Empire Rising

by Rick Campbell

  As the Sonar Supervisor finished his report, Ramsey heard the unusual sound: a deep rumbling, audible through the submarine’s hull. The watchstanders in Control exchanged questioning glances, and Ramsey’s uneasiness grew as the volume increased. He walked over to the sonar shack, opened the door, and stuck his head inside the dark room, illuminated only by the glow from the sonar displays. The Sonar Supervisor was standing behind the three sonar operators on watch, pressing a set of headphones to one ear. The Chief looked up from the monitors as Ramsey spoke.

  “Do you have any idea what it is?”

  The Sonar Supervisor shook his head. “I’ve never heard anything like it. It isn’t coming from a specific bearing. More like a wide swath, advancing toward us.”

  Ramsey returned to the Conn, viewing the broadband monitor with mounting concern. The increasing sound level was starting to blank out the forward sector of the spherical array sonar. Ramsey glanced at the monitor to the left. The same thing was happening to the under-ice sonar. In a few minutes Annapolis would be blind, unable to ping and detect a return from the ice above, or directly ahead. Ramsey turned toward the Officer of the Deck, stationed on the Conn between the two periscopes, staring at the under-ice sonar with the same concerned expression.

  “Slow to ahead two-thirds,” Ramsey ordered. “Inform Virginia and New Hampshire on underwater comms that we’re slowing.”

  The Officer of the Deck complied, relaying the propulsion order to the Helm, and Annapolis began to slow as the rumbling continued to increase in intensity. The OOD attempted to contact the two fast attacks as directed, his voice going out on the underwater communication circuit—not much more than a speaker transmitting into the water. Ramsey hoped the two Virginia class submarines heard the report over the rising background noise.

  Ramsey studied the sonar screens intently, searching for a clue to the unusual noise. It was broadband only, with no discrete frequencies, but as the sound grew louder, the rumbling was punctuated with loud bangs, which sounded like explosions. The noise was racing toward them, and in another minute, there would be so much noise in the water that their under-ice sonar would no longer be able to pick up its return. Annapolis was about to go blind, just like the two fast attacks behind her.

  Three blind mice. Three blind mice.

  The nursery rhyme rolled around inside Ramsey’s head as he tried to understand what was happening. He was hearing explosions—he was certain of it—accompanied by the rumbling reverberations bouncing off the ocean bottom and the ice pack above. But then a new sound reached Ramsey’s ears; sharp, ear-splitting cracks. Finally, it dawned on him.

  “The ice pack is breaking apart!” Ramsey shouted to no one in particular. Someone was bombing the ice pack, blinding Annapolis and every Atlantic Fleet submarine making the under-ice transit. Even worse, as the ice pack broke apart, the jagged ice was shifting, twisting and repositioning, some fragments shifting up while others sheared downward, directly toward Annapolis. Although the submarine’s steel hull was three inches thick, the ice keels would tear through the submarine’s skin like papier-mâché.

  Ramsey shouted so everyone in Control could hear him over the deafening noise. “This is the Captain. I have the Conn. Helm, back emergency!”

  Annapolis began to slow as the propeller churned the water in reverse. Ramsey worried Virginia might ram into the stern, but he didn’t have any choice. Until the situation stabilized and Annapolis could paint a picture of the underwater world with its under-ice sonar again, it was best not to move.

  As Ramsey’s submarine coasted to a halt, he called out, “Helm, all stop!”

  The intensity of the noise peaked and then began to abate, but as the rumbling explosions swept past Annapolis, the sharp cracking sounds intensified. As his crew listened to the dreadful noise with upturned faces, Annapolis shuddered and began tilting to starboard, accompanied by a loud screech coming from the starboard side of the ship.

  Ramsey held on to the Conn railing as the submarine listed fifteen degrees to starboard, the loud screech sounding like someone raking their fingernails down a chalkboard. An ice keel was shifting downward, impacting the submarine’s hull, and Ramsey hoped the hull remained intact. Even though the water depth was less than Crush Depth, if the submarine went down under the ice pack, there’d be no way for the crew to escape.

  The screeching sound ended and the submarine began to right itself. But as Ramsey breathed a sigh of relief, the Flooding Alarm activated, followed by a 4-MC emergency report.

