stations Torpedo. Come left to course two-four-zero. Let’s find out what’s out there.”

Standing next to the Sonar Supervisor, Commander Gallagher cursed under his breath. Sonar had reported a loud mechanical transient coming from their own ship, and the Control Point had responded to the Sonar Supervisor’s query, confirming Chief Radek had indeed dropped the crimper into the bilge and was now in the process of retrieving it.

The helplessness of their situation was infuriating. Twenty minutes earlier, they had been the hunter, about to slay their unsuspecting prey. Now they were defenseless. If their adversary discovered them and attacked, the North Carolina was done for, their only consolation residing in the slim chance they could also sink their target with a lucky return fire. As Gallagher mulled over their unfortunate predicament, the situation took a turn for the worse.

“Conn, Sonar. Upshift in Doppler. Sierra five-seven has turned toward.”

Gallagher grabbed the Sonar Supervisor by the collar, his face twisting with emotion, unable to conceal his anger and frustration. “Pass the word throughout the ship. I want everyone to freeze where they are. No one moves a muscle until I give the word.”

Inside the Reactor Compartment, Chief Radek was climbing the ladder back to upper level, the crimper retrieved from the bilge and back in the tool bag in his hand, when he heard the Control Point yell through the RC doorway.

“Freeze! No one moves until the Captain gives the order!”

Radek stopped where he was, at the worst possible location, right beside the middle of the reactor vessel. As he waited, he imagined his insides cooking as if he were in a microwave oven, invisible neutrons and gamma rays passing through his body. The heat from the ladder seeped through his gloves, and he had no choice but to alternately let go with one hand, letting his glove cool in the 160-degree air before swapping hands, the gloves getting hotter with each iteration. After one of the swaps, he unclipped the pocket dosimeter from his collar and read the amount of radiation he’d received thus far.

Jesus.

More than he’d received in his entire time in the Navy. But then again, submarine reactors were extremely well shielded and he had never entered the Reactor Compartment only minutes after shutdown from high power. Sweat was dripping down his forehead into his eyes, but he had nothing to wipe his face with; the plastic anticontamination clothing was useless in this regard. So he occasionally shook his head from side to side, flinging the liquid from his face, the salt from his sweat stinging his eyes as he waited for the word to continue moving. As he shifted his grip on the ladder yet again, Radek wondered what was going to cook him first, the radiation or the heat.

In the North Carolina’s Control Room, the tension in the air was thick, but the conversations remained calm, subdued. The fire control technicians continued their target motion analysis, adjusting parameters until they had determined the target’s new course.

It had turned directly toward them, and was now less than two thousand yards away.

The Virginia-class submarine’s new Control Room layout, with the sonar consoles in Control rather than in a separate room like other U.S. submarines, offered Gallagher a clear view of the bright white trace off the North Carolina’s starboard beam, growing stronger by the minute. As the Executive Officer stood behind the combat control consoles in the frigid compartment, beads of sweat formed on his forehead. The XO cast frequent, expectant glances in Gallagher’s direction, waiting for the order to shoot. Gallagher knew what he was thinking. Maybe if they got off the first shot, they could surprise their target, and at such a close range, leave it with insufficient time to return fire.

But that was risky. Shoot first and almost guarantee mutual destruction, or sit tight and play the odds their target would somehow pass by without firing.

Gallagher decided to take the middle ground, calmly announcing, “Firing Point Procedures, Sierra five-seven, tube One.” He looked over at his XO. “But we will not shoot unless fired upon first.”

The fire control tech at the Weapon Launch Console sent the course, speed, and range of their target to their Mod 7 torpedo in tube One, along with applicable search presets, although just about any preset would have been okay in this situation — after a quick ninety-degree turn to the right after its launch, their torpedo would be staring directly at its target. It couldn’t miss.

Thirty seconds after Gallagher issued the order, the North Carolina was cocked and ready, a single button push away from launching its MK 48 torpedo.

Inside the sonar shack, Petty Officer DelGreco traced his finger along the narrowband frequency display. So far, they had picked up three transients. If there really was a contact out there, the first indication would appear on the narrowband display as the Kentucky’s sonar algorithms pulled the discrete tonals from the surrounding water. Now that they were at Battle Stations, the sonar shack was packed, the entire division jammed into the small room, each operator assigned a specific function, quietly conferring between themselves and with the Fire Control Party in the Control Room over their sound-powered phones.

Scanning his display, DelGreco keyed on an unusual patch of low-frequency noise. As he adjusted the analysis settings, three tonals rose from the background, each frequency clean and distinct, which could mean only one thing.

