Empire Rising

by Rick Campbell

  The submarine began to tilt and Christine braced herself against the shower wall until the deck leveled out. She stood under the shower, her skin eventually changing from pasty white back to its normal color. The chill faded from her body, yet she was still shivering. She wondered why, then realized she wasn’t shivering; she was trembling.

  She had survived by the narrowest of margins. Along the way, Peng and their driver hadn’t been so fortunate. Why did she get to live while others died? She was going to chalk it up to luck, but then she recalled a flash of metal and strong hands pulling her from the car at the bottom of the lagoon. No, it wasn’t luck. One of the SEALs, probably Harrison, had cut her seat belt and pulled her from the wreck. Christine took a deep breath, forcing herself to breathe slower, trying to release the tension from her body. Her trembling gradually eased, then stopped.

  Deciding the shower had done its job, she turned off the water and pulled back the curtain in search of a towel, and was startled to find another woman leaning against the bank of bathroom sinks, towel in hand. She was dressed similarly to the men she’d seen so far, wearing one-piece blue coveralls and white sneakers. Her blond hair was cropped short and she was remarkably tall, almost six feet.

  She stepped forward, handing the towel to Christine. “Lieutenant Commander Kelly Haas, Miss O’Connor. Welcome aboard Michigan.”

  Christine took the towel and began drying herself as Kelly continued her introduction. “I’m the submarine’s Supply Officer and one of three female officers aboard.”

  Christine recalled that the Navy had finally decided to integrate women into the Submarine Force, and in 2012 the first wave of female officers, in sets of three due to the officer stateroom sleeping accommodations, had begun reporting aboard Ohio class SSBNs and SSGNs.

  As Christine finished drying herself, her eyes went to a stack of clothes on the sink next to the Lieutenant Commander. Kelly followed her gaze. “I was able to scrounge up two female coveralls that should fit. We call them poopie suits.” She paused, eyeing Christine’s naked body critically. “Although they’ll be a tight fit in the chest area for you. I think they do that on purpose.” Kelly offered a wry smile. “As for underwear, we don’t have any in supply, so I had to borrow some. Doc said you were pretty close in size to Lieutenant JG Clark.” Kelly placed her hand on the set of white bra, panties, and socks. “As long as wearing someone else’s underwear doesn’t squick you out.” She offered another wry smile. “Hmmm, bra size is going to be a problem. Lieutenant Herndon may be able to help out. Just skip it for now.”

  “No worries,” Christine said as she exchanged the towel for the clothing. “Anything dry right now will be wonderful.”

  “Great,” Kelly replied. “Let’s get you dressed and introduced to the ship’s Captain. Or would you rather go straight to Medical?” Kelly eyed the bandage on Christine’s arm.

  “I feel fine. Just a flesh wound,” Christine said, wondering if Kelly would get the Monty Python reference.

  Kelly laughed. “All right. Captain first, then Medical. Then we’ll get you settled in. You’ll be berthing with the XO. He’s got a spare bunk in his stateroom and a private bathroom he shares with the Captain. Overall, it’s probably better than cramming you into our stateroom and forcing Clark and Herndon to hot-rack. Plus, all the dignitaries sleep in the XO’s stateroom. We can’t be treating you any different because you’re a woman, right?”

  “Right.” Christine agreed in principle, although she honestly preferred to be crammed in with the women.

  As Christine donned the dry clothing, she asked Kelly about her age. “You look a bit older than I’d expect a new submarine officer to be, fresh out of college.”

  “I’m thirty-three,” Kelly replied, “on my third sea tour, although this is my first submarine. The first trio of female officers sent to a submarine typically includes a more senior Supply Officer who can provide guidance to the two junior officers. I’ve already been around the block a few times, just on top of the ocean’s surface, not beneath.”

  Christine zipped up her coveralls, which fit remarkably well aside from being tight around her chest, then donned a pair of new white sneakers, which turned out to be a perfect fit. She tied her hair into a knot behind her head, then examined herself in the mirror. Under the harsh fluorescent lighting, with no makeup and wet, stringy hair dyed jet black, she looked like death warmed over. But at least she was alive. And she had delivered the flash drive to the submarine.

