Crush Depth cjf-3

by Joe Buff

  The weapons ran at seventy knots, and with double their normal fuel load they ought to run for an hour. Preset to avoid instead of home on any targets, they were so small aid maneuverable that they could rush out toward the shelf edge past obstructions that would hold Challenger to a crawl: their onboard sonar would help them avoid the worst ice ridges and boulders, once they outran their fiber-optic guidance wires.

  The big remaining question was, would these jury-rigged messengers work, and in time?

  Would their hastily modified fuel systems keep running? Would their coded pings, as they neared the ice-shelf edge, be picked up by friendly forces or sonobuoys soon enough? Or would both ADCAPs break down; or crash into an ice slab or a rock? Would that new giant iceberg Ilse heard calving off the outer shelf get in the way and ruin everything?

  Once submarine-launched ballistic missiles took off, they could not be recalled. There was no way to deactivate the fusion warheads, no missile shield positioned down here in Antarctica.

  Around Jeffrey in the control room, people fidgeted or sweated or prayed. As Jeffrey waited, he began to understand how the enemy submarine crews he'd killed in this war must have felt in their final moments. Wondering if some tactic to save themselves would work or if they'd die. Knowing they'd exhausted every alternative and there was nothing more they could do. Thinking of their loved ones, or of God, or raging at their fate. It was more horrible to go through this than Jeffrey had ever imagined.

  Jeffrey thought again of his crew, his courageous and loyal crew. He grabbed the mike for the 1MC, the shipwide public-address system. The 1MC was noisy, and hadn't been used in more than two weeks, but this way everyone would hear Jeffrey's voice directly.

  "This is the captain. Remain at your posts but secure from battle stations. Secure from ultraquiet."

  It seemed such a small gesture, but at least like this they could stand down from full alert, and make their final preparations in whatever private manner each of them might choose.

  Eventually the ADCAP guidance wires snapped. The messenger torpedoes were on their own. There was no way to tell their status. There was no way for the crew to hear, if and when they transmitted.

  The red timer counted down to the final minute. The remaining sixty seconds ticked away. No one spoke. People hardly dared to move or breathe. Jeffrey wondered if he'd feel much pain.

  Finally the timer read 00:00:00. Jeffrey waited for the end. Nothing happened.

  EPILOGUE

  Fifteen days later

  Bachelor Officers Quarters,

  Naval Submarine Base, New London, Connecticut

  Challenger had just returned to her home port. Now she was back in dry dock, in the hardened underground pens across the river from the base, and most of her crew were on leave. It was after midnight, and very cold outside, and Jeffrey sat at his desk in his steam-heated room. On the desk, beside his glowing laptop and a battery-operated reading light, loomed many files and diskettes, the relentless burden of paperwork from his job as captain of a U.S. Navy warship. Also on his desk was a land-line phone.

  Jeffrey was torn. He looked again at the phone, then once more opened a document on his computer. The document was a request form that a member of his crew be transferred off the ship. He'd already filled in the name — Ilse Reebeck — but that was all. He had trouble knowing how to say things in the proper light, to not hurt her profesSionally, or hurt himSelf. Jan ter Horst was dead, and Jeffrey had no idea what Challenger's next mission orders would say. As good as Ilse's work might be, was this lull the proper time for final closure with her too?

  Jeffrey hesitated, hands poised over the keyboard. The words just wouldn't come. Jeffrey asked himself again why he was doing this. He did feel guilty, that Ilse's continuing presence on the ship might become a distraction to him — she was, after all, besides everything else his ex-girlfriend. But none of that was Ilse's fault.

  Am I being vindictive, rejecting her because she rejected me? Is overtiredness making me impulsive, or downright silly? Jeffrey closed the document, but saved it.

  His mind turned to his other problem: the phone. For about the tenth time that evening, he considered calling his dad. Jeffrey told himself it was very late, too late to call until tomorrow. And tomorrow, his father would be at work, and he might be in meetings all day.

  Then Jeffrey told himself his father was a night owl, which was probably where Jeffrey got that trait. Then he told himself that, if his mom was home from the hospital, she'd need her rest, and it would be bad to disturb them after midnight. Then he told himself his dad was a practical man, and if his mother was asleep he'd turn off the phone, and Jeffrey would just get their voice mail. Jeffrey wasn't sure he wanted to leave a voice mail.

