Brown looked over at the other petty officer then moved towards him.
“What did you find shipmate?” Brown asked as he stopped next to the radio operator station and wheezed a little from the exercise.
“Chief, I think I found something, sounds military or maybe from some emergency agency,” Teller said as he tuned in the signal again and handed Brown a headset. Brown held it to his ear and listened, nodded, handed the headset back to Teller then leaned over and hit a series of switches. The transmission was static free and not garbled as it came through the speakers.
“Attention all vessels, this is Port Winthrop Naval base. Do not attempt to pass by the restricted markers without being inspected first. The base is conducting a security lockdown. 100 percent identification check is in force. This is not an exercise. Deadly force has been authorized and any vessel will be fired upon without warning that fails to heave to. Attention all vessels. This is the Port Winthrop Naval base. Do not attempt to pass by the restricted markers without being inspected first. The base is conducting a security lockdown. This is not an exercise.”
Teller quickly looked at the retired CPO with wide eyes and an open mouth then back at the speaker then back up to the senior NCO.
“You’re going to catch flies like that or hurt your neck,” Brown said.
“What did you do?” Teller stammered out.
“Adjusted the gain, turned off all the other shit that you had running in the background, and allowed the signal strength directional finder to locate the source,” Brown explained.
Teller slowly shook his head. He had spent hours just experimenting with how to turn the system on and scan frequencies and then days discovering how it worked. Brown had solved a series of problems in just seconds.
“The system is really simple,” Brown said, taking a breath. “When you know what you’re doing with it.”
“Chief, would you mind staying here for a while?” Pratt asked. “Maybe you could take a seat and act as supervisor for us. A lot of this gear is older than we are and you seem to know how it works.”
Brown hid a grin then nodded and walked over to one of the vacant chairs at the radar console and sat down.
“I was due for a break anyway,” Brown said and he tucked his cane next to the console and leaned back. He glanced up at the ship’s clocks mounted on the bulkhead. The different clocks, all analog, showed the time zone difference between Hawaii, and the West Coast. The other four clocks hadn’t been reset to represent any particular time zones. He leaned back and his foot hit something under the console. He bent over and glanced at the breaker box mounted near the deck that was under the console that held the dark, non-functioning radar scope. They hadn’t been able to get the radar to boot up since leaving Hawaii and had to rely on a deck watch to scan the sea. It was on the list of systems to troubleshoot but hadn’t been as yet. The lever providing power to the box was in the down position meaning it was off. Next to the breaker was a box that contained the fuses that acted as surge protectors to save the delicate electronics from damage during combat operations.
Brown leaned down and worked the clasps then opened the fuse box. Inside, he saw there were three fuses present as it should be and out of those three, only one was locked in its brackets. He shook his head. How had this been overlooked? He mentally asked himself. Straining and stretching further, he removed one of the loose fuses. It was large; about the size of carbonated beverage can with metal caps at both ends and two prongs centered on those caps. He held it up to the light and studied it. It appeared undamaged. He blew dust off of it, wiped the contact ends with his shirt then leaned back over and pushed it into place until it clicked. He repeated this for the other fuses. He verified that all three were secure in their slots then closed the box and leaned back in his chair with a sigh. He took a couple of deep breaths. Damn emphysema, and kicked the power lever into the up and on position with his foot before he reached over and pressed and held the reset switch. The Radar or Plan Position Indicator, screen flashed, stuttered, and then stabilized as the sweep arm moved around the circular screen. Other indicators on the board lit up as well showing that the console was now receiving power.
Brown reached over, picked up the headset for the PPI station and plugged it into the jack.
“Bridge, CIC. Radar is up,” Brown calmly announced. The other sailors in the room turned and looked at him in disbelief before turning back to their own consoles.
“Hey, Chief,” Pratt said. “You have any idea if what happened in Hawaii happened everywhere else?”
“I don’t know,” Brown replied. “From what I saw before I came to the Mo, it looked like it was everywhere and then some.”
***
Chapter 6
Port Winthrop Naval Base, Washington State
“Captain, I have a new contact,” The radar operator on the New Orleans reported. “It’s weak but a definite contact.”
The New Orleans, having suffered severe structural damage during the encounter with a hostile force off the coast of Anacortes, was now out to sea but only a few miles from Port Winthrop. Not able to make more than twelve knots, it had been decided for safety reasons, to remain close to Winthrop. Engineers below decks were still working feverishly to seal the inboard stress fractures. The flight deck had been patched but the hangar bay was unusable for the near future as there had been several explosions and major fires in that space.
“Can you tell what it is?” the Operations Officer asked.
Since New Orleans had been able to get underway, they had detected vessels on the open ocean. Most of those vessels had been freighters or other cargo ships that were still under power. There were EPIRBs or Emergency Position Indicating Radio Beacons, from ships and quite possibly life rafts, further out to sea but, until New Orleans was cleared for deep water operations those beacons would have to wait to be investigated.