  She bent down to her wet slacks on the floor, sliding the flash drive, still in its waterproof bag, from the slit in the seam, and deposited it into the right pocket of her coveralls.

  She stood and turned toward Kelly, who opened the door to the bathroom.

  “Follow me, ma’am.”

  * * *

  Lieutenant Commander Kelly Haas led the way forward, describing the submarine compartments along the way, then up a staircase, which the crew called a ladder, two levels into Control. There were about ten men in the twenty-by-thirty-foot Control Room, crammed with equipment consoles and two periscopes, both lowered. Haas and Christine stopped near four men leaning over an electronic display table—a Captain, a Lieutenant Commander, and two Lieutenants. The four men didn’t notice Christine’s arrival in Control; they were engaged in a quiet conversation as they examined an electronic map of the coast and nearby islands, filled with dozens of red symbols.

  The four men looked up as Lieutenant Commander Haas spoke. “Excuse me, Captain. Miss O’Connor is here to meet you.”

  The Captain turned to greet Christine. He was much older than the other three men, by at least ten years, his gray hair giving away his age. He extended his hand, accompanied with a warm smile on his face. “Welcome aboard Michigan, Miss O’Connor.”

  Christine rarely read people wrong, and she noticed a darkness in the Captain’s eyes that belied his friendly demeanor. Glancing at his nametag on his blue coveralls, she realized why. A pit formed in her stomach and she felt the blood drain from her face. Moments earlier, she had laid eyes on a man she hadn’t seen in over twenty years. Now, she stood before the last man she wanted to meet.

  Captain Murray Wilson.

  26

  USS NIMITZ

  Standing on Vulture’s Row, on the port side of the aircraft carrier’s Island superstructure, Captain Alex Harrow leaned over the railing in the brisk wind, surveying the damage to Nimitz’s Flight Deck. Black smoke from the fires raging belowdecks billowed upward from the forty-foot-wide crater, but the immediate danger had passed. Although the fires still burned, the carrier’s ammunition magazines were no longer threatened. USS Texas had also arrived, already sinking two Chinese submarines and prosecuting a third. Unfortunately, while Nimitz had been given a reprieve, the two air wings circling above weren’t as fortunate.

  Carrier Air Wing ELEVEN Commander, Captain Helen Corcoran, joined Harrow on Vulture’s Row, assessing the damaged Flight Deck in silence. The Iraq War veteran didn’t need to say anything; her eyes said it all. In less than twenty minutes, her jets would begin falling from the sky, their fuel tanks empty. Likewise for George Washington’s air wing, circling in tandem with Nimitz’s above the lone remaining carrier. Corcoran had considered Bingoing all aircraft to Kadena Air Base on Okinawa, until the Air Force fighters recalled by 18th Wing had been shot down by another swarm of missiles. Their aircraft were safer inside Nimitz’s screen of destroyers and cruisers. However, if Harrow didn’t return Nimitz to flight operations, figuring out how to land jets on three-fourths of a Flight Deck, what remained of two air wings would crash into the Pacific Ocean.

  Restoring the nuclear reactors to operation was crucial. Control rods in both reactors had unlatched from the impact of the DF-21 missile, and both plants had been shut down by the reactors’ core protection circuitry. Reactor Department personnel were frantically inspecting both reactor plants for damage, and Harrow had already given permission to conduct Fast Recovery Start-Ups if no damage had been incurred. I
f there was any possibility of returning to flight operations, Nimitz needed both reactors on-line. He needed speed.

  The only way Corcoran’s jets could land was if Nimitz was racing into the wind, allowing the aircraft to land at a relatively slow speed. Not only had the missile blasted a crater in the Flight Deck, it also damaged the four arresting cables. The jets normally latched one of the arresting wires with their tailhooks as they landed, slowing the aircraft to a halt in two seconds. Without arresting cables, the aircraft would have to slow using nothing but their brakes. Even with the carrier at ahead flank, recovering aircraft without arresting cables and with a forty-foot hole in the Flight Deck would normally be an impossible feat.

