Undetected

by Dee Henderson

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Follow it with a message to the Nevada to turn east and come within cross-sonar range of the Michigan again. Let’s see what cross-sonar can pick up at these coordinates.”

  Strong hesitated. “Both are holding launch-hot missiles, sir.”

  “It can’t be helped. If we’ve located China’s boat, only to find it as she’s sinking, I need the sonar recordings of what is happening before she drops to the ocean floor. If we can’t give the Chinese back their boat with her crew alive, we’ll need to be able to prove to their satisfaction we know where the wreckage went down. I can’t give them the photo, which is why I need the cross-sonar recordings. But do warn our crews not to bump into each other.”

  Strong smiled. “Yes, sir.”

  Commander Mark Bishop leaned against the door and watched as Sonar Chief Larry Penn worked the hydrophone acoustics in order to get the best overlay.

  Penn flipped a switch, putting the audio on the speakers. “That’s got to be it, Bishop. The diesel plant is running, but those are damaged screws. And I’m hearing waffle bubbles. They don’t have a smooth hull.”

  “Sounds a bit like a meat grinder stuck and trying to break free,” Bishop decided after listening for a minute. “It’s far east of the collision site, and well outside where China is searching.”

  “A weird place to be,” Penn agreed. “Depth is fluctuating rapidly, presently about 300 feet and struggling to rise. This has to be the missing Chinese sub. I wonder how Command found it to give us these coordinates.”

  Bishop didn’t reply to the idly asked question. Enough time had passed since the solar flare that he knew Tactical Command would have had a photo to work from. “Where’s the Michigan?”

  “Pacing 14 miles off our starboard side, sir,” Sonarman Tulley answered.

  “Keep a close eye on him. I want to hear any change in speed or direction.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The Seawolf?”

  The sonarman monitoring the narrowband console leaned forward and checked a line in the waterfall. “Ten miles northwest of the crippled boat now, sir, and slowing.”

  Bishop walked toward the radio room. He was hoping for an EAM that would let him step the missiles back a level from launch and remove the flight guidance package. He was hoping, but knew it wasn’t likely to arrive soon. The nations involved had to move toward peace, a careful step-by-step process that took diplomatic time and attention.

  If this was China’s missing sub—and he thought it was—how the boat had been damaged was still an open question. North Korea still had a missile on the launch pad, fueled and ready to fly, with an unknown payload aboard. The world hadn’t gotten safer yet; the situation had simply become a bit clearer.

  Bishop quietly thanked God for the ability to get that photo. Clarity right now might be the one thing keeping the world from plunging into another war.

  The Pentagon had a drone on station above the recovery site. Gina watched the video from the back row of the theater seats. Relief, joy, worry, fear—the emotions had all passed through her mind in the last few hours. At the moment she just wanted to close her eyes and for someone to say this was over.

  China had three ships and a sub on the surface rendering assistance to the damaged sub. Crewmen were leaving the sub five at a time now, transported by small craft across to one of the surface ships. The USS Seawolf had been on the surface for a time, visible in the drone video feed, but had now slipped back into the sea.

  The air cradle the Seawolf had deployed floated like a bright yellow bladder on either side of the damaged sub, replacing the buoyancy of the destroyed ballast tanks and holding the submarine on the surface. The Seawolf had shot the cradle out of a torpedo tube, then pumped in air from her own air locks to partially inflate it. It had given time for the sea-rescue ships to arrive on station and get more permanent ballast tanks in place. Thankfully the ocean was calm today; otherwise holding the damaged sub at the surface would have been all but impossible.

  “It’s a wonder that boat wasn’t destroyed at the time of the collision,” Daniel said, holding out a sandwich he’d picked up for her.

  “It looks like the collision tore a gash down the left side of the hull and crumpled the front,” Gina said. “Any word on the crew?”

  “Initial word is six seriously injured, three missing and presumed dead, out of a crew of 87.”

