The Trident Deception

45

A hazy, gray dawn clung to the horizon as a helicopter beat a steady path north across the vast emptiness of the Pacific Ocean. Inside the Sikorsky S-70B Seahawk, Murray Wilson stared out the passenger-side window, his eyes fixed on the dark ocean several hundred feet below. A stiff wind blew the cresting waves eastward, painting the watery blue canvas with thousands of frothy white specks. Not far above, a heavy blanket of steel-gray, moisture-laden clouds threatened to open up at any minute.

The weather had steadily deteriorated as Wilson traveled north toward his rendezvous with the HMAS Collins. Eighteen hours earlier, he had boarded the C-130J, still waiting at Pierce RAAF base, for a trip across the Australian continent to the northern tropical port of Darwin, where he transferred onto the Seahawk antisubmarine helicopter, its normal payload of three torpedoes replaced with long-range external fuel tanks. After refueling stops aboard the Anzac-class frigate HMAS Stuart and Adelaide-class frigate HMAS Newcastle, the helicopter was approaching the predetermined rendezvous point, a random spot in the Pacific Ocean.

A change in the beat of the helicopter’s rotors and the feeling of his seat falling out from under him announced the helicopter’s descent. A glance at the navigation display across from the pilot verified they had reached their destination. As Wilson peered through the window, searching the ocean below for the silhouette of a black submarine against the dark blue water, the stiff westerly wind buffeted the small helicopter plummeting from the sky. It was going to be one hell of a personnel transfer.

Eight hundred feet below, Commander Brett Humphreys stood in the Collins’s Bridge, scouring the dark gray sky for a sign of his friend’s arrival. The message from the Submarine FEG had not been specific, informing him only that a U.S. naval officer would transfer aboard with more detailed orders. However, a crew manifest change had been received a few hours later over the submarine broadcast, identifying the American officer as Captain Murray Wilson.

Three years earlier, Humphreys had been assigned as the Australian foreign exchange officer on COMSUBPAC staff, and he and Jodi had become close friends with Murray and Claire. Following his two-year tour, Humphreys returned home, taking command of the Collins. As he stared into the overcast skies, he wondered if Murray had finagled a boondoggle to see his good friend, but that didn’t jibe with the order to prepare for war patrol. Something was afoot.

Humphreys heard the faint roar of the Seahawk before he saw it. It took awhile for the gray helicopter to appear out of the haze as it descended, slowing to a hover fifty feet above the stationary submarine. The rhythmic beat of the helicopter blades pulsed in Humphreys’s ears, the downdraft rippling across the turbulent ocean surface in a circular pattern. As he waited for the two crewmen in the Seahawk cabin to lower their human cargo, a light rain began falling, and Humphreys pulled the hood of his foul-weather jacket over his head.

A moment later, the helicopter crew began lowering a man similarly dressed in foul-weather gear. The man swung from side to side in the strong wind, the gusts buffeting him as he descended. A small duffel bag hung from a lanyard attached to the cable, swaying in the wind a few feet below him. The Lookout grabbed it as it swung by and fed it to Humphreys, who pulled hard on the lanyard, guiding the man into the Bridge.

“Welcome aboard, Murray!” Humphreys shouted over the roar of the helicopter’s rotor as Wilson’s feet hit the deck.

“Good to see you again!” Wilson shook Humphrey’s hand.

Humphreys helped Wilson out of his harness and unhooked the duffel bag, then signaled the helicopter to retrieve its cable. The helicopter pulled up and away from the submarine, its cable swaying in the wind as it turned and headed south for its return trip home.

Wilson watched the helicopter disappear into the dark clouds, then followed Humphreys down the ladder into Control, where the Officer of the Watch turned slowly on the periscope.

“Rig the Bridge for Dive,” Humphreys ordered. “Pipe Diving Stations.”

The Officer of the Watch acknowledged, and the order to man diving stations reverberated throughout the submarine a moment later. A junior officer waiting nearby ascended into the Bridge to close the clamshells on top of the sail and secure the Bridge hatches.

“Come,” Humphreys said. “It looks like we’ve got a few things to discuss.”

As Wilson followed Humphreys down the center passageway of the Forward Compartment toward his friend’s stateroom, he realized there were two things about Australian submarines he was unfamiliar with. The first was the configuration of Control with its two periscopes — one designated the Search scope and the other the Attack scope — arranged in a fore-aft alignment rather than side by side like on American submarines. There was no separate Sonar Room, with the sonar consoles lining the starboard bulkhead next to the combat control consoles, further cramping a Control Room that was barely half the size of those on U.S. attack submarines. The Collins also had six bow-mounted torpedo tubes instead of the four carried by most U.S. submarines, the only exception being the three Seawolf-class with their eight tubes.

The second unfamiliar aspect of Australian submarines had just brushed past him in the narrow passageway; Chief Marine Technician Kimberly Durand had squeezed past Wilson on her way to the Weapon Stowage Compartment. The American Submarine Force had resisted change longer than the rest of the Navy, remaining the last bastion of an all-male service. Although those walls had come crumbling down in 2011 with the admittance of the first dozen female officers, Wilson and the vast majority of American submarine crews had never served with women at sea. The Australian men didn’t appear to notice how close their bodies came as they passed by women in the narrow passageways.

Wilson followed Humphreys into his stateroom, the quarters barely large enough for the two of them to sit. After shutting and locking his stateroom door, Humphreys turned to his American friend. “So what’s this all about?”

Unzipping his duffel bag, Wilson pulled out a sealed white envelope with Humphreys’s name written on the front in Commodore Lowe’s handwriting. Humphreys opened the envelope and retrieved a single-page directive. He read the letter, his eyes scanning from side to side, his eyes suddenly shooting up toward Murray. “You’re not serious?”

Wilson nodded. “We are.”

Humphreys read his instructions again. He looked up, slowly this time, the target’s familiar name registering in his eyes. “Which crew has the submarine?”

Wilson didn’t answer. He couldn’t at the moment. The words wouldn’t have come out, no matter how hard he tried.

46

Nestled against Oahu’s windward shore, protected from ocean swells by a barrier reef, lie the sheltered waters of Kaneohe Bay, offering perfect conditions for the growth of over forty patch and fringe reefs. Best seen from a high vantage point such as the Pali Lookout, the bay’s varying depths and bottom formations offer shimmering hues of ivory, teal, aquamarine, and violet. Inland of the scenic bay is the tranquil community of Kaneohe, just recently connected to the southern metropolitan cities by H-3, the intrastate highway that took thirty years to construct, its tunnels passing through the volcanic mountain ridges of the Koolau Range. North of the small community, occupying the entire three-thousand-acre Mokapu Peninsula, is Marine Corps Base, Hawaii — home to one of the U.S. Navy’s four Wings of P-3C antisubmarine patrol aircraft.