  Thank God for bad weather. Harrow looked up into the overcast skies, blustery winds blowing beneath a heavy blanket of steel-gray clouds. The winds were now howling from the south at sixty knots. If Nimitz could restore propulsion and head into those winds at maximum speed, they might have a chance. As Harrow wondered how much longer it would take to restart the reactors, the lights inside the Bridge flickered. The normal fluorescent lighting blinked on, and the yellow emergency lighting faded. Harrow left Vulture’s Row, stepping inside the Bridge as a report came across the announcing circuit.

  “Bridge, DC Central. Fast Recovery Start-Up of both reactors is complete. Ready to answer all Bells.”

  Harrow turned to the Conning Officer, Lieutenant Nathan Reynolds. “Bring her into the wind and increase speed to ahead flank.”

  Lieutenant Reynolds complied. “Helm, all ahead flank. Right full rudder, steady course one-eight-zero.” As Harrow’s wounded carrier turned into the wind, his eyes shifted between the Voyage Management System—displaying ship’s speed—and the MORIAH wind velocity display. Captain Corcoran stopped beside him, no doubt doing the mental calculations, determining if the carrier’s speed combined with the blustery headwind were enough to offset the speed of the aircraft as they landed.

  As Nimitz steadied on course 180, the Air Boss, stationed in the Tower one deck above the Bridge, reported over the 23-MC, “Bridge, Tower. I need a Green Deck. Aircraft 612 is on emergency fuel and making its approach. 714 and 628 are also inbound.”

  Harrow looked aft through the Bridge windows, but couldn’t see the approaching aircraft. Thick black smoke from the fire belowdecks roiled upward through the gaping hole in the Flight Deck, obscuring his vision. Landing would be even more perilous than he had envisioned. Land too early and the aircraft’s landing gear would catch on the twisted metal edges of the crater, tearing the jet to pieces. Land too late and the aircraft would careen off the front of the carrier’s bow. To complicate matters further, the pilots would be landing blind, their vision obscured by the thick black smoke trailing behind Nimitz.

  To compensate for the lack of visibility, Corcoran had ordered automated landings, directing combat systems to recalculate the landing point to just forward of the crater in the Flight Deck. Unfortunately, that solved only one of the problems. The other was wind speed.

  “It’s not going to work,” Corcoran said.

  Harrow turned back to examine ship and wind speed, then ran the numbers, confirming Corcoran’s assessment. The relative speed of the approaching aircraft was still too high; they wouldn’t be able to stop before running out of runway. Harrow worked through the calculations again, determining how much faster Nimitz would have to travel.

  They needed five more knots.

  But the carrier was already at maximum speed, both reactors operating at one hundred percent power.

  Harrow turned toward Corcoran, his eyes locking with hers. In a few minutes her jets would begin dropping from the sky, the pilots ejecting as their engines flamed out—two entire air wings lost, with the pilots splashing into waters infested with enemy submarines. With only Texas protecting them, Nimitz couldn’t loiter while the strike group rescued their pilots. As distasteful as it was, the safety of his carrier and the six thousand men and women aboard were a higher priority. He would be forced to abandon the pilots. There was nothing he could do about it.

  The hell there was.

  Harrow picked up the handheld wireless. “DC Central, Bridge. This is the Captain. Put the RO on line.”

  A few seconds later, the Reactor Officer responded. “RO.”

  Harrow needed to eke out five more knots from the main engines. With both reactors already at full power, there was only one option.

  “RO, Captain. Override reactor protection and increase shaft turns to one hundred ten percent power.” There was silence on the line. Harrow knew what his Reactor Officer was thinking. He’d been ordered to break the most sacred rule in the nuclear power navy.

  Violate reactor safety.

  But Harrow had the authority and no alternative. He wasn’t going to lose what was left of two air wings because of a measly five knots. It was likely there was enough of a safety margin to allow reactor operation at one hundred ten percent power for the time required to retrieve the two air wings. If the reactors required new cores when this was over, so be it.

  The Reactor Officer finally acknowledged Harrow’s order. “Override reactor protection and increase shaft turns to one hundred ten percent power, both reactors, RO, aye.”

  Harrow returned his attention to the Voyage Management System, and a moment later, the carrier’s speed began inching upward. The Air Boss’s voice came across the 23-MC again. “Bridge, Tower. One minute before the first recovery. I need a Green Deck and I need it now!”

