Straits of Power

by Joe Buff

  “Understood, sir.” Milgrom sounded chipper enough, but there were bags under her eyes and her shoulders drooped more than usual from fatigue. Jeffrey sympathized. He continued.

  “Ohio as the slower ship will set the pace. Our mean speed of advance will be eighteen knots. Our trip to Gibraltar should therefore take eight days. Ohio will, at Captain Parcelli’s discretion, trail her towed array, which was recently upgraded to be the same type as Challenger’s, i.e., triple-line fiber optic. . . . The two ships will remain in contact by the secure covert acoustic link. Challenger will maneuver so as to remain in direct acoustic line of sight with Ohio as much as possible. Given the complex paths that sound rays take between different depths, and Challenger’s occasional proximity to bottom terrain, this will call for careful coordination between Sonar and Navigation, on both ships. However, again, since Ohio will be setting the pace, and as the shallower unit she’s more inherently vulnerable, the onus is on Challenger to keep the acoustic path open. If the two ships become separated, with both being so quiet, it may prove very difficult to reestablish contact, even if both try calling by using the link. The result of such separation could be disastrous. . . . I cannot disclose more, but suffice it to say that a sword of Damocles hangs over our heads by one strand of hair, and that strand gets weaker with every day that goes by.”

  Sessions and Milgrom glanced at each other, both carefully poker faced.

  “Although we all did well in our combat with those three U-boats, I have to emphasize that whenever possible, we must avoid further contact with enemy units. Detection of either of our ships by the Axis now risks seriously compromising the mission. Any further combat also risks damage to Ohio or Challenger or both. This, again, could be disastrous, even if neither of us is actually sunk.”

  Torelli raised his hand. “Skipper, won’t two subs trying to sneak through Gibraltar get noticed? The gap there’s so narrow, and the Germans have controlled both sides for most of a year at this point. They’ll have all kinds of sensors and weapons aimed our way.”

  “All true. Hydrophone arrays, undersea smart minefields, the works. That’s the next part of the deception process. This much, you all do need to know now, since we’ve got to start working out our penetration tactics right away.”

  Milgrom raised her hand.

  “Sonar?”

  “Captain, why weren’t we told any of this before? A week to develop cooperative tactics with Ohio, computer models, simulator rehearsals, contingency planning . . . It’s awfully rushed.”

  “For security. You were to be told this only after we left port.” Jeffrey had by now, in private, opened the first sealed pouch from his safe.

  “Of course. Understood, sir.”

  “It won’t be quite as difficult as you think,” Jeffrey said to the group in the wardroom at large.

  He tapped keys and another image appeared on the screen. It showed one submarine towing another, both submerged.

  “The way we’ll increase our chances of sneaking through safely is to make use of a big-time diversion scheme. . . . You’re aware that some months ago USS Texas was damaged in combat and had to ground on top of a seamount near her crush depth.” Texas was a Virginia-class, steel-hulled sub. Challenger had helped rescue her surviving crew—just before the Germans could get to them. “The engineering compartment was completely flooded. Some of you may have heard rumors of plans to refloat and salvage the ship, repair her, put her back in action.”

  People nodded again.

  “Well, yes and no. Texas has been refloated, basically by robotic minisubs inserting gas bags as floatation bladders inside the flooded spaces. But rather than be salvaged, she’ll be sacrificed.”

  People gave each other doubtful looks.

