by Tom Grace
Nearby, Kilkenny lay prone on the deck, his arms deep inside the base of a holographic display. The tall cylindrical device consisted of two projection units clad in gray plastic panels set above and below an empty imaging chamber wrapped in clear acrylic.
Grin’s laptop display filled with scrolling columns of hexadecimal characters, the disgorged contents of his computer’s random access memory.
“Damn!” Grin cursed.
“Screen of death?” Kilkenny asked without looking away from the connection he was working on.
“Puked all over me again. You know, it would’ve been nice if I’d had a couple months to craft a truly fine piece code for this job instead of cobbling something together on the fly.”
“Well, it’s your own damn fault.”
“How do you figure that?” Grin asked.
“Dawson was so intrigued with our demo that he was ready to go to bat for us with the navy to fund a full-blown system.”
“That’s what we were shooting for, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, but then you went and told him that it was possible to tie what we had into an existing sonar array.”
“I told him it was theoretically possible.”
“And that was like handing the admiral a blank check.” Kilkenny bundled the last set of fiber optic cables with a zip tie and reattached the two missing base panels. “The fish tank is all back together again.”
“Good, then you can give me a hand with this interface. I think the ship’s network knows I’m not navy.”
“It’s a boat.”
“What?”
“In the navy, surface vessels are ships and submarines are boats.”
“Pardon my breach of nautical etiquette. Will you kindly get over here and help me find a way to tap into this boat’s network?”
“Gladly.”
Kilkenny took a seat beside Grin at the workstation and brought up the schematics for the submarine’s sensor array on his laptop. Like the rest of the crew, they wore the blue, one-piece coveralls known as poopy suits and the footwear of their choice, as long as the soles were made of rubber. Kilkenny opted for a pair of Oakley Assault Shoes while Grin, ever the individualist, donned his most vibrant pair of yellow-and-black-checkered canvas high-tops.
With his clean-shaven face and close-cropped red hair, Kilkenny easily blended in with the sailors serving aboard the Virginia. Grin, in contrast, received looks ranging from envy to disgust for his blatant nonconformity. If the wiry computer genius’s graying ponytail and pointed goatee weren’t enough to draw the ire of career navy men, the tattoo of an impish elf seated on a crescent moon scattering pixie dust that he sported on his forearm was. After all, real men had eagles or hula girls inked onto their bodies, not whimsical sprites.
Kilkenny turned his head when he heard the hatch to the torpedo room open and, as Johnston entered the compartment, reflexively snapped to attention. Grin, deeply engrossed in the data streaming across his display, was oblivious to the captain’s arrival.
“Carry on,” Johnston ordered, pulling the hatch closed behind him. “You know, as a civilian, you’re not required to do that.”
“It’s the environment, sir. Old habits die hard,” Kilkenny replied. “What can we do for you?”
“I just wanted to see what you two are doing down here,” Johnston said in a tone all commanding officers use when they want a no-shit situation report.
“The last of our equipment is up and running, but the tie-in to the sub’s network is giving us some trouble. This experiment was thrown together at the last minute, so we’re sort of winging it.”
“I understand,” Johnston replied, the muscles in his jaw tightening, “but I’ve got a problem in the control room and I’d really appreciate it if you could get my sonar back up and running. At present, we’d be hard pressed to detect anything shy of a whale mating against our hull.”
“I think we can accommodate your request,” Grin said as his screen filled with an orderly flow of data.
“You got a clear feed?” Kilkenny asked.
“Third time was the charm with that little hack you whipped up, my man.” Grin flipped his hand over his shoulder and Kilkenny slapped it. “I’m going to slip that choice bit of code into my personal collection.”
“What the hell are you two yapping about?” Johnston asked.
“As you already know, Virginia’s network wasn’t designed to accommodate what we’re doing,” Kilkenny explained. “Our initial attempts at tapping in did nothing but chew up the data feed.”
