The Trident Deception

by Campbell, Rick

  37

  USS NORTH CAROLINA

  USS KENTUCKY

  USS NORTH CAROLINA

  Joseph Radek, the Reactor Controls Division Chief, waited in the Reactor Compartment passageway, already sweating in the head-to-toe yellow anticontamination clothing he had hastily donned. Next to him, an engineering laboratory technician spun the hand wheel, the RC door creaking slowly inward in response. A blast of heat hit Chief Radek in the face as the door cracked open and the ELT paused, poking the suction tube connected to the portable air sampler into the RC to check for airborne radioactivity. As Radek waited for a report, he tried to hide his nervousness; neither he, nor anyone else aboard the North Carolina, had ever entered the Reactor Compartment at sea.

  Entry into the RC was not allowed when the reactor was operating—the radiation level was too high. A nuclear-powered submarine never deliberately shut down its reactor at sea, except temporarily while simulating casualties or, in rare instances, like now, when repairs were required. The reactor had been shut down for only a few minutes, and the radioactive by-products of the nuclear reactions were still sizzling inside the core, emitting high levels of neutrons and gamma rays. Radek held his digital pocket dosimeter up to his eye to verify it had been set to zero; he could remain inside only twelve minutes before he exceeded his exposure limit.

  Radek didn’t know which he feared more—the radiation or the heat. The North Carolina had been running at ahead flank for twenty-eight hours and intermittently at ahead full for the last four, the reactor generating an enormous amount of heat during that time. The air inside the Reactor Compartment was blisteringly hot, hovering at 160 degrees Fahrenheit. It would hopefully be a dry heat, Radek thought to himself to lighten the situation. But with his body sealed in yellow plastic along with rubber boots and gloves, only his face exposed, he figured he would soon know what a pork roast felt like in a Crock-Pot.

  Standing next to Chief Radek, also dressed in the yellow protective clothing, was Mike Tell, his leading first class petty officer. The two men would enter the RC together, simultaneously disassembling the top of the control rod drive mechanism to allow access to the end of the cable run, quickly reassembling it after the repair to the wire underneath. If all went well, the whole process would last ten minutes, leaving fifteen minutes to restart the reactor and restore propulsion.

  The ELT finished opening the door and locked it in place, stepping to the back of the Control Point, providing a path for Radek and Tell. Radek turned to the Control Point Watch, another ELT who controlled entry and exit from the RC. “Request permission