by Cliff Happy
Brodie looked at it with the magnifying glass and then leaned back. “Two more storage tanks, each separated far enough apart to prevent a cataclysm should one of the tanks rupture,” Brodie said, clearly believing her now.
Kristen nodded. “Exactly.” She handed the photos to Graves, who was beginning to come around.
Brodie then tapped the last photo. “All right, Kris, impress me. Prove to me those boats are nuke/fuel-cell drives, and that those storage tanks you’ve noticed aren’t just for powering some new torpedo or whatever else the Russians might be playing with.”
Kristen had never liked being put on the spot intellectually by anyone. Normally such an occurrence was followed by people thinking of her as a freak of some kind. So, she’d always tried to avoid the kind of attention he was now showing her. But in this case she reveled in it. There was no chance of him looking down on her or ridiculing her when her back was turned. She’d no idea if he cared about her. She liked to fantasize he might, but she couldn’t prove it. But she could prove to him that what she was proposing was indeed a fact.
She showed him the close up of the Gagarin class submarine tied up along a wharf. “Sir, look at the trucks on the pier,” she said to him. “And the heavy duty hoses and pumping equipment needed to pump super-cooled liquid oxygen or hydrogen.” Brodie studied the images through the magnifying glass.
“The technicians are wearing protective gear,” Brodie offered.
Kristen nodded. “Yes, sir. They need the gear to protect them from an accidental liquid hydrogen spill. The liquid form of hydrogen is over four hundred twenty three degrees below zero.”
“Damn,” Graves said finally believing her.
Brodie however didn’t make it easy. “Those tankers could simply be performing some test.”
She could tell he didn’t believe this, but instead he was playing devil’s advocate. “Yes, sir. Someone might say that who didn’t want to believe the truth.” She then motioned to the Gagarin. “But, I would point out to you the new Gagarin is approximately thirty-five feet longer than the Flight II Akulas which in and of itself is evidence they’re using a dual-drive system.”
“Why?” Brodie asked.
She adjusted her position slightly in excitement. “For the last three decades the Soviet and then Russian design teams have all showed a constant and singular trend in submarine design: build smaller boats, with smaller crews, and with a high degree of automation. The Flight II Akulas only have a fifty man crew,” she pointed out and then tapped the photograph on the table. “But this Gagarin is approximately thirty-five feet longer than a Flight II Akula. They’re breaking thirty years of design engineering and planning. This means they either needed the space for something new, or we have to believe they just wanted a bigger boat when all evidence says they consider smaller to be better.”
Kristen was trying her best not to grin at him as a slightly pleased smile appeared on his face. Charles Horner came in with a pad of paper ready to take down a message. Brodie gave her a slight wink of assurance and pride. “All right, put the icing on the cake.”
Kristen looked at the three of them. “Okay, if you study the photograph you can see about fifteen feet of the extension to the Gagarin is taken up by a vertical launch system near the bow, similar to our Improved Los Angeles boats, leaving twenty extra feet behind the sail.” She showed both officers this observation in the photographs. “During my research, I determined you would need to cram in two separate storage tanks, plus the fuel cells, and then add an electric motor to take the place of reduction gears and steam turbines. I estimated this would require a “hull section” to be inserted aft or forward of the nuclear reactor, and this hull section would have to be between fifteen and twenty-one feet long.”
Graves studied the photograph with the magnifying glass, and then looked up, his expression showing a combination of annoyance and disbelief. “How is it the four hundred PhDs and analysts at Langley, Fort Meade, and wherever else didn’t see this, yet somewhere in between standing watch and running five battle drills a day you just happened to come up with this?”
It was a rhetorical question, but Brodie answered for her, “Because all of those analysts aren’t looking at the problem with fresh eyes. They’ve been prejudiced by seeing the same thing year after year and don’t expect to see anything new.” Brodie gave her a pleased nod, which meant more to her than any medal the US Navy might ever pin on her chest. Brodie stood up and took the message pad from Horner.