A burst of commotion to the left caught DelGreco’s attention. A faint white trace was burning in on the spherical array broadband display. A narrow, clean line, not the fuzzy traces produced by merchant ships. But what excited the Broadband Operator and the two techs beside him was that the contact was coming in at only one depth/elevation: zero degrees. DelGreco glanced at the sound velocity profile again, a steady negative slope, which would bend all sound downward as it traveled through the water. A trace burning in at the zero D/E in this kind of ocean environment meant the contact was close, inside one thousand yards, and at the same depth as the Kentucky. Worse, the contact was dead ahead.

DelGreco picked up the 27-MC mike. “Conn, Sonar. Hold a submerged contact, designated Sierra eight-five, bearing two-four-zero, inside one thousand yards, zero D/E!”

The contact was only five ship lengths away, dead ahead.

Collision was imminent.

Standing on the Conn, Malone responded instantly. “Helm, right hard rudder, steady course three-three-zero!”

The Helm twisted the yoke to the thirty-degree position, beginning the ninety-degree maneuver to the right. But the Kentucky was traveling at only five knots, and the 560-foot-long submarine turned slowly. Even so, as Malone and Tom stared at the broadband display on the Conn, the bearing to the contact began to change quickly. It was close indeed, well inside one thousand yards now. They had stumbled over a submerged contact in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. But what type of submarine? And what was it doing here?

Over the open mike, Malone requested the answer to his first question. “Sonar, Conn. Report classification.”

Inside Sonar, they were coming up empty. The frequencies didn’t match any of the submarine classes in the Kentucky’s sonar system. However, due to the high bearing rate, they could determine with relative ease that the contact was stationary.

“Sonar, Conn,” DelGreco announced over the 27-MC. “Sierra eight-five is dead in the water.”

Sonar’s report took Malone by surprise. Things were making even less sense now. If the contact was stationary, then it was almost assuredly not a submarine. Unless a submarine was hiding on the bottom — not a possibility since the water was one thousand fathoms deep — or executing a stop and drop tactic against an incoming torpedo, it would never voluntarily come to a dead stop in the middle of the ocean while engaging another. Without speed, its towed array would droop vertically, rendering it almost useless, and the submarine could not maneuver to determine the target solution or close to within weapons range.

If it wasn’t a submarine, what was it?

Crossing Control, Malone opened the door and poked his head into the crammed Sonar Room. The controlled chaos inside died down as the Captain conferred with the Sonar Chief and Sonar Supervisor. “What the hell is this thing?”

The two men were at a loss. But Petty Officer Cibelli piped up, “Maybe it’s an oceanographic survey instrument, collecting and transmitting ocean data. Suspended from a buoy on the surface.”

Malone tried to connect the dots: Transients. Machinery noises. Stationary.

Perhaps Cibelli was right, and it was an oceanographic sensor suspended underwater, the metallic clanks coming from an anchor chain connecting the sensor to a buoy as it bobbed on the surface. For the first time, Malone wished he had a traditional active sonar system aboard his ballistic missile submarine like the fast attacks. Just one ping, he thought, and they would know whether Sierra eight-five was three feet in diameter or three hundred, and that would go a long way toward resolving what lay out there.

As the contact drew down the Kentucky’s port side and began to open range, Malone decided they couldn’t possibly have stumbled across another submarine just sitting in the middle of the ocean. Whatever they had discovered was either oblivious of or ignoring the Kentucky’s presence as the ballistic missile submarine sped by. And that was very unsubmarinelike.

Malone returned to the Conn and called for everyone’s attention. “I do not believe Sierra eight-five is a submarine. We’re going to return to base course and increase speed to ahead two-thirds to catch back up with the center of our moving haven. However, just in case, we’ll remain at Battle Stations for the next thirty minutes.”

The Kentucky turned slowly back to course two-seven-zero, increasing speed to ten knots, leaving the mysterious Sierra eight-five behind.

Commander Gallagher entered the Reactor Compartment passageway just as Chief Radek stepped out of the RC into the Control Point. His face was beet red and he was drenched in sweat. Petty Officer Tell stood outside the Control Point under an air-conditioning vent, his anti-contamination hood removed, his hair wet from perspiration.

Chief Radek moved the radiac probe slowly over his anti-Cs, surveying his clothing for radioactive contamination as he briefed Commander Gallagher. “The break is too close to the latching mechanism, sir. There’s not enough wiring to properly crimp the ends together. We tried three times, but the connection won’t hold. To make the repair, we’ll have to disassemble the top of the latching mechanism, and we don’t have the tools or expertise required. I’m afraid we can’t relatch the dropped rod until we return to port and repairs are made.”

