Undetected

by Dee Henderson

  Bishop would have straightened, but he forced himself not to move from his perch, to simply nod. “You’ll miss him.”

  “He’s nice company,” she replied. He thought she sounded a bit cautious.

  He raised one eyebrow. “What just passed through your mind?”

  She shook her head. “Are you heading home?”

  “I am. I just swung by to see if I could talk you into wrapping it up for the day. Jeff has called me twice to say you need to be badgered to get out of this office. I noticed he has given up on calling you.”

  She smiled. “Guilty. Give me the long side of 20 minutes and I’ll be done with what I want to get finished for the first pass. The idea works. Everything from this point on is simply polish to answer the question of what specifically gives the algorithms trouble.”

  “I’ll go let your security know you’re finishing up so they can pull the server card for you when you’re ready.”

  “I’d appreciate that, Mark.”

  Bishop got into his car, set his soda in the cup holder. Daniel Field was heading to Connecticut for five weeks. It was an unexpected opening. He thought about the situation as he watched Gina’s security walk her to the sedan they were using to chauffer her around.

  By the time Daniel left for Groton, Gina would have spent enough time with the man to have formed a solid impression. If she was looking at Daniel Field as the answer to her hopes and dreams, Mark would back off. But if there was a gap there, some maneuvering room, a soft opening, he had five weeks while Daniel was away to find out if there was something possible for him with Gina. If he did nothing, he would lose her for good—to Daniel Field or another man like him. He didn’t want that to happen, but neither did he want to play with this woman’s heart. She deserved better. But he’d like to find out if a future with her was an option.

  Getting this woman to see him as more than a friend of her brother’s would not be simple. She knew him as Jeff’s friend, Melinda’s husband, commander of the USS Nevada. He’d measure the success of the next few weeks by the amount of time he was able to spend with her. He needed to add to that list of how she saw him.

  He wasn’t going to come at her directly with an invitation to a movie and dinner. She no doubt would get flustered, come up with reasons to decline—she was seeing Daniel, she was living here only temporarily, she was getting over a broken relationship, there was too large of an age gap—whatever the reasons she would offer him as a polite way to say no, it would complicate things. He didn’t plan to offer her that opening, not until she was at least comfortable with him.

  It would be good for her morale to know that two men thought she was worth their time and attention. Nothing would help her recover from the bruised emotions Kevin had caused more than to realize she was liked by two guys. He didn’t mind that idea at all. But he wasn’t going to ask her to choose between himself and Daniel, because at the moment, she’d choose Daniel. Mark would work first on changing what she knew about him. Then he’d tell her he was seriously interested. It was a plan, one he could work with.

  He followed the security car with Gina through the Bangor base and onto Highway 3 heading south. He’d decided to restart his social life, and he realized he’d already done so in a rather unexpected way.

  Gina Gray. Gina B . . . No, he wouldn’t go there, not yet.

  He watched the security car turn off toward Jeff’s condo, and he headed on toward his own home. The odds were slim that there was any hope for him, but he had worked on small hope before. Until there was an engagement ring on her finger, there was still a chance.

  The ocean tank was full. Bishop eyed it with some well-deserved caution. His XO was 12 feet below him, leaning into the open hatch of the compartment butting up against the tank. “What have they built for us today, Kingman?” Bishop asked his XO.

  “A torpedo room.”

  “This is going to be interesting. Who’s up for this training session?”

  “The weapons group, and level three and four flood-suppression teams.”

  The torpedo room mockup was part of a real sub, decommissioned, cut into sections and turned into full-size training compartments. They were going to face actual flooding today. A metal plate was holding back the ocean tank water. When people were in place for the drill, that metal plate would lift, a not-yet-announced problem with a hatch or a pipe or the hull would occur, and water would rush into the submarine compartment just as it would if the sub were out at sea. Only here, if the team learning how to combat the flooding got into trouble, the metal plate could be lowered in place and the water would recede.

  Bishop had endured flooding in the missile bay when a missile tube failed to hold its seal, in the sonar dome when an accident had breached the hull, and in the command-and-control center when a ballast tank had failed. It had been a while since he’d fought flooding in the torpedo room.

  The door to the adjoining teaching wing of the building opened. His XO met up with him on the observation level while more than 50 guys—a third of the gold crew—entered the training facility, fresh from morning lectures on flood-control procedures.

  “Gear up, gentlemen,” the XO called. “Weapons team, first watch, you’re with the captain. Flood teams three and four, you’re with me.” Kingman glanced back at Bishop. “Captain, permission for spectators to head to the bleacher seats?”

  Bishop smiled. “Granted. Someone put personal video on this. I want to see how many times I get knocked off my feet this session.” He took off his watch and emptied his pockets, wanting something salvageable at the end of the day. He was due for a refresher course in flood control and had written himself into the training exercise. He would be in the compartment on an unrelated matter when the trouble began.

  The training personnel conducting the drill joined them, carrying fluorescent numbers to slap on the back of uniforms to make the video easier to analyze. Bishop joined the six men of the weapons team as they took up stations in the torpedo room.