Kristen sat reveling in the joy of having finally rid herself of the puzzle she’d been carrying around with her for the last two weeks. Brodie sat back down across from her and began drafting the message. He asked her a few technical question, and, once complete, he handed the draft to the XO who looked it over.
“It’s good, Skipper,” Graves replied after reading the message.
Brodie handed the message to Charles Horner. “Send it out as a Flash message, TS with normal SCI and SAP protocols to COMSUBAC and CENTCOM. Also info the DIA, and the CIA,” he ordered as he turned to the squawk box. “We’ll stay at periscope depth until you receive a return receipt of message.”
Kristen felt a great sense of pride being able to sit comfortably in the captain’s cabin and converse with Brodie and Graves. She respected both men for their experience, and she felt for the first time that she’d finally reached her lifelong goal. She was no longer just some nutcase woman on a submarine. She’d made it. She was a submariner. She was an integral and essential part of the command structure; a valuable member of the crew. Kristen exhaled happily, relishing the moment.
Graves suggested to Brodie that he get some sleep and allow Graves to handle the surfacing of the submarine and the transmission of the message. Brodie hesitated, then nodded in acceptance of his need to get some rest. “Just let me know when the message has been sent and when we get the receipt of message report.”
“Aye, sir.” Graves stepped toward the door and then glanced back at Kristen. He raised his eyebrow curiously, wondering why she wasn’t following him. “Lieutenant?”
“I need to speak with the lieutenant for a moment, Jason,” Brodie said calmly.
Oh shit!
Kristen’s euphoria vanished almost immediately as she recalled the incident less than an hour earlier when she’d failed to secure the door to the bathroom, and Brodie had walked in on her.
He sat down across from her as he stifled a yawn. Kristen surreptitiously removed her glasses and slipped them in a pocket. They were alone, something she wasn’t sure how to feel about anymore.
“Okay, you’ve called the tune,” he began. “Just how do we dance with these cowboys?”
Kristen had expected a mild scolding, perhaps an embarrassingly awkward moment as he gently rebuked her for not being more discreet and locking the bathroom door. But this was a topic she could embrace. “I assume you mean how do we find them, sir?”
“Precisely, and preferably before they’re firing torpedoes at us.” He looked across the table at her with his haggard face. He needed a shave and had dark circles under his bloodshot eyes. In a word, he looked like hell.
“Captain, I know it isn’t my place, but you really need to get some sleep. You look done in.”
“You sound like Spike and the XO.”
“They’re good men, sir,” Kristen reminded him.
“The best,” Brodie agreed. “Now, about these dual-drive boats?”
“While they’re on their reactor the problem is fairly standard. We find the two Russians the same way we always have. But, once on their fuel cells, they could potentially be undetectable by any of our sensors.”
“Blade noise?” he asked hopefully.
Kristen nodded in agreement. “The blade noise will still be there as always, but significantly reduced since the overall speed of the boat while on a fuel cell drops to about ten knots, so the propeller is hardly putting out any noise at all.” She wiped some loose hanging hair out of her eyes thoughtless
ly, forgetting her hair was not perfectly fixed as she liked it. Kristen then added with a hint of annoyance, “Of course, thanks to John Walker, the Russians are far better at propeller design and reducing noise propagation than they use to be.” There wasn’t an American submariner alive who didn’t curse the Cold War traitor who’d sold secrets compromising years of submarine research to the Soviet Union.
“Pumps noise?”
“Once the reactor goes dormant, they still have to keep the fuel rods cool, so there is some pump noise, but not as much as when the reactor is hot. Of course, they’re nearly as good at ducting water through the reactor vessel as we are, so there won’t be much to hear while the reactor is off line.”
“And there’s no noise from the energy cell?” Brodie asked clearly fighting fatigue.
“Other than some hissing as the gasses escape the pressurized tanks, there’s nothing,” she told him. “There are no moving parts. No vibrations. Nothing to listen to.”