  “It’s supposed to work like this,” Jeffrey said. “The Royal Navy’s HMS Dreadnought will tow the submerged but refloated Texas to near the Gibraltar Strait. Dreadnought is ideal for the job since her ceramic hull gives her a very deep crush depth. If something goes wrong with the tow or buoyancy control, and the Texas starts to sink again, the Dreadnought at least won’t need to worry about being dragged below her own crush depth. And before you ask, yes, a system is in place to cut the towing cables, just in case, and also one to make Texas heavy if she threatens to bob to the surface. Of course, implosion of the floatation bags and the unflooded forward hull of Texas would be heard for hundreds of miles, and prematurely give that game away, so we better hope this part goes smoothly. If it does, Dreadnought will release Texas near the Strait to free-float at her normal operating depth, and then subtly draw the attention of Axis antisubmarine forces. This should stir up a nice hornet’s nest, and the Challenger-Ohio task group will sneak through while the enemy’s busy attacking a derelict Texas and a very capable Dreadnought. Texas, already stripped of most classified gear, and her reactor compartment filled with special high-strength sealant, will suffer hits and seem to be sunk by Axis fire in water ten thousand feet deep. Dreadnought will then withdraw, also in very deep water. . . . It’s rather convenient for our side that the continental shelf by the strait is extremely narrow compared to the eastern U.S. . . . The Axis will thus be left with the impression that a two-sub task group attempted entry, with one vessel destroyed and the other repulsed. This will strengthen Axis confidence that the Strait is secure, when in fact, God willing, Challenger and Ohio will have gotten inside and we’ll have a good laugh at German expense.”

  Bell leaned forward. “Making this work will take some precise coordination, sir, between us and Dreadnought.”

  “That’ll be accomplished by a coded ELF radio message. The same message will also be our final go-ahead to proceed with the main part of the mission, inside the Med. And it’s one more reason why we must keep to a very tight schedule. If Dreadnought’s ready and we aren’t there yet . . .”

  “Even with this diversion, Skipper, we need more than just acoustic-link contact with Ohio to work out the details for passing Gibraltar.”

  “Yes, thanks, XO. You anticipated my next point. Two more minisub rendezvous are planned between now and when we reach the Straits. Challenger will have to come shallow enough to respect the crush-depth limits of Ohio’s mini. And for one of these two meetings, I intend for people from Challenger to use our mini to visit Ohio. This will create greater task-group cohesion. Besides, it’s necessary. All of you here on Challenger can best appreciate what Ohio can and can’t do by going aboard her in person. . . . This wraps up the briefing. You’ll each be fed more info when the time comes. Lieutenant Estabo and his men, and Mr. Salih, will be having briefings and rehearsals among themselves. For security, they’ll need to use the wardroom. The enlisted mess is too public. XO, you and Mr. Parker and Lieutenant Estabo can work out the schedule needs.”

  “Right,” Bell said.

  “Thanks,” Felix acknowledged.

  “So,” Jeffrey said, “everyone, this coming week, pray we don’t hear a Virginia-class hull imploding prematurely. That happens, we know Dreadnought’s diversion effort flopped and put the bad guys on highest alert. We drive on anyway, but our job gets a lot more complicated.”

  Jeffrey’s wry comment left a glum silence in the room. He realized his officers’ moods were becoming brittle, a reaction to built-up tiredness and the prospect of yet more overwork.

  “Lieutenant Milgrom,” Jeffrey said, “I know you served in Dreadnought. All goes well, we’ll be practically within shouting distance of your shipmates for a little while. Sorry you won’t be able to say hello.”

  “I’m sure all will go as planned, sir,” Milgrom answered. She sounded as if she was trying very hard to believe what she said.

  “We’ll proceed at ultraquiet, but secured from battle stations until absolutely necessary.”

  “Normal watch-standing routines?” Bell asked, hardly believing the good news—and the departure from Jeffrey’s usual workaholic command style.

  “Affirmative. I want everyone to make sure to get lots of rest, and pl
enty of nourishment.”

  The feeling in the room lightened noticeably.

  “Any questions?”

  Sessions raised his hand.

  “Nav?”

  “Sir, if you don’t mind my asking.”

  “You can always ask.”

  “Mr. Salih,” Sessions said, “are you at all related to someone else I used to know?”

  Sessions, getting into the spirit of this constant need-to-know business, was trying to be cagey. Coming from him, the most laid-back and unflappable of Jeffrey’s officers, it seemed slightly funny—and ominous.

  Salih glanced at Jeffrey. “They’ll figure it out pretty soon on their own. Best I tell them now. You think, Captain?”

  Jeffrey shrugged. “Go ahead.”

  “I’m the same Gamal Salih who had the honor to serve with you before Christmas.”

  “But—” Sessions started.

