Nightwatch

by Richard P. Henrick

  A loud electronic tone sounded from Red’s computer, and she immediately broke off her conversation with Brittany, typed a flurry of commands into her keyboard, and spoke into her chin mike.

  “Yes, Admiral … I understand, sir … I’ll see what I can do about it, sir.”

  Red cut off her mike, and, still able to hear the audio feed over her lightweight headphones, she began attacking the keyboard.

  “Damn static,” she cursed, more in annoyance than in anger.

  “You’d think that with all the big bucks we spend on this high-tech gear, the least we could get is a clear telephone conversation.”

  Brittany sensed her frustration, yet realized that establishing secure communications via satellite between two airplanes — one flying over the Black Sea, the other off America’s East Coast-was no easy feat to begin with.

  “Admiral Warner, keep your cool, dude,” mumbled Red to herself, in reference to the conversation she was continuing to overhear.

  “Even if you are Chairman, the man’s still a General.”

  Brittany didn’t have the foggiest notion what Red was referring to. She watched her complete the final filtering process before removing her headset and looking up at Brittany, a mischievous look in her eye.

  “Though I could get a court-martial for sharing this with you, it seems our esteemed Chairman just read General Spencer the riot act.”

  “Whatever for?” asked Brittany, her curiosity piqued.

  Red’s voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper.

  “With your clearance, you’d probably find out anyway. But promise me you’ll keep it between us.” then that Warner went ballistic. It seems Spencer played a SIOP option. He had Iron Man One transmit an EAM to one of our Tridents, authorizing a limited nuclear strike against Ukraine, should Nightwatch have been downed. And all he wanted to do was properly revenge our deaths, and Warner goes and cuts his head off!”

  Chapter 18

  Friday July 2, 2007 Zulu

  U.S.S. James K. Polk

  Commander Benjamin Kram sat alone in his stateroom, the nautical strains of Richard Rodgers’s “Victory at Sea” playing on his CD player. Though his small, fold-down desk was loaded with paperwork, his complete attention was riveted on a single document.

  He had read it over and over since receiving it in Norfolk a little over two weeks ago.

  Kram had had an intuitive feeling about what lay inside the sealed envelope from COMSUBLANT, and he’d waited until Hampton Roads was well behind before opening it. Inside was a single sheet of paper, instructing him that, starting this fall, he was to be transferred to the Pentagon to work for the Director of the Submarine Warfare Division. Careerwise, this was an excellent move. Yet it was devastating on an emotional level.

  For all he knew, this current patrol could be his last. Command at sea was the reason he had decided to join the Navy over two decades ago. He had dedicated twenty-seven years of his life, endured countless extended watches, and missed too many of his kids’ birthdays, all to earn the coveted title of “skipper.”

  And now he would be packing his sea bag for the final time, to join the ranks of those forlorn sailors who would sail the oceans no more.

  His wife. Donna, would certainly be thrilled with this new assignment, as would his twin sons, Michael and Andrew. They would be getting a full-time husband and father back, while he would be losing another family, the existence of which his wife and kids never really comprehended. He had yet to inform the crew of his new orders, and he supposed he should first share the news with Dan Calhoun, his Executive Officer. Then he’d inform Master Chief Inboden, the Folk’s affable Chief of the Boat.

  Sharing the news would put him one step closer to stepping off the submarine’s gangway for that final time. And once the rest of the crew got wind that the “Old Man” was leaving, he’d be like a baseball player announcing his retirement, and then making the last round of ballparks to share his glory days with the fans. Reveling in the past was certainly not the way he wanted to spend his last days on the Polk, and Kram decided to delay sharing his new orders for the immediate future.

  The growl of the intercom diverted his musings, and he reached under the lip of the desk to grab the nearest handset.

  “Captain here.”

  The anxious voice on the other end was the boat’s radio officer, reporting that he believed he knew the reason that the exercise they were supposed to be in the midst of had been suddenly canceled. Kram cut short his introspection and notified the young officer that he was on his way to radio to get these findings firsthand.

