Other countries might pursue the idea for a while and set it aside as too far out there, as not viable. But the U.S. wouldn’t make that mistake. They would understand its capability and its limitations, they would classify it above code-word clearance, and then they would figure out how to defend against the day someone else figured out the same thing.
The military was a proactive branch of government. Sticking their heads in the sand was just plain dumb. He was one of 28 men entrusted with half the deployed strategic nuclear deterrent, and dumb wasn’t in his vocabulary. He had a solid grounding in nuclear engineering and military history, well-learned tactical smarts and operational skills. The Navy would need to get ahead of this possibility as quickly as it could.
Mark parked in the Delta Pier lot. The USS Nevada needed his focus for the next few hours. Hand-over was a thousand details being coordinated at all levels of the boat, and he was the one who backed up his crew. Some of the classified materials regarding missile codes and launch packages were for his eyes only. His attention had to be on the hand-over, and he’d put it there for the next few hours. But he intended to get back to Gina before the day was over. They needed an agreement on how she’d proceed, whom she’d speak with, and he needed a word with the security personnel watching out for her. That security now wasn’t a courtesy but a national-security priority.
His job had taught him how to understand the important, urgent, and necessary, and cope when they collided. Get the Nevada safely turned over to the blue crew. Then see how he could help Gina. It was going to be a busier day than he had originally planned. He should have bought something with caffeine to go with that ice cream. He was tired down to his bones, and for a fleeting moment he wished she had told someone else. He sighed. Jeff’s sister.
She’d told the right guy.
4
Just before six a.m., the duty officer showed Commander Bishop into Rear Admiral Henry Hardman’s office. The head of Submarine Group 9, Hardman was the man responsible for every squadron, submarine, and submarine crew at Bangor.
“A good patrol, Bishop.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The rear admiral poured coffee, handed him a mug, and waved him to a chair. “I’m speaking at noon to Nevada gold. Something urgent enough you need to jump that schedule by six hours—you’ve got my attention. What do you need, Commander?” He returned to his desk and sat down.
Bishop was relieved to have this conversation sitting down. “You’re aware Gina Gray is in town?”
“I am. She asked for access to the acoustical lab to explore some sonar ideas. Toombs didn’t have details on what those ideas were. She’s not one to share details until she can put her hands around the substance of an idea was my perspective on it.”
“I’ve known her for a few years through her brother, Jeff Gray. I had a conversation with her last night.”
“You look . . .” Rear Admiral Hardman set down his coffee. “Why don’t you just tell me the bad news?”
“What if you could actively ping, and they couldn’t hear you?”
Hardman thought for a moment, then winced.
“I’m the first person she’s told. It made sense you should be the second to hear.”
“Appreciate that,” Hardman replied.
Bishop waited as Admiral Hardman thought it through. This was the man he trusted most in the Navy, the one who’d been his mentor and advisor as he worked toward becoming a ballistic missile submarine commander. The admiral had fought in combat when submarines were firing torpedoes at each other. He’d been at sea watching the USSR split back into individual countries. He’d seen underwater warfare tactics evolve. If there was one man able to capture the implications of Gina’s statement quickly and to its full effect, it was this man.
Hardman looked over at him. “She works alone?”
“Always has.”
“I was around when cross-sonar appeared as her Ph.D. thesis: What if two subs could cross-link sonar data and not be overheard? She hadn’t said a word to anyone. I think I was the fourth person to read the foundation documents for it. Jeff was selectively alerting people to what she’d figured out. She had it all in her mind—the algorithms, the data cherry-picking formula, the speeds that might be possible. We gave her the lab access she needed, and she built a functional scale model of it in the deep-water tank and had cross-sonar running in under a month. It worked without modification at sea trials two months after that. We put it operational in the field within a year and have been frustrating enemies and allies alike ever since.
“I’ve known for years she was going to drop another earth-shattering idea on us one day. What if you could actively ping, and they couldn’t hear you? Of everything I thought I might hear, I didn’t see that one coming.” He picked up his coffee mug, spun the liquid, finally looked over. “Until her brother is back onshore, you’ve got another job to do.”
“Figured as much, unless you want Toombs to take it from here.”
“She chose you to tell. She got into town less than two weeks ago. I gather she had the idea in mind, she just needed the data to test it against?”
“Appears that way. She didn’t offer details on how it works, just that it requires cross-sonar to be running. She was running a data set last night—the USS Ohio encounter with the Brit’s Triumph. Ohio was cross-linking sonar with the Michigan when it happened.”
“Okay.”
“She’s going to need a sea trial test to get the full data she needs to study. Two fast-attacks and a boomer, different sea conditions. At a guess probably the Molokai Ridge, the continental shelf, and maybe an arctic ice. Nothing is noisier than glacier ice cracking and crashing into the sea.”
“A month out, the USS Connecticut is wrapping up tests on an upgrade package for the MK48 torpedo,” Hardman said. “The Ohio will need a shakedown after refit. If the Nebraska flows out of the dry dock smoothly, it could be pushed a week on the deployment window. Sit down with the schedulers and look at the next few months, see what’s possible.” Hardman set aside the coffee.