  She winced. “Families are going to be suffering tonight.”

  “They could have all been lost. That crew did an incredible job saving their boat. I admire what I see.”

  She unwrapped the sandwich, looked at Daniel. “We’ve proven this was an accident, a collision with a seamount, but the rest of the situation hasn’t changed much. It just reverted back to where the world was before China’s sub went missing. China and Japan are still in a territorial dispute over islands and a seabed gas field. North Korea still has a missile on the launcher, armed with an unknown payload.”

  Daniel nodded. “This incident and our response bought us some goodwill,” he added. “One of the engineers aboard is the grandson of the Chinese premier. Our military found the sub, our guys helped coordinate the rescue. It means the U.S. saved some lives. China will feel honor-bound to listen to what our military has to say on the other matters of concern. That’s a win-win all the way around. Maybe it’s enough goodwill that China will help temper what North Korea is doing, send China’s own fleet back to port, and let diplomats continue to negotiate over the disputed lands. This flare-up of trouble gets quieted back down. That’s a good outcome. Nothing gets solved in the immediate term, but we get peace for another day. We were able to use cross-sonar, the topology maps, and your photo to unravel this mystery without giving the Chinese any indication we had those capabilities—another excellent outcome.”

  “I hope you’re right.” Gina ate another bite of the sandwich. “It was nice to realize the topology maps could be used this way. I wouldn’t have thought of before-and-after maps to see a collision until the particulars of this event suggested it. And the solar flare photo worked, even if it was still a pretty fuzzy image.”

  “It told us right where to look. It was wonderful. You said it was a hot solar flare. What are the odds we have another flare in the next week or two?”

  “Maybe five percent. There won’t be another one of size for another three weeks is my guess.”

  “You’ll be able to get some sleep then. They’re talking about lifting the lockdown in a couple of hours. Would you rather stay around here, or would you like me to see about getting you home?”

  Gina looked at the ocean board. “Any word on where the Seawolf is heading next?”

  “My guess, the Seawolf will move to provide fast-attack security for the Nevada and Michigan.”

  That made sense to her. Something had to be done about the North Korea missile on the launch pad. But if she waited for the world to get more peaceful, she would never leave the building. Her husband and her brother were good at their jobs; they would handle whatever came. And she was going to trust them. “I’m ready to go home now.”

  “We are in agreement this EAM message is properly authenticated and decoded?” Bishop asked, looking around the assembled officers.

  “I concur, sir,” each officer said in turn.

  Bishop turned to his weapons chief. “Bring the missile system back to quiet status.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The weapons officer headed down a level to the missile control room. North Korea had removed its second missile from the launch pad. This particular crisis was coming to a close. “Thank you, gentlemen. Return to your stations.”

  Bishop went back to command-and-control, reached for the intercom and turned the setting to 1MC. “Nevada, this is the captain. We have authenticated EAM traffic. Stand down from launch.”

  He saw the palpable relief among those on duty and knew the feeling was now rippling through the boat.

  The light on the commander�
��s panel turned off, showing the missile system aboard the USS Nevada now disengaged. Ten days with the Nevada at launch status had ended without a missile being fired.

  “Petty Officer Hill, how many days remain in this patrol?”

  The officer reached into his pocket and pulled out a scorecard. “Days remaining . . . 26, sir.”

  “Circle today, if you would.”

  They would be coming off hard-alert in another two days—the USS Louisiana would take their place—and they would no longer be required to stay within the patrol box, only be near enough to return to it in a few hours should they be called back to hard-alert status. Bishop studied the charts on the navigation table. He was looking for an area in the northern half of the Pacific where it was unlikely they would meet someone else. There was normally a pod or two of whales traveling along the deep ocean current toward Alaska this time of year. “Conn, bring us to heading 030, make our depth 700 feet.”

  “Bearing 030, depth 700 feet, aye, Captain.”