  He hid his transfer orders under the latest “Naval Submarine League Review” and, before leaving the stateroom, changed into a fresh set of blue coveralls, or poopy suit, as it was known to the submariner. After a quick splash of cold water on his face from his Pullman-style washbasin, he strode out into the passageway, turned to the right, and had to walk but a few steps toward the aft portion of the boat in order to reach the radio room.

  He found the officer in charge seated at a workstation reserved for crypto graph analysis. This newly installed encryption system was designed by the National Security Agency, and incorporated into the sub’s communications shack to secure the integrity of all message traffic. In 1985, the Walker family spy ring taught the Navy the utter importance of ensuring secure cryptography.

  During the years since, new equipment and procedures had come on line to rectify such security breaches.

  Operating these complicated systems was a new generation of computer-savvy sailors. It was in the high-technology end of his business that Kram felt his age. Men like his current radio officer were incredibly competent technicians. Young and bright, they were the faces of the new Navy, a fighting force designed around microchips and high-tensile steel.

  “What have you got for me. Lieutenant Ritter?”

  Lieutenant Michael Ritter had been reading a complex message on his monitor screen, and Kram’s question caused him to flinch nervously.

  “I’m sorry, sir. You caught me deep in crypto space

  In fact, I was just completing the decoding sequence of the VLF TACAMO transmission responsible for the exercise’s abrupt cancellation.”

  Kram peered over his subordinate’s shoulder, and found himself unable to decipher the computerese visible on Ritter’s monitor screen.

  “I would have hated to see that message before you decoded it,” he sarcastically quipped.

  “What’s it say?”

  “It looks to me like an EAM, sir.”

  “The receipt of an Emergency Action Message would certainly override an exercise,” reflected Kram, still trying his best to make sense out of the screen’s scrambled contents.

  “Why don’t you contact them on Gertrude and get a verification? I’ll be in Sonar, and you can reach me there when you get an answer.”

  Ritter was already reaching for the underwater telephone as Kram exited the radio room. Directly across the narrow passageway was a closed hatch, with the words sound shack printed above it. The state-of-the-art sonar equipment inside provided their ears to the underwater realm in which they sailed, and Kram heard for himself the sounds of the sea beyond, the moment he entered the cramped, dimly lit compartment.

  The familiar cries of a pod of whales emanated from the overhead speakers. It was a mournful, ethereal symphony, made up of long-drawn-out bellows, and gentle, catlike me wings interspersed with rumbling bass trills. Kram identified the faint, high pitched wavering sound in the background as belonging to a large freighter that had passed almost directly over them earlier, and which the sonar watch team had designated Sierra Eleven.

  This team was comprised of three individuals who were huddled over their consoles, totally unaware of their newly arrived visitor. Kram smiled upon noting that the current sonar watch supervisor, or “Sup,” as he was known to his men, was Petty Officer First Class Brad Bodzin. Bodzin was the Folk’s senior enlisted sonarman. A grizzled veteran at the age of tw
enty-eight, the Houston, Texas, native was known for his rather remarkable intuitive abilities and easygoing, hands-on management style. He was presently standing behind his seated associates, and Kram listened as he shared his unique expertise.

  “Because humpbacks sing in long, repetitive phrases, it’s possible to time our sprint-and-drift sequences to coincide with the portion of whale song that’s most conducive to masking our signature.”

  “I certainly never learned that one at the Naval War College,” remarked Kram, who stepped forward and greeted Bodzin with a fond pat on the shoulder.

  Bodzin’s face blushed with embarrassment.

  “I never meant to infer that such a tactic was part of our official operational doctrine. Captain. But you’ve got to admit that taking advantage of the natural sounds of the sea makes good sense.”

  Kram replied while scanning the waterfall displays of the BQ7 conformal array and the BQ-21 broadband unit.

  “I do believe I once read a Norwegian Navy white paper that promoted the use of naturally existing marine biologies for submarine operations in the littorals, and in theory, it’s not that crazy an idea.”

