She contains Top Secret quiet machinery with stealth design for low detection profile above or beneath the water, and the most advance long range sonar to detect friendly or hostile forces. There is a Top Secret ESI (Extra Sensitive Information) space as yet unknown in its capacity or equipment.
In terms of survivability, one thought about the unknown space is an escape pod sub within the sub with about nearly half weapons systems capability, and undersea communications low frequency sufficient to command and direct the compliment of missiles and other weapons remaining on the damaged and abandoned mother ship.
There is another thought concerning the mysterious space. It is a concept growing in favor from professional and amateur military sleuths; the Navy has not denied it, as it has other suppositions. To appreciate the proposition, it is necessary to understand that since the beginning of World War II, the extended safe depth of all submersibles, excepting special deep-water designs such as the Ex-Gee, is somewhere around 2,000 feet. This is especially true of a warhead projectile, that is, underwater torpedoes. Typically, they are designed to operate in shallow waters, so that more weight may be advanced upon the propulsion, guidance, and explosive systems. In this fashion, the Navy’s Mark 46-50 series has operated in design and function quite successfully since the Vietnam War. The Mark 55, if this supposition is correct, revealed here for the first time, is a Deep Sea Encapsulated Launch Self Propelled Guided Projectile From Deep Sea ASRoc (Anti-Sub Launched Rocket). That is, from a deep submerged weighted free-floating sensor platform that releases the projectile (in essence, a deep-bell encapsulated pressurized chamber with a computer brain, searching through its comparative data bases of hostile audio vibrations, when hostile audio contact is detected, establishing a comparison, and, when a NOT gate fail command is offered to it, assured of recognition of aggression, thereby initiating a launch sequence command). Fully declassified since the end of World War II, yet not significantly known by the public is the alternating code sequence designed by Hedy Lamarr, the famous actress of the 30’s and 40’s and also a brilliant pioneer in the field of wireless communication who received a patent on this Secret Communications Systems in 1941.
Now, to reduce it simply, in essence: A deeply submerged highly technologically advanced robot, with an unknown compliment of projectiles; if an enemy submersible is detected within its range, it compares the vibrations of the water displacement with its data base; it identifies it as friendly or hostile; if hostile, it reviews a set of parameters, as speed, direction, course, permutations and combination probability analogs of intent under prescribed and proscribed circumstances; it prepares to launch one or more projectiles; a signal from a friendly submerged or surface vessel may and commonly would offer a not-launch command, effectively shutting down its launch sequence. Of course, there must be further fail-safe measures, but no supposition by the authorities concerning them as yet exists. Presumably, there is some sort of additional recognized hostile intent by the data bases, but this is mere speculation in this romance.
Return now to the mother ship: The Nebraska boasts an officer crew of 16, and enlisted crew of 157. There are 2 crews, gold and blue. Depending on the ship’s mission, they will each tour out to sea 3 to 6 months at a time.
She is so far advanced in design survivability, maintainability, and reliability, she knows no peer in any ocean-submerging weapons system. She was once rumored to have been seen by unidentified fishermen in the Black Sea, home of the major fleet of Russia. It has been rumored she discovered (or created) an undersea passage channel between the Persian Gulf and the Red Sea. These accounts, of course, seem the stuff of legend; however, it is known she broke all records passing under the ice caps of the North Pole.
She is, along with the fleets’ aircraft carriers, the strongest and mightiest arm of American military might and political will in oceans off the eastern shore. Now, in a mission classified TS-ESI, she found herself in the less familiar western sea.
Even so, it was not the first time. Several times on secret missions she had slipped in at night to Standhope; recharged and refitted, undetected by any enemy’s spy satellite, she slipped out again at night, traveling by surface for good fresh air, then diving before dawn. Her crew’s compliment were well-trained and competent. They respected Captain Corales. He respected them. The men and women who serve for short tours of duty or for careers in the U.S. Armed Forces truly guard and keep the freedoms all Americans and much of the free world. Heroes and heroines all, they deserve much more than this brief moment of entitled salute. But we take this moment to salute them, and to thank them, every one.
Night fell upon the western regions of the planet. Like a stone placed upon a lily pad on a pond deep in the woods, the tubule-shaped dark craft slipped her surly mooring bonds. Purring with less sound than any submarine or ship before her, slowly, imperceptibly, she united with the waters; she became one with the ocean beneath the waves. Her advance sonar revealed the target at once. Another submersible, much smaller, about 40 feet in length with an odd signature. This one, too, had slipped out of the cave of Standhope about a half hour earlier, to go the place she had been designed to go, where no other ship could go, although there were now some doubts about that. The screens also revealed another vessel, one above the surface.
Corales ordered up scope. The refit hydraulic gears lifted the optical array, much more sensitive and complex, with digital computer imaging enhancement and distance reckoning, than even four years ago, above the surface of the waters. The lights of the Starr were quite visible. An enemy sub could bring her down easy, with one shot.