“I got that much from my sonar man.”
“And the tech manuals we were given on your systems are—like most computer documentation—worthless,” Grin added.
“So what did you guys do to fix the problem?”
“We improvised,” Grin replied, his fingers rapidly tapping at his keyboard. “Despite the fact that my colleague now spends most of his time playing venture capitalist, Nolan can still think like a hacker when he has to.”
“I wrote a couple of small programs to manage the feed. Your guy upstairs has priority, of course, but now—” Kilkenny paused to study a new window of information on the screen, “—it looks like we can tap in and get the same real-time data.”
Grin stroked his goatee as he studied a flow schematic of Virginia’s ship-wide network. All the pathways were drawn in a brilliant green. “Yes siree, I think we’re ready to give it a try. Gentlemen, if you will kindly direct your attention to the holographic display at center stage.”
As Grin’s fingers danced across his keyboard, the acrylic-enclosed imaging chamber flickered with cool light. Then a ghostlike three-dimensional projection of the Virginia appeared in the center of the cylindrical void, her multi-bladed screw turning at ten knots, the long tendrils of her towed array trailing behind.
“The image looks pretty clear, good detail,” Kilkenny said as he slowly moved around the chamber.
Johnston stood with his nose almost touching the clear plastic. “I saw something like this at the Electric Boat shipyard—a CAD simulation.”
“This is no simulation, Commander,” Kilkenny replied. “This is what the Virginia looks like right in the here and now.”
“Let there be light,” Grin announced with a broad, satisfied smile on his face. “Acoustic daylight, that is. No more shall you sail in darkness beneath the waves.”
“I still don’t get it,” Johnston said. “How can sonar pulses be converted into something you can see?”
“Dolphins do it,” Kilkenny replied matter-of-factly. “With echolocation, they can acoustically see everything in the water around them. And if it’s a biologic, they can also detect what’s inside.”
“But submarines aren’t dolphins,” Johnston countered.
“True, and admittedly dolphins are a lot better at this than we are, but they had a big head start. Think of it like this,” Kilkenny explained. “Your eyes react to light waves reflected off of objects around you. They transform that information into electrical signals that a specialized portion of your brain processes into a mental image. Dolphins do the same thing, but with sound waves. It’s all a matter of pairing a highly sensitive receiver with a very powerful computer. Dolphins have a melon. In our brains, it’s the visual cortex.”
“And now your submarine,” Grin said, pointing at the gray cube clamped to the deck, humming softly, “has a small but exceptionally powerful supercomputer.”
Johnston studied the image of his submarine carefully. Except for the color, it looked just like the Virginia. As he watched, the rudder turned slightly.
“Why isn’t it turning?” Johnston asked.
“It is, but so is your boat. This image is based on all the sound energy in the water striking Virginia’s sensors. That’s what tells us the boat’s orientation. Bow to stern,” Kilkenny motioned down the centerline of the torpedo room, “is on this axis. No matter what Virginia is doing—pitch, yaw, or roll—as long as the imaging chamber is bolted down and the g
yros are working, our image of this sub will be exactly in line with the real thing.”
Grin fingered a couple of keystrokes. “Maybe this’ll help.”
The submarine shrank to half its previous size. Three axial lines then extended from the center of the sub, defining the Cartesian planes. The lines, all equal in length, became radii for three metered rings that surrounded the image of the submarine.
“The ring on the x-y plane defines true north,” Kilkenny explained.
Johnston watched the x-y ring slowly spin in concert with the submarine’s turn. “And the other two describe true vertical and horizontal.”
“That’s correct. As far as our computer is concerned, this sub is the center of the universe.”
A grayish flicker appeared at the edge of the imaging chamber, then just as quickly disappeared.
“What was that?” Johnston asked.
“Can’t say. Grin, could you zoom us out a bit.”
“My pleasure.”
The holographic representation of the Virginia was now down to just a few inches in length. Near the top of the holographic image, the surface of the ocean roiled with swells.