Four days earlier, the country’s three other P-3C wings had descended from the skies, joining Wing Two as the nation’s seventeen squadrons of P-3C antisubmarine aircraft converged on the Hawaiian island. This morning, at the edge of the base’s mile-and-a-half-long runway, Lieutenant Commander Scott Graef led his tactical team of four enlisted and one junior officer out of the Ready Room onto the white concrete tarmac. It wasn’t yet noon but it was already unusually hot for the northeast shore, as the normally reliable trade winds were absent. The heat shimmered off the runway as load crews readied the P-3Cs that had just returned from on station, refueling them and loading another contingent of sonobuoys.

One of the P-3Cs being readied was the one Graef had arrived on four days ago with the first of the VP-16 War Eagles aircraft from Jacksonville, Florida. It had taken an additional three days for the rest of his squadron to straggle in, and two aircraft had not arrived, breaking down along the way. As Graef stopped and scanned the busy Marine Corps base for the P-3C assigned to today’s mission, he shook his head at the state of the U.S. Navy’s antisubmarine patrol aircraft.

Thirty percent of VP-16’s aircraft were down hard, the maintenance crews unable to repair the fifty-plus-year-old aircraft. The replacement for the Orions, the P-8A Poseidon aircraft, had been delayed for over a decade by budget wranglers at the Pentagon, and the P-3Cs could barely support the mission they were assigned. Every American P-3C squadron throughout the world had converged on Kaneohe Bay in an effort to establish an antisubmarine barrier stretching hundreds of miles across the Pacific, and they were all in similar shape, their patched aircraft needing additional repairs as soon as they arrived.

An operable P-3C taxied to the runway in front of Graef, the next aircraft in the wheel of continuous rotation required to maintain the antisubmarine barrier. For every aircraft on patrol over its assigned station, two more were needed, one on its way out to relieve and another on its way back for refueling and a replacement crew. Luckily, the Wings had ample crews due to the number of down aircraft.

The supply of torpedoes was another matter. The bunkers at all twenty-three storage locations worldwide were empty, and the P-3C taking off was loaded out at 50 percent. Between the waterfronts on the Pacific and the P-3C squadrons converging on Hawaii, there simply weren’t enough torpedoes to go around.

The only good news was that Hawaii had just received a shipment of the Navy’s newest lightweight torpedo, the MK 54 MAKO Hybrid, equipped with a state-of-the-art guidance control section and new, sophisticated search algorithms. The decision had been made to spread the new MK 54s throughout the P-3Cs rather than concentrate them on a few aircraft, since there was no telling which crew would detect the enemy submarine. Each aircraft would have one of the MK 54 torpedoes aboard, giving them one shot at their target with the Navy’s most capable lightweight torpedo.

As the P-3C took off and a second Orion landed just seconds later, Lieutenant Pete Burwell, Graef’s Communicator, stopped beside him, shouting over the distinctive whirr of the P-3C propeller blades churning the air. “Sir, 203 is down hard. We’ve been reassigned to 305.”

Graef shook his head in disgust.

47

Even though the day was ending in the world above, the sun descending toward the horizon, the Kentucky’s cooks had just finished serving breakfast. The submarine remained on Greenwich mean time, and Section 3 had just assumed the morning watch, beginning another artificial day aboard the ballistic missile submarine.

Course 260. Speed 10. Depth 400.

Lieutenant Tom Wilson leaned against the Quartermaster’s stand, reviewing the entry into his log at the top of the hour, mentally noting the Kentucky had passed the halfway mark on its four-day transit through Sapphire. Since they’d left Sierra eight-five behind two days earlier, it had been quiet, the Kentucky gaining only an occasional merchant who strayed from the shipping lanes. But Tom had been surprised when he stopped in Sonar during his prewatch tour; the spherical and towed array displays were lit up like Christmas trees.

There were so many contacts to the west that Sonar couldn’t even begin to sort through them all, the contacts blending together into one large, amorphous blob, forming what looked like a single contact with a bearing spread of ninety degrees, growing slowly wider as the Kentucky approached. The first contact had appeared eight hours ago, its faint white trace materializing on the towed array. But now there were dozens of tracks, burning in brightly with clean, distinct tonals on the narrowband displays.

The contacts were warships.

Whose they were and what they were doing hadn’t yet been determined. Sonar was working on it and finally got a break as Tom stepped back on the Conn.

“Conn, Sonar. Active pings to the west. Classifying now.” A moment later, Sonar followed up. “We’ve got multiple SQS-53 and SQS-56 sonars out there. They’re ours, sir. Aegis-class destroyers and Perry-class frigates. Ping-steal range, thirty thousand yards.”

Malone arrived in Control a moment later; he’d obviously been listening to the 27-MC over the monitor in his stateroom. After examining the sonar display on the Conn, he turned to his Officer of the Deck. “What do you think?”

“Could be some sort of training exercise,” Tom replied. “We haven’t received any changes to our waterspace assignments — we own the water. They can’t possibly be prosecuting a submarine, because if they are, they could end up attacking us.”

Malone stepped off the Conn and stopped by the navigation chart, Tom joining him at his side. At thirty thousand yards, with a ninety-degree-wide swath, the contacts blocked their approach to Emerald. The two officers studied their predicament until Tom finally broke the silence.

“There’s no way to go around them, Captain. We don’t own the water north or south of Sapphire and Emerald, and even if we did, it would take us several days to go around. Looks like we’re going to have to go through them, sir.”

“I don’t see any other choice,” Malone agreed. “Rig ship for Ultra Quiet.”

48

The submarine hunter aircraft, call sign Eagle Zero-Five, circled above its station in the Pacific Ocean, into the final hour of its watch. Lieutenant Commander Scott Graef, seated in the forward port section of the cabin, took a break from monitoring his display and peered out the window next to him. To the north, he thought he could see another of the P-3Cs forming a line stretching hundreds of miles across the ocean. The entire Pacific Surface Fleet, it seemed, formed a similar line fifteen miles to the west. Graef, Eagle Zero-Five’s Tactical Coordinator, or TACCO, was in charge of the personnel in the cabin of the P-3C, supervising efforts to locate the submarine expected to transit through their barrier anytime now.