  “Flooding in the Engine Room. Flooding in Engine Room Upper Level.”

  There was little Ramsey could do. An Emergency Blow would send the submarine careening up toward the ice pack above, potentially impaling the submarine on another ice keel. If they couldn’t stop the flooding and pump the seawater out of the bilges, they’d become a permanent fixture in the under-ice landscape. As Ramsey listened for the follow-up report from the Engine Room, the nursery rhyme began rolling around in his head again.

  Three blind mice. Three blind mice.

  53

  USS MICHIGAN

  Four hundred feet below the ocean’s surface, as Michigan continued her westward transit toward China’s coast, Christine O’Connor sat across from Captain Murray Wilson at the small fold-down table in his stateroom, his dark brown eyes probing hers in silence. She had asked a straightforward yet difficult question, one that had been hovering on the periphery of her mind from the moment she met Wilson in Control her first day aboard. It was obvious the answer was difficult as well; the submarine captain was searching for the right words.

  For the last ten days, Michigan had been lurking east of Japan, guarding the amphibious ships from Chinese submarines while preparing for the SEAL mission. Twenty-four hours ago they had headed west at ahead two-thirds, stealthily approaching the Nansei island chain curling down from Japan’s southwestern island of Kyushu. They would soon pass through the Tokara Strait, where they would likely encounter Chinese submarines protecting the supply lines to Japan from any American submarines that had survived the Pacific Fleet’s demise.

  Wilson had ordered the crew members not on watch into their bunks. He expected they would get little sleep from the time they entered the Strait until their mission was complete and Michigan was safe again in deep water. Christine had taken advantage of the temporary lull in the ship’s activity to ask Wilson for a few moments of his time. As the second hand on the clock in Wilson’s stateroom ticked toward the twelve o’clock position, Christine realized Wilson had been silent for over a minute.

  Finally, Wilson answered. “No, I don’t blame you for the predicament I was put in. It was the president’s decision to sink the submarine my son was on, and he would have come to the same conclusion even without your recommendation. It was the only option.”

  “Thank you for your understanding,” Christine replied. “I keep telling myself the same thing. Yet it’s hard not to feel responsible. For failing to stop the Mossad’s launch order against Iran. For failing to devise a better response. For forcing you into an unimaginable position.”

  “No one forced me to do anything, Christine. Admiral Stanbury asked for my assistance, and I willingly gave it. We couldn’t let Kentucky launch and annihilate an entire country. When you weigh the lives of seventy million versus one hundred and sixty, the scale tilts one way. Fortunately, things turned out better than they could have. But enough of that episode in our lives,” he added. “What else would you like to know?”

  Christine was happy to leave the Kentucky incident behind, moving to the next topic on her mind. “Why did you turn down flag rank, and end up in command of Michigan instead?”

  Wilson leaned back in his chair. “I turned down promotion to Rear Admiral because I wanted to end my career at sea, not behind a desk. I told Stanbury what I wanted and he made the arrangements. There are only two submarines in the Pacific Fleet a captain can be assigned to—Michigan and Ohio, and Michigan was due for a change of comman
d. A few strings were pulled, and I got the orders.” Wilson smiled for the first time since their discussion began.

  Their conversation was interrupted by the Officer of the Deck’s voice, emanating from the 27-MC speaker in Wilson’s stateroom. “Captain, Officer of the Deck. Hold a submerged contact, designated Sierra four-five, bearing two-nine-three. Range and classification unknown.”

  As Wilson retrieved the microphone from its holster next to the speaker, Christine decided they were fortunate indeed to have Wilson in command, the most experienced submarine officer in the Fleet. Wilson spoke into the microphone. “Man Battle Stations Torpedo silently.” The Officer of the Deck repeated back the Captain’s order as Wilson stood, returning the microphone to its holster. “Let’s head to Control.”

  * * *

  Christine followed Wilson out of his stateroom and was almost bowled over by the Messenger of the Watch and LAN Technician of the Watch, sliding down the ladder from Control. One was on his way to the Chief’s Quarters and officer staterooms, the other headed aft to rouse the crew from their bunks in the Missile Compartment. After the two men passed by, Wilson and Christine ascended the ladder into Control.

