Standard nuclear-alert protocol would make it a waste of time to attempt contacting the U.S.S. Rhode Island. Captain Lockwood and his crew had been trained to ignore any alternative flash traffic not originating from the EAM’s original source — in this instance, Nightwatch.
He thus had no choice but to direct his warning to Captain Benjamin Kram aboard the USS. James K. Polk. Spencer would have to relay, in no uncertain terms, the shocking details behind Yankee Hotel, and then pray that Kram would believe him and move in to intercede.
The Folk’s SEAL team would have to be relied upon to use their mini-sub to board the Rhode Island, preferably while the Trident remained on the floor of the continental shelf, completing repairs. It would then be up to these SEALs to convince Lockwood that the EAM from Nightwatch was unauthorized, and that their missiles were in fact targeted on their own homeland.
There were ever so many additional details that remained to be worked out, and Spencer was spurred into action when the flight technician informed him that the power amplifier was up full.
“General,” said the AGO, “we’re ready to transmit.”
Spencer attacked the keyboard. The system’s analyzer automatically formatted his message into code, his efforts given new urgency by the amplified voice of the pilot.
“Tomcats continue to approach. They’ve yet to reply to our comms though we’ve just been painted by their attack radar.”
Spencer cursed his leaden fingers. Sweat began to form on his forehead, and his pulse quickened with the pilot’s next update.
“We’ve just been instructed by the lead Tomcat to halt all VLF transmissions and reel in our wire. General Spencer, how do you want me to reply?”
Spencer ignored this question, trying instead to focus his complete attention on completing the EAM.
“Sir,” cut in his SIOP advisor from the console to Spencer’s right.
“What the hell is going on out there, and why is that F14 ordering us to quit transmitting?”
“Major Childress,” Spencer anxiously replied, “I need just a couple more minutes to complete this EAM; then I promise I’ll explain everything.”
“General Spencer, sir!” exclaimed the pilot’s frantic, amplified voice.
“The Tomcats have threatened to attack unless we reel in our wire at once. Sir, I believe they’re serious.”
“Stall ‘em. Captain!” Spencer ordered into his chin mike.
“Sir,” interrupted his AGO from his console on the opposite side of the passageway.
“For whatever reason, the threat from those Tomcats appears to be real. I recommend immediately ceasing VLF transmission, bringing in the reel, and sorting this thing out before it gets completely out of hand.”
“I concur, sir,” said the SIOP advisor.
Spencer was in the process of detailing the manner in which the Folk’s SEALS could convince the Rhode Island to terminate its launch. He had all but completed inputting this passage, when the intercom filled with the frantic voice of his pilot.
“Incoming rounds!”
This urgent warning was followed by a series of sharp, crackling explosions. The cabin began vibrating so violently that Spencer’s hands slid off the keyboard. There was a sickening feeling in his gut as the aircraft abruptly broke out of its orbit and experienced a sudden loss of altitude. Alarms started going off, and thick, caustic smoke began filling the battle-staff compartment.
Spencer struggled to reach up and put on his oxygen mask, and he had to hold on for dear life as Iron Man One canted over hard on its right side, caught in the grasp of a heart stopping death spiral.
“They’ve shot off our damned wire!” exclaimed the pilot while fighting to keep them in the air.
Chapter 47
Saturday, July 3, 0326 Zulu
U.S.S. James K. Polk
Captain Benjamin Kram was informed of the Priority One transmission from TACAMO while in the midst of a routine inspection of the engine room. He quickly left Polk Power and Light behind, and headed forward to the radio room. He was met there by his XO, and together they read and reread General Spencer’s rather complex, strangely compressed EAM. Neither officer had ever received such a peculiar message, which Kram conveyed to his stateroom so that they could discuss it in private.
“What do you think. Skipper?” asked the XO as he sat down on the stateroom’s only chair.
“Do you really think Admiral Warner could be responsible for orchestrating a coup and authorizing the release of nukes against our own citizens? Not to mention assassinating the President and attempting to kill the VP. It sounds to me like General Spencer has gone off the deep end.”