  “Plastic surgery, and acting lessons.”

  “I think we better wrap this up,” Jeffrey broke in. “Captain Parcelli needs to get back to his ship.” Jeffrey turned off his laptop. “Thank you all for attending.”

  He walked Parcelli aft. An enlisted man stood at the watertight hatch to the lock-out trunk, leading up to the docked minisub from Ohio. Jeffrey told him to move out of earshot.

  Jeffrey shook Parcelli’s hand. “Thanks for coming.”

  Parcelli’s hand was much larger than Jeffrey’s, and the palm was warm and not at all sweaty.

  A very self-composed person. I could learn from him.

  “I have to admit, Captain,” Parcelli said, “you surprised me back there.”

  “Back where?”

  “In your stateroom. From things I’d heard, I didn’t expect you to assert your authority so, well, so authoritatively.” Parcelli rubbed his jaw, pretending that Jeffrey had physically slugged him.

  Jeffrey decided that the curtest answer was best. “You gained two important lessons today. One about undersea warfare tactics, and one about me. On both fronts, be impetuous, you get hurt.”

  Chapter 15

  Felix Estabo was busy inspecting Challenger’s captured German minisub. He had to admit it did have important advantages over the U.S. Navy’s Advanced SEAL Delivery System minis. It was faster and had longer range, and the control compartment’s instrumentation and sensors were more sophisticated. The equipment and procedures for docking with a parent submarine, or pressurizing the central lock-in/lock-out trunk so divers could come and go through the bottom hatch, were similar to the American design. The adjustable seats in the passenger compartment in back—room for eight commandos plus their gear—were more comfortable than those on the ASDSs Felix had ridden in before, to and from combat.

  Felix paid very careful attention as he examined things. This particular minisub was indispensable to the whole mission. The quick trip to and from Ohio—for a working group on tactics in a few days—would be a useful dry run. This German mini, actually made and exported by Sweden, was the only way to sneak through the Dardanelles Strait and the Sea of Marmara to reach Istanbul, which sprawled along both sides of the Bosporus Strait, just before the Black Sea. The Dardanelles was thirty miles long, but parts were barely three miles wide. The exit into the Marmara was shallow—seventy-five feet—and studded with wrecks. Challenger or Ohio could hardly hope to get through without being detected, and their presence was strictly forbidden by international law. An incursion by the minisub was ticklish enough, from the diplomatic perspective as well as from the navigational one.

  “Lieutenant Estabo?” a young voice called from the bottom of the ladder leading into Challenger proper.

  Felix stuck his head through the wide-open bottom hatch of the mini. “Yo.” Felix recognized the kid down there looking up at him. A messenger.

  “Sir, Captain Fuller sends his compliments, and requests your presence in his stateroom with the two chiefs from your team.”

  “Coming.” Both chiefs, Porto and Costa, were in the control compartment, so Felix asked them to follow him. He climbed down the ladder, through the functional gray-painted metal air-lock trunk that connected Challenger’s in-hull pressure-proof minisub hangar to the rest of the ship. Felix and his chiefs came out near the enlisted mess. Between meals now, some men were watching a movie, others studied for their qualifications to earn their silver Dolphins, and two crewmen played very competitive checkers.

  Felix admired the ability of the new guys to concentrate despite the sound track of the movie and the chatter in the mess, as they crammed diagrams of hydraulics or electrical or compressed-air systems. He knew they could have used their sleeping racks as study carrels, where things would be very quiet—but many submariners craved company above privacy, enjoyed the constant crowding and found it, if anything, cozy, and soon learned to tune out irrelevant noise.

  It’s a unique lifestyle these people lead.

  Gamal Salih was standing there, waiting for Felix.

  “Feel like a coffee, Gamal?”

  “By all means.”

  Felix glanced at the messenger and raised an eyebrow.

  “The captain didn’t say not to.”

  The summoned foursome helped themselves. Brown plastic mugs were stacked by the dozen near two large metal pots of very strong coffee. Carrying the mugs throughout the ship was normal practice—it was sometimes hard to get through a six-hour watch, manning a console or piece of machinery, without a stiff dose of caffeine.