  The drill began as a normal load-and-fire procedure. The torpedo—real but with no charge inside—moved along the tracking rack, was loaded into the tube, the hatch sealed, the tube pressurized to fire, and the outer door opened. Without an ocean to speed into, this torpedo would be caught by a steel net inside the tank.

  “Torpedo three, fire.”

  The torpedo man fired the MK48.

  A real explosion shook the torpedo tube and echoed back into the torpedo room, vibrating through the hull. The tube hatch slammed back open, and water abruptly flooded into the sub compartment. The man nearest the hatch stumbled backward as the force of the water hit him. The man closest to the firing panel slammed a hand down on the flood alarm, setting off a piercing warning alarm throughout the ship. The nearest weapons man to the intercom grabbed the mike to send a flash message to Control. “Explosion, deck four. Torpedo tube three fatally damaged, hatch blown open, full tube flooding of the torpedo room under way.”

  The flood-suppression teams for levels three and four rushed down the ladder and the narrow passageway. Having to abandon the torpedo room to the incoming water, sealing the door, and welding it shut was the last step a boomer crew wanted to take, for it would leave the boat defenseless. The flood team entered the room, closed the hatch door behind them, and prepared to fight the water instead.

  “We plug it,” the flood officer ordered, shifting people to the most effective option possible to stop the water. The damaged hatch door was struck with sledgehammers until it broke free. The tube cap was unbolted from the first torpedo tube and hefted into place. Brute force got it tipped up while the water pressure did its best to shove the cap back. The torpedo loading arm provided leverage to force the circular metal cap against the open torpedo tube while the flood officer clamped a vice down from above. Men scrambled to wrap the tube tape into place—tightly woven rope designed to build a seal one wrap at a time to hold against the water pressure. Water, now at mid-thigh, slowed, then stopped flooding in. The fini
sh man lit a torch to weld the patch in place. Men stood, heaving to get their breath back.

  Bishop shook his head to toss wet hair and water out of his eyes. “Wallace, we’ve got to get more body weight on you. The water was tossing you around like a twig.”

  “Felt like it too, sir.”

  “Did we save the boat?” Bishop demanded of the training officer watching from above.

  “First crew to do so.”

  Back slaps among wet men made the battle with the torrent of water worth it.

  “Open the drain,” the training officer called. “Weapons team, second watch, you’re up. Let’s run variation two.”

  Bishop left the torpedo room for another view of the damage the charge had done to the missile tube. The training facility routinely set charges to take out pipes, valves, and casings, taking advantage of the decommissioned parts coming off the old diesel boats to bring realism to these training exercises. But this was the first time Bishop had felt a missile tube blow. He hoped he never experienced one in real life.

  The hull had taken the blast with some compression dents, but had held. The outer door of the missile tube was in shreds, the inner core had held, but its form distended outward like a balloon filled with too much air. They were fortunate this was a salvageable failure. In order to teach flood officers how to make that final “abandon station” call, some tests were deliberately built as situations that could not be saved.

  Bishop wiped water off his face. Three more drills to go. At least he was already wet.

  “Mark.”

  He swung around toward the door of the Squadron 17 ready room where he’d retreated to do some paperwork. He’d changed into a dry uniform and was finishing towel-drying his hair. He’d had his feet knocked out from under him three times before the afternoon was over. And he had a good-sized bruise on his thigh from a wrench that had slipped during the last drill. “Hey, Gina.”

  He removed the towel from his head to get a better look at his guest. “What’s wrong?” Tear traces wet her cheeks, and she wiped her hands hard against them. He dumped the towel and went to meet her. “What’s happened?”

  “I got designated a national security asset,” she said. “The security is going to be permanent, even after I leave Bangor.”

  Talk about bad timing for that news. He took her hand and pulled her through the building, pushed open the back door, and led her outside, heading by habit toward the gable-point picnic tables where they could have a conversation in private. “It’s necessary,” he said quietly as they walked.

  She wiped her eyes again. “It’s going to mess with my life forever. I’ll be attending mothers’ meetings with a security guy driving me there, grocery shopping with someone tagging along. Do you know a mom who’s going to want to have tea with the lady who has security there to check who’s at the door?”

  Mark couldn’t hide the smile. She’d gotten up quite a head of steam. “Mothers’ meetings—you’re thinking PTA meetings?”

  “Whatever they’re called,” she muttered. “I stood out in college for my youth; now as an adult I get attention as the woman who can’t go anywhere without security. People are going to think I’m some big-shot attorney, or a crime figure’s wife, or just another pretentious rich person. I might as well stick a fork in having a new friendship of any substance.” She looked over at him and stopped abruptly. “It’s not funny.”

  “It’s not remotely funny,” Mark said soberly, trying to stop his smile. “But your word choices and where your thoughts run to—imagination isn’t your problem.” He sighed and wrapped his arm around her shoulders, tugged so she’d walk with him again. “Gina, you knew it had to be done. What’s in your head is dangerous information, and that makes you a target.”

  “What I know will become dated. It might be new today, but it won’t be a decade from now.”