Kram sat down heavily on the edge of his bunk, the dispatch still held tightly in his hands.
“I’ve got to admit that it’s a wild accusation, but General Lowell Spencer is one of the most levelheaded individuals I’ve ever met, and he’s definitely not prone to paranoid delusions or outlandish exaggeration. I served with him for a short time while I was assigned to STRATCOM, and I got a chance to know both the General and his wife. Believe me, Dan, they don’t come much better.”
“Then if he’s telling the truth, do you think that Trent Warner is capable of such heinous behavior? I mean, the Admiral’s a fellow submariner. Skipper, and one of our proudest days was when he was named Chairman.”
“I realize that, Dan. But what do any of us really know about the man?”
“Graduated at the head of his class at Annapolis, one of the few submariners to see combat during Korea and Vietnam, personally selected by Rickover to command one of the first Tridents, a tireless proponent of continued submarine development in the post-Cold War Navy — I believe his resume is pretty much a matter of public record. Skipper.”
“I’m well aware of that, Dan. But beyond his professional accomplishments, what kind of man is Trent Warner. What are his personal beliefs, frustrations, fears? Have you ever worked directly for him?”
The XO shook his head, and Kram added, “Well, neither have I, though I have several colleagues who served with him as recently as last year, during his short stint as CNO. From what I gathered from them, the Admiral was a difficult man to serve under, much like Hyman Rickover. Like Rick, Warner is incredibly intelligent, prone to fits of rage should his subordinates fail to meet his high standards. I also heard him described as hard driving a perfectionist, with an enigmatic dark side to his personality.”
“Did you say dark side. Skipper, as in evil?”
“I wouldn’t go that far, XO. What I’m referring to is a conversation I remember having with a neighbor of mine who served on one of Warner’s submarines as weapons officer. I’ll never forget his detailed descriptions of then Captain Warner’s infamous wardroom chats. It seems Warner liked to use his wardroom as a bully pulpit.
“He demanded that his officers remain at table after dinner in particular, so he could preach to them on his favorite subjects — the dangers of American involvement with organizations such as the United Nations, the World Bank, the IMF, and the G-Seven. He had a particular abhorrence of strategic-arms-control treaties with the Russians, and constantly preached about the dangers of SALT Two.”
“Then I can imagine what the Chairman thought about the President’s support of the Global Zero Nuclear Alert agreement,” the XO interjected.
Kram met his XO’s stare, his eyes wide with sudden enlightenment.
“You could be onto something, Dan. The grapevine had it that the President was on his way to the Crimea, preparing to sign that very same treaty. What an opportune time for a coup formed by opponents of this treaty to remove him from office.”
“But why go and launch an attack using American nuclear warheads against our own people?” the XO countered.
“It’s apparent that there’s somebody at ground zero whom they’ve got to eliminate, and that they’ll go to any extreme to do so,” said Kram, who knew then that it was imperative for him to act on General Spencer’s request with all due has
te.
“I see no harm in launching the mini-sub and sending the SEALs over to the Rhode Island. We’re not in a state of war, and with their underwater telephone out of commission because of the collision, sending in Gilbert and his men is the only way we’re going to get to Captain Lockwood and stop those nukes from being launched.”
Kram stood up to implement this order, and his XO also rose, leaving him with one last question.
“Even if we do manage to get over to the Rhode Island, why should he believe the SEALs?
Wouldn’t he consider them a possible enemy diversion, a bunch of spies he should lock up or shoot on sight? What’s to keep Lockwood from meeting our boys with force, following his original EAM, and launching?”
“To guarantee that they’ll take a moment’s pause and listen to our argument, XO, I’m going to accompany SEAL Team Two myself!”
“It’s true, all right,” said Brad Bodzin to the members of his sonar watch team, after hanging up the intercom and shaking his head in wonder.
“I just heard it from Mallott, who got the word from COB, who spoke directly with one of the SEALs — the Skipper’s in that mini-sub even as we speak, and the XO’s got the Jimmy K until Captain Kram returns from his visit to the Rhode Island.”