  The group arrived together at Captain Fuller’s stateroom. The door was closed, so Felix knocked.

  The door opened. “Lieutenant,” Jeffrey told Felix, “have one of your men stay outside my door here as a guard, for security. Have the other walk through my stateroom and the connecting head to the XO’s room, and then stand outside his outer door. The only person you should see along the way is Mr. Parker. The XO and Lieutenant Milgrom are in the control room now.”

  “You heard the captain,” Felix said; the CO and the XO cabins shared a common, private bathroom.

  Porto and Costa did what they were told; Felix and Salih went inside and Jeffrey closed the door. Gerald Parker stood up, and everyone made quick hellos.

  Jeffrey sat down behind his tiny desk. Parker, a senior person himself, kept the guest chair. Salih perched on the filing cabinet. Felix, faced with the choice of standing in a corner or leaning against the bulkhead next to Jeffrey’s dressing mirror, decided to stand.

  Parker turned his chair so everyone could see each other better. “Captain Fuller was asking about how we’ll make contact with Peapod. This seems as good a time as any to brief all of you.”

  Felix and Salih nodded.

  “There are two parts to it,” Parker said. “One is letting him know we’re coming, so he can get ready. The other is the actual rescue snatch. For the latter, he also needs instructions in advance. And contact with Peapod has to be made right away.”

  “So he doesn’t chicken out, you mean?” Felix asked.

  “Something like that. So he knows what to do and when. And what not to do, like panic or spill his guts to his bosses because he thinks we’ve abandoned him.”

  “With you so far,” Jeffrey said. “But something’s missing. Who, or how, does someone get a message through to Peapod? Since that raid on the brothel where he almost got killed, they’ll have extra bodyguards and keep the guy under lock and key.”

  Parker nodded. “There are times when the most covert approach is to move in plain sight.”

  “Go on.”

  “Peapod’s cover provided by the Germans is as a trade attaché. Someone we own will meet with Peapod right there in the consulate during his regular office hours.”

  “What do you mean, ‘own’?” Jeffrey asked.

  “Remember, we’re dealing with very different cultures, not America. Turkey is a secular state, but the majority of the population is Muslim. The person we own is a Pakistani citizen, also Muslim, employed by one of Pakistan’s major import-export firms at their Istanbul office
. This person, whose code name is Aardvark, happens to be bisexual, with a personal orientation to mostly be a practicing transvestite. Turkey generally tolerates gay behavior in private, but they’re self-contradictory. They detest men who dress as women for sex. Aardvark would also be in big trouble with his employers if his lifestyle became known to them, partly because he’s been a naughty boy and often does what he does on the company’s time and the company’s dime. Exposed, he’d lose his job for sure, would be expelled from Turkey, back to Pakistan, and would be unemployable and humiliated in front of his family there. Aardvark likes the city he works in now very much. He likes the cosmopolitan feel of Istanbul, the active nightlife, and he likes to party.”

  “Party? You mean like alcohol, drugs, orgies?”

  “We have very explicit video of him with other men. You don’t want to know the details. . . . That’s how we own him. . . . We pay him, through a covert intermediary of course, to soften the pain of his servitude.”

  “And to compromise him even more,” Felix said.

  “Yes, there is that.” Parker didn’t even blink.

  “But how is Aardvark supposed to get a message to Peapod?” Jeffrey asked. “Just by making an appointment about trade and then walking into his office? Won’t the place be totally bugged?”

  “Of course.”

  “And how do we get Peapod to trust Aardvark, and fast?”

  Parker smiled. “Aardvark will offer him a gift he can’t accept, then give him an invitation he won’t refuse.”

  Chapter 16

  Klaus Mohr, age thirty-seven, a German fit and handsome in the classic Aryan way, sat at his desk in his office, in mid-morning. This was the time of day when he acted as a trade attaché for real, to maintain his diplomatic cover—his clandestine work for Plan Pandora took place after lunch and into the evening, in a more secure part of the building, or in safe houses from which field tests of the ruggedized black boxes’ stealth and reliability were staged.