“Like chasing a damn ghost.”
“While at Annapolis I tried to run some acoustic profiles to get a read on what noise a hydrogen-powered boat might propagate, but the computers I had access to couldn’t really handle the number crunching I needed.”
“What about the computers here on the Seawolf?” he asked. “I would think we have the processing capability.”
Kristen agreed but knew it would still take time. “Plus the computer simulations are no guarantee of real world performance.”
“I understand,” he answered apparently satisfied and stood up. “I’ll see to it you have unrestricted access to the computers. See if you might find something we can use to track these guys.”
This was her cue to be dismissed.
“Sir,” Kristen asked as she stood but before she headed for the door, “could I borrow Ensign Martin?”
“Martin?” Brodie asked curiously.
“We work well together, and he’s a whiz with computers. Plus, I could use the help.”
“He’s yours,” Brodie replied automatically. “See the XO and let him know to pull Martin from the watch rotation until your computer modeling is complete.”
“Thank you, Captain,” Kristen replied and turned to leave.
But, before she finished opening the hatch, he again spoke to her, “Lieutenant…”
Kristen stopped and turned, looking back at him, feeling happier than she could ever recall being in her life. “Yes, Captain?”
He seemed to recognize her gaiety and gave her an approving nod. “Good job.”
Kristen felt certain if they’d been on the surface, her smile could have illuminated the night. “Thank you, sir.”
He seemed to be controlling his own smile at her reaction. He then added, with a playful look on his face, “Just do me one favor.”
Kristen turned completely around, still standing in the hatchway, but now facing him directly, trying to look a little more like a commissioned officer instead of an excited teenager. “Of course, Captain. Anything.”
Brodie nodded his head in the direction of the bathroom door. “Try to remember to use the lock next time, would you?”
Kristen should have been mortified. The skin on her face should have flushed scarlet, and her eyes should have bugged out of her head prior to her rushing from the cabin in embarrassment. But instead, she chuckled slightly and nodded her head, knowing in the depths of her soul she needn’t be embarrassed. “Yes, sir. I’ll be sure to do that.”
Chapter Fifteen
Musandam Peninsula, Oman
Captain Omar Bishir yawned tiredly as he stepped from his command bunker dug into the rocky hillside overlooking the Persian Gulf. The Musandam Peninsula, an exclave of Oman, jutted out from the much larger Arabian Peninsula into the middle of the Persian Gulf like a sharp spike, causing the inverted “V” shape that characterized the Strait of Hormuz.
The small exclave was separated from the rest of Oman by the United Arab Emirates, meaning the tiny Omani garrison protecting the strategically important Peninsula located in the middle of the most important commercial sea lane in the world was cut off from support in the event of conflict. Of course, Oman had defense agreements with Saudi Arabia, the UAE and other Gulf states who would, in a crisis, be expected to help Oman hold on to its distant exclave. But Captain Bishir knew these Gulf States were shaky allies at the best of times. All of them routinely experienced internal turmoil as their governments suppressed dissent from pro-democracy groups as well as extremist Muslim elements trying to spread their individual faiths. In reality, the only force Oman could count on to help defend the tiny peninsula was the American Fifth Fleet.
The air wing of a single American carrier was larger than the air force of most Gulf States and could obliterate nearly any attack on the exclave. But the Americans were not in the Gulf. In fact, the nearest American carrier was thousands of miles away. This was the main reason Captain Bishir and his company of men were on alert. Intelligence had reported unusual activity on the Iranian side of the Strait of Hormuz barely fifty miles away. It was no secret the Iranians claimed the Peninsula as a natural part of the Islamic Republic, and had—on numerous occasions—threatened an attack.
But such an attack had never materialized, and threats they had remained.
Until now.