“Speaking of the mini-sub,” said Jaffers, headphones covering his ears, eyes glued to the BQ-7 waterfall display, “Sierra Three is purring away like a kitten, its course straight and true. ETA Rhode Island in twelve and a half minutes.”
“Did Mallott say why the Captain’s hanging with the SEALs?” asked Seaman Wilford from the BQ-21 broadband display.
“If I know our hands-on Skipper, he probably wants to be part of the first routine underwater transfer of personnel from an attack sub to a boomer,” offered Bodzin, his practiced glance scanning the glowing CRT screens.
“And then there’s always the possibility that he’s going along just to make certain that Gilbert and his gang behave themselves.”
“I’ve got a contact. Sup,” reported Wilford, in reference to the thick white line that had suddenly popped up on the left side of his sonar display.
“Designate Sierra Six, biologic.”
Bodzin checked this screen himself, and isolated the frequency that the screen was displaying on his headphones. The familiar crackling sound of shrimp met his ears, and he picked up the intercom handset that hung from the ceiling.
“Conn, Sonar. We have a new contact, bearing zero-six-one.
Designate Sierra Six, biologic.”
“Sonar, Conn. Designate Sierra Six, biologic. Aye, Sonar,” returned a voice from the overhead speaker.
“What’s the latest on Sierra One, Jaffers?” Bodzin questioned.
The broad-shouldered black man addressed the joystick that was situated on his console, and studied the pattern of vertical lines that filled the BQ-7’s waterfall display.
“Still not a peep out of them. Sup. They haven’t stirred off the bottom, meaning that the big lady is still completing repairs to their dome.”
“At least we’re around to provide their ears, and their launch ability wasn’t compromised during the collision,” said Bodzin.
“Sup, I think you’d better take a look at this,” interrupted Seaman Wilford, a definite edge to his tone.
Bodzin anxiously peered over his shoulder, quickly spotting the peculiar flutter in the BQ-21 display. It wasn’t another biologic, a fact that Jaffers confirmed with an excited discovery of his own.
“I have a narrowband contact, bearing one-four-zero. Sounds like it just popped out of the thermocline, and it could be another submarine. Sup!”
Bodzin hurriedly fitted on his headphones. He utilized the auxiliary console to isolate the narrowband processor, and a deafening blast of static caused him to wince in pain. He turned down the volume feed, engaged the graphic equalizer, and the static faded, to be replaced by a barely audible throbbing sound that caused him to gasp in instant recognition.
“Conn, Sonar!” he shouted into the intercom.
“We have a submerged contact, bearing one-four-zero. Designate Sierra Seven, possible hostile submarine!”
Dan Calhoun was in the narrow, elongated compartment just aft of the control room, talking with the SEALs who were responsible for launching their mini-sub, when the frantic warning from Sonar arrived. The XO dashed into Control, which was dimly lit in red to protect the men’s night vision, and joined COB behind the two seated helmsmen.
“I had a bad feeling we hadn’t seen the last of that damned bogey,” whispered COB as his eyes scanned the various digital indicators showing that the Polk was currently traveling on a northwesterly heading, at a depth of four hundred and seventeen feet, with a forward speed of five knots.
“The Skipper knew the risks, and now it’s up to us to keep Sierra Seven off our mini-sub’s back,” said the XO, suddenly aware of the heavy burden of his new command.
“How soon until they reach the Rhode Island?”
COB glanced up at the bulkhead-mounted clock and answered, “Another ten minutes and eighteen seconds, sir.”
The XO reached overhead for the nearest intercom handset.
“Sonar, Conn. Do you have anything else on Sierra Seven?”
“Conn, Sonar,” answered Bodzin’s amplified voice.
“I’m afraid not, sir. We’re barely picking up a signature, though from all initial indications, there’s a high-percentage probability that it’s another submarine.”
“Sonar, Conn. As soon as it’s available, get me Sierra Seven’s exact bearing and range. I’ve got to know if it’s headed toward Sierra Three.”