  He’d go find those whales and follow them around for a while. The boat was facing a packed 26 days getting caught up on the maintenance deferred while the missile system was enabled. The normal halfway celebration with skits and jokes and videos from home, the surf-and-turf meal of lobster and steak, had been set aside by events. Off hard-alert now, he’d find something to give the crew some laughter and much-needed stress relief.

  Nevada gold families would have seen the missile launch and the damaged sub on the news. Would they have anticipated the rest of it? The orders their husbands had received? When they reached shore, the crew would never talk about the fact they had enabled the missile system and prepared to fire—what happened on the boat stayed on the boat. But they would take the urgency, the weight of this patrol, home with them just the same.

  Bishop pulled a photo out of his pocket, glanced at it, and slipped it back into the pocket over his heart. His wife knew. She would have been in the TCC and seen most, if not all, of what had occurred—enough to know the danger to her brother and to himself. He wondered what shape his wife and his marriage was going to be in when he got back to shore.

  His XO stepped into the command-and-control center. “We’ve got a problem, sir.”

  “What is it?”

  Kingman took his hand from behind his back and held up a full-sized lobster. “The cook says it doesn’t fit in the pot.”

  Laughter rippled through the room.

  Bishop smiled. Apparently the culinary crew had decided on a celebration for tonight. Bishop could see some obstacles with it, but nothing they couldn’t work around. “I’ll take that one broiled, butter on the side. Surf and turf at seven bells. We’ll rotate one-hour watches. Ask Nicholas not to burn my steak this time.”

  “Yes, sir,” Kingman said with a grin, then spun on his heel and left with the lobster. The culinary crew brought one live lobster aboard for the halfway night feast so they could fashion a center display and offer it to the captain. The rest of the lobster for the crew was in the freezer. Lobster and steak—it would serve a good purpose and give the crew a nice break.

  Bishop felt himself relax. His crew was fine, his boat in good shape. The world was heading back toward peaceful. Twenty-six days from now he’d no longer be carrying the enormous responsibility of the Nevada and her mission. He’d end this patrol with a few more gray hairs, tired to the bone, but he’d get the boat home safely. Nevada gold could handle the rest of the patrol with the same skill they had displayed over the last several weeks. He settled into the captain’s chair. And he said a prayer for his crew and their safety.

  27

  Bishop had long ago memorized the checklist a ballistic missile submarine executed once it nudged the pier. He scanned power settings on the command-and-control consoles, watched engineering reconfigure the boat to take power from shore in preparation for shutdown of the nuclear reactor. The officer manning the sequence had it well in hand. Bishop waited until the hand-off was ready for the pier crew to physically connect the cables. “You did a solid job during this patrol, Olson,” he said.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Family waiting for you?”

  “At the Squadron 17 ready room, sir. You?”

  Bishop found the photo in his pocket that the ombudsman had handed him, along with her shore summary, and turned the photo to show the sailor. “My wife is at the vet with a sick puppy.” Pongo had grown so much in three months he looked ungainly. Gina’s note of welcome, along with the news, was scrawled on the back of the photo. It also had a border of X’s and O’s and a nicely drawn smiley face. Mark was taking it as good indication she’d meet him with a welcoming smile when they finally both got free.

  The fact Gina was electing to take the dog to the vet rather than be on the pier to meet him—struggling to hide her emotions about what had almost happened—didn’t escape his notice. He had the distinct impression her absence was deliberate. Gina was keeping arrival day low-key, trying to say with her actions that this was just a normal part of life and what a commander’s wife did. She waved him off on patrol, said “hello” and “welcome home” when he got back. It wasn’t what Mark had been expecting, but it had its interesting merits. She knew his focus had to be on the boat for the first few hours pier-side.

  The photo told him she was okay—that was the important news. There wasn’t anything in the ombudsman’s shore summary about his wife having fallen and broken a leg or something of that nature. He’d scanned it for her name as soon as he was handed the document. His wife would find her way to him eventually.

