Threat vector

by Michael Dimercurio

  "I'm afraid so, Admiral. I just got off the phone with NavSea staff. There was a fatality in the shipyard at Electric Boat at the DynaCorp New Construction Facility. Apparently a shipyard worker was welding on the hull plates of the Virginia and forgot he was standing on a scaffold. He walked off the platform and fell over fifty feet to his death."

  Pacino stopped short. "Oh, no. Where's Captain Patton?"

  Captain Jonathan George S. Patton IV had commanded the SSNX-class submarine Devilfish on her maiden voyage out of the building ways during the East China Sea conflict. The ship had sunk six hijacked Japanese Rising Sun-class subs, and had suffered a catastrophic torpedo room fire during the battle. When she'd been patched up, Patton had been put in charge of new construction of the NSSN class. Now that it was officially out of the prototype stage, he was supervising the construction of the NSSN-class submarine Virginia, the follow-on to the Devilfish. Patton and Pacino had had a recent discussion about Patton's unhappiness with his station in life. Patton had never said it, but Pacino knew Patton felt that he, not Bruce Phillips,

  should have been given command of the Unified Submarine Command. Pacino had chosen Phillips, with whom he'd had a longer history, going back to the Japanese blockade days. Patton was next in line, his heroism earning him the Navy Cross in Operation White Hope, but his experience was just a hairsbreadth short of what Phillips brought to the table. Unfortunately, Patton felt so strongly about it that Pacino feared he'd resign.

  Pacino knew Patton would take the shipyard worker's death particularly hard, and he asked, "Where was John?"

  "He was in his limo on the way down," White replied. "He got the call, turned around, and went back to Electric Boat. He said he wanted to see the family."

  "He wouldn't feel right coming on our little vacation, not after that happened."

  "Exactly, Admiral."

  "We got everyone else?"

  "We're missing your Annapolis roommate, Sean Murphy."

  "Sean called me before. He won't be coming."

  "What's going on?" White asked, not as discreet as he should have been.

  "Let's just say it's a personal thing," Pacino said. "He can't make it right now." In fact, Murphy had lung cancer. After going into remission a few years before, it was back now, in full force. His wife and children wanted him to go in for chemotherapy, but he wasn't sure. One thing he was sure of was that he did not have the strength to make this cruise.

  Pacino bit his lip. Terminal cancer at age fifty, after everything Sean Murphy had lived through. It seemed far less than fair. If Pacino could have given his old Academy roommate ten years of his own life, he would have gladly done it.

  Pacino tried to turn his mind away from the dismal events striking his two friends and forced himself to smile as they returned to the amidships reception hall at the companionway and began to greet his officers. Soon the enthusiasm he showed became genuine. The company of these fine men cheered him up. He accepted one of Phillips' recommended Anchor Steams, marveling at the cooperation of the weather. When it was time, the sun high overhead as the afternoon approached, the officers climbed to the bridge to watch the civilian crew get the ship underway.

  fleet commander has given us orders to execute a decapitation assault on the American Navy's leadership. The theory is that if they are dead, our mission to the South Atlantic will have the time to succeed."

  He turned to Svyatoslov. "Mr. First, line up Shchuka system unit four for immediate launch."

  "Yessir."

  Within ten minutes, the Shchuka unit had lifted off from the torpedo tube, streaming its data wire. It drifted to the bay bottom, anchored itself to the silty soil, and inflated its foil hydraphone-surfaced balloon. A few seconds later, data streamed into the Second Captain's battlecontrol system.

  "Sir," Svyatoslov reported, "Shchuka unit four is on the bay bottom and active. The Second Captain has the battlespace on three-dimensional virtual reality."

  "Very good," Grachev said. "Line up large-bore tubes one through four for Barrakuda mobile mine launches, data wires connected."

  "Yessir," Svyatoslov replied. "Barrakuda units one through four loading now."

  It would take a few minutes for the units to get into the tubes and have their cables connected to the tube breech doors, and then a few more minutes for the tube doors to shut and the tubes to flood with seawater while the mines' power units warmed up, the onboard ring laser inertial navigators stabilizing. Grachev could take this time to unstrap from his command console and go to the VR booth on the starboard side, but he decided to re-

  main at the command console and let the first officer guide in the mines.