Returning his attention to his duties, Graef pressed his hands to his headphones, listening closely to the reports being transmitted over the aircraft’s Internal Communication System by the rest of his watch section. Two enlisted watchstanders, designated Sensor One and Sensor Two, monitored the acoustic sensor screens on the consoles further aft in the P-3C, reviewing the data from the sonobuoy field floating in the ocean below. Sensor Three scanned the aircraft’s periscope detection radar and its Magnetic Anomaly Detection displays, the latter searching for the magnetic field created by a submarine’s metal hull as it traveled beneath the waves. He also monitored the P-3C’s infrared camera as it swept the ocean surface, searching for the hot exhaust from a snorkel mast, in case the submarine was running its diesel generator. Lieutenant Pete Burwell, the crew’s Communicator and the only other officer in the cabin, sat at the NavCom station across from Graef.

They had been on station almost eight hours now, searching for a sign of the target submarine. Graef began to resign himself to another watch without a sniff of the enemy submarine when one of the three pilots transmitted over ICS, his voice emanating from Graef’s earphones. “TACCO, Flight. Are you penguins ready for a ride home?”

Graef unconsciously glanced at the patch above his left breast pocket. The operators in the back of the P-3C all wore warfare insignias on their uniforms, an emblem bearing wings. But instead of flying the P-3Cs, they operated the sophisticated sonar and fire control equipment essential to their mission. They had wings, but couldn’t fly.

Just like penguins.

A P-3C pilot had coined the term for the backseat operators decades ago, and the name stuck. In return, the penguins developed a nickname for their fellow pilots who flew them back and forth from their stations. Compared to other Navy pilots, who flew hazardous missions engaging air and surface targets, the P-3C pilots were barely more than bus drivers. A monkey could do their job.

Graef pressed the foot pedal under his workstation, activating the comm circuit. “Flight, TACCO. You monkeys run out of bananas?”

“Something like that,” the pilot replied. “Running low on gas. Approaching Go Home Fuel. Tiger One-Eight is inbound high to relieve us. Prepare to turn over the buoy field.”

Lieutenant Burwell, monitoring the conversation between the TACCO and the pilot, gave Graef a thumbs-up, then held up his index finger on one hand, and all five fingers on the other.

“We’re already on it,” Graef replied. “We’ll be ready to swap in fifteen minutes.”

To the south, one of the VP-8 Tiger crews, flying a P-3C with its tail number ending in eighteen, was inbound high and would arrive above Eagle Zero-Five, the two aircraft circling as they completed turnover of the sonobuoy field. As Lieutenant Burwell prepared to send the frequencies of their sonobuoys to his counterpart on Tiger One-Eight, Graef’s thoughts and eyes drifted down to one of the torpedoes in the P-3C’s bomb bay, visible through the forward view port in the aircraft’s deck.

The MK 54 torpedo was almost a foot longer than the other torpedoes the aircraft carried, its extended guidance and control section packed with advanced new algorithms and microprocessors ten thousand times more powerful than the 1980s vintage MK 46 torpedo it was replacing. Once the MK 54 entered the water, it would energize the sonar in its nose and begin its search, and Graef knew that if they dropped their new weapon close enough, their target would not get away. But only if they detected their target in the first place. As Graef wondered if any of the P-3Cs would locate the submarine, one of the Sensor Operators broke onto the comm circuit.

“TACCO, Sensor Two. Have a contact, buoy three-four, bearing zero-nine-seven, up Doppler. Contact is approaching Distro Field from the east, classified POSSUB high. Request box sonobuoy pattern built off buoy three-four.”

Sensor Two had detected a contact with a high probability it was a submarine, approaching buoy 34 on a bearing of 097. But the sonobuoys in the Distributed Field were spaced so far apart that they held the contact on only one buoy, so they needed to drop a more closely spaced sonobuoy field near buoy 34 to determine the contact’s position, course, and speed. Graef turned his attention to his display, noting the estimated locations of the sonobuoys they had dropped in the widely spaced Distributed Field four hours ago. Unfortunately, the buoys below were no longer where they’d been dropped, floating on the surface of the water, drifting in the ocean currents. They needed to know exactly where buoy 34 was now, so they could lay the box sonobuoy field around it.

“Flight, TACCO. Request mark on top, buoy three-four.”

The junior of the three pilots, sitting between the Patrol Plane Commander and the second most senior pilot, acknowledged Graef’s request, then dialed up channel 34 on the RF receiver. The needle on the direction finder in front of the Patrol Plane Commander pegged to the right, medium signal strength. The PPC twisted the yoke in the direction of the needle, banking Eagle Zero-Five to starboard, continuing the turn until the needle steadied straight up. The signal strength increased gradually as the P-3C sped toward buoy 34 below them.

“TACCO, Flight. Stand by to mark.”

The PPC monitored the buoy’s signal strength, waiting for the power to peak and then fall off, indicating the aircraft had just flown directly over the buoy.

“Now, now, NOW!” the PPC called out as the signal strength peaked.

Graef logged the buoy location into the tactical system, then waited as the contact algorithms recalculated the target’s bearing using buoy 34’s updated position. Meanwhile, Lieutenant Burwell quickly calculated the required positions of the new buoys in the box pattern built off buoy 34.

“TACCO, NavCom. All expendable drop points calculated.”

After reviewing the coordinates for the new buoy field, Graef sent the coordinates to the cockpit. “Flight, TACCO. Here’s your expendable points.”

A moment later, the PPC replied, “TACCO, Flight. Coming left to Expendable One.”

Eagle Zero-Five turned to the north and decreased in altitude as the crew prepared to drop their closely spaced field of sonobuoys. One by one, the buoys left the P-3C, splashing into the ocean below.

“Conn, Sonar! Close aboard splashes, port and starboard sides! Flyover, south to north!”

Tom acknowledged Sonar’s report, then punched up the Captain’s stateroom on the 27-MC, requesting his presence on the Conn.

Malone arrived in Control seconds later. “What have you got?”

“Flyover with close aboard splashes. Looks like a sonobuoy field is being laid around us. First pass on a south-north axis.”

Another announcement over the 27-MC interrupted Tom’s report. “Conn, Sonar. Second flyby. Another series of splashes just ahead.”

“Man Battle Stations Torpedo,” Malone ordered. “This is the Captain. I have the Conn.”

Tom passed the order to man Battle Stations on the 1-MC, followed by another order to Sonar. “Send triangulation ranges from the spherical and towed arrays to combat control.”

Although the Kentucky’s sonar systems could normally determine only a target’s bearing, if the contacts were extremely close, such as the buoys being dropped around them, their range could be estimated by triangulating the bearings from the spherical and towed array sonars. As Malone and Tom peered over the fire control technician’s shoulder, the buoys began appearing on the geographic display. Two rows formed, each with four sonobuoys, both rows almost perpendicular to the Kentucky’s course. They were passing through the first row now, two buoys to starboard and two buoys to port, with the second row of buoys two thousand yards ahead.

“Conn, Sonar. Third row of buoys being dropped.”