It was a moonless night, and Bishir’s men were positioned along the steep hillside along nearly a mile of beach. No one expected Bishr’s hundred-man company to hold the position against an all-out assault, but no one actually expected such an assault, making it an even greater surprise when Bishir looked out over the Strait of Hormuz, his eyes peering into the darkness at the twinkling lights in the distance. It wasn’t uncommon to see ships at night moving through the Strait. Every day, hundreds of ships made the transit through the contested waterway. But as he looked at the twinkling lights, something seemed unusual about them.
The lights were getting closer.
Then he heard the odd sound, like a soft, deep grumble.
He continued to study the lights, wondering just what they could be as they continued to approach, and he noticed similar lights in the distance to his left and right. He hesitated, not certain yet what he was seeing. By the way the flashing lights were moving, they had to be aircraft. But what kind of airliners flew so low and in groups…
He was shaken from his lethargy when he recognized the sound of helicopter engines. He raced back into his bunker. His orderly had just finished preparing some tea and was pouring a cup when Bishir entered a second before the first rocket exploded outside the bunker.
The walls of the bunker protected Bishir from the blast, but the earth literally shook from the explosion. Bishir scrambled toward a telephone he could use to report back to his battalion headquarters. He briefly wondered if they would believe him. Certainly he’d been slow to believe what he was seeing. But any disbelief he might still feel was dispelled as more explosions rocked the bunker while the aerial barrage grew in earnest.
“What is happening?” his orderly asked in fright.
Bishir ignored the youth, gripped the phone and raised it to his ear. The phone was a direct line to his battalion headquarters positioned nearly three miles away in a similar bunker. But, as he prepared to sound the alarm, he heard nothing. He depressed the phone’s cradle several times, hoping that might fix the problem. The landline between his company outpost and the battalion headquarters had been laid by engineers nearly a week earlier and was supposed to be buried. But the line was dead.
Bishir dropped the phone as dust fell from the overhead support beams, a powerful explosion causing the electric lights to go out dropping a shroud of darkness over him. Using his memory and hands, he found the radio he could use to call his battalion commander in the event the phone was dead. Working in the darkness until his aid found a flashlight. Bishir turned on the radio, but despite trying multiple frequencies, all he heard was a steady stream of static.
More explosions continued to rock the hillside,
and Bishir heard the sound of low-flying jets streaking by as they raced toward targets further inland. The captain found his helmet and assault rifle, his mind still struggling to come to grips with what was happening. Certainly there had been reports of a possible Iranian attack, but there were always reports of a possible Iranian attack. For years the Islamic Republic had threatened the isolated peninsula. The threats had become just part of the backdrop of the region and no one paid them any attention.
Bishir stumbled from his bunker, knowing he had to rally his men. They were conscripts and had no combat experience—not that he did, either. If he didn’t restrain them, they would flee. Outside the bunker he found the peaceful hillside a calamity of sights and sounds. Explosions illuminated the night sky. Chunks of rock the size of automobiles tumbled down the steep slope as Iranian fighter bombers roared overhead dropping bombs and firing rockets. At the same time, hovering a few hundred feet away, huge helicopters fired rockets and automatic canon rounds directly into Bishir’s battle position.
He dove for cover as machine gun bullets ricocheted of his bunker. He’d just hit the ground when a fiery blast rolled over him. He felt the stabbing pain as shrapnel tore into his back and thighs. He then heard the screams of his men barely audible over the roar of the onslaught. His helmet had been blown off by the blast and he scrambled to recover it, before rolling over to assess his wounds. He then saw the fiery remains of his bunker. A direct hit by a helicopter-fired rocket had penetrated the thick walls and totally destroyed it.
Bishir looked back toward the water below. The beach was illuminated by the fires on the hillside and he could see strange, square shapes sweeping over the water and heading directly to the beach. He looked around but couldn’t see his rifle and wasn’t certain what he should do. In the flashes of explosions, he caught a brief glimpse of men running back up the hill. They were his men—the survivors anyway—fleeing for their lives, and Bishir knew he would never stop them.