“Sonar, any other vessel signature?”
“Negative, Captain. Only our large friend above and small friend below.”
“X0. Full sweep, wide range throughout.”
“Full sweep, wide range throughout.”
“Full sweep wide range, aye.”
“X0. Stay with the EX-Gee 500 feet till she goes extreme deep.”
“Five hundred feet, aye.”
Like a mother whale letting her child try some independence the Ex-Gee cut through the deep mystery of the sea followed above and behind by the huge underwater ship.
On the Starr, Jennifer monitored her instruments on the central berth on ship’s bridge. With Delores below in the Ex-Gee, Wells guided the old destroyer and occasionally barked orders. It was night, deep night, and that helped. Jennifer always felt better at night. Her mother had always told her she was nocturnal. “At night, darling, you seem one with the universe,” her mother once said.
“Approaching the coordinates, Ms. Littleton,” Wells said.
Was there an edginess in his voice; did she still, after all this, seem distrustful? Was it something else, something she could not penetrate, but seemed to bother her as just out of reach, like a fly buzzing inside one’s house, deep in the month of July, the insect nearly spent, but still avoiding the final blow, still bringing annoyance. Increasingly, he seemed aloof. More than once now, she found him in hushed conversation, hunched over with that Foxworth woman at her console. Was it her imagination, or did they fiddle with something quickly when she approached? She had a fleeting thought that they—but Foxworth was a trained SEAL, and Wells had been with Delores from the get-go, hadn’t he? From the get-go. She had a thought dancing about her mind. She couldn’t quite capture it. Then, she almost had it …
“Ms. Littleton. The coordinates in one.”
“Copy that.” She was fully accustomed to the military formal communications line now. She appreciated it. It made things clear. Precise.
“They’ll be heading deep soon. Umbilicals will detach at 1,500 fathoms. They’ll be on their own then. Except as far as our large friend can follow and determine.”
“Stella Alpha to Ex-Gee Bravo. Do you copy? Over.”
At first there was static. Then Susan’s scientist-teacher’s voice came through 4 X 5. And yet not exactly
. A different voice for her somehow. More, no, less arrogant, yet more precise somehow. “Stella Alpha. This is Ex-Gee Bravo. Copy. We are away procedures for deep descent Over.”
“Copy that. Procedures for deep descent commencing. Firebrands ahead. Good luck and Godspeed.”
“Copy that. See you on the surface in an hour or two.”
“Copy that.” Now static.
Jennifer watched the blip on her screen fall away, until the ocean’s tides were so deep, even the blip shimmered, grew steady for one last spark, dissipated, shimmered-sparked again, then disappeared.
Susan sat to the left, looking at the monitors which showed the front facsimile pictures. They were X-ray and thermal videos; the visual cameras would not be unsealed until within the channels. Magruder sat to the right. Delores sat between them, monitoring a redundancy of each of their console, video, and computer screen displays. Hodges sat below, from the rear gazing at the wide scan near display. He also had a redundancy of the front display, for he also was in charge of all weapons systems.
They had learned three on bridge deck could handle much of what needed to be accomplished. After some reconfiguration at Standhope, including considerable heated disputation into wee hours, they determined the crew of four could be quite sufficient with some quick cross-training and on the spot ops modification. It would lighten the weight of the vessel and might re-calibrate its speed and maneuverability fourteen per cent faster response. Certainly it would conserve fuel, and, with the unscheduled first trip behind them, a commodity most valuable. Unsaid was it was one less person to risk.
The four monitored their consoles. Delores and Susan had developed a truce of sorts. Delores would be in charge for the submersion to target; once in, Susan would direct the ship. It was thought they had a better chance if each person’s knowledge and training were used to best effect.
Susan for now ran diagnostic checks. Her thermal readings, spectral analysis, and X-ray readings would be more important as they entered the undersea and under-the-sea bottom world, as she had begun to call it. Delores and Magruder monitored current pressure, hydraulics, guidance, and memory for each of these, especially, now, the arc of the curve sine descent.
“Pressure gauge edging toward yellow, Commander.”
“Steady as she goes. Arc line of descent?”
Hodges monitored this from his console. He watched his blue line and green line. To a casual observer they appeared synchronous. To a seasoned eye like Hodges’s, there could be the beginning of a problem. “Point Oh-five three per cent co-sine left of projection and memory. Within parameters.”
“Copy that. Within parameters. Continue descent, Mr. Magruder.”
“Aye-aye, Captain.”
“Capt—Mr. Wells.”
“Proceed, Mr. Foxworth.”
“Losing signal. Descent may be off point five degrees. Pressure gauge ris—damn. Lost her. She’s on her own.”