A third row of contacts appeared on the screen, beyond the first two rows. The Kentucky was passing right through the sonobuoy field, and the only thing they could do until they exited was maximize their distance from each buoy, splitting the distance equally between them.

“Helm, come right to course two-nine-zero,” Malone ordered. “Ahead one-third.”

The Kentucky turned slightly right, threading its way between the second row of sonobuoys, slowing to reduce the signature from its main engines and propeller.

In Control, the XO and another twenty men hurriedly donned their sound-powered phone headsets, energizing the dormant combat control consoles and plot displays. Battle Stations Torpedo brought the ship to a combat footing as the crew prepared to fight and defend itself. But against an aircraft dropping sonobuoys, there was nothing to attack. Their sole aim now was to protect themselves if the aircraft dropped a torpedo, speeding away from the splash point as rapidly as possible while they attempted to fool the torpedo with decoys. But if one was dropped close enough and detected the Kentucky before they could launch countermeasures, the torpedo would home to detonation, blasting a hole through the submarine’s pressure hull.

Thankfully, Tom thought to himself, there was nothing to worry about. There were very few countries with antisubmarine aircraft, and only one country that could operate this far into the open ocean. The aircraft was obviously a United States P-3C.

The Kentucky was safe.

“Target confirmed. Submerged contact.”

Graef acknowledged Sensor Two’s report, then adjusted the GEN track on his screen so it agreed with the data from the two buoys that held the contact. A submarine in the middle of a buoy field this tightly packed would normally have been held on at least four buoys, but this submarine was a quiet one indeed, held on only two. They’d been lucky to pick up the submarine in the first place on the widely spaced Distro Field, the submarine traveling almost directly under buoy 34 as it floated on the surface of the water, listening silently above. Now that they held the contact, the next step was to determine the target’s solution.

The contact parameters on the screen in front of Graef turned from amber to green, indicating the automated algorithms agreed with the TACCO’s solution for the target’s course, speed, and position. Graef pressed Accept Solution on his console, then activated his comm circuit. “All stations, TACCO. Set Battle Condition One.”

Each member of the crew, from the pilots to the Sensor Operators, pulled out their weapon release checklists, methodically accomplishing each step.

“Flight, TACCO,” Graef spoke into his headset. “We are Weapons Red and Free.”

Graef continued his calculations, determining the Splash Point for their torpedo, placing it in an optimum position to detect the submarine once the torpedo entered the water and began its search. After identifying the Splash Point, he calculated the Release Point where the P-3C would drop the torpedo from its bomb bay, so the torpedo’s ballistic trajectory as it fell toward the water resulted in an impact at the Splash Point. That took only a few seconds.

“Flight, TACCO. Inputting Fly-To coordinates.”

Eagle Zero-Five tilted to starboard, and Graef felt his stomach in his throat as the P-3C dove downward, descending to launch altitude. The pilot’s voice crackled in Graef’s ears a moment later. “TACCO, Flight. Inbound to Fly-To Point.”

“Flight, TACCO. Give me bomb bay open, Master Arm On.”

The aircraft shuddered as the bomb bay doors swung slowly open, clearing the way for the release of one of its lightweight torpedoes. Graef selected Bay One, containing Eagle Zero-Five’s only MK 54. He held his hand over the Storage Release button located on the upper portion of his console, watching the aircraft’s icon on his display slowly approach the Weapon Release Point.

An amber light illuminated on Graef’s console.

“Flight, TACCO. I have a Kill Ready light. Stand by for weapon release.”

“TACCO, Flight. Standing by.”

Graef had pressed Storage Release dozens of times before. But they had all been training missions, dropping exercise torpedoes that circled around friendly submarines, not a warshot torpedo that would sink the target below them, killing everyone aboard. As his fingers rested on the cold metal switch, he imagined what it would be like on board the submarine in a few minutes when the torpedo detonated and the unforgiving ocean flooded in, dragging the ship and its crew to the bottom. Fortunately, Graef didn’t have time to dwell on his thoughts, as Eagle Zero-Five approached within one hundred yards of the Release Point, just seconds away.

“Flight, TACCO. Weapon away — now, now, NOW!”

Graef pressed the Storage Release button for Bay One, and watched the MK 54 torpedo disappear from the bomb bay window.

Beneath the P-3C as it sped overhead, the Kentucky continued to the west at ahead one-third as the last watch station reported in; the ship was at Battle Stations Torpedo. Tom had just been relieved as Officer of the Deck and was headed to the Forward Damage Control Party in Crew’s Mess when Sonar’s report came over the 27-MC.

“Conn, Sonar. Additional splash, bearing two-one-zero.” But before Malone could acknowledge, Sonar announced, “Torpedo in the water! Bearing two-one-zero!”

“Ahead flank!” Malone yelled. “Helm, right full rudder, steady course three-zero-zero!”

The Helm swung the rudder yoke to right full and twisted the Engine Order Telegraph to ahead flank. The Kentucky’s powerful main engines sprang to life, churning the ship’s propeller rapidly through the water, accelerating the Kentucky toward its new course. But an eighteen-thousand-ton submarine did not accelerate rapidly.

“Launch countermeasure!” Malone ordered.

A torpedo decoy was launched from the ship, which began transmitting sonar pulses that matched the sonar returns bouncing off the Kentucky’s hull.

“Conn, Sonar. The torpedo is in a circular search pattern on the port beam.”

“What type of torpedo is it?” Malone asked.

“Still analyzing, sir.” A few seconds later, Sonar added, “It’s a Mark 54!”

Malone pounded his fist on top of the Fusion Plot. “Those idiots!”

The Kentucky had been attacked by its own navy. And they hadn’t dropped just any torpedo. Malone had participated in the operational testing of the MK 54 and knew firsthand how capable it was. The MK 54 was the most sophisticated lightweight torpedo in the world. If it was dropped close enough to the submarine, it’d find it, and no type or amount of countermeasures could fool it.

It also couldn’t be outrun unless it was dropped at maximum range and the submarine was already at high speed. But the Kentucky was just now approaching twenty knots, and the MK 54 was finishing its first search pattern. Malone checked the range estimate to the torpedo being generated by combat control.

Six hundred yards.

The Kentucky didn’t have a chance.

Seemingly in response to his thoughts, Sonar reported, “Torpedo has turned toward. Approaching on intercept course.”

The MK 54 had detected the Kentucky and had already completed a rough calculation of the submarine’s course and speed. It was now heading toward them — but not directly. It was aiming ahead, for a point the submarine and torpedo would arrive at simultaneously.

“Torpedo is range gating! Torpedo’s homing!”