“If this were anyone other than Gina Gray,” the man continued, “I’d say hand it off to the Undersea Warfare Center to schedule and plan a trial. But this is an idea we’re going to want to keep close to the vest—nothing written down that describes it, no whispered conversations, no allusions to the fact it’s out there. For now, just you and me, and when he’s back, Jeff. Ask her not to speak to anyone else. The word is you’re looking at testing an upgrade to cross-sonar, which will improve its speed. That will be sufficient for what you need to do.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Does she realize the danger in this idea?”
“She does, although I don’t think she fully appreciates all the implications yet.”
“As long as we can do it, and no one else can.”
“I hear you, sir,” Bishop said. He glanced at the time. He had to get back to the Nevada, and the admiral had someone waiting for him in the outer office. Bishop rose to his feet. “Security is around her, but it’s temporary. You might want to quietly see if it can be raised to national security asset without having to tell anyone why.”
“Done.” Hardman leaned back in his chair. “She hit us with cross-sonar when she was 20, and now this when she’s 30. I think I may want to retire before she hits 40.”
Bishop smiled, understanding the sentiment.
“Put me on a close update loop, Commander.”
“Yes, sir.” He returned the coffee mug to the used side of the service tray and headed toward the door.
“Bishop?”
He turned.
“Every military career has the odd kind of eddies and currents that can turn an officer into a flag officer—you’re in one now,” the admiral said. “SecNav will have this on his desk within hours of confirmation that it works.”
“I’m aware of that, sir,” Bishop replied. “I’m more concerned with how to buffer her, as the weight of the Navy is going to come hard af
ter that point, wanting to dissect her work.”
“For now, four people know. Let’s leave it at that and let her work.”
Bishop nodded his agreement. “Gold crew would like to present you with the Seaweed Trophy at noon,” he said.
Hardman laughed. “I’ve earned it. See you in six hours, Bishop.”
“Permission to come aboard?”
In the command-and-control center, Bishop leaned over to look up the ladder, recognizing the voice. “Permission granted.”
The Nevada’s blue crew commander, Nathan Irish, descended the ladder. “Good to have you back, Mark.”
“Thanks, Nathan. It was a busy deployment. Brits, Aussies, Chinese, and Russians were all showing their colors in the Pacific. We were dodging everybody on this patrol.”
Bishop’s XO entered the center from deeper in the sub. Bishop turned to hear Kingman’s update.
“Captain, weapons, operations, and admin have completed their hand-over. Engineering is in the process of taking the final reactor readings. Lieutenant Commander Mann and I are ready to do the walk-through and send gold crew topside.”
“Granted.” Bishop held out his hand. “Take yourself topside when you’re done and find your wife. I’ll see you at the pinning. Excellent patrol, XO.” There was a wealth of pride in those final words, and the handshake reflected it.
“Thank you, sir.”
Bishop glanced at Irish. “Come down to the stateroom, Nathan. I’ve got the update on the missiles for you.”
Men cleared ladders and moved to the side in the passageways to let them through as Mark Bishop and Nathan Irish headed down to the captain’s stateroom.
Bishop closed the door behind them. He motioned Nathan to take the desk chair. He spun the lock on the personal wall safe—there were three safes in the room—and pulled out his classified notes to give to Nathan. “Missile updates.”
While Nathan read, Bishop tugged up the bunk to get access to the storage below and confirm he had left behind no personal gear. He verbally gave Nathan the highlights of the report. “Tridents 9 and 11 need recertified, 21 has to be replaced because it has aged out, and there’s still a problem with tube 4. We cooked through an extra two canisters of nitrogen holding the pressure constant. They want to pull out the Trident, blast the missile tube with a shot of their special ‘creamy red’ to check the seals, then repressurize it empty. I’m thinking there is a hairline crack in the first locking seal. Tube 4 took that dropped ladder four patrols ago, which put a dent in the base casing, and I think this will flow back to that event.”
“We’re going to be at the Explosives Handling Wharf for days,” Nathan guessed. “Any problems with the repairs on the dome?”
“None, but I put on the schedule new photos of the hull to confirm the patch took the pressure without forming a cavity. We were never below 1,500 feet, so it wasn’t severely stressed.”
Bishop stretched himself out on the bunk and reached to carefully peel back the tape and take down his pictures and note card. “I moved the second deck power relay module up in priority on the TRIPER list, but odds are good there’s not going to be time to deal with it on this refit. It’s bound to fail at the most inopportune time. Once it goes, anything you need to divert forward of the missile bay has to be done manually. It’s got to be in the master board—everything else has been swapped or tested out.”
“That one’s a headache rather than a crisis.”
“Medical still needs new refrigeration. They’ve promised it will make this refit, but you’ll want to stay on top of that one. The cooks hate sharing their refrigeration with the blood supply.”
“Noted.”
“Those are the big items; the paper runs five pages for the small ones.” Bishop glanced over. “How’s blue crew?”