  Bishop pulled the note pad from his pocket and jotted down another three items to remember on his hand-over report. Nevada blue was going to be given a boat that showed the stress of this patrol. Missiles 9 and 16 were going to have to be lifted out and put on the test bench to confirm their guidance systems had properly cleared. Bishop was considering making the move to the Explosives Handling Wharf tomorrow evening to deal with those missiles before hand-over. But it might be better to leave it for Nevada blue to oversee, as the loading of new missiles without incident would be high on their own concerns list.

  “Sir, your wife is topside.”

  Mark swiftly turned, nodded his thanks to his sonar chief, reached for his sunglasses, and hurried up the ladder into the sail. Gina Bishop had crossed the walkway and was standing on the steel deck of the Nevada, talking with his chief engineer and the Nevada’s ombudsman. Mark smiled when he looked down from the sail and saw her, then leaned his arms against the metal warmed by the sun. “Hi there, precious.”

  She looked up, smiled, lifted her hand. “Hey, sailor, welcome home.”

  “How’s our dog?”

  “No longer enamored with the flowers I planted by the back porch,” she called up to him. “He ate a few, and the insecticide I used made him sick. At least the vet thinks that was the culprit.”

  “That would do it.” He moved over to the ladder and left the sail for the deck.

  She came to meet him and leaned against his chest in an embrace that turned into more than just a welcome home. It became a sanctuary for them both. “I’m so glad you’re home, Mark,” she whispered.

  He smoothed a hand across her back. “Glad to be here.” He waited to see if she wanted to say anything else, and when she didn’t, he dropped a kiss on her hair and circled her shoulders with an arm. “How much new science did you have to invent to get us out of that jam?” he asked softly.

  “I may have reapplied a bit of it,” she answered with a small smile. “You had a busy patrol.”

  “I think you probably saw the worst of it,” he reassured. “The Seawolf got home safely?”

  “Docked last week,” she said. “Jeff is getting married. He proposed to Tiffany about an hour after he stepped off the boat.”

  Bishop grinned. “Good for him.”

  “Going to be a few more hours before you can get away?”

  “About four.”

  “I’m thinking a f
ruit salad and omelet, hot shower and back rub, whenever you manage to cross the threshold of home. I’ll tell you the rest of the news then.”

  “You’ve got yourself a deal and a date.”

  She held out car keys and a cell phone. “Security will give me a lift home. Call if you aren’t going to make it before midnight.” There was just the edge of a tremor in her hand as he accepted the keys, and he shot her a more careful look. Joy, not stress, but she was fighting not to shed tears, determined to make this casual for the sake of the crew. No scenes by the captain’s wife, even though her emotions were running high.

  He leaned down and kissed her. “Thank you for marrying me, Gina,” he whispered.

  Her full smile about stopped his heart, and she added to the emotion when she lifted her hand, rested it against his chest over his heart, and lightly patted him twice. “You look pretty good to me, sailor. Come home when you can.”

  Bishop laughed and pocketed the keys as she walked back across the gangway to the pier. His wife was learning to flirt.

  Mark walked through the door to his home shortly after nine p.m. At first the dog growled at him, but then he recognized Mark and floppily jumped and bumped his hand. Both cats stalked into the hall to see what the fuss was about and took a perch on the stairs to consider him.

  The hall light turned on near the kitchen. “Your welcome-home committee needs more practice. I didn’t hear the car.”

  He smiled and dropped his bag by the door. “They’ll remember me after a few days.” He joined her and folded her in his arms, content to simply hold her for a long while, relearning the smell of her shampoo and her habit of burrowing her hands against his chest between them. She let him take all her weight. She belonged here in his arms. Life felt good again. “Hi.”

  She leaned back and pulled his head down to kiss him lightly. “Let me get you fed.”

  She’d changed during the last three months, and he was beginning to notice a number of the ways. Definitely lost some weight—she’d felt thin in that hug. Her smile was more confident. And something else . . . “You changed your hair.”