The torpedo’s classification algorithms had completed their cross-checks, determining for certain the target it was pursuing was in fact a submarine and not a decoy. It now increased the rate of its sonar pings in an effort to more accurately determine the range to its target, so that an updated intercept course could be calculated.

“One minute to impact!” Sonar reported.

Malone searched for a way out of their predicament. The Kentucky was approaching ahead flank now in a futile attempt to outrun the speedy torpedo, capable of forty-plus knots. Malone knew the MK 54 had no weakness.

Except, maybe …

“All back emergency!” Malone yelled. “Dive, make your depth seven hundred feet!”

As the Helm ordered up the new bell, the Throttleman in Maneuvering spun the ahead throttles shut and whipped open the astern throttles. Malone felt tremors through the ship’s deck as steam was channeled into the main engines in the opposite direction from which the turbine was spinning, placing incredible strain on the turbine blades, quickly decelerating the ship’s propeller. The screw finally stopped spinning forward, then began swirling through the water in reverse, gradually slowing the Kentucky.

“What are you doing!” the XO asked.

“We’re stopping.”

“Is the 54 susceptible to low Doppler?” The XO knew most torpedoes were better at detecting faster targets than slower ones, just as the human eye is drawn to moving objects. He assumed the MK 54 was susceptible to this phenomenon, and that Malone had ordered back emergency in an attempt to stop the ship, hoping the torpedo would lose track of the Kentucky. But Malone knew that slowing the ship wouldn’t cause it to lose track.

As torpedoes went, the MK 54 Lightweight Torpedo had no weakness.

Except …

It was a lightweight torpedo.

“Forty-five seconds to impact!”

The thirteen-inch-diameter lightweight torpedoes carried by surface ships, helicopters, and P-3C aircraft were much smaller than the heavyweight torpedoes carried by submarines. With a warhead only one-sixth the size of a heavyweight, the lightweight torpedo would inflict much less damage. It could blow the propeller to pieces if it detonated at the stern of the submarine, and punch a hole through the ship’s pressure hull.

But the upper half of the Kentucky’s Missile Compartment was covered in a superstructure, or second exterior hull. The missile tubes were taller than the width of the submarine, and the top of the tubes protruded above the pressure hull. For hydrodynamic purposes, a second, nonpressure hull, called the superstructure, was welded from the sides of the submarine over the top of the tubes to create a smooth outer shell.

“Thirty seconds to impact!”

The Kentucky wasn’t going to fool or outrun the MK 54 torpedo. Their only hope was to control where it hit. Malone had to keep it away from the Engine Room if they had any hope of surviving. Continuing to evade at ahead flank would generate a tail-chase geometry with the torpedo closing from astern, exactly what Malone wanted to avoid. He wanted the torpedo to hit the submarine in the Missile Compartment, so he’d ordered back emergency, slowing the ship and forcing the torpedo to adjust course and close from a beam trajectory.

“Twenty seconds to impact!”

But not only did Malone want the torpedo to hit the Missile Compartment, he wanted the torpedo to hit the submarine where it had a superstructure, in effect a double hull. So he ordered the submarine deeper, forcing the torpedo to close the Kentucky from above. Hopefully, the ship’s superstructure would absorb enough of the explosion to prevent the torpedo from breaching the pressure hull. If he failed, and the torpedo blasted a hole into the ship, the Kentucky would sink. Even with only one of its compartments flooded, the submarine wouldn’t have enough buoyancy, even with an Emergency Main Ballast Tank Blow, to reach the surface.

“Ten seconds to impact!”

The torpedo’s pings could now be heard through the Kentucky’s hull. Silence gripped Control except for the periodic sonar echoes, which steadily increased in intensity as the torpedo closed the remaining one hundred yards.

All around Control, the crew braced themselves for the impending explosion.

Sensor One and Sensor Two jerked their headphones from their ears as the explosion, transmitted from the sonobuoys floating in the ocean, blasted from each earpiece. The sonar displays on the aircraft blanked out, the sonobuoy sensors saturated by the reverberation in the water.

Lieutenant Burwell turned toward Graef, a wide grin on his face. “We got ’em, sir.”

A second later, the relieving P-3C aircraft broke in on the TACCO’s circuit. “Eagle Zero-Five, this is Tiger One-Eight. Looks like we got here a few minutes too late.”

“Sure did,” Graef said flatly. “That sub never had a chance. We dropped the 54 practically on top of it.”

“Congratulations. We’re envious over here.”

Graef didn’t reply. His thoughts returned to the submarine crew and the explosion that had undoubtedly killed them, destroying most of the P-3C’s sonobuoys in the process. “There’s not much left to turn over,” he said. “You’ll have to drop a new field and listen for hull breakup.”

“That’s what we figured. We’re already calculating expendable points. We’ve got the station now. See you back home.”

Eagle Zero-Five turned slowly to the south, returning to Kaneohe Bay. Next to Graef, Lieutenant Burwell had already relayed the good news back to Wing Two headquarters.

49

The Kentucky jolted violently to starboard as the deafening sound of the explosion roared through Control. Seconds later, the submarine’s Flooding Alarm activated, followed by a frantic report over the ship’s 4-MC emergency communication circuit.

“Flooding in Missile Compartment Upper Level, port side!”

Malone responded instantly. “Dive, blow all variable ballast tanks! Helm, all stop!”

Taken aback by the Captain’s unusual order, the Diving Officer replied, “Sir, request speed!”

Submarines could carry several hundred tons of extra weight, in this case from flooding, by traveling through the water with an up angle on the ship. But the Kentucky was now dead in the water after its back emergency bell, and the Captain had ordered all stop. The Diving Officer wanted to put speed back on the ship so it could carry extra weight, buying valuable time until the flooding was under control. If it could be brought under control.

“No,” Malone said. “We’re going to sink or swim at all stop. If we increase speed, we’ll be detected by the sonobuoys again. And I don’t want to deal with a second torpedo.”

The Diving Officer called out the ship’s depth, an urgent request for speed still written on his face. “Eight hundred feet and sinking!”

Stationed next to the Diving Officer at the ship’s Ballast Control Panel, the Chief of the Watch announced, “Blowing all variable ballast tanks. Cross-connecting the trim pump with the drain system. Trim and drain pumps at max RPM!”

The Kentucky had powerful trim and drain pumps, one connected to the drain system, pumping the bilges overboard during routine operations, and the other connected to the trim system, pumping water fore and aft between the variable ballast tanks. In an emergency, the trim pump could be connected to the drain system, with each of the eight-foot-tall pumps taking suction on the bilges, pumping the water overboard. But both were centrifugal pumps, their output declining as the external water pressure rose. As the Kentucky sank deeper, the rate at which water poured into the submarine increased, and the faster it needed to be pumped overboard. But the exact opposite occurred; the two pumps discharged less and less water, resulting in a continuously deteriorating situation.