“Short by two. I lost my Jack of the Dust provision master to the USS Maine and my best radioman broke his leg last week. I’m backfilling with guys from the USS Kentucky. Blue crew is dreading the 18-hour days of refit more than they are the time away on patrol.”
“I hear you.” Bishop got up from the bunk, pulled out his wallet, and tucked the photos and note card inside it. The missile keys and the authentication cards would be checked by the commander of the Strategic Weapons Facility in—he looked at his watch—18 minutes, when the Nevada officially went off patrol. “Rear Admiral Bowen should be here soon. Anything I can answer before he arrives?”
“Start at the back of the boat and work your way forward. What’s the story behind the maintenance notes?”
Bishop talked through the maintenance they had done at sea. The boomers were aging, and everything had to eventually be swapped out for refurbished parts as a portion of the TRIPER program or else fixed in real time when it broke.
Knuckles rapped on the door at 10 minutes to the hour. “Permission to enter, Commander.”
“Granted.”
Rear Admiral Scott Bowen, Commander of the Strategic Weapons Facility Pacific, stepped into the stateroom carrying a briefcase. Bishop and Irish both came to attention. “At ease, gentlemen.” He set the briefcase on the desk and unlocked it. “Gold crew, your authentication cards, please.”
Bishop entered the access numbers on the red wall safe, opened the outer safe door, then spun a dial to enter the combination for the inner safe door. He removed a two-inch-high gray square box and used the commander’s key from around his neck to unlock the box. Inside were six rows of authentication cards, each card sealed inside a thin piece of shiny metal foil.
A machine at the National Security Agency generated a string of randomly arranged numbers and letters, printed the identical code on two cards, then foil-wrapped each card while it was still inside the machine—the generated sequence was never seen by a person. A number, stamped in white on each foil surface, indicated the two packets held the same contents.
One set of the authentication cards was placed in the captain’s safe the day before a boomer left for patrol. A matching set of the authentication cards would arrive at Strategic Command, with a subset beginning with the number one taken directly to the White House for the President’s Nuclear Briefcase—often called “the football”—carried by an Air Force officer everywhere the president went. A genuine Emergency Action Message from Strategic Command or directly from the president would begin with the number stamped in white on the foil, and the message would end with the string of numbers and letters found on the card inside that foil packet.
The Nevada blue crew commander, Nathan Irish, took an envelope from his pocket, slit the seal, and removed a sheet of paper that Bishop had signed three months before departure.
“The authentication keys not used during the patrol,” Bishop said. He read off numbers on the packets as Nathan checked the list. “The four keys that were used during the patrol,” Bishop added, taking out the opened foil packets, showing them to Nathan, and reading off the numbers.
“Verified, Commander,” Nathan confirmed.
Rear Admiral Bowen signed the sheet confirming the numbers and placed the gray case into his briefcase. “Nevada gold, your commander’s key.” Bishop handed over the key. “Now the missile keys.”
Bishop removed the ring of 24 missile keys from the safe. Rear Admiral Bowen took the keys, inserted them one at a time into a series of locks along the edge of a long narrow white case, turning each one. “Keys are verified.”
“Blue concurs,” Nathan said.
Rear Admiral Bowen placed the missile keys in the briefcase. The day before blue crew left on patrol, the missile keys, new authentication cards, a new commander’s key for a re-keyed gray box, and new safe combinations would all be given to Nathan Irish.
The foil-wrapped card used to authenticate a genuine presidential message and the 24 missile keys were two parts of the arming mechanism aboard the Nevada. In the missile control room safe—the combination known only to the chief weapons officer on board—was an enabling key that turned on the system. The final piece of the puzzle—t
he master firing trigger—was locked in another safe, and the only two people who knew that safe combination were the head of Strategic Command and the President of the United States.
Rear Admiral Bowen locked the briefcase and cuffed it to his wrist. “Thank you, gentlemen. USS Nevada is now off duty. May all her patrols be so quiet.” He left the stateroom, his job finished.
Bishop took a deep breath, let it out, and accepted that the job was done. He looked at Nathan. “I stand ready to be relieved of command,” Bishop said simply.
“I relieve you of command,” Nathan replied in kind.
They shook hands. “The boat is yours. Take good care of her, Nathan,” Bishop said.
“I’ll do my best, Mark.”
Irish picked up the phone’s receiver on the wall. “This is the captain. Sound Blue.”
The topside speaker gave the four whistles of blue crew assuming command.
Bishop shouldered his duffel bag and headed back through narrow corridors and up the ladders until he stepped out on the slopping deck of the USS Nevada just aft of the sail. More than 50 men could comfortably walk on the deck surface. Bishop glanced up at the sail rising a story above him, felt again how small he was compared to this submarine on which he served. Topside security had already changed over to blue crew personnel. Bishop walked across the ramp and off the boat that was no longer his to command.
“Lieutenant Junior Grade Greg Olson,” the master of ceremonies announced.
Bishop pinned the dolphins on Olson’s aquaflage uniform. “Congratulations, Lieutenant. You’ve earned the right to be called a submariner.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Ensign Richard Quail,” the master of ceremonies next announced.
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