That wasn’t what Gallagher wanted to hear. With a dropped rod on the bottom of the core, they were limited to ahead standard, an insufficient speed to successfully engage in combat. Even worse, the North Carolina wouldn’t be allowed to operate for long with an uneven flux in the core. Once Naval Reactors was informed the dropped rod couldn’t be relatched, the ship would undoubtedly be ordered to return to port immediately for repair.

Gallagher picked up the ICSAP handset and called Radio, directing them to draft a message to COMSUBPAC and Naval Reactors, informing them of their condition.

After replacing the handset, he turned back to Chief Radek, praising him for his effort, regardless of the outcome. Gallagher regretted his outburst in Control with the Sonar Supervisor. His crew hadn’t failed him; his ship had. The whole situation was unbelievably frustrating. Before the reactor had scrammed, they had been less than a minute away from sinking their target. Now the North Carolina would limp home, a failure, for a lengthy and difficult control rod drive repair.

38

On the second floor of the COMSUBPAC building, Captain Murray Wilson waited alone in the admiral’s conference room, studying the Gadsden flag framed in a glass case hanging from the wall. Details about when the flag, named after Colonel Christopher Gadsden, with its symbolic American timber rattlesnake and Don’t Tread on Me warning, had arrived at COMSUBPAC and who had donated it, were a casualty of the frequent turnover in military commands. But rumor held that this was the very flag Colonel Gadsden had presented to the Continental Navy’s first commander in chief, Commodore Esek Hopkins, to serve as his personal standard on the Alfred, America’s first warship. It was also purported the flag had been run up the Alfred’s gaff by Hopkins’s first lieutenant, John Paul Jones himself.

As Wilson waited to update Admiral Stanbury on the North Carolina’s control rod casualty, he turned his attention from the Gadsden flag to the other side of the conference room, examining the eight-by-twelve-foot map of the world plastered to the wall. With the North Carolina out of action, Wilson believed COMSUBPAC was out of options. But then the experienced officer’s eyes and thoughts drifted toward the lower left portion of the map — and a potential solution to their dilemma materialized in his mind.

The door to the conference room opened and Admiral Stanbury entered. Wilson retrieved the North Carolina’s message from a folder under his arm and handed it to the admiral. A look of disgust worked across Stanbury’s face as he read the message, then he crumpled up the paper and tossed it across the room, bouncing it off the rim of the trash can in the corner.

“Any word yet from NAVSEA on a fix to our sonar systems?”

“No, sir. They’re still working it.”

Stanbury shook his head. “The North Carolina’s out of action, and the rest of our fast attacks are blind. Looks like we’ve run out of submarines.”

Wilson disagreed. The move would be unusual, but there was another option. Then he hesitated. He had already done enough, hadn’t he? He had done as Stanbury requested, sending their fast attacks after the Kentucky and establishing the antisubmarine barrier in front of Emerald. Was he really obliged to take this extra step? With their submarines out of play, the odds of the Kentucky surviving had gone way up. But then his thoughts went from the men aboard the submarine to the men, women, and children in Iran. Seventy million souls hung in the balance of his decision. Could he so easily dismiss their lives in favor of his son? Could he be that selfish?

“Wilson, what are you thinking?”

The admiral’s question pulled him from his thoughts, forcing him to make a decision. The Kentucky had to be stopped.

“Actually,” Wilson replied, “there is one other option, but we’ll need some pretty high approval and air transport. I can be at Hickam in an hour. Can you have a flight ready by then?”

“Sure,” Stanbury answered. “But what do you have in mind?”

“Australia.”

“Australia?” Stanbury’s eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed in understanding a moment later. “Yes…,” he said, turning toward the map, his eyes settling on the continent in the southern hemisphere. “Australia.”

39

A few minutes later, Wilson’s blue Ford Mustang turned onto a cracked concrete driveway in front of a squat one-level ranch house on Makalapa Drive, the main road passing through the senior officers’ quarters overlooking Pearl Harbor. As the sun set to the west, palm trees cast long shadows across the hood of his car, while to the east, clouds were forming on the slopes of Mount Tantalus as the warm, moist trade winds cooled during their climb up the steep mountain slope. As a captain in the Navy, Wilson could have afforded more elegant accommodations than the 1940s-era military housing. However, as he passed through the front door and walked across the uneven wood floor, passing walls with multiple coats of paint, he felt like he was treading on hallowed ground. It was a privilege to live in one of the houses that America’s World War II submarine commanders had called home.

Seventy years ago, Mush Morton, Dick O’Kane, Eugene Fluckey, and other commanding officers led their crews into battle from Pearl Harbor, returning home to their families and homes in Makalapa. Mush Morton himself, commanding officer of the Wahoo, had lived in the house Wilson lived in now, had slept in the very same bedroom, and had lain awake at night wondering if he would return to his wife and children the next time he led his crew to sea. After leading the Wahoo into the Sea of Japan on his fifth war patrol, Morton and his crew did not return home.