  Soon Svyatoslov's voice rang in Grachev's headset: "Sir, Barrakuda units one through four are ready for launch."

  "Very good, Mr. First. Take VR zero. When the battlespace is ready, and only on my orders, you will take out units one through four and target the outbound warships, one for each destroyer and two for the cruiser. When you have them launched, prepare to load tubes one and two with Barrakuda units five and six for the cruise ship and tubes three and four with Bora II antisubmarine torpedoes."

  There was a resource bottleneck problem here, Grachev thought. While the ship was wire-guiding the mobile mines, the tubes had to remain dedicated to the mines connected to the ship by then-data wires, which meant the tubes could not be reused for the next round of mines or torpedoes. Grachev had intentionally targeted the warships first, thinking that anything could happen before the cruise ship passed the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel.

  "Yessir. Taking station in VR zero."

  There was nothing to do now but wait for the American task force to exit the bay. Grachev scanned the acoustic daylight images of the Shchuka unit four. He pulled a set of virtual-reality goggles from the side of the console and slipped them on, seeing the bay around him as if he were submerged in a bathing suit thirty meters below the calm surface. The VR system at the command console was poor compared to the startling reality

  of the VR cubicles, but Grachev preferred to serve his watch here.

  A few hours, Grachev promised himself. In a few hours all this would be over.

  The captain of the Princess Dragon looked amused but war-weary as he took the giant vessel out, using her thrusters to maneuver off the pier, then backing down without tugs, turning swiftly on a single point in the river in spite of the strength of the current, and moving ahead as the ship's six massive gas turbine engines throttled up, her twin screws kicking up a white wake aft.

  Pacino could feel the ship roll as they took the first turn, but otherwise the deck of the Princess Dragon was as steady as the floor of the Hyatt Hotel. He watched as they moved down the seaway. The wind of their passage picked up, wanting to steal his officer's hat. The sounds and smells of the sea seemed to reach into him, erasing all his previous troubles. Here, at sea, with his senior officers and an ice-cold bottle of Anchor Steam, there were no enemies, no Ukrainians, no dark forces.

  He would remember this day his entire life, he thought.

  Devilfish picked up speed as they fell in behind the broad gleaming white stern of the cruise ship. Petri smiled to herself as several of the senior officers waved to her. The Princess Dragon made the turn eastward into the Chesapeake, the submarine slicing through the massive cruise vessel's wake. The

  scrubby pines on their right masked their view of the runways of Norfolk Naval Air Station.

  "Bridge, Navigator," the speaker rasped. "Mark the turn to zero three five."

  "Helm, Bridge, right full rudder, steady course zero three five," Dietz ordered, his voice still casual, again craning his neck over the bridge coaming to check the swing of the rudder.

  The world rotated around the ship as the rudder turned them, and the Bridge-Tunnel of Interstate 64 became visible.

  "Bridge, helm, rudder is right full, passing zero two five, ten degrees from ordered course."

  Dietz acknowledged, hoisting binoculars to his eyes, scanning the c
hannel. He turned to look at Petri, who was stepping back down into the cramped cockpit.

  "Rig the flying bridge for dive," she ordered Dietz, "and take it up to fifteen knots."

  "Lookout, rig flying bridge for dive. Helm, Bridge, all ahead standard."

  The water at the bow rose slowly up over the nose cone, climbing steadily up the hull until the foredeck from the sail lip to the bow was completely underwater. The bow wave began to get louder below them, a low-pitched growling in a duet with the noise of the wind. The Interstate 64 tunnel was approaching. A few miles beyond, the tall, boxy stern of the cruise ship could be seen lumbering down the channel. Behind them the twin periscopes were rotating furiously, Judison's men taking visual navigation fixes.

  "Bridge, Navigator, hold you fifty yards right of

  center of channel. Recommend steer zero three four. Request to raise the radar mast, rotate and radiate."

  Dietz spoke quietly into the bridge microphone, Petri listening closely. "Helm, Bridge, steer zero three four, raise the radar mast."