  Jeffrey reached for the phone, hesitated again, picked it up, and put it down. His heart pounded. He wanted so desperately to speak to his dad. Jeffrey was feeling the blues, that loneliness mixed with edgy boredom that always crept up on him after the immediate pressures and passions of combat died down. He wanted to start where he'd left off with his father, that morning at the Pentagon. He wanted to tell his dad how much he'd thought about that conversation, how much he'd learned about himself and war since then. And he simply wanted to touch base with his family.

  Jeffrey had already written the letters to the parents of his crewmen who'd been killed. It was the hardest thing he'd ever had to do, especially the ones for Harrison — since his parents were divorced, Jeffrey had to write two letters. But Jeffrey did it, all of it, in longhand using a pen until his hand cramped. He'd tried to sincerely share and ease the pain of the living, those who had to carry on after their loved ones were gone, their sons or husbands or fathers lost forever.

  Jeffrey chided himself that after such a grim task, calling his own dad to say hello ought to be easy. But Jeffrey feared rejection, badly. Some of the things his father had said last time, about war and Jeffrey's career choice, were bitter, and hurtful because they were true. It might be too late now to make amends.

  Jeffrey grabbed the phone and dialed his father'S hothe number. As the phone began to ring, his chest grew tight once more with nervousness.

  "Hello?"

  Jeffrey had to clear his throat. "Dad, it's Jeffrey." He waited in abject fear for his father's response.

  "Jeffrey! Where are you?… Can you say?"

  "Do you have a secure line there, Dad?"

  "Privilege of office, son. I was promoted again last week. Wait." Jeffrey heard a tone. "

  Okay, I'm secure at this end."

  Jeffrey pressed a button on his phone, and there was a beep. "I'm secure… I'm in New London, at the base."

  "I heard things went very well."

  "I can't talk specifics, Dad. I don't think you have the clearance." But Jeffrey was tremendously relieved — his father was glad to hear from him.

  "Yeah, well, half our problem is Washington's as leaky as a sieve. I've been hearing stories about you. Besides, haven't you seen the papers?" Physical newspapers were harder to fake or hack or alter than on-line websites, so papers were preferred for news of how the war and the economy were doing.

  "No. I literally just got back. I've barely had time to catch my breath."

  "You're a hero, son. They decided to let out the news about you sinking Voortrekker. It's on all the front pages, nationwide. I'm hearing rumors from my contacts down here that they're going to give you the Medal of Honor."

  "That's probably just twisted, Dad. The medal's for one of my crew. He deserves it, not me… I set off atom bombS in Antarctica. I'm not any kind of hero."

  "No, son. What I heard is the Medal's for you. And I also heard, though I won't say more over this line, that you prevented something worse down there than anything you did.

  Something much, much worse, if you know what I mean."

  "I can't comment on that, Dad." Jeffrey was shocked. His father was right — even in wartime, the Washington leaks and competitive social grapevine seemed to overweigh vital se
crecy.

  "So don't comment, son. Just listen. The way this war's been going, the country really needs heroes, and you're it. Congress has to approve the Medal. They will. They're doing it for themselves, for the photo ops and to make their voters feel good, a lot more than they're doing it for you. That's how Washington works. I've been here long enough to see."

  "I guess you have."

  "That doesn't mean you don't deserve it. You do. That little ribbon on your uniform, the blue thing with the tiny white stars, is gonna be very career enhancing, son."

  "But—"

  "Just take it, Jeffrey. Accept it. Don't make waves, and don't be an ass. For God's sake, admirals will have to salute you now, once the thing comes through."

  Jeffrey nodded, then realized his father couldn't see him over the phone. It all began to sink in. Jeffrey had been so busy simply trying to survive, hour by hour and minute by minute with Voortrekker under the ice shelf. After that, he'd been much too drained to think about the bigger picture — just as Commodore WilSon, still his boss, had lectured him before. Now Jeffrey, through his father's prodding, at last understood the wider implications of his own success, of the fact that he had survived, and prevailed, and met that fearsome twenty-four-hour deadline.

  Still, Jeffrey was embarrassed just to think of getting so much attention. Photo ops with politicians were not his idea of fun. He changed the subject. "How's Mom?"