Unlike Mush Morton, Wilson had returned home this evening, passing through the narrow hallway and into his study. Stopping behind the desk that had been his father’s, he retrieved a case of electrical socket adapters from the top left drawer. As he placed the one for Australia in his briefcase, his eye caught the framed portrait of his family sitting on the corner of his desk. He picked up the picture, taken three years earlier, his son standing in the middle with his arms around his parents. Both Murray and Tom wore the summer white uniform of naval officers, the bright white clothing contrasting with the black silhouette of a submarine behind them.

His son had developed into quite the handsome young man, with his father’s build, square jawline, and dark eyes, but thankfully his mother’s nose. Smart, athletic, always the overachiever, he had never once disappointed his parents in anything that really mattered. As Wilson stared at the portrait of his family, he reflected on how immensely proud he and his wife were of their son.

“Where are you going?”

Claire leaned against the doorframe, examining him through smoky gray eyes that seemed to change color with the light, her face framed with short blond hair that curled inward just above her shoulders. Even though she was past the half-century mark, Wilson was convinced she looked as beautiful today as when they first met more than thirty years ago.

Wilson placed the portrait of his family back on the desk. “Australia, just for a few days.”

“Oh. Not long, then.”

Wilson nodded as he grabbed his briefcase off his desk and walked toward Claire, still leaning against the doorframe. “I’ve got to pack, then I’m off to Hickam. Military transport this time.” He avoided her gaze, afraid she would see right through him if their eyes met. But she gently grabbed his arm as he walked past, forcing him to stop. Placing her hand on his chin, she slowly pulled his head toward her.

“What’s wrong?”

He could see the concern in her eyes. After thirty years of marriage, she could read him like an open book. She knew he was struggling with what he’d been tasked to do.

“I can’t discuss it now, but we’ll talk when I get back.” He kissed Claire gently on her cheek. Wilson hesitated as he pulled back, wondering if he should tell her now, then decided against it. She would never understand, and it would only make things harder.

As Wilson headed down the hallway, he was already dreading his return trip home.

She would never forgive him.

40

As the clock approached 6 A.M., Lieutenant Tom Wilson, still on watch as Officer of the Deck, leaned over the chart table next to the Quartermaster. Even though it was early, the Nav was already up, also examining the navigation plot. The CO and XO were in Control as well, standing expectantly on the Conn while the Weapons Officer waited in Missile Control Center for the dual orders.

They had left Sierra eight-five behind four hours ago, no closer now to solving its mystery than they were then. The fire control techs had tracked the object until it faded from their sensors, verifying it remained stationary. Entries had been made in the Kentucky’s patrol report, and the object’s position and sound characteristics would be analyzed upon the submarine’s return to port. But now the officers in Control were focused on the Kentucky’s current position and subsequent actions required.

Satisfied the ship’s location had been correctly plotted and the Kentucky had exited its moving haven, Tom made the announcement. “Entering Sapphire.”

Malone picked up the 1-MC microphone. “Set condition Four-SQ. Initialize all missiles.”

The XO picked up the 21-MC, repeating the same order over a separate circuit. Missile Control Center would respond to strategic orders only when identical directives were given by both the ship’s Commanding Officer and its Executive Officer. The Weapons Officer acknowledged the order, his voice coming back over the 21-MC speaker. “Set condition Four-SQ. Initialize all missiles, Weapons aye.”

Throughout the Missile Compartment, teams of missile techs completed the steps required to bring the missiles online, making them ready for launch at a moment’s notice. The Weapons Officer monitored the progress from Missile Control Center, watching as the Missile Ready indicator lights on the Launch Control Panel turned from red to green.

After issuing their duplicate orders, Malone and the XO joined Tom and the Nav at the Quartermaster’s stand. Drawn on the chart were the Sapphire and Emerald operating areas, each represented by a large rectangular box covering more than a million square miles. On top of the navigation chart, the Nav placed an overlay showing the known ocean fronts and eddies. A second overlay, laid on top of the first, contained the ship’s projected track to Emerald, which hugged the outline of the features drawn on the overlay underneath.

Malone scrutinized the track the Navigator had laid out, verifying the most appropriate path to Emerald had been chosen, then signed the chart, followed by the XO.

As the XO finished reviewing the chart, the Weps approached. “Sir, all missiles have been initialized and condition Four-SQ is set. With the current target package assigned, we will be in launch range when we reach Emerald.”

Everyone turned back to the chart, with the ship’s projected track marked and labeled every six hours. The Nav answered the question in everyone’s mind.

“Four more days.”