  The speaker barked a reply while a noise behind them marked the raising of the radar mast high over the other masts.

  Beyond, the Interstate 64 Bridge-Tunnel, the pricey shore property of Ocean View steadily passed. The water ahead was glassy smooth, the afternoon sun glaring off the water. The navigator had them turn to course east, aiming for the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel and the start of the Thimble Shoals Channel. Three huge supertankers were cruising inbound, all of them loaded to the gunwales with Saudi crude.

  The cruise ship had sped up in front of them, the distance now four miles. Petri called for a speed increase to twenty-five knots. Dietz ordered ahead flank, and the noise of the bow wave roaring over the hull and the wind howling in their ears was like music to Petri. At the bow, several dolphins began to jump in the foam of the bow wave, leaping ahead, splashing into the water, and then vanishing. Petri smiled at the dolphins, the submarine's good-luck charm, and scanned the waters ahead with her binoculars.

  The lines of the 1-64 bridge ahead extended across their track except where the tunnel made it disappear. They passed over the bridge and continued on, the sea and scenery continuing to pass astern. She could see the arching span of the Ches-

  apeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel at the horizon, marking the entrance to the Atlantic. Petri called down for coffee, and when it came was content to drink the strong brew and enjoy the sweeping beauty of the Chesapeake Bay.

  On the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel fishing pier, a vendor called Kelly McKee out of his reverie, offering him a hot dog. McKee dropped his binoculars and accepted it, paying from a wad of bills in his pocket. When he returned to his vigil, the first ships were well in sight, two gray sleek destroyers, then an Aegis cruiser, plowing the seaway in straight lines. The radars on the high masts of the destroyers rotated slowly, and large flags from the tall masts flapped in the slipstream of their passage. In the binoculars McKee could see the men on deck, serious officers on the bridge wings and inside the windows of the bridge. The cruiser behind the destroyer was still gray in the haze of distance, lumbering slowly down the seaway. Two miles behind the cruiser a bright white hull appeared, which must be the cruise ship, McKee thought.

  McKee watched the cruise ship as it slowly made its way toward him. As it grew he realized it was the biggest cruise liner he had ever seen, all superstructure above the waterline, the boxiness of her tapered at the bow and stern. McKee turned his eyes upward, and on the promenade deck was a row of men distinguished from the others, who wore Hawaiian shirts and shorts—these men wore starched tropical white uniforms with gold shoulderboards. Flag officers. Admirals. He couldn't make out who they were, nor did

  he want to raise the binoculars to his eyes. At that moment he decided to turn his back on the ship and walk back to the car.

  He never saw the admirals sending a junior officer running to the bridge, or the result of that action—the dipping of the cruise ship's American flag, an ancient seagoing gesture of respect.

  When the Princess Dragon neared the first tunnel of the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel, Pacino thought he saw Kelly McKee standing on the fishing pier, and immediately he sent his aide to the bridge to order the captain to dip the flag. Just as the vessel passed through the gap, the flag was dipped, but by then Kelly McKee had turned and was walking back to his car.

  Pacino watched him helplessly, wondering what he could do to make the man return to his life, then remembering how he himself had gone into shock and mourning when his first command, the old fast attack submarine Devilfish, had gone down in the Arctic Ocean. How he had left the Navy and taught at the Academy and tried to forget, but a part of him would never forget Once a man is a submarine commander, there is no turning back. Just as an astronaut will always have that one defining experience in his life of having gone into space, so would a sub skipper always have that one period in his life of being the ultimate dictator at sea.

  Kelly McKee would be back, Pacino realized, just as he himself had come back. The moment would find him. And until that moment, Pacino would have to wait and do his job, which today was drink-

  ing beer and getting a tan going to sea on a sinfully luxurious cruise ship surrounded by his friends.

  "Like it, sir?" Phillips' voice said in Pacino's ear.

  "Nope." Pacino paused. "I love it." He clinked his bottle against Phillips'. "But you're in deep trouble with me, Admiral. You should have thought of this years ago, dammit." Pacino smiled.