“Sir, contact firming up now. It’s some kind of large vessel, unknown type, maybe a tanker or freighter, definitely under power and heading in the general direction of Bremerton. No EPIRB. The closer it gets to the coast, I should be able to pinpoint the actual destination,” the radar operator reported. “Computer’s assigning a code for it now.” The radar operator watched as the CIC computer assigned a tag to the vessel. The only way to tell that a tag had been assigned was when the contact flashed once and the newly minted designation appeared next to the contact.
Bremerton basically was a navy town. There was a carrier based there along with several support vessels and the mothball fleet at anchorage in a sheltered inlet. No one knew where that carrier was now. Since the outbreak, Port Winthrop personnel had ventured to the naval base and stripped it of everything that they could use. The ships tied to the pier had been searched for survivors and then secured. The fences and gates had been reinforced and secured and the base left vacant. Over the months that had passed since then, Bremerton had been accessed only from the sea not from land. If the radar contact was a freighter, there was no reason for it to be heading to that destination. The Ports of Tacoma and Seattle and locations further north would make more sense. It could be that there was some kind of damage to the vessel’s directional computer. The Operations Officer stepped away from his position behind the radar operator and picked up the handset that would connect him to the bridge.
“Bridge, Ops. We have an unknown contact, designated as Uniform-112, heading towards Bremerton. Is there anything available to send up and give us a look at what it is?”
“Ops, wait one.” The phone was quiet for several long seconds.
“Ops, this is the captain, what do you have?” Greerson asked.
“Sir, we have Uniform-112 on a course for Bremerton.”
“I see it up here, Ops,” Greerson said as he moved to the radar console on the bridge.
“Sir, we have no Comms and no EPIRB. Could be a rogue with a navigational error,” the Operations officer said, not wanting to get his hopes up that the unknown could be another naval vessel.
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“I concur,” Greerson said. “We’ll get someone to take a look at it. Bridge out.” Greerson looked over at his flight officer.
“Who do we have on ready alert?” he asked.
“Sir, Werewolf-27 and Dragon-09 and 05.”
Greerson knew that Werewolf-27 was a tilt rotor MV-22 Osprey and Dragon flight was comprised of two AH1-Z Viper gunships, heavily modified former Cobra helicopters. None of those aircraft had the legs to intercept Uniform-112 at this range. All he could do was launch them and hope for a better visual. Based on the size of the contact, the silhouette should be enough to identify what it was.
“Inform Dagger-Six that he is to get as close to the unknown as possible and attempt to identify it,” Greerson said as he returned to his command seat, picked up the high powered binoculars and swept the flight deck before slowly scanning the horizon. With the hangar bay still under repair and only one of the flight deck elevators functioning, it had been decided that the aircraft would be flown out to the ship from Winthrop after it was determined that New Orleans could remain afloat. Greerson felt naked without his aircraft onboard but knew that safety was paramount. No reason to risk the small remainder of their air power needlessly. The Coast Guard cutter, Hampton was patrolling in a race track pattern around New Orleans to render assistance if needed while her sister ship, Farragut, was engaged in replenishment at the port. He hated to have to rely on the Coasties but New Orleans was not in prime structural shape.
Marines from the MEU boarded the tilt rotor as the engines spun up. In just a few minutes, the three aircraft were airborne, circled the ship once, then headed off to intercept the unknown contact. While the ship was well outside their operational range, it was imperative they determine what type of ship this was. No one wanted a supertanker running aground just a few miles from Winthrop nor did they want some freighter doing the same and dumping its load all over the coastline. But, if it was a supply ship of some kind, they would tag it as possible salvage. So far, the list of the vessels that they had recorded included four RO-RO ships that were car carriers from Asia, ten cargo vessels with CONEX containers stacked high on their decks, six log carriers, and fourteen freighters of varying size and tonnage with unknown cargo.
“Let Hampton know we’re launching on a contact,” Greerson said as he continued his sweep.
“Aye sir.”
Greerson focused on the smaller Coast Guard vessel, he watched the vessel as it expanded its patrol circuit.
“Ops, keep me posted on that contact,” Greerson ordered.
“Aye, sir.”
Greerson lowered the binoculars then picked up the commo handset and dialed Engineering.
“ChEng, how’s it look?” he asked, using the abbreviation for the ship’s Chief Engineer.
“Not good, Captain. We’re still taking on water but it looks like the major welds are holding. For now,” New Orleans Chief Engineer said. “If we hit rough water or need to make a speed run, I can’t guarantee they’ll hold for long. We’ve already burned out a couple of the pumps just trying to keep ahead of the incoming water.”
“I hear you, ChEng.”
“Sir, I’ve said this before; we need some serious time in dry dock and a full team of ship builders and structural engineers.” He didn’t add that even with that type of skill base and experience, there was a very good chance that the ship would be decommissioned and scrapped due to the level of damage. He had seen the ultrasounds taken of the hull and it was latticed with fine cracks. He was amazed that the keel had held up as long as it had.
“If wishes were horses,” Greerson said.
“Copy that, Captain. I’ll do what I can down here, sir, but it’s only a matter of time before we run out of duct tape and baling wire.”
Greerson hung up the handset. He knew as well as the Chief Engineer that New Orleans would never be the ship she once was. Too much stress on the bulkheads and keel from the Anacortes attack had taken its toll on the structural integrity of the ship. Time was not in their favor. Winter was upon them and that heralded storms along the coast. It was time to head back and secure for the winter. That would give them months to continue what repairs they had the capability for and come spring, maybe be in better shape.
“Helmsman, bring us about, we’re going home,” Greerson ordered. “All ahead one-third.”
“One-third, aye.”
Greerson knew that his aircraft had the endurance to make it back to Winthrop. Moving New Orleans back to her berth wasn’t an issue. He was sure she would stay afloat long enough to get them home.
***
Onboard the MV-22, Captain Frank Burgess, United States Marine Corps, Port Winthrop Marine Security Detachment, crouched by the open rear ramp and watched the ocean pass beneath him. He had lost count of all the times he and his men had launched to determine what a ship was. Most of the missions were flybys to see if there was any living crew left onboard. So far, they hadn’t done any ship clearing. They had only tagged the vessels with a transponder and monitored where they went or where they were floating. This ship, whatever it was, wasn’t going to get that same treatment. This time, they were going to the extreme limit of their operational endurance and attempt to identify what kind of vessel it was. More than likely, they’d launch on it again once it was closer and maybe this time, they would actually land on something. He knew that they had enough fuel stored on the supply ships and definitely enough supplies between what was at Winthrop and onboard that same replenishment ship. Until they actually performed a real VBSS mission instead of an airborne MIO, all they were doing now was drilling holes in the sky.
***
BB-63, Missouri, Off the Pacific Coast
“Bridge, Radar, I have some intermittent contacts,” Brown said. O’Reilly spun his command chair and grabbed the handset.
“What do you have, Chief?” he asked, thinking that maybe the radar was picking up debris or an abandoned ship.
“Don’t know, Cap. Can’t tell if it’s a boat or a plane,” Brown said. “Whatever it is, it’s right at the extreme edge of detection,” Brown said wishing there was someone onboard who had more experience with radar and how to decipher the readings.
“It’s gone now, Cap,” Brown said.
“Keep on it, Chief,” O’Reilly said before he replaced the handset.
***
***
“Paladin, Dragon Lead,” the senior pilot of the three aircraft formation said.
“Go ahead, Dragon Lead.”
“I have a visual on some kind of large vessel. It’s definitely not a freighter or a tanker. I’d say it’s some kind of warship.”
“Say again, Dragon Lead.”
“Waterborne contact is definitely not a civilian vessel, Paladin.”
“Can you get closer, Dragon Lead?”
“That’s a negative, Paladin. We’re two mikes from Bingo,” Dragon Lead said as he watched the large gray ship disappear into the fog that was a precursor to the storm that was forming further out to sea.
“I’ve lost visual. The weather is turning on us,” he said as fat rain drops began to sprinkle his canopy. “We’re RTB at this time.”
“Copy that Dragon Lead. Paladin out.”
The senior pilot of Dragon Flight took one longer look in the direction the ship went. He wasn’t sure, but it was possible that the flag flying from the stern was the stars and stripes.
***
Chapter 7
Museum of Natural History, New York City
“Work this out,” Pruitt said. “The world as we know it has pretty much ended. Somehow, with all that happening, our illustrious team leader manages to piss off command and we get relegated to a total shit detail.”
“Hey, it could be worse,” Jiminez said as he swept his tactical light around the utility tunnel that Sierra-3 was currently patrolling.
“How much worse could it get?” Graham asked.
Sierra-3 looked at their team medic and collectively shook their heads.<
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“There you go, you had to say it,” Ski said.
“What?” Graham asked looking around. “What did I do?”
“If you don’t know, I’m not going to tell you,” Pruitt said.
“I can’t believe you said that,” Jiminez stage whispered. Sound travelled far in these tunnels but they weren’t too concerned about Zulu’s in the immediate area. There had been regular patrols down here and they hadn’t encountered any. Yet.
“Someone had to say it,” Graham insisted.
“Knock it off and get your head back in the game,” Ski said as he turned around to check their back trail. Since his meeting with Colonel Wiener and his meeting with Doyle and later the Russian diplomat, he had been quiet. More quiet then he usually was as the topics of discussions between Doyle and Anatoli coupled with what he now knew of the situation inside the museum, had caused him to take a mental step back. Command was command. It was a crap shoot when it came to someone capable being in command but that was how it was in the military. However, to have someone so far down the chain that in all likelihood, in the real world, would have been passed over as non-promotable was a sick twist of fate.
“I got to ask, Ski,” Pruitt said. “Who did you piss off to get us assigned to the sewers?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Ski said.
“It kind of matters to us,” Pruitt said, stopping and looking back at his team leader. “This shitty job has us living down here in a goddamn maintenance room eating MREs. So it does matter.”
Ski stopped and looked at the team’s designated marksman. Pruitt was normally calm and collected but since their arrival at the museum and being exposed to some of the amenities inside then having those amenities taken away had made him and the rest of the team sullen and surly.
“We do as we’re ordered,” Ski said, stepping closer to Pruitt. “Until someone tells us otherwise,” he added as he stepped past and moved further into the tunnels. Graham and Jiminez gave Pruitt a look then followed their team leader.
Up From the Depths Page 4