Jennifer felt her right foot begin to shake in that damn uncontrollable busy-leg syndrome, which usually afflicted older persons, but which she had endured for as long as she could remember. And if it were so bad now, what would happen to her when she was old? The sick irony of it. She was not the one with the palsied disease, but she was the one who the whole world could watch her big foot quiver.
That damn pressure problem. Maybe they should abort. How could she communicate that now? Besides she knew Susan, Delores, Hodges. They’d carry it through at this point even if it were getting too close for comfort. She wondered if the Nebraska still had them. And she could still pick up the Nebraska. For an instant she thought she caught another image on her screen; then, as quickly, it disappeared. “Mr. Wells.”
“Aye, Ms. Littleton?”
“I, I, never mind. I thought I—never mind.”
“All hands. Carry on,” the XO said.
“Bridge.”
“Bridge aye.”
“Sonar.”
“Report.”
“She appears to have a five point five per cent drift to leeward. Still within parameters, however.”
“Say again sonar.”
“Copy that X0. She is one deep down ship.”
“Copy that.”
“Sonar, bridge. Understood. Maintain constant surveil. Report changes.”
“Changes, aye.”
Corvales ordered down scope. “Proceed to maximum depth. X0. I want to keep as close to her as possible.”
“Max depth, aye. Proceed to max depth, all hands. Max depth approaching in seven minutes, my mark. Mark.”
“ETA drop zone at this time.”
“She should be at the entrance to the vent in twenty-two minutes on my mark. XO mark.”
“Roger that. All hands. We are descending to maximum depth. Monitor all equipment, quarters, bulkheads. Maintain stations. Report anomalies. Captain out.”
The two submersibles in different planes of existence, cut unseen through the deep hidden world of water at the heart of the planet’s living systems. All within and without was silent Ventide.
The Ex-Gee plumbed the depths of the planet’s deepest valley, nine miles down from sea level, deeper than the 29,000 feet Mt. Everest rose above the land. Already fantastic albeit familiar creatures appeared on their thermal view screen. Susan voiced astonishment at seeing a large sea anemone swirling, shaking, rocking back and forth, its outer frills swishing in an ancient swirling depth-rite. How could it be so far out from the shelf, so deep? Did they come this far, this deep to escape their predators? Surely this was an aberration, or a new species undiscovered until now. Then she saw others and then the reason. Susan had never seen a starfish swim before. Usually they maneuvered the suckers of their feet across the continental shelf floor or inland bays. But here, somewhere in front of them, about 75 feet she would say, were giant versions of these common yet unfamiliar and bizarre creatures in a depth of sea dance of victim and predator. She checked her instruments. Yes, good. The auto recorder had come on. She would have yet another paper. She began yet another lecture in new discoveries in marine biology in deep ocean environments. After a while, she was interrupted by Magruder, answered by Delores. This time, she didn’t mind.
“Captain, navigator.”
“I see it, Mr. Magruder. Weapons.”
“Weapons, aye. I have it,” Hodges said.
“Thermal readings appear to have signature,” Susan said. “Run calibration against memory to verify.”
“No question, Susan,” Delores said. It was one of the few times she called her by her given name. It’s the ridge. Those thermal and X-ray readings are in the red line and we’re still twelve miles out. It’s the vent and it’s still huge. Navigator.”
“Navigator, aye.”
“ETA.”
“ETA, aye. Seventeen minutes thirty seconds.
“My God. Look at the size of it.”
“And it’s smaller than last year,” Susan said. “Here, compare with this overlay. Video and readings from the Alvin and deep ROL.”
“Weapons. Navigator. Calculate feasibility of mission intent.”
“Calculated Captain. Within parameters. She’ll fit in with a little room to spare.”
“Susan.”
“Delores.”
“We’re on our way. Into the very bowel-pits of the earth. God help us. If She can find us in hell.”
“X0. Sonar.”
“Sonar aye.”
“X0. Sonar. Picking up a second signature at … delay that. Disappeared.”
“Sonar, this is the Captain. What’s happening?”
“Captain. Chief of the Boat.”
“Chief of the Boat, aye.”
“Maximum depth. I say again: Max depth attained at this time.”
“Copy that. Max depth. All hands, this is the Captain. We have attained maximum designed spec depth
. Steady all hands. We’re going to be here awhile. Air may get a little stale. All hands monitor bulkheads for pressure variations. Sonar. Captain.”
“Captain. Sonar aye. I believe I have the signature of the vent.”
“Bring it up to the bridge, sonar.”
“Sonar to bridge aye. Printing out now.” Joshua Tree, Sonar, from Nashville, Tennessee: he wondered if he should return to the harmonic pattern where he saw or thought he saw the other ship. The captain should see that too. But he wanted this right away. He’d run it again when he returned to station. It bothered him; but it was only later he realized something out there was throwing a harmonic divergence pattern. He had a program for countering the divergence pattern. But he had to realize that that was what it was. It would almost be too late before it occurred to him.
Deeptide Vents . . . of Fire Page 15