04 Tidal Rip

by Joe Buff

  CHAPTER 14

  Jeffrey sat in the captain’s place, at the head of the wardroom table. The dinner dishes were cleared, though coffee service remained on the table. Several people, himself included, were enjoying another cup. Felix, as a guest, sat on his right. Bell was on his left. Sessions was in the control room, as officer of the deck.

  Lieutenant Milgrom started the formal briefing. She seemed intense, but not overtired as Jeffrey felt: since Ilse Reebeck wasn’t on the ship to share a stateroom with Milgrom, Bell had decided that she should use the VIP rack in the XO’s cabin. Milgrom and Bell arranged their schedules to sleep at different times; no one would look askance, and freeing up the three-man officers’ stateroom that Ilse and Kathy had been using allowed three male officers to get their regular quarters back. Bell’s next administrative nightmare would be finding places for sixteen SEALs to sleep, with the torpedo room already completely crammed with weapons and part of Challenger’s junior enlisted crew hot-racking—sharing bunks—as it was.

  Milgrom’s laptop was wired to the big flat-screen TV on the wall of the wardroom, on the opposite bulkhead from Jeffrey’s chair. She touched her keyboard, and a briefing slide came up on the screen.

  “Lord,” Jeffrey said, “it looks like all the veins on someone’s retina.” A retina the size of the Atlantic Ocean.

  “In a sense,” Milgrom said, “that’s precisely the point. Orpheus lets us see out to vast distances, like a gigantic eye.”

  “And in the middle, where all the veins come together like where the optic nerve would be, that’s us?”

  “Precisely, Captain. The Orpheus connections and consoles, set up with help from the SEALs.”

  “Okay. Go on.” Jeffrey was being intentionally standoffish today, not to Milgrom in particular but to all his officers. By playing devil’s advocate, making them work to sell him on the idea of Orpheus, he’d make sure they got a better handle on it and did a better job with it in combat.

  “That seeming ‘retinal scan’ was the map of the relevant portion of the network of transoceanic undersea telephone cables, the old electrical ones. Mostly abandoned, most of them cut near one shore or the other.” Milgrom brought another slide on the screen. “This diagram shows the basic concepts behind how Orpheus picks up signals.”

  Jeffrey looked at the picture. The physics were familiar enough from all his technical training.

  “Point one,” Milgrom said, “the earth’s magnetic field isn’t shielded by seawater. It penetrates the ocean’s deepest depths.”

  Jeffrey nodded.

  “Point two, an electrically conductive material, moving through the lines of force of any magnetic field, produces an electric current.”

  “Which is exactly how a generator works,” Jeffrey threw in.

  “Point three, seawater is highly conductive.”

  “Yup.” That’s one more thing that makes being on a ship or sub so dangerous. The hazard of lethal electric shock, when you mix salt water and steel with heavy voltages, is high.

  “Next,” Milgrom said, “a submarine’s hull form, moving through the sea, creates an internal wave in the water. The fluid around the bow of the hull is forced up and down in a characteristic, predictable manner.”

  “I’m with you so far,” Jeffrey said, mostly to be polite and keep the briefing moving.

  “These principles, brought together, are the basis of Orpheus. When a submerged submarine advances through the ocean, the seawater that the bow dome pushes out of the way moves up and down in the earth’s magnetic field. This creates electrical currents. There is no way to prevent or mask these telltale currents. The submarine’s quieting does it no good. Attempts at using sonar layers or terrain masking to hide from the SOSUS hydrophones do it no good.”

  “That part isn’t new,” Jeffrey said rhetorically. “The idea was looked at during the Cold War as a way to localize and track enemy subs non-acoustically. The result, unless I missed something, was zilch.”

  Milgrom went on, unfazed. “The Cold War era did not have ceramic-hulled nuclear submarines, Captain. The problem with this detection method in the first thousand feet or so of the water column is confusion by environmental noise—signal clutter, in other words—from waves, passing whales, and thermal downwashes and such. That, plus the problem of how to have a platform, to cast a net as it were, with a large and steady search area that an enemy submarine cannot intentionally maneuver to avoid.”