  "Admiral, I'll take that fuckin' hit," Phillips said, the traditional submariner's response to unfair criticism from an inspection team.

  Pacino stared out to sea as they passed the ships at anchor, watched as two dolphins splashed at their bow wave, and basked in the feel of the sun and the wind.

  "Sir, we have the task force on Shchuka sensors two and three," Computer Systems Officer Lieutenant Gezlev Katmonov reported from the virtual-reality cubicle behind Svyatoslov's. Katmonov was a talented youth, but looked like he'd been pulled out of his high school classes just that morning. "Very good. Mr. First, you have the targets?" "Destroyers approaching the gap in the Bay Bridge-Tunnel now. I have the forward unit out of the gap, the western unit about five hundred meters behind, coming toward the gap."

  "Shoot Barrakuda unit one in swimout mode." "Unit one away," Svyatoslov reported. Grachev strapped on the VR goggles and leaned back in his command seat. The view was like looking through a porthole, but what his goggles were tuned to was the seeker camera/nonvisible light sensor/blue laser seeker in the nose cone of the

  Barrakuda mobile mine. Within a heartbeat the hole vanished. The mine's turbine engine started burning its oxidized liquid fuel and leaving the tube. The view opened up to the bay around him, which looked as though it were moving slowly, perhaps walking speed. Off in the distance Grachev could see the hull of the first destroyer as Svyatos-lov guided the unit in.

  "Ready for Barrakuda unit two sir," Svyatoslov reported. "Mr. Lynski will guide it out."

  "Very good. Shoot when ready."

  The second mobile mine left the ship, guided by Warrant Officer Lynski in VR cubicle two. By pushing a software button on his aux one display, Grachev could toggle his view between unit one and unit two. As he watched, the slow-moving mines placed themselves in the paths of the oncoming destroyer hulls. The hulls grew huge overhead, dwarfing the mobile mines. The hull of the first destroyer passed directly overhead, and the mine drove upward and connected itself to the hull. Then as it shut down its propulsor, the electromagnet held the unit to the metal of the hull long enough for two welding arms to protrude from its body and spot-weld the unit directly to the destroyer, while a secondary chemical system emitted the two components of a strong epoxy glue, supergluing the two bodies together. The first Barrakuda turned off the electromagnets permanently, conserving power for the unit's computer and warhead-detonator circuit.

  "Unit one is attached, Captain."

  "Very good. Set the detonator for co
ordinate

  alpha plus the time delay assigned and disconnect the wire."

  Coordinate alpha was a position about eighty kilometers east of the coastline. The ring laser iner-tial navigator would count off the latitude and longitude until coordinate alpha was reached, and then start a time counter. The timing was planned so the cruise ship would explode first.

  "Shutting down one, reloading with unit five."

  The second Barrakuda unit connected itself to the hull of the second destroyer. Soon Svyatoslov's men had put two Barrakudas on the cruiser and two on the cruise ship. All tubes were disconnected from the mobile mine guidance wires and reloaded with Bora II torpedoes for the attack on the submarine.

  Grachev reconfigured the console to examine the view out the Antay sensor, protruding a mere half meter from the smooth bay water. As he watched the massive cruise ship drove by in the gap of the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel, dipping its flag momentarily, then raising it. That was odd, Grachev thought, shrugging and settling back. With their mines laid, there was nothing to do but wait to see if they detonated on schedule.

  "Sir?" Svyatoslov asked. "What about the submarine?"

  The sub was just approaching the gap in the bridge-tunnel. Grachev watched its image in display zero. It was beautiful, with a Russian-style swept-back sail and a pod on the rudder far aft.

  "What about it?"

  "When will you be attacking it?"

  "Later. I'll let you know."

  was going down about then, and all I could do was sit there wearing a hard hat in the yard, watching my ship get torn apart."

  He stopped again, taking a beer from the waiter, Eve taking a glass of wine.

  "You got called to sea?"

  "I keep forgetting," Pacino said. "It was so highly classified that it never made it into the newspapers. Or the history books." He laughed, a self-mocking noise. " 'Seawolf Wins World War III, Sub's Skipper a Hero.' "