  The digital speed indicator ticked upward, increasing in one-tenth-knot increments as the first jet descended toward the carrier’s Flight Deck. Harrow moved next to the Captain’s chair. He had no choice. Reaching over to the communication console, he pressed the small green button, giving the Air Boss a Green Deck for flight operations.

  Harrow joined Corcoran at the port Bridge windows, looking aft as his stomach turned queasy, waiting to learn if they had increased speed enough. The incoming pilot would be blind now, enveloped in the thick black smoke trailing behind the carrier. The seconds ticked away and there was still nothing.

  The first jet emerged from the black plume, its wheels touching down just past the edge of the crater. The Hornet’s ailerons flared upward and a puff of white smoke appeared by the jet’s tires, the smoke trailing from the aircraft’s landing gear as it sped toward the bow. Harrow leaned forward, urging his ship faster through the water, buying the extra few feet that would let the aircraft stop before it ran out of real estate. The jet screeched to a halt with its nose landing gear only four feet from the end of the Flight Deck.

  Harrow let out a sigh of relief as the jet turned sharply to starboard, moving slowly out of the way as a second jet emerged from the black smoke, touching down with a screech and a puff of white smoke from its tires. As the first jet moved toward the forward starboard elevator, the second jet also ground to a halt four feet from the carrier’s bow.

  One by one, Captain Corcoran’s air wing, followed by George Washington’s, landed safely aboard USS Nimitz.

  27

  USS MICHIGAN

  In the submarine’s Radio Room, just forward of Control, Christine stood between Captain Murray Wilson and the ship’s Executive Officer, waiting while the submarine’s leading Radioman, Chief Jeff Walkup, slid Christine’s flash drive into a laptop computer. It was their last chance to retrieve the data from the small device she’d been handed in the Great Hall of the People. Although Michigan’s crew was normally prohibited from inserting flash drives into their computers for fear of viruses, they’d been given the go-ahead to use stand-alone computers. Unfortunately, none of the computers so far could access what appeared to be a simple flash drive.

  The last few hours aboard Michigan had passed quickly. Following her introduction to Captain Wilson, the submarine’s Medical Officer had followed up with an extensive evaluation, replacing the ad hoc Band-Aids applied by Lieutenant Harrison during her underwater journey with a white gauze bandage wrapped around her up
per arm. There was little collateral damage aside from the small hole in her arm, which Commander Aleo had thoroughly disinfected, then stitched shut on both ends. Her arm now rested in a sling, which made traversing through the submarine’s hatches difficult, with only one arm to keep her balance.

  As Lieutenant Commander Kelly Haas explained, Christine had moved in with the Executive Officer. She’d been given his bunk, with the submarine’s second-in-command moving to the spare upper rack. She hadn’t had a chance to interface much with Lieutenant Commander Paul Greenwood though, as he had been busy assisting Wilson in Control during their tense transit through the Bohai Sea.

  Chief Walkup removed the flash drive from his computer, turning to Christine and the two officers beside her. “It’s a secure flash drive, which requires an encryption key.”

  “Encryption key?” Wilson asked.

  “A password,” Walkup explained. “But good luck breaking it. Depending on the length of the password, you could be talking over a trillion possibilities. And if the password uses Chinese characters instead of English letters and numbers, you can add a lot more zeros to that number. If you want to break into this flash drive, we’re going to need to get it to one of our three-letter agencies.”

  Chief Walkup handed the flash drive back to Wilson.

  Wilson studied the flash drive in his palm before replying. “The Pentagon wants this data immediately, by whatever means required.” Wilson handed the flash drive to his XO. “Prep for UAV launch.”

  * * *

  A few minutes later, Christine stood next to the Executive Officer in the aft port corner of Control as Michigan prepared to ascend to periscope depth. As the Officer of the Deck made final preparations, Lieutenant Commander Greenwood filled Christine in on the details of Michigan’s UAVs. “We’ve got two types of Unmanned Aerial Vehicles aboard. The first is the Switchblade, which we launch out the bottom of the submarine from our Trash Disposal Unit. Unfortunately, our little shit-bird—pardon the French—doesn’t have the required range. We’ve got to get the flash drive to Okinawa, which means we’ll have to use one of our large UAVs. We have seven UAVs instead of Tomahawks stored in Missile Tube Ten.”