  Michigan was still in its normal watch rotation, with only one-third of the crew on duty. The Officer of the Deck, Lieutenant Steve Cordero—the most experienced junior officer aboard—stood on the Conn between the two lowered periscopes, his eyes fixed on the sonar display. Wilson stepped onto the Conn, stopping next to Cordero, examining the display as he motioned Christine toward the fold-down chair on the starboard side of the Conn. Christine settled into the chair as she listened to the two men’s conversation.

  “Sir, the ship is on course two-nine-zero, ahead two-thirds, four hundred feet. Hold six surface contacts, all distant contacts. Sonar is still analyzing Sierra four-five.”

  Additional personnel began entering Control, energizing dormant consoles and donning sound-powered phone headsets as their displays flickered to life. The Executive Officer and Weapons Officer also arrived, followed by the submarine’s Engineering Officer, Lieutenant Commander Kasey Faucher, who relieved Lieutenant Cordero as Officer of the Deck. Cordero manned the last dormant combat control console.

  The XO hovered behind the three consoles keeping track of target position, while the Weps hunched over the Fire Control Technician at the Weapon Launch Console. The Weps cast furtive glances in the Captain’s direction, and Christine wondered why, finally realizing the reason. If the submerged contact was a Chinese submarine, each torpedo aboard Michigan would become a dud as soon as the Chinese submarine transmitted a sonar pulse.

  “Conn, Sonar. Sierra four-five is classified Yuan class diesel submarine.”

  Michigan was defenseless.

  That fact was not lost on Wilson as he loudly announced, “This is the Captain. I have the Conn. Lieutenant Commander Faucher retains the Deck.” He followed up immediately with, “Helm, ahead one-third,” slowing the ship to its lowest bell, reducing the amount of noise put into the water by the submarine’s propeller and main engines.

  After peering over Lieutenant Cordero’s shoulder, studying the combat control console display, Wilson issued another order. “Helm, right full rudder, steady course north.”

  The Helm twisted his yoke to the right and the submarine turned slowly to starboard, putting Sierra four-five on the port beam in an attempt to drive around it.

  “Conn, Sonar. Hold a new contact, designated Sierra four-six, bearing zero-one-five, classified submerged. Analyzing.”

  It looked like Michigan had turned directly toward another Chinese submarine. Wilson ordered his submarine to reverse course. “Helm, continue right, steady course two-zero-zero.” If they couldn’t go around the first submarine on one side, they’d try the other.

  Michigan eventually steadied up on its new course to the south. Wilson stood next to the Engineer on the Conn, studying the sonar display. He was waiting for their towed array sonar to finish snaking back and forth from the turn, straightening out so it could transmit reliable bearings. While they waited, Sonar followed up.

  “Conn, Sonar. Sierra four-six is also classified Yuan class submarine.”

  Wilson acknowledged Sonar’s report, and Christine’s eyes shifted between Wilson and the XO, wondering if either submarine had detected Michigan yet. A torpedo in the water would be a clear indication, but could the crew figure it out some other way?

  The XO spoke into his sound-powered phone mouthpiece, acknowledging a report from Sonar, and the three operators manning the submarine’s combat control consoles began adjusting the parameters to the contact’s solution.

  A moment later, the XO announced, “Confirm target zig, Sierra four-five, due to upshift in frequency. Sierra four-five has turned toward own ship.”

  Wilson called out, “Helm, ahead two-thirds.” Michigan was speeding back up, attempting to turn the corner around Sierra four-five. But then more bad news came across the 27-MC.

  “Conn, Sonar. Hold a new submerged contact, Sierra four-seven, bearing one-eight-zero.”

  Wilson acknowledged, assessing the position of the third submarine—almost directly ahead—for only a second before issuing another order. “Helm, ahead standard. Left full rudder, steady course one-zero-zero.”

  With three submarines blocking Michigan’s path, there was no hope of slipping through, so Wilson had reversed course, heading out the way they had come in. It looked like they would have to fall back and attempt to penetrate the Chinese submarine barrier at some other point. As Christine wondered whether they would have better luck next time, a powerful sonar ping echoed through the hull.