“You’re now looking at a cylinder of ocean about a mile across,” Grin announced.
Johnston scanned the model carefully. “And there’s our contact. Looks like a pod of whales off our starboard.”
“Would you like a closer look?” Grin asked.
Before Johnston could reply, the submarine slid out of view and images of five Pacific gray whales filled the hologram chamber. Mouths open, they were straining plankton from the sea.
“This is amazing,” Johnston declared, transfixed by the cetaceans. “It’s like—”
“Like someone turned a light on outside,” Kilkenny offered. “Seeing in the dark is the whole idea behind this project. And if you like our whales, you’ll love our submarines.”
CHAPTER SIX
HOUSTON, TEXAS
AUGUST 6
“Sorry I’m late,” Fred Jesup apologized as he entered the conference room.
He was the last to arrive, despite the fact that this hastily scheduled meeting was being held at the Johnson Space Center because his presence was required. As flight director, he could not travel to Washington during a shuttle mission. Jesup looked a bit disheveled with his shirttails bunching up around his ample waist and a thick folder stuffed with loose papers wedged in his armpit.
The two people waiting for him sat at one end of the long rectangular conference table. Jesup had met with Linda Ryerson a handful of times since her appointment to NASA’s top job three years ago. She was a bureaucrat, but one with a scientific background and an appreciation for the agency’s mission. The tenacity she’d shown in dealing with congressional budget committees had earned his respect and quelled any rumors within the agency that she was hired to bolster the current administration’s standing among African-American women.
“Linda,” Jesup said with a nod, then he extended his free hand across the table to the man in the dark blue suit.
Ben Kowalkowski introduced himself as he gripped Jesup’s hand firmly. He gave it two brisk pumps, then released. Jesup set his folder on the table and took a seat.
“Glad you could make it, Fred,” Ryerson began. “Sorry about the short notice. I hope we didn’t catch you at a bad time.”
“Actually, three of our astronauts are prepping for a spacewalk.” Jesup combed his thinning blond hair back with his fingers. “We’re deploying Zwicky-Wolff in a few hours.”
“That’s Liberty’s other payload,” Ryerson explained for Kowalkowski’s benefit. “Fred, before this goes any further I have to tell you that some of what you’re about to hear is classified. You’ve been cleared for this because a situation has developed and you now have a need to know.”
“I understand,” Jesup replied.
“Good. Now, the purpose of this meeting is to discuss the satellite we launched from Liberty two days ago. There’s been a problem.”
“The launch was clean, as was the handoff to ZetaComm.”
“Yes,” Kowalkowski said, “the problem with our satellite occurred after the handoff.”
“So you’re with ZetaComm?”
“No.”
Jesup gave Ryerson a what-gives look.
“Colonel Kowalkowski is with the NRO,” Ryerson said.
“Are you telling me that what we put up was a spy satellite?”
Ryerson nodded.
“Why wasn’t I told?”
“Security,” Ryerson replied matter-of-factly. “You were told what you needed to know to launch a communications satellite.”
“But that bird wasn’t a comm sat.”
“Yes it was,” Kowalkowski interjected. “A very specialized communications satellite.”
“Cute,” Jesup replied, not the least bit amused by the colonel’s semantics. “Look, I know what the NRO does and I’m all for it. Hell, we’ve flown DOD payloads before. What was so different about this one?”
“There were other considerations,” Ryerson said.
“Such as?”
“We didn’t want anyone to know that we were putting this satellite up,” Kowalkowski explained, “and Vandenberg launches are monitored pretty closely. They watch our rockets and we watch theirs.”
Kowalkowski didn’t need to elaborate on who they were. Since the early days of the space race, studying launches had been a reliable means of gauging a nation’s technical capabilities. Several nations were now in the game, and orbital launches were impossible to hide. A lot could be learned about the purpose of a launch by studying the payload shroud and watching where a rocket went.