  “And you’ll figure something new out next year, and the one after that. The Navy is rightfully worried about your safety. We don’t need some country hijacking all that knowledge by snatching you one day. You’re at risk not only for what you know today, but for what you’ll figure out in the future.”

  “It’s that—I get no choice in this . . . the security. It just happens. It’s yet one more thing that just happens because I’m smart. I wish I were average. There are days I so wish I were average.”

  He stopped, turned her toward him, and hugged her. Eventually he felt her relax in his hold. “Pity party over?” he whispered.

  She gave a broken laugh. “Yeah.”

  He set her back from him, tipped up her face. “I talked with Rear Admiral Hardman about getting you designated a national security asset. I’d rather have you alive and mad at me in 10 years than missing and nobody sure which country snatched you.”

  She was struggling with what to say, and he simply waited. Her life had just gotten more complicated, more restricted, and he was one of the causes. He’d take whatever she wanted to say as the consequence of his choice.

  “You just had to protect me,” she finally whispered.

  “Something like that.”

  “You give me a headache, Mark.”

  “You’ll forgive me.” She had come to tell him about it—before or after she’d told Jeff? Daniel? He wondered at the order even as he tried to figure out something, anything, to make this less of a burden on her. “I can’t sugarcoat this, Gina. It’s going to be difficult for the rest of your life. But on the bright side, you might as well come up with something profoundly earthshaking now. It can’t get much worse than this, no matter what you discover.”

  She laughed, and it sounded genuine.

  “Come on, let’s get something to eat. I don’t mind if security is following you around.” He resolutely turned her toward the parking lot.

  Mark stopped to buy carryout Mexican and turned the car back to Bangor base. They’d have their meal at the SCIF building, where she spent much of her time, where they could have a conversation without concerns about who might overhear. They settled in an empty conference room.

  “Eat something, Gina. Don’t just push it around the plate.”

  “You can finish mine. My appetite is gone when I’m having a truly miserable day.”

  “You like the three guys who provide security now. Is that going to change—more people, a new routine? Have they said?”

  “Connolly told me it depends on where I decide to go after Bangor. If I move back to Chicago or head to Pasadena, the guys who work with him will likely change. But Connolly is pretty sure he’s with me for the next year, possible two. He said a woman would likely join the group, so it’s a little less intrusive when I’m out shopping or visiting friends. It’s still a three-person team rotating on 12-hour shifts.”

  “You can work with that.”

  “Like I said, I don’t have a choice.” She tried to smile, sighed instead, and pushed her plate over to him. “I’ve been through the five sea trial tests. I’ll be ready to present the material in a couple of days. It’s time to hand this off.”

  He accepted the change of subject. “Then let me talk you through what will happen from here. You’ll sit down with Rear Admiral Hardman and Lieutenant Commander Toombs, present the data to them. Jeff and I will be there to handle any questions they have regarding the sea trial. The admiral will then formally report to the Secretary of the Navy. He’s been keeping the SecNav apprised that this idea exists and that it was looking promising.

  “There will be a commanders’ meeting here at Bangor next week. What you’ve discovered will be presented in an urgent meeting to the captains and the sonar chiefs of the ballistic missile submarine crews who are not out on patrol, and to as many of the captains and sonar chiefs from the fast-attacks as can make it here.”

  “It’s going to be a big group?”

  “Probably 50 guys, maybe a few more.”

  “I was thinking I would do a video for my presentation,” she offered, “similar to what I did during my college days. Present
the data of the sea trial, show the wave forms, narrate over the video what this idea is and how it operates. I might be able to handle some questions at the end of the session, but asking me to present it to this group is asking for more than I can handle. I could do an accompanying paper with the mathematics of it, the theory, so it could be handed off to the Undersea Warfare Group without needing a lot more explanation from me. The algorithms are pretty simple to follow.”

  “That will work, Gina. Whatever you are comfortable with will be fine.” Bishop hesitated, then added, “Daniel can help you put that video together. He can even do part of the presentation for you if you’d like. He’s good at conversing on the finer points of sonar operations.”

  “You think that would be possible?”

  “I’ll talk to the admiral. It would only take bumping Daniel’s departure date for sub school back a couple days. I’m certain I can get it arranged.”

  “That would help a great deal, Mark, thanks.”

  Bishop already knew what it was like to be squeezed between a rock and a hard place. Organizing things for Daniel to help Gina prepare for the commanders’ meeting was the right thing to do. But it also meant Daniel would be the one Gina was leaning on to get her through a very stressful day.

  Bishop walked through the room where the meeting would be held tomorrow, confirmed the projection system was set up, that there were sufficient chairs for the 62 people now expected to be in attendance.

  “I’ve got the final video.”

  Bishop looked over as Daniel entered the room. “Good. Put it in to play and let’s check the sound from the back of the room. How many times did she redo the intro?”

  “Nine. I thought the fourth take was fine, but she was worried she was looking slightly off-center to the camera.”

  “She’s able to talk off the cuff for the rest of the video—what a cross-sonar ping is, how it operates. But the three minutes on who she is and what this meeting is about causes her enormous stress. I haven’t yet figured that one out.”