“Exceeding Test Depth!”

Their only chance of survival was to stop the flooding before they reached Crush Depth.

“Get the easy ones first!” Tom yelled to the rest of the damage control personnel in Missile Compartment Upper Level as he led four teams up through the maze of piping, attempting to reach the source of the flooding. Luckily, the submarine’s superstructure had absorbed most of the torpedo’s explosion, and the pressure hull hadn’t been punctured. But the flood and drain pipes leading to the top of Missile Tubes Ten and Twelve had been damaged, and water sprayed from several valve bodies and cracked pipes. Tom wiped his eyes as the spray ricocheted off the bulkhead and other pipes, sending water in every direction. The sound from the roaring water was so loud that team members could barely hear each other, even yelling at the top of their lungs.

The damage control teams worked their way carefully toward the flooding, ensuring no part of their body crossed the path of the water jetting out from the damaged valves and piping. At Test Depth, the water sprayed out with enough force to cut clean through an arm or a leg, severing both flesh and bone. Several of the petty officers frantically shut every valve within reach, hoping one of them would isolate the fractured valves and piping from sea pressure.

Water sprayed from four main areas, and the flooding stopped in three of them once the nearby valves were shut. But one section of cracked piping couldn’t be isolated. Water continued to spray from the foot-long crack, deluging Tom and the rest of the damage control team, quickly filling the Missile Compartment bilge. Water had already reached the deck plates in Missile Compartment Lower Level and was rising rapidly. As Tom tried to reach the cracked piping, the water jetting out of the crack cut off the approach path. They couldn’t get to the damaged pipe.

“Three hundred feet to Crush Depth,” the Diving Officer announced, counting down the distance until the sea pressure collapsed the Kentucky’s steel hull like an empty soda can.

Malone approached the navigation chart. “Take a sounding.”

The Quartermaster energized the Fathometer, sending one ping down toward the ocean bottom. “Five hundred fathoms, sir.” He reported the reading with despair in his eyes.

Another three thousand feet beneath the keel.

There was no hope the Kentucky would hit bottom before her hull collapsed. Malone checked the chart for any submerged mountain peaks nearby that might save them, but the ocean bottom was flat, offering no hope of reprieve.

The Diving Officer announced, “Two hundred feet from Crush Depth and holding. All variable ballast tanks have been blown dry.”

The Kentucky had stopped descending.

Malone checked the depth gauge on the Ship Control Panel. The needle had finally halted now that three of the four sources of flooding had been secured. But the rate of flooding had been offset by the variable ballast tanks being emptied, and they had just been blown dry. Now it was up to the trim and drain pumps — could they pump the water out faster than it entered?

Everyone in Control stared at the needle that would portend their fate, wondering if the flooding was now within the capacity of the trim and drain pumps.

The needle started moving again.

The Kentucky continued to sink.

The missile tech next to Tom yelled, “We can’t reach it!”

Tom and Petty Officer Roger Tryon climbed down from the piping, landing on the upper-level deck. Tom wiped the water from his eyes again, examining the tangled maze of piping above them. “What if we circle around to tube Fourteen, then cut across?”

Tryon studied the piping, then nodded. Tom led the way down the starboard side of the Missile Compartment and back up to tube Fourteen, then climbed into the overhead, followed by Tryon, damage control kit in hand. After reaching the top of tube Fourteen, the two men clambered over equipment and piping, carefully approaching the cracked piping run. Water sprayed up from a foot-long crack in the top of the pipe, bouncing off the hull before cascading down in a drenching torrent. The two men supported themselves awkwardly, propping themselves on the slippery piping just inboard of the crack.

“Hand me a clamp!” Tom yelled. But Tryon couldn’t hear him over the deafening roar.

Tom repeated his request, this time overenunciating so Tryon could read his lips. “Clamp!”

Tryon squinted his eyes, estimating the pipe diameter, then opened the kit and retrieved one of the clamps, a curved piece of metal that could be placed over the fissure, mating perfectly to the curvature of the cracked piping. Tom placed the clamp on the piping, away from the crack, checking for proper size, but the clamp diameter was too small. He yelled for a larger clamp, and Tryon handed him another one. This one fit perfectly.

Applying the clamp was a difficult task, as it couldn’t be simply placed over top of the crack, because the tremendous force of the water would blow it right out of Tom’s hands. The clamp had to be applied onto the piping, away from the crack, held loosely in place with several metal bands, then slowly rotated over the crack and tightened securely.

Tom held the clamp on the piping, a foot inboard from the crack, as Tryon wrapped three strands of metal banding around the pipe and clamp, partially securing it in place.

“Ready?” Tom yelled.

Tryon nodded.

Tom and Tryon shoved the clamp toward the crack, with the clamp under the piping instead of over the top, where it was cracked. Then they rotated the clamp toward the fissure, but it stopped moving as soon as the edge made contact with the wall of water jetting out from the crack. Tryon pulled a mallet from the damage control kit and handed it to Tom, who tried to rotate the clamp over the crack by hammering against the clamp’s edge. But the force of the water was too strong, resisting Tom’s best efforts to shove the clamp over the crack.

Tryon pulled a second mallet from the kit, shifting his weight on the pipe he was perched on so he had a clear swing toward the clamp. Tom held three fingers up, then retracted one, then another. When he retracted the last finger, Tom and Petty Officer Tryon hammered together against the edge of the clamp, trying to force it to rotate over the crack.

The clamp moved a fraction of an inch, covering part of the fissure. The water now sprayed away from them as it hit the underside of the clamp and jetted out the side. Tom and Tryon repeated the procedure, but this time it didn’t move. The water pressure on the underside of the clamp was just too great. They tried again with the same result. No matter how hard they hammered and how synchronized their effort, the clamp refused to rotate and seal the flooding.

“One hundred feet to Crush Depth!”

Malone’s eyes moved from the analog depth gauge on the Ship Control Panel, the needle continuing its slow clockwise movement, to the digital depth meter above the Quartermaster’s stand, hoping the digital meter would report a more favorable reading. But the red numbers on the digital gauge agreed with its analog cousin, rapidly counting up as the ship’s depth increased.

No one spoke in Control, the only sound being the trim and drain pump flowmeters clicking off the gallons discharged overboard. Malone tried to assess the rate at which the Kentucky was sinking, estimating how much longer before they reached Crush Depth, where the pressure hull would crumple inward under the intense sea pressure.

They had less than a minute left.

50

The early morning light filtered into Christine’s office through partially drawn blinds, the rising sun falling across her desk in thin strips of light. She sat motionless in her chair, staring straight ahead, her hand still resting on the handset to her STE. The news from SecDef Williams had turned her stomach queasy; she wondered what the men aboard the Kentucky had thought and felt as the cold water rushed in on them.