  “Conn, Sonar! Sierra four-five has gone active. Ping-steal range, six thousand yards.” Seconds later, two more sonar pings reverberated inside control. “Conn, Sonar! Sierra four-six and four-seven have also gone active. Ping-steal range ten thousand yards each.”

  Wilson stepped off the Conn toward the combat control consoles on the starboard side of the ship. “Geographic display,” he called out. The XO tapped Cordero on the shoulder and seconds later a geographic display appeared on the Lieutenant’s console, displaying Michigan and the three Chinese submarines. They had Michigan bracketed, one behind with the other two on Michigan’s beam. As Wilson studied the display, a 27-MC report blared across the speakers.

  “Torpedo launch transients, bearing two-eight-five! Correlates to Sierra four-five!”

  Wilson responded immediately, “Helm, ahead flank! Launch countermeasure!”

  The Helm rang up ahead flank on the Engine Order Telegraph, and Christine knew that back in the Engine Room, the Throttleman was spinning the ahead throttles open as rapidly as possible, pouring steam into the Main Engine turbines. One of the Fire Control Technicians seated at his combat control console pressed a button on his display, ejecting a torpedo decoy into the water. Christine felt tremors in the submarine’s deck as the ship’s propeller dug into the water, accelerating Michigan toward maximum speed.

  “Torpedo in the water, bearing two-eight-five!”

  Wilson stepped back onto the Conn, unfazed by Sonar’s report, alternately studying the sonar and combat displays. The torpedo was chasing Michigan from behind, but with a Chinese submarine on each side of the ship, there was nowhere to turn. Unless the torpedo was distracted by Michigan’s decoy, it looked like the Trident submarine was headed to the bottom.

  A bright white trace burned into the sonar display, but Christine found her eyes glued to the geographic display in front of Lieutenant Cordero. The torpedo chasing them was just now reaching their decoy. She watched intently as the torpedo passed by Michigan’s decoy, her heart sinking into her stomach. But then the torpedo turned around and headed back toward the decoy.

  It worked. Christine watched as the torpedo swam in circles around the decoy, attempting to destroy the small countermeasure. But just when her spirits began to lift, another report echoed across the 27-MC.

  “Torpedo in the water, bearing two-eight-three! Sier
ra four-five has shot a second torpedo!”

  Christine looked up at Captain Wilson, still standing on the Conn, studying the Sonar display. A moment later he announced, “Launch second countermeasure.” However, he issued no new orders to the Helm. With a Chinese submarine on either side, Michigan was constrained on course, so another torpedo decoy would have to do, along with the submarine’s speed. Michigan was slow by American submarine standards, but she was nuclear-powered and could easily outrun the three diesel submarines chasing her. Outrunning their torpedoes was another matter.

  Every ten seconds, Sonar called out the bearings to each torpedo, with red bearing lines annotated on several of the displays. A minute passed and the Navigator, supervising the various electronic plots, called out, “Second fired torpedo has been vectored around our decoy.”

  Wilson stepped off the Conn again and stopped by the geographic display, examining the bearing lines to the second torpedo. The torpedo had been steered forty-five degrees to the right, then back to base course chasing Michigan, passing to the right of the submarine’s decoy. The Chinese torpedo was obviously wire-guided and the Chinese crew well trained. It would be a race to the finish, hinging on whether the torpedo ran out of fuel before it reached Michigan. The Trident submarine was already at ahead flank, so Christine figured they had a fighting chance. But as a glimmer of hope appeared, a series of reports echoed across Control.

  “Torpedo in the water, bearing one-nine-zero! Correlates to Sierra four-seven!” A few seconds later, another report followed. “Torpedo in the water, bearing zero-one-zero! Correlates to Sierra four-six!”

  Two more bright white traces appeared on the sonar monitor on the Conn, one on each side of the display. Every ten seconds, Sonar called out bearings to the three torpedoes chasing them, and not long after, solutions for the three torpedoes appeared on the geographic display on Lieutenant Cordero’s console. The first torpedo was chasing them from behind, headed directly toward Michigan. However, the two on each side were fired at a lead angle, taking into account Michigan’s ahead flank speed, traveling to an intercept point ahead of the Trident submarine. Michigan was completely bracketed. They couldn’t slow down and had nowhere to turn.