  “Granted.” A platform meant a ship or plane or sub.

  “A ceramic-hulled submarine, however, running at ten or fifteen thousand feet, is far enough away from surface waves and large biologics to avoid that problematic signal-to-noise ratio. At the same time, said deep-diving submarine is close to the fixed, preexisting network of undersea electrical cables stretching from continent to continent all along the ocean’s bed. When the submarine passes over such a cable, the electrical current caused by the hull pushing its way through the water will, by induction, generate a small and subtle sympathetic current in the cable. That sympathetic current, induced point-blank by the passing submarine, will flow along the entire length of the cable, at the speed of light…. The key to Orpheus is to harness this phenomenon.”

  “By patching into the cables,” Jeffrey stated, “where a bunch of them crisscross.”

  “That’s where my men and their equipment come in,” Felix said. “We create the crucial node, the observation post the enemy can’t sneak past or avoid.”

  Milgrom brought up another slide. “Lieutenant Estabo?”

  Felix stood. “This nice little artist’s conception gives you the layout. Because parts of the cable hookups involve some very fine manual work, our hardwired anchor station needs to be in shallow water, here.” He pointed at a place beside a craggy island on the slide. “Shallow because of limitations on humans making repeated dives with the scuba equipment we’ve got…The satellite dish needs to be high and dry and stable, to get a good continuous lock on the geosynchronous commo bird.” He pointed to the schematic picture again, where a big dish sat on the island, aimed at a satellite in space. “The minisub, here, brings the divers and equipment to the cable anchor point and to the islet, and strings the transducer line out to deep water. That line lets the ground station, and Challenger, and the mini all talk by covert acoustics.” Transducers were a type of underwater microphone.

  Jeffrey nodded.

  Felix continued. “Then the mini sits over the cable-hookup anchor station, which is now connected to all the old phone cables, all underwater. More new wires of our own run from the anchor station sitting on the bottom to the Orpheus consoles inside the mini. Other wires run from the mini up to the beach on the islet and the satellite dish that talks to Norfolk. And then there’s the transducer line, also from the mini.”

  “So the minisub is like a spider in its web,” Jeffrey said.

  “Or like a fly caught in the web. Depends on your point of view, sir.” Felix shrugged. “Anyway, all this gets us what we want, without Challenger or the mini needing to raise an antenna mast for hours on end and give themselves away. My team will be exposed on land, sure, but we earn our daily bread by taking such risks. If we could do everything from a rubber boat or raft instead, we would. But small boats are just too unstable. We need solid ground to emplace that satellite dish and supporting equipment…. Notice that Challenger herself is not tied down by any physical linkages, so she remains fully mobile and stealthy and tactically flexible.” Felix sat.

  “How long will you and your men need?” Jeffrey asked. “To make the cable hookups and establish the ground relay station and everything?”

  “Working in shifts around the clock,” Felix said, “once we get there, about twenty-four hours.”

  “And the place we’re heading to is neutral territory.”

  “Also correct,” Felix said. “Won’t be the first time, for me. If anyone asks, we’re Brazilian. Not that there’d be a soul there who would ask.”

  “Okay, t
hanks,” Jeffrey said.

  Milgrom cleared her throat and resumed. “Of course, powerful software is needed to sort out and interpret these subtle electrical clues to the enemy submarine’s passage. The Orpheus consoles have microchips optimally designed for the particular type of maths and signal-processing required. In theory, it will be possible to tell the von Scheer’s exact location along the cable, as well as her depth and course and speed, from the shape and the decay rate of the internal electrical waves induced, even if she’s many hundred miles away from the Orpheus station. This data would let us calculate an intercept course and sneak up on von Scheer with surprise.”

  “In theory,” Jeffrey said.

  “As Lieutenant Estabo already anticipated in his discussion of the hardware layout, sir, this is why we need the land-based portion of the equipment. A voice-and-data satellite relay to Norfolk, whose supercomputers may catch whiffs of signal our portable consoles miss, to feed such information back to us. And for Atlantic Fleet to pass us any other detections made on von Scheer, from elsewhere, to redirect Challenger if need be.”

  “If we can get there in time,” Jeffrey said a bit sourly.