Her STE had bleeped as she entered her office at 7 A.M., and Williams had informed her the Kentucky had almost assuredly been sunk by a P-3C aircraft. The torpedo detonation had been confirmed, and although the submarine hull’s breakup had not been detected, that was understandable given that most of the sonobuoys had been destroyed by the explosion. The P-3Cs and surface ships would remain in place in the unlikely event the Kentucky survived. The official assessment, however, was that the Kentucky had been sunk.

Christine rose from her desk and, after a short walk down the hallway, knocked on the Oval Office doors, entering after the president’s acknowledgment. Hardison was seated across from the president’s desk, and the two men halted their conversation after noticing the ashen look on her face. They waited in silence as Christine took her seat beside the chief of staff.

“Mr. President.” Christine tried not to betray the emotion she felt. “It looks like we sank the Kentucky. A P-3C dropped a torpedo on a submarine approaching Emerald and confirmed its explosion.”

“Yes!” Hardison pumped his fist by his side.

The president stared at his chief of staff. “We just killed a hundred and sixty men serving our country. And you’re thrilled?”

Hardison’s exuberance faded. “I apologize, sir. But there was so much at stake. The loss of life is unfortunate, but the alternative was too ghastly to imagine. A hundred and sixty lives versus seventy million. It had to be done.”

“Are we certain we sank her?” The president turned back to Christine, a haunted look in his eyes.

“It’s possible she survived, but unlikely. We’re waiting for a report of hull breakup noises from our permanent SOSUS arrays on the ocean floor. Then we’ll know for sure. Also,” Christine added, “Williams informed me that NAVSEA has concluded they can’t patch their fast-attack sonar systems over the radio broadcast. They’ll have to return to port for a complete software reload.”

“It doesn’t matter now anyway,” Hardison said. “We don’t need our fast attacks anymore.”

“Let’s hope so,” Christine said sourly, “because if the Kentucky survived and makes it past the P-3Cs and Surface Fleet, there’s nothing to stop them from launching.”

“Don’t be such a pessimist. We sank her. Now there’re a few loose ends we need to take care of.”

“Meaning what?” The conversation Brackman had overheard — Hardison plotting to eliminate her ex-husband — was still fresh in her mind.

There was a slight hesitation before Hardison replied. “Meaning the cover story for the sinking of the Kentucky. What were you thinking?”

You know exactly what I was thinking.

Now that the Kentucky had been sunk, Hardison would move aggressively to ensure this issue was permanently concealed, eliminating any remaining threat to the administration. Even if that meant killing Hendricks.

“Nothing,” Christine replied coolly, turning to the president. “Is there anything else, sir?”

“No, Christine. That’ll be all.”

Christine stood, her eyes lingering on Hardison for a few seconds before she left, sending him a subtle warning: Make even the slightest attempt to harm her ex-husband, and she would bring him down. He’d made enough enemies in his thirty years in politics, and she enough friends, to find a way. She could tell her look was not lost on Hardison.

He met her stare until she turned and left.

51

“It’s not working! We can’t stop the flooding!”

Four hours before Christine received the call in her office, Tom Wilson had given up hope of stopping the flooding in Missile Compartment Upper Level. The water was jetting from the cracked piping with too much force. Tom and Petty Officer Tryon’s efforts to hammer the clamp over the crack had failed.

In Control, Commander Malone stared at the depth gauge on the Ship Control Panel as the Kentucky sank toward Crush Depth. Aside from the clicking of the trim and drain pump flowmeters, it was eerily silent in the Control Room. They had one hundred feet to Crush Depth. At the Ballast Control Panel, the Chief of the Watch eyed the Emergency Blow levers.

Malone debated whether to Emergency Blow. An Emergency Blow — even a temporary one to burp air into their ballast tanks — would give away their position and result in another torpedo sent their way. And another. Their only real hope of survival was to stop the flooding without an Emergency Blow. But they were running out of time.

As Tom gave up hope of stopping the flooding, he got an idea.

“Back off the clamp!” Tom yelled.

“What?” Tryon asked, his eyes wide in surprise.

“Back off the clamp!” Tom didn’t have time to explain. He started hammering the opposite edge of the clamp, taking care not to let his hand pass through the water jetting through the crack.

Tryon hammered along with Tom, and the clamp was knocked loose. Tom pulled the clamp back, then repositioned it under only half of the crack. Then he started to rotate the clamp over the crack again.

“There’s too much pressure,” Tom shouted over the roar of the inrushing water, “so we’re going to cover only half of the crack, and use two clamps.”

Tryon nodded his understanding.

The clamp hit the edge of the water jetting from the cracked pipe and stopped. Tom and Tryon readied their mallets. Tom held up three fingers, then retracted one, then another. When he retracted the last finger, the two men hammered the edge of the clamp. The clamp moved a fraction of an inch, covering part of the fissure. They repeated the procedure, and this time it continued moving over the fissure. Two more hammerings and the clamp was positioned directly over the crack. But the clamp was still loose, and water was spraying out under it in every direction.

Tryon pulled a tool from the damage control bag and tightened the center metal band wrapped around the pipe and clamp. Then he tightened the two outer bands, cinching the clamp firmly against the pipe. Half of the leak was sealed.

As Tryon tightened the metal bands, Tom took a matching clamp and measured off the required metal banding to hold the clamp in place. Tryon cut off three pieces, and the second clamp was soon held loosely in place beneath the second half of the cracked piping. Tom and Tryon repeated the process, and the second clamp was quickly in place.

The flooding stopped.

The Chief of the Watch relayed the report from Damage Control Central. “The flooding is stopped!”

There was a collective sigh in Control, but not one Malone shared. His eyes shot to the depth gauge.

They were still sinking.

The Kentucky had taken on too much water during the flooding and was negatively buoyant, and would continue to sink until the trim and drain pumps had pumped off enough water. Unfortunately, the Kentucky didn’t have much real estate to work with.

They had fifty feet to Crush Depth.

It didn’t take long for the crew to realize their predicament.

Forty feet to Crush Depth.

All eyes turned to the Captain.

Malone evaluated his options. He still believed an Emergency Blow was dangerous. Obviously, a hull implosion was worse.

Thirty feet to Crush Depth.

But Crush Depth was a paper-and-pencil calculation, and there was always a safety margin. Plus, he believed there would be warnings of hull implosion, indicators the Kentucky was reaching the breaking point. Piping systems would fail. Hull plates would deform. He would know. If necessary, he would take the submarine to Crush Depth. And beyond.

Twenty feet to Crush Depth.