“Conn, Sonar. Aye, sir. We’ll do our best.”
The XO lowered the handset and solemnly addressed COB.
“Something bad is going on out there, COB. I can feel it in my gut, and we’ve got to be prepared for the worst.”
“We can always determine Sierra Seven’s intentions by going active,” suggested COB.
“Before we let them know that we’re aware of their presence, we’d better be ready to rock and roll,” said the XO, who raised the handset to his lips and addressed the entire crew over the 1MC.
“Man battle stations torpedo! This is not a drill!”
Chapter 48
Saturday, July 3, 0328 Zulu
Nightwatch 676
Brittany found the access shaft behind the SHF SATCOM transponder, just like Red had said. Once the rumor had begun circulating that Red had been incapacitated by the same intestinal ailment that had stricken Coach, Brittany knew in an instant the real reason for her abrupt disappearance. With both of her allies in detention, she had a choice of attempting this daring rescue or trying to stop the Chairman on her own. Now that the EAM had been sent, and Yankee Hotel was one step closer to being implemented, time was of the essence, and Brittany knew that whatever she did, it would have to be done quickly.
What Red had neglected to pass on was that a screwdriver was needed to remove the cover panel. Brittany found one in the flight avionics bay, an equipment-packed compartment that adjoined the forward lower equipment area. Brittany wasn’t comfortable with tools, and it took a bit of doing to remove the screws and pry off the panel.
The narrow shaft inside was pitch-black, and she had to return to the avionics bay to get a flashlight. This would hopefully be the last item she would need to initiate the dangerous task at hand, and she knelt before the now-open shaft and prepared to enter it.
It was at this inopportune moment that an airman entered the compartment. She had no choice but to duck inside the shaft, and her pulse was madly throbbing as she reached out and did her best to cover the open portal with the cover panel. From the black confines of the shaft, she cautiously peeked outside and watched the airman begin working on the VLF transmitter, which was positioned at the aft end of the room. He seemed to take forever to complete his work, yet Brittany didn’t dare continue until he had finished.
When he finally completed the job and left, Britta
ny moved forward. The shaft was just wide enough to fit her shoulders, with thick cables running along the walls. The iron rungs were hard to grip, her progress further slowed by the constantly vibrating fuselage. She supposed that most of the maintenance work performed in this portion of the airplane would occur when Nightwatch was on the ground, and she continued the difficult climb as quickly as possible.
The sound of muffled voices signaled her arrival at the deck above. She halted to catch her breath, and was able to hear the distinctive chatter of people talking. One of these voices was female and could belong to Red, and Brittany prayed that the Admiral’s stateroom was nearby, though there was no sign of any vent opening.
She swept the shaft with her flashlight, and discovered the outline of an access panel that appeared to be identical to the one she had originally climbed through. The voices seemed to be coming from the other side, though the screws holding this panel were nowhere to be seen. Fearful they could be removed only from the other side, she began probing the shaft’s surface with the pointed tip of the screwdriver, and in this manner uncovered a layer of stiff, rubberized insulation that she quickly pried free.
A familiar pattern of screw heads was soon exposed. She hesitated briefly before removing them, well aware that, other than Red’s cursory description earlier, she didn’t know which portion of the airplane this cover panel would open up to. And even if it turned out to be the Chairman’s stateroom, were the prisoners there with no sentries or any of the coup supporters present?
A woman’s voice could be heard once again from the other side of the panel, and Brittany took several deep breaths before deciding that the gamble was worth taking. Her hand was badly shaking as she raised the screwdriver to the head of the first screw. It took a concentrated effort to remove it, and as she went to work on the second screw, Nightwatch suddenly lost altitude, causing the entire shaft to suddenly pitch forward.
The screwdriver slipped from her grasp, and as it began dropping into the black void below, she blindly kicked her leg out and was just able to trap the tool between her thighs. She reached down to grab it, and no sooner did she secure it in her grasp than air turbulence caused the shaft to begin wildly vibrating.
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