“So by calling this one a commercial payload,” Jesup speculated, “you hid your bird in plain sight.”
“That’s correct.”
“Much as I wish it were otherwise,” Ryerson said. “With our quick return to space following the loss of Columbia, shuttle operations have once again become routine in the eyes of the media. The cable news channels are the only ones that carry our launches and landings live anymore, and then only if it’s a slow news day. This situation provided an opportunity for the Department of Defense.”
“ZetaComm in on this?”
Kowalkowski nodded. “They built our satellite.”
“And this constellation of theirs we’re putting up?”
“Most of those launches are legitimate,” Ryerson answered.
“Our fleet is getting pretty long in the tooth,” Kowalkowski explained. “A few of our satellites are almost five years past their design service life. The world’s changed in the past few years and we need more and better capabilities.”
Placated, Jesup held up his hand. “You’re preaching to the choir. What’s wrong with your satellite and how can I help?”
“Our best guess is that one of the fuel tanks exploded when we went into boost phase, stranding our satellite in a useless orbit. We lost it at that time, but eventually reestablished contact. Onboard diagnostics show the propulsion unit is totally out of commission, as are the solar arrays. The rest appears undamaged.”
“Thus worth salvaging,” Jesup concluded. “What’s your bird’s altitude?”
“Between one-eighty and two hundred nautical miles.” Kowalkowski opened a metal briefcase and retrieved a CD-ROM. “Here’s a projection of its orbital path for the next ten days.”
Jesup placed the disk in his overstuffed folder. “I’ll have my team work up a recovery plan. We’ll grab your bird on the way back from ISS.”
“Great,” Kowalkowski said, “because a billion dollars is still a lot of money to lose, even to the NRO.”
“Speaking of budgets, how do you want to handle this PR-wise? Shaggin’ a broken bird always looks good on TV.”
Kowalkowski grimaced slightly. “I’d prefer you kept our satellite out of the media’s eye as much as possible. Couldn’t you just black out that part of the mission?”
Both Jesup and Ryerson shook their heads
.
“That would actually call more attention to the retrieval,” Ryerson replied.
“If we don’t try to hide it, the press’ll think everything is status quo.” Jesup paused. “Here’s a thought: We announce that the comm sat we launched failed to make desired orbit and that we’re going to bring it back it for another try. Nothing too elaborate, just a short, run-of-the-mill press release. Now, when it comes time to actually grab the bird, Liberty’s comm system goes on the fritz and that part of the mission doesn’t get recorded.”
“And that wouldn’t make the press suspicious?”
“Nope. Little stuff happens all the time. By the time Lundy finishes troubleshooting the problem with our engineers, your bird will be safely stowed in the payload bay. We will have to bring Liberty’s crew and a couple of my engineers in on this to pull it off.”
“All right, but just the players you need,” Kowalkowski agreed. “I don’t want the people you’re ferrying back from the ISS in the loop.”
Jesup nodded. Only one of the three returning ISS crewmen was American; the other two were French and Russian.
“Colonel, I’ll need help from your office to coordinate the press effort with ZetaComm,” Ryerson said, “just so we’re all singing from the same sheet music.”
“Done.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
USS VIRGINIA
It first appeared like a flickering smudge of gray near the curved edge of the imaging chamber, a moving shape small and indistinct. In contrast, the holographic image of the ocean floor beneath Virginia looked solid and well defined—so much so that the remains of two shipwrecks had already been discovered. The smudge hovered for a minute, then slipped toward the acrylic wall and disappeared.
Three off-duty enlisted men were seated around the chamber, watching with rapt fascination. The men’s normal duties required them to be in the torpedo room maintaining Virginia’s weapons and launching systems, and such proximity necessitated that they all be read into the black program and sworn to keep it secret. Once these men got a look at the magic Kilkenny and Grin were performing, there was no keeping them away when off-watch, even during the intermittent system crashes.