However, if he was wrong and the hull imploded without warning, the Kentucky and her crew would end up on the bottom of the ocean.

Ten feet to Crush Depth.

The trim and drain pump flowmeters were slowing, pumping less water as the ocean pressure increased. Everyone in Control stared at the depth gauge. The needle hovered ten feet above Crush Depth. It hung there, motionless, for what seemed like forever.

The depth gauge ticked downward.

“Captain,” the Diving Officer announced, “the ship is at Crush Depth.”

The watchstanders looked around at each other.

The Kentucky’s hull began to groan. Low rumbling moans. The crew cringed as each ominous sound echoed in Control.

The ship continued to sink.

Ten feet below Crush Depth.

The Chief of the Watch announced, “Captain, Maneuvering reports a leak from Main Seawater Cooling.”

Twenty feet below Crush Depth.

Malone acknowledged the report and turned on the 2-JV speaker on the Conn, listening as reports began to stream in from Engine Room watchstanders. Seawater piping systems were beginning to fail, springing leaks at the piping joints.

Thirty feet below Crush Depth.

They had run out of time.

Malone had no choice now.

He turned to the Ship Control Panel, examining ship’s depth one last time.

Forty feet below Crush Depth.

The needle was steady.

The trim and drain pump flowmeters clicked away.

He would give it one more chance. If the Kentucky continued to sink, he would blow.

Finally, the needle moved.

It ticked upward.

Malone breathed a sigh of relief.

The Kentucky began rising toward the surface.

52

The tension in Control was palpable, hanging in the air like the mist that still permeated the Missile Compartment. Five hours later, Tom stood around the navigation table with the CO, XO, and department heads as they examined the location on the chart where they had been hit by the MK 54 torpedo. The Kentucky floated motionless two hundred feet below the surface, while the missile techs and Auxiliary Division mechanics made permanent repairs to the damaged piping and valves in the Missile Compartment. Above, the P-3Cs continued circling to the east while the surface ship barrier remained to the west.

Malone and the rest of the crew had congratulated Tom and Tryon for saving the ship, but Tom felt uncomfortable with the praise. He had simply done his job, the same way anyone would have done. The congratulations had been short-lived, however, when Sonar detected fresh splashes, denoting a new sonobuoy field being laid. The Kentucky had proceeded west at two knots, the propeller barely turning, slowly pushing the submarine out from under the sonobuoys. Once safely away, they had stood down from Battle Stations and come shallow for more permanent repairs.

As the missile techs and auxiliary machinists wrapped up their efforts in Missile Compartment, Tom had joined the CO, XO, and department heads around the navigation chart to discuss their options. They were in no-man’s-land, stuck between the P-3Cs and the surface ships. Malone had chosen to continue heading west as they snuck out from under the sonobuoys, placing the Kentucky between the noisy surface ships and the sensitive sonobuoys. As the buoys looked west, the submarine’s tonals were masked by the surface ships behind them.

The Kentucky was safe. For the moment.

At least until she headed east, back under the P-3C sonobuoy fields, or west, under the surface ships. Which direction she would head was never really a question, though; the Kentucky had received a launch order, and she would continue west, toward Emerald and launch range. However, now that they knew the P-3Cs and presumably the surface ships were Weapons Free in water the submarine owned, the crew could plan accordingly. Even so, the situation raised more questions than answers.

“Why the hell did they shoot at us?” the Weps asked.

“They didn’t know they were shooting at us,” the XO replied. “It’s obvious there’s something else going on out here — that our conventional forces are involved in some sort of engagement.”

“They should not have been Weapons Free in water we owned.” The Nav reinforced the Weps’s question. “The P-3C should never have been authorized to launch a torpedo in the first place.”

“If they even know we own the water,” the XO explained. “Not even fast-attack submarines are told what water ballistic missile submarines own. Only the N9 shop back in Pearl knows which operating areas have been assigned to Tridents. And there’s no telling what kind of coordination is occurring between our strategic and conventional forces right now. I bet it’s chaotic as hell up there.”

“I think the XO’s right,” Malone said. “COMSUBPAC sent several 688s into our moving haven during our transit to Sapphire to make sure there were no other submarines nearby. And now the P-3Cs and surface ships are prosecuting submarines. That means there’s a threat out here somewhere, and we need to be alert for it.”

“Speaking of threats,” the Nav added, pointing to the displays on the ship’s combat control consoles, “we still have to pass through the surface ship barrier.”

Tom looked up at the submarine’s sonar and combat control displays, the picture to the west a jumble of contacts, impossible to sort out.

“We could transmit a message, asking COMSUBPAC to clear a lane for us,” the Weps suggested.

The XO shot Lieutenant Pete Manning a disapproving glance. “Our protocols are clear. You of all people should know we cannot transmit after we’ve received a launch order.”

“To hell with protocols,” the Weps spat back. “We almost got sunk by one of our own P-3Cs. And now we have to travel underneath surface ships and their helicopters, which’ll no doubt drop another torpedo if they detect us. We need to transmit a message to COMSUBPAC asking for their help.”

“I don’t advise it,” the Nav said, this time agreeing with the XO. “This close to surface ships and aircraft, there’s a high probability our transmission would be detected. And these guys appear to be in a shoot-first-ask-questions-later mood. It’s likely they’ll send another torpedo our way as soon as they detect a radio transmission from a submerged contact.”

Malone ended the discussion. “We will not transmit this close to surface ship and air contacts. I’m not going to risk getting another torpedo rammed down our throat. We’ll take our chances transiting under the surface ships. We’ve trained for this, and now that we know they mean business, we won’t be caught off guard.” Malone looked at the ship’s clock above the Quartermaster’s stand. “Two more days before we launch, gentlemen, and one last task — pass through this ASW barrier.”

Malone turned to the Weps. “Speaking of launching, we need to determine the extent of damage to our strategic launch systems. Run the system through its paces. The XO and I will get us past the surface ships.”

The Weps tersely acknowledged the Captain’s order, then left Control.

“Now let’s put the ship back into a fighting posture,” Malone announced. “Officer of the Deck, man Battle Stations Torpedo silently.”

Moments later, as the submarine was brought to full manning again, Malone assumed the Conn and examined the sound velocity profile above the Ship Control Panel. There was a moderate thermal layer just below the ocean’s surface. Taking the ship’s height into account, Malone ordered the Kentucky’s keel to an optimal depth while they transited under the surface warships, hiding in the shadow zone beneath the layer.

“Dive, make your depth three hundred feet. Helm, ahead two-thirds. Left ten degree rudder, steady course two-six-five.”

Tom joined Malone at the front of the Conn as the Kentucky began to pick up speed, the deck pitching downward.