  “Especially with the increase of the world’s marine mammal stocks,” added Bodzin, excited to have his CO’s feedback.

  “The end of unrestricted whaling has led to an amazing turnaround of whale populations. We’re monitoring them in ever increasing numbers, with the Navy even using SOSUS to prove this point.”

  One of the humpbacks projected a deep, sonorous bellow, and Kram watched the signature of this cry display itself on the BQ-21 as a thick white line.

  “It’s almost ironic,” he said with a grunt.

  “But as the whale population increases, the number of blue-water, nuclear submarines has gone in the opposite direction.”

  “Quantity isn’t everything, sir,” Bodzin reminded him.

  “The number of nuclear-powered submarines might be down, but you’ve got to admit that those new boats are awesome. Seawolf is one mean, quiet dude. And even with all their military cutbacks, the Russians are still managing to put to sea an entire new generation of sophisticated attack subs.”

  “Sup, I’ve got Sierra One again!” interjected SIC James “Jaffers” Echoles, the broad-shouldered black man responsible for monitoring the series of low-frequency, passive hydrophones mounted around the Folk’s bow.

  “Bearing zero-four-zero, with a relative rough range of twelve thousand yards.”

  Both Kram and Bodzin noted a slight flutter on the BQ-7’s waterfall display. The sound line continued to develop, and Bodzin reached up into the overhead air duct and removed a can of Dr. Pepper and a Mars bar.

  “Jaffers, my man, you win again,” said Bodzin while handing over the cherished prize, accepting a high five, and returning his glance to the green-tinted display screen.

  “We must have been in their baffles the whole time,” he added wondrously.

  “That boomer is one quiet big lady.”

  Kram accepted a call on the intercom, and he wasted little time sharing its contents.

  “Mr. Bodzin, it’s time for the Polk to go back into the Anti-Submarine Warfare business. Radio just got the word that the Rhode Island has received an EAM, which means we go from a special ops platform to keeping any unwelcome strangers off their tail.”

  “Does this mean that today’s transfer of the SEALs by mini sub is scrubbed, sir?” asked Bodzin.

  “That depends on the EAM,” answered Kram while turning to exit.

  “If it’s canceled. Captain Lockwood wants to reschedule the transfer for later this afternoon. Now I’d better inform Commander Gilbert.”

  Kram left Sonar and continued aft, to the control room. He found the Chief of the Boat standing behind the ship control station. Chief Roth, his usual unlit cigar clenched between his teeth, was seated in front of COB. At his sides were the planes man and the helmsman, their hands tightly gripping aircraft-style steering yokes.

  A single, practiced glance at the variety of readouts and gauges mounted into the bulkhead before them showed Kram that they were currently traveling on a northerly heading, at a depth of five-hundred and seventy feet and a speed of sixteen knots. He didn’t have to go over to the nearby navigation station to know that they were due east of Florida, and approximately twelve hours away from the Rhode Island’s home port of King’s Bay, Georgia.

  “COB, I believe we now know why the transfer exercise was canceled,” announced Kram.

  “Don’t tell me. Captain,” retorted COB, a boyish grin on his heavily furrowed face.

  “I bet Captain Lockwood finally realized he was gonna be stuck with our SEALs for an entire twelve hours.”

  Kram snickered.

  “If I know Lockwood, that probably crossed his mind. But the only thing that got him off the hook this time was the receipt of an EAM.”

  This revelation caught the attention of Chief Roth, who looked up and matter-of-factly voiced himself without taking the cigar out of his mouth.

  “Is it another exercise, sir?”

  “I sure hope it is,” said Kram.

  “The most I could get out of Radio was that the Rhode Island was notified of an alert change to DEFCON Four.”

  “The Russian President must have gotten another cold,” quipped COB.

  “Or maybe the Chinese have gone and hijacked another ocean liner.”

  This comment caused Roth to playfully grimace, and Kram snapped back, “I’m sure the alert is only routine, and chances are it will be rescinded shortly, with Lockwood wanting to attempt another transfer later this afternoon. I was on my way to share the news with Commander Gilbert. I gather he’s still down in the rec room.”