  "Good, Jeffrey. Great. The spots they saw on her liver on the scan last time? They decided they were benign. She's already had the radiation therapy, and they're doing chemo now. She's back at Sloan-Kettering for a few days. The way they do it, the dose is some kind of cocktail that'S targeted at the cancer cells, and it's just one big treatment, by IV. You feel like hell for a week or two, but it's over so fast you hardly lose much of your hair."

  "That's good, Dad. Real good." Jeffrey had to hold the phone away, as he felt a different sort of relief. An immense burden lifted. Tears came to his eyes, tears of gladness.

  "Hello?" his father said. "You still there?"

  Jeffrey needed to clear his throat again. He had an idea. "Dad, I was hoping we could try to get together soon. Maybe we can both of us take the train, and meet halfway in New York, and visit Mom."

  "When could you get away?"

  "Day after tomorrow."

  "I'll clear my schedule. If we meet at the hospital midafternoon, we'll spend visiting hours with your mother, then you and I can do some celebrating. Dinner in a restaurant."

  "That would be terrific, Dad."

  Jeffrey's father chuckled. "Don't expect filet mignon. Mind you, there's a war on. But we' ll find someplace good." "It's set, then?"

  "Yup. I'm looking forward to it, Jeffrey. Your mother will be really happy to see you.

  We're both very proud of you, son."

  They hung up.

  Jeffrey sighed. He still had all that paperwork. He reopened the form about Ilse's transfer. He struggled. Was he being selfish, or weak, wanting to get rid of her? The navy had plenty of other oceanographers who could hold their own in submarine combat, who were U.S. citizens and male. But was Jeffrey being prejudiced, or sexist? He'd been ordered to take Ilse into his crew. Was he being insubordinate to disagree and try to undo the arrangement? What did the past between them have to do with the future, anyway? They were both mature adults. Is my job as captain to be insistent, or to cope?

  Jeffrey was so embroiled in battle with himself, he was startled when the radiator stopped hissing. He glanced at his watch. Zero one hundred, 1:00 A.M., on the dot.

  Jeffrey was Startled again by a knock on the door. He closed the document, shut his laptop, and got up.

  Standing there in a white silk blouse and nice blue jeans was Ilse. "Um, hi," she said. "I…

  I missed you. Can I come in?"

  Acknowledgments

  The research and professional assistance which form the nonfiction technical underpinnings of Crush Depth are a direct outgrowth and continuation of those for Thunder in the Deep and Deep Sound Channel. First, I want to thank my formal manuscript readers: Melville Lyman, commanding officer of several SSBN strategic missile submarines, and now director for special weapons safety and surety at the Johns Hopkins Applied Physics Laboratory; Commander Jonathan Powis, Royal Navy, who was navigator on the fast-attack submarine HMS Conqueror during the Falklands crisis; Lieutenant Commander Jules Steinhauer, USNR (Ret.), World War II diesel boat veteran, and carrier battle group submarine liaison in the early Cold War; retired senior chief Bill Begin, veteran of many “boomer” strategic deterrent patrols; and Peter Petersen, who served on the German navy’s U-518 in World War II. I also want to thank two navy SEALs, Warrant Officer Bill Pozzi and Commander Jim Ostach, for their feedback, support, and friendship.

  A number of other navy people gave valuable guidance: George Graveson, Jim Hay, and Ray Woolrich, all retired U.S. Navy captains, former submarine skippers, and active in the Naval Submarine League; Ralph Slane, vice president of the New York Council of the Navy League of the United States, and docent of the Intrepid Museum; Ann Hassinger, research librarian at the U.S. Naval Institute; Richard Rosenblatt, M.D., formerly a medical consultant to the U.S. Navy; and Commander Rick Dau, USN (Ret.), Operations Director of the Naval Submarine League.

  Additional submariners and military contractors deserve acknowledgment. They are too many to name here, but standing out in my mind are pivotal conversations with Commander Mike Connor, at the time C.O. of USS Seawolf, and with Captain Ned Beach, USN (Ret.), a brilliant writer and one of the greatest submariners of all time. I also want to thank, for the guided tours of their fine submarines, the officers and men of USS Alexandria, USS Connecticut, USS Dallas, USS Hartford, USS Memphis, USS Salt Lake City, USS Seawolf, USS Springfield, USS Topeka, and the modern German diesel submarine U-15. I owe “deep” appreciation to everyone aboard the USS Miami, SSN 755, for four wonderful days on and under the sea.