  “If not,” Milgrom said, “it is my understanding that other escort platforms will be tasked to prosecute the contact, just as they would be sent after any Orpheus contacts we detect too far beyond our own effective interception range. Again, that’s why we need the satellite communications dish.”

  “What other escort platforms? We absolutely require a ceramic-hulled sub if we’re to stand an adequate chance of killing von Scheer. Dreadnought is way up by Greenland last I heard.” HMS Dreadnought was the only Allied ceramic-hulled sub besides Challenger. “I doubt she can get between von Scheer and the convoy at this point, given the geography and distances involved. Von Scheer could leap out of the Mid-Atlantic Ridge terrain anywhere from east of Maine to east of Miami for all we know.”

  “Understood, Captain. The convoy routing plan accounts for that.”

  “How?” Jeffrey already knew the supposed, official answer; he worried that that answer was too pat.

  “Sir”—the assistant navigator broke in—“the convoy is avoiding steaming over the Mid-Atlantic Ridge until they reach the Atlantic Narrows, where the ridge can’t be avoided…. Lieutenant?”

  Milgrom brought up a slide that plotted the convoy’s path versus sea-bottom topography. The assistant navigator used it to elaborate his point.

  “Berlin can read the same terrain maps we can,” Jeffrey responded. “Who says they’ll do what we expect them to do? Maybe the von Scheer won’t hide in the ridge. Maybe she’ll sneak out over one of the North Atlantic abyssal plains and savage the convoy from there.”

  “That’s where our other platforms come in,” Milgrom repeated.

  “What other platforms?” Jeffrey pressed. The idea of a formal briefing is to cover every conceivable base and not hold back from tough questions.

  “Antisubmarine aircraft, surface ships, and steel-hulled fast-attack submarines.”

  “All of which might not be decisive enough against a ceramic-hulled SSGN hiding three miles down. We’re in a situation where ‘might not’ could spell disaster.”

  “Yes, sir,” Milgrom said reluctantly.

  Jeffrey relented. The U.S. and UK had fewer than sixty nuclear-powered fast-attack subs left in commission between them, because of budget cuts and then war losses—and after nine months of constant hard fighting, many of these were in dry dock for repairs, or at sea but barely battle-worthy. With heavy worldwide commitments, the submarine forces were spread too thin. Each country could afford to build only one ceramic-hulled submarine, because of the huge costs. But all this certainly wasn’t Milgrom’s fault.

  “What other kinds of detections would Norfolk relay us?”

  “Acoustic, or magnetic anomaly, or…or von Scheer’s missile launches.”

  There was a long and uncomfortable silence.

  Jeffrey looked around the room, to take the pressure off Milgrom and pass it equally among his people. “We better all hope the higher-ups guessed right, about where we and the SEALs are supposed to set up our ambush location.”

  “That’s the point, sir,” Bell said. “You just need to look at a chart. Because of the layout of shorelines versus ocean, and the layout of all the old phone cables, we’re being sent to the one spot in the whole hemisphere that really is the optic nerve, the point of maximum searching-and-tactical focus.”

  Jeffrey grunted. He wished he could share Bell’s upbeat take. But what’s the alternative? Putter around half blind and half deaf in the Mid-Atlantic Ridge, six thousand miles between Central Africa and Greenland, and hope I get lucky? Hope I meet the von Scheer soon enough in that gigantic undersea mountain range, and I get off the first, decisive shots…before the convoy meets the von Scheer ?…At least Orpheus gives us a fighting chance.

  Milgrom and the assistant navigator presented their plan for getting from the Caribbean to the Orpheus point with an optimum balance of speed versus stealth. Jeffrey approved. Bell outlined the enemy threats that Challenger might meet en route. Jeffrey nodded cautiously.

  “Meeting’s adjourned,” Jeffrey said. Everyone waited for him to stand up.

  Jeffrey stood, and walked to the screen on the bulkhead, still showing the assistant navigator’s final slide. He contemplated Challenger’s next destination, that lonely, tiny dot of land almost lost in the Atlantic Narrows. He reread the label next to the dot, on the nautical chart on the screen: THE ST. PETER AND ST. PAUL ROCKS.