  “Last I heard, he’d called for a full debrief. Shall we go see?”

  offered COB.

  Kram beckoned aft, past the drawn curtains of the periscope pedestal and the vacant fire control console. With COB leading the way, they left the control room and passed through an elongated, narrow compartment with two long consoles lining each bulkhead. Here the members of their SEAL team would coordinate the activation of the dry-deck shelter and the launching of the new Mark VII mini sub

  A sharp left took them beyond the space where the Ships Inertial Navigation System was stowed. A hatchway set into the after bulkhead conveyed them into the cavernous space, formerly reserved for the Folk’s missile magazine. Though the tubes were still here — sixteen in all, positioned in two parallel rows of eight — the missiles themselves had long since been removed.

  Today they were used to stow the voluminous amount of equipment needed by the SEALs, with tube six providing access to the dry-deck shelter and the mini sub

  A lattice-steel catwalk encircled the magazine. It was often used as a jogging track, with sixteen and a half laps equaling a mile. Kram therefore wasn’t surprised to see one of his men jog around the aft end of the magazine and head down the catwalk toward them. He was attired in a bright blue T-shirt and matching shorts, and it was COB who identified him.

  “Either I’m seem’ things, or that’s Chief Mallott!”

  CPO Howard Mallott was the Folk’s head cook. His exclusive domain was Jimmy’s Buffet — the name of the ship’s galley-where Mallott ran his department like a virtual fiefdom. Not the most physical of specimens, Mallott had a bulging waistline, gold wire-rimmed glasses, and a spiky crew cut that were familiar to all. Yet this was the first time that either Kram or COB had seen the personable cook with a sheen of exercise-induced sweat on his forehead.

  “Hello, Captain! Afternoon, COB!” Mallott grunted between heaving breaths, a good twenty yards separating them.

  Kram couldn’t miss noting his leaden stride, and he flashed the portly cook a supportive thumbsup.

  “Gotta keep fit, sir,” Mallott added, with ten yards still between them.

  “Don’t go droppin’ from a cardiac on us, Mallott,” teased

  COB.

  “I might be a few pounds overweight,” Mallott retorted
, his labored breaths clearly audible.

  “But my good cholesterol far outnumbers the bad.”

  “Love the new bison burgers. Chief,” commented COB, trying his best to keep a straight face.

  “It’s a refreshing change from all that turkey.”

  Mallot’s pace seemed to quicken, and as he prepared to pass them, he made certain to meet Kram’s admiring glance.

  “I’m serving bison chili at mid rats sir. I’ll make certain to save you a bowl.”

  “Thank you. Chief,” said Kram, who watched Mallott strike cob’s open palm with his right hand before continuing his labored run around the catwalk.

  Kram led the way down a nearby stairwell to Three Deck, where a short passageway conveyed them into the relatively large compartment usually reserved for the crew’s activity space. This afternoon it was being used as the special operations briefing room.

  There were a good number of officers and enlisted men gathered here, with a mix of Polk crew members and SEALs. As usual, the SEALs occupied the right side of the room, where they had their laptops set up on three tables, one behind the other.

  Commander Doug Gilbert, the wiry, silver-haired CO of SEAL Delivery Vehicle Team Two, stood at the front of the room, facing a cross-section diagram of the new Mark VII mini-sub. It was apparent that he hadn’t seen the two newcomers in their midst, and Kram didn’t dare interrupt him.

  “So you see, ladies,” continued Gilbert while highlighting the circular transfer skirt on the bottom of the diagram with a pointer, “the ability to transfer both personnel and equipment from sub to sub gives us an entirely new mission. And if the unlikely day should ever come when treaty obligations indeed require that submarines such as the Rhode Island go to sea without their missile warheads, we can provide the all-important backup delivery service.

  “Cause as I told you before, ladies, this SEAL trusts no one!”

  “The day the politicians order us to remove those warheads from our missiles and bombs is the day I start digging a fucking fallout shelter!” proclaimed the SEAL XO from the front table.