  Similar thanks go to the instructors and students of the New London Submarine School and the Coronado BUD/SEAL training facilities, and to all the people who demonstrated their weapons, equipment, attack vessels, and aircraft at the amphibious warfare bases in Coronado and Norfolk. Appreciation also goes to the men and women of the aircraft carrier USS Constellation, the Aegis guided missile cruiser USS Vella Gulf, the fleet-replenishment oiler USNS Pecos, the deep-submergence rescue vehicle Avalon, and its chartered tender the Kellie Chouest.

  First among the publishing professionals who influenced my work is my wife, Sheila Buff, a nonfiction author with more than two dozen titles in birdwatching and nature, wellness and nutrition. Then comes my literary agent, John Talbot, who lets me know exactly what he likes or doesn’t like in no uncertain terms. Equally crucial is my editor at William Morrow, Jennifer Fisher, always very accessible and remarkably perceptive on how to improve my manuscript drafts. Lastly, appreciation goes to my friend and fellow author Captain David E. Meadows, USN; and to Lee Glick, second lieutenant in the Civil Air Patrol and volunteer firefighter.

  Note from the Author

  World events of the last century or more have proven one thing repeatedly: It is very difficult to predict the nature of the next big war to embroil America and our Allies. But from World War I to World War II to the Cold War and beyond, the tremendous importance of submarines has always been clear.

  Since their inception, in every era, submarines rank among the most advanced weapons systems, and the most advanced benchmarks of technology and engineering achieved by the human race. Stunning feats of courage by their crews, of sacrifice and endurance, loom large on the pages of history.

  The tools and techniques of undersea warfare are constantly evolving. Development will continue, rendered more urgent by the Anti-Terrorist War. With the U.S. Navy’s Seawolf class, new sonar systems, called wide-aperture arrays, have revolutionized target searching and fire control. Advanced SEAL Delivery System minisubs, to covertly deploy Special Warfare commandos in the forward battle a
rea, are operational. Remote controlled Unmanned Undersea Vehicles and Unmanned Aerial Vehicles, operated from parent nuclear subs, form an essential part of the Pentagon’s acquisition plans.

  Equipment for scuba diving in very deep water, for combat and salvage and espionage, is always pushing the envelope. Actual capabilities are closely guarded by the military, but it is known that people have walked on the bottom at three thousand feet.

  Ever improved quieting, and highly secret ways to reduce a submarine’s nonacoustic signature (thermal and chemical traces, wake turbulence, etc.), transform the meaning of stealth. All these forces of change drastically reshape how undersea warfare will be fought — and whoever controls the ocean’s depths controls its surface, and thus controls much of the world.

  Studies are underway on using exotic hull materials to increase submarine operating depth. Alumina casing, a ceramic composite much stronger than steel, was declassified by the Navy after the Cold War. Someday, when the need grows compelling enough, vast areas of the ocean’s floor will become a high-tech battleground for front-line manned fast attack subs and boomers, and for their smaller robotic proxies.

  To some questions about the future of national defense, obtaining correct answers will be crucial to the fate of democracy and freedom: Which gaps in our security posture could be exploited in years to come, by some shrewd, aggressive new Evil Empire or Axis? From what quarter might the next surprise attack fall? What sacrifices and feats of courage will America need, to prevail in the Next Big War? Perhaps the only certain thing is that submarines, and their heroic crews, will play a vital part.

  About the Author

  JOE BUFF is a member of the U.S. Naval Institute and a Life Member of the Naval Submarine League, the Navy League of the United States, and the Fellows of the Naval War College. Highly regarded for his technical knowledge, he is considered an expert in the field of submarines, and two of his nonfiction articles about future submarine technology have won Annual Literary Awards from the Naval Submarine League. In addition to Crush Depth and his newest novel of submarine warfare, Tidal Rip, he is the author of the highly regarded adventure novels Thunder in the Deep and Deep Sound Channel. Mr. Buff lives with his wife in Dutchess County, New York. Visit his website at www.joebuff.com.