  CHAPTER 15

  Beck sat at his command workstation in the Zentrale. Stissinger sat to his right. Von Loringhoven stood between them again, watching over their shoulders. The control room was crowded and hushed. Dim red lighting emphasized that the ship was still at battle stations and ultraquiet. Depth gauges around the control room, and windowed on Beck’s console screen, read 4,800 meters.

  The von Scheer was so deep that the deck of the Zentrale was actually warped from the pressure squashing against the outer hull. Extra damage-control parties were stationed around the ship. Beck hoped they wouldn’t be needed. At this depth, five thousand meters—three miles—down, the slightest flooding would be catastrophic. If a single weld or valve joint failed anywhere that was exposed to full sea pressure, the ocean would blast in with a force beyond comprehension. The noise would be painfully loud, like artillery fire. The solid jet of water could instantly cut a man in half. It would ricochet everywhere, making the source of flooding impossible to find. Above the quickly rising water in the bilges and then on the decks, the air would become an atomized mist of stinging, blinding seawater. The flooding would drive the internal atmospheric pressure up very fast, making the air turn hot—burning hot—and the steaming salty mist would short out critical electric equipment. Men would die in horrible ways as the von Scheer herself was drowned and crushed from within.

  Those thoughts were bad enough. The reality of what Ernst Beck was seeing was, in some ways, worse.

  The ship was at the exact location specified in his orders, verified by the inertial navigation plot. The sonarmen and weapons technicians were all on high alert. Two remote-controlled off-board probes, designed to work at such depths, had already scouted the general area for any lurking threats.

  At the moment, a kampfschwimmer chief and enlisted man were working at a console at the rear of the Zentrale, intensely focused on their task.

  Video imagery was shown on the control room’s main display screens. Some of the images came from active laser line-scan cameras outside the ship. The images were crisp and sharp, at least within the effective range of the laser beams. Other pictures came from passive image-intensification cameras. Those views were murky, diffuse, even where floodlights pierced the darkness; backscatter glowed off floating silt. The live feeds all came in through fiber-optic tethers.

  Ernst Beck saw the seafloor, a short distance beneath the von Scheer. The ship was holding perfectly steady as the
pilot and copilot busily used the small auxiliary thrusters fore and aft to counteract the sluggish bottom current. The bottom at this location was a mix of clay ooze, washed down off dry land in Europe, and scattered basalt boulders. The boulders were jagged and rough, because at this depth there’d been no polishing by Ice Age glaciers, no weathering by wind or waves, no cycle of freezing and thawing. The water temperature was constant at four degrees Celsius—just above freezing. The terrain rose gradually toward the west. In the far distance soared the central peaks of the endless Mid-Atlantic Ridge, magma hardened as it emerged from the earth over eons.

  On the imagery projected from outside, Beck saw bioluminescent glows and flashes from clouds of microbes and hideous fish. Over the sonar speakers, he heard the clicketyclack and popping of deep-sea shrimp.

  This water was transgressed, defiled, by man. Near the von Scheer, settled on the bottom, sat the wreck of a U.S. Navy destroyer. Between the von Scheer and the wreck, divers walked—impossibly—on the bottom. Two of them turned to the cameras that other men carried. Through their faceplates, Beck recognized one as the kampfschwimmer lieutenant in command.

  As Beck watched, they gave a quick thumbs-up, then continued toward the sunken destroyer, walking freely on the seafloor five kilometers down.

  The six kampfschwimmer divers wore backpacks, hooked up to their intravenous ports—those implants Beck had thought of as gills. Inside their full-body diving clothes and helmets that looked like spacesuits, Beck’s briefing papers had told him, they breathed a saline solution suffused with oxygen. They breathed the liquid as if they were breathing air.

  “I’m informed that once you get used to it,” von Loringhoven said, “breathing the fluid seems natural.”

  “It must be strange at first,” Beck said.

  “These kampfschwimmer are well trained. The reason their suits are soft is so the fluid, and their whole bodies, can equalize to ambient sea pressure. Even the best mixed-gas rigs would kill a man past the first thousand meters.”