by Larry Bond
And he’d begun to plan for his retirement. It had taken years to build up his contacts within the arms black market, and more time to learn the market. Now fifteen years of hard work and a rich reward were in jeopardy.
He studied the map as it showed not just the coast, but the interloping submarine as well. It had to be a Western sub, and probably an American. Or possibly more than one, according to Orlov. That worried him. They would not send more than one sub to such a remote location unless they knew what was there. Had someone learned of the cache? If they had proof, they would have already trumpeted the news to the world. So there was still time to keep the secret, and make a few sales. He had contacted a number of countries who would pay handsomely for a fully functional one hundred fifty kiloton nuclear warhead. He had plenty to sell.
* * *
Memphis had successfully evaded the searching Grishas, but Hardy had been forced to dodge farther east to keep clear of the corvettes. They were now heading north-northwest, toward home. Once clear of the northbound ships, Jerry kept the Manta on a northeasterly course at a charge-conserving five knots. The rendezvous with Memphis and the recovery of the Manta went off very smoothly, almost as if it were a training exercise. After hours of stress and strain, Jerry felt a load fall off his shoulders when the Manta finally nestled into its docking skirt.
The instant the Manta was secure, Jerry headed for sickbay, anxious to see the COB and Harris. He had to use his rank to open a hole in the large crowd that filled the passageway. It seemed that almost everyone not on watch was there, asking after the two divers. He was just starting to make progress when resistance suddenly ceased, and he realized the enlisted men around him had snapped to attention. Instinctively, he joined them, stepping to one side and making himself as thin as he could.
Moving into the space Jerry had just made, the XO, followed by Hardy and Patterson, headed into sickbay. Hardy nodded to Jerry as they passed and said, “Come with us if you like, Mr. Mitchell.”
Jerry ended up standing in the doorway, with Hardy, Bair and Patterson barely able to move as the corpsman made his report. “They’ll both be fine, but I recommend bed rest and fluids for the rest of the day. That water is above freezing, but not by much, and it put a tremendous strain on their bodies. Luckily, they were both in good health.”
“Fine, Chief,” Bair answered. “Can we speak to them?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Noonan as he fiddled with Reynolds’ oxygen mask. He stepped to one side as much as the crowded space allowed.
Reynolds and Harris sat reclined on the single bunk. Both were under several blankets with their faces obscured by oxygen masks. A heated IV bag hung over each of them, with the tube leading under the blankets.
Reynolds’ face was strained, but he managed to prop himself up as the Captain stepped up to the bunk.
“That was excellent work, COB. You and Harris both did a five-oh job.”
“Thank you, sir,” Reynolds beamed. Any praise from Hardy was rare, but then Jerry knew they’d both earned it. “We didn’t stop to count, but there were dozens of those cases in there, sir, all the same. It’s a warhead, isn’t it? A nuke?”
Hardy and Patterson both nodded. “It can’t be anything else,” he answered. “Although you were closer to it than we were. What can you tell us about it?”
“The sumbitch was heavy, I’ll say that. It had a smooth finish, but there were markings on the case and on the warhead inside.” He motioned to a slate lying on a counter nearby. “I copied them as best I could.”
Bair, closest, picked up the slate and held it so that Hardy and Patterson could see it as well. Jerry could see that there was something written on the slate, but not what it said.
Patterson shook her head. “I can’t read Russian, and the numbers don’t tell me anything.”
Bair said, “With your permission, sir, I’ll take this and start working on it.” Hardy nodded and Bair stepped out into the passageway and hurried forward.
Jerry resisted the urge to follow him; he was just as curious as the next guy to find out what they had stashed in the Manta skirt, but he wanted to see the COB first.
They’d managed to obtain two Russian nuclear warheads. The thought still boggled his mind. He’d love to have a closer look at one, but they were out of reach at the moment.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t know what else I can tell you,” Reynolds apologized, but Hardy shook his head. “You’ve done more than enough, Master Chief,” the Captain reminded him.
Patterson, beaming, said, “The President will hear about this,” then bent down and hugged Reynolds, and then Harris. Both managed to look pleased and embarrassed under their oxygen masks. She quickly stood, then left, with Hardy following them back up to control.
Jerry waited his turn while the men congratulated the divers. He stepped forward when the crowd thinned.
“I’m glad you’re back in one piece, Master Chief.”
“I knew you wouldn’t let me down, Mr. Mitchell. Thanks for getting us back.”
“So, how was the ride?” asked Jerry with genuine curiosity.
“Bumpy. And the in-flight service was terrible,” joked Reynolds, grinning. But Jerry noticed that it was a weak one.
“I still wish that I’d been out there with you, COB.”
“I think Petty Officer Harris does, too,” Reynolds answered. Harris managed to nod his head in agreement.
“I just wanted to stop by and congratulate you two and ask if there’s anything you need.”
“Aw, sir, I’m not dying. I just need to take a nap.”
“For about a week,” added Harris.
“I’m just glad a good pilot was working the Manta, sir.”
“We’ve all got plenty to be grateful for, Master Chief. I need to get going and you guys go and take that nap — right now.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” winked Reynolds.
* * *
Talking about sleep with Reynolds reminded Jerry of his own fatigue and hunger. It was well after dinnertime, and he’d missed lunch. And he couldn’t remember the last time he had had more than a few hours of sleep at one time. Ship’s routine, as busy as it was, suddenly seemed like the nostalgic past. For all the pressure of his work and his qualifications, at least it was predictable. Two and a half weeks of survey work had left him thoroughly bone-tired. But now the Captain had turned Memphis northward. Although they’d just started, they were homebound. He almost looked forward to working on his qualifications.
He headed for the wardroom, figuring to scrounge a sandwich, but found most of the officers had the same idea. There was only one topic of discussion.
“. cheaper to dump them than destroy them,” Jeff Ho was saying as he came in.
Harry O’Connell, the navigator, countered, “But wouldn’t you be worried about somebody else going down and finding them, stealing them for their own use?”
Ho shrugged. “I wouldn’t advertise where I dumped them, and there’s not a lot of sport diving in the Kara Sea.”
“And that would explain the sensors,” Cal Richards added.
“But these warheads aren’t supposed to exist.” Everyone turned to see the XO standing in the door, the slate and several books in his arms. Jerry could see the books were intelligence publications with brightly colored security markings on the covers.
Bair stepped toward the table and they hurriedly cleared a place for him to sit down.
“I’ve already reported to Dr. Patterson and the Captain, and he says there’s no reason not to tell you guys about this,” he announced as he settled into his seat. “I can’t read Russian, and most of these numbers are meaningless to me, but I did find enough to tell us what we need to know.
“The markings on the case and the warhead are similar, except for a serial number, which appears to be in the same series. They both include the sequence ‘15Zh45.’ That looked like an article number.”
Jerry saw several heads nod in agreement. Russian military equipment had s
everal different designations. While it was being developed, it would have one name, then the factory would call it something else, and the military service that actually used it would have a different name. And then there was the name that NATO had given it, because often the West didn’t learn its true name or designation until after it had been in service for some time.
“I found it in one of the older intelligence pubs we have for Russian nuclear weapons. This article number was used for the RT-21 Pioner. It was called the SS-20 Saber by NATO.” He held up the intelligence publication. “We’re lucky I was able to find anything on it at all. It was a theater ballistic missile the Soviets deployed in the 1980s. They fielded several hundred, but they were all destroyed as part of the 1987 INF treaty.”
“The what, XO?” asked a perplexed Ensign Jim Porter.
Bair gave Porter the typical forlorn scowl that all XO’s are required to master and said, “The Intermediate Nuclear Forces Treaty, you young pup!”
A light laughter erupted in the wardroom over the XO’s reply. But it didn’t last long, not because the humor wasn’t appreciated, but because everyone was dog-tired and stressed out.
“XO, the treaty didn’t allow for the destruction of the missiles or warheads by dumping them, did it?” Jeff Ho asked.
Bair emphatically shook his head. “Definitely not. The Soviets had to declare the total number they’d manufactured and international observers witnessed the destruction of the missiles and warheads. It was a big deal. They destroyed several missile types, and we disposed of our Pershing II and ground-launched cruise missiles as well. With observers watching both sides, of course.”
“So could the records be off?” Lenny Berg asked, but Bair didn’t even bother to answer.
Like everyone else in the wardroom, Jerry processed the news and tried to understand the implications. If the Soviets, and then the Russians, had broken a nearly twenty-year-old treaty, then what else had they concealed? It did explain the acoustic sensors. But how far were the Russians willing to go to keep this secret?
After almost a minute of silence, Bair said, “The Captain also said we’re heading home.”
Jerry managed to get his sandwich and then lay down for a while. He had the midnight to six in control and knew it was bad form to fall asleep on watch. As he lay in his bunk, trying to unwind, he found himself reviewing his quals again, trying to plan how to best use the time left.
* * *
He was still shaking the sleep off when he reported. Although they were still in the Kara Sea, the watch had already settled into transit routine. Lenny Berg was the Officer of the Deck, with Jerry as the JOOD. “Let’s hope for a nice, boring watch. It will put us six hours closer to home and six hours away from this place,” remarked Lenny.
Al Millunzi, the Main Propulsion Assistant, was the offgoing OOD, and he ran down the checklist with them: ship’s engineering systems all on line, except for one pump being checked, all sensors were on line, including both towed arrays, “And I don’t have to tell you about the weapons systems, Jerry,” he concluded. There was no criticism in his voice, but Jerry still felt bad. Although there was nothing to be done, he didn’t like letting the boat down.
Millunzi led them over to the chart table. “This is our position as of 2340.” Novaya Zemlaya lay along the western side of the paper, with most of the chart open water filled with soundings. Most of the northern Kara Sea averaged fifty to eighty fathoms, shallow for Memphis, but a deep undersea trench ten to fifteen miles wide lay close to the island’s east coast. One hundred and fifty or even two hundred fathoms looked a lot better for a submarine trying to avoid attention.
Memphis’ course lay straight up the middle of the trench, marked in red on the chart, with penciled notes marking their progress. “Current course is zero three five degrees at twelve knots, next turn is expected at 0210.” Millunzi pointed to a spot on the chart. “The new course will be zero two zero, to conform to the trench. The Captain wants to be called before the turn. He also says to keep a close eye on the fathometer. He doesn’t trust the chart.”
Berg grinned. “Really? I’ll bet the Russians have a better one. Should we ask?”
Senior Chief Leonard, the offgoing Chief of the Watch, came over and reported to Millunzi. “The watch is relieved, sir.”
“Very well, Senior Chief. See you in the morning,” Millunzi responded.
Millunzi turned back to Berg and Jerry. “That’s it? Any questions? My rack is calling.”
“I won’t keep a man from his rest,” Berg replied, smiling. “I relieve you, sir.”
The offgoing watch section cleared out quickly, and Jerry settled in. Aside from some careful navigation and frequent depth checks, he was looking forward to a quiet, uneventful six hours.
“The biggest challenge on this watch is gong to be staying alert,” Berg prophesized. “Homebound watches are dangerous. Everyone starts to slack off. They’re too busy thinking of home and hearth, and not paying enough attention to their indicators.”
“Even in the Kara Sea?” Jerry asked, half-joking.
“It’s a state of mind, not a position on the chart. Check the fathometer every five minutes, and we’re going to come up with some drills for the control room team.” He looked at the qualification book Jerry had brought along. “What are you working on now?”
“I thought maybe the communications systems.”
“Since you knew you were going to be stuck with the comms officer for six hours in the middle of the night. Well done, Mr. Mitchell. Stand by for some merciless questioning.” He paused, with his ever-present smile, then ordered, “All right, get busy.”
Trying to start a habit, Jerry checked the fathometer — two hundred forty feet under the keel and six hundred above. Good. He started a detailed check of every instrument, every switch setting in the control room. Behind him at the chart table, Lenny Berg made a conspicuous display of sitting back and opening Jerry’s qualification book.
Jerry was a quarter through his inspection when Berg hit him with the first question. “What frequency range does the UHF whip cover?” Jerry answered correctly and continued checking. Lenny hit him with a question every three or four minutes, which was also Jerry’s cue to check the fathometer and review the quartermaster’s update of the chart.
They were forty minutes into the watch when sonar jarred them out of the routine. “Conn, sonar. We’ve detected some sort of explosion, bearing one four zero.”
Jerry felt adrenaline flash like electricity through him. Berg, along with the rest of the watch, sat up quickly, but he didn’t speak. He looked as if he expected Jerry to, though.
Jerry stepped over to the intercom. “Sonar, conn. Can you tell how big?”
“Conn, sonar, Very small or very far away,” replied the sonarman. “No other activity, either, just that one transient.”
“Conn, sonar aye.” Jerry responded, still puzzled. He didn’t like mysteries, and he looked toward Berg, but Lenny looked puzzled as well.
Well, whether this was one of Bair’s drills or not, all he could do was play it by the book. Step two was to tell the Captain. Jerry picked up the phone and dialed the Captain’s cabin.
“Captain.” Hardy had picked it up on the first ring.
“Officer of the Deck, sir, sonar reports hearing an explosion some distance behind us. Either very distant or a very small explosion.”
“Very well, I’m coming.”
Hardy was there in less than a minute, fully dressed. He was still studying the chart when sonar made another report. “Conn, sonar, we’ve detected a second explosion, bearing one five zero. It’s closer this time or a bigger explosion.”
Hardy pressed the talk switch. “Sonar, conn, verify that you hold no other contacts.”
“Conn, sonar, confirmed. We hold no other contacts.”
“Then it’s aircraft,” Hardy said.
Dr. Patterson came into the control room in a robe and pajamas. “Did someone say they’d heard an expl
osion?” Patterson’s robe was long and white, and it had the insignia of the White House embroidered on it. She managed to look sleepy and alarmed at the same time. Emily Davis followed her in, having taken time to dress.
Hardy looked annoyed but didn’t reply, so Jerry ventured, “Sonar’s detected explosions behind us. We don’t know what they mean.”
“Wrong, Mr. Mitchell,” Hardy corrected.
“Conn, sonar, we’ve detected a third explosion, this one to port, bearing two nine five. Classify explosions as echo-ranging line charges.”
“Sonar, conn, concur with your assessment,” Hardy answered. “Keep a sharp lookout for anything that sounds like a Bear Foxtrot.”
“Conn, sonar aye.”
Jerry had to remember his sub school classes on allied and foreign ASW systems. The U.S. Navy used explosive echo-ranging back in the 1950s, before active sonobuoys entered the Fleet. The theory behind explosive echo-ranging was simple enough. Lay a field of passive sonobuoys, then drop small explosive charges. The buoys not only picked up the sound of the explosion, but any echoes off the hull of a submerged sub. The U.S. Navy stopped using the technique in the 1970s, however, because in practice it proved a lot harder to do.
The Soviets, on the other hand, had never given up on the idea, and they perfected it long before the West did. It was used to find quiet submarines operating in shallow water. Like Memphis in the Kara Sea.
It meant that there was a passive sonobuoy field near them, which had been laid by antisubmarine aircraft. Now they were monitoring the field and dropping charges, trying to find them.
“The charges are small ones,” Hardy explained. “They’re less than a pound, not much more than grenades. If they get close enough, though, they’ll find us.”
“But why didn’t we hear the aircraft this time?” asked Patterson, showing a hint of fear.
“They’re probably up high enough that the blade noise was attenuated before it reached the water. They didn’t want to spook the prey,” replied Hardy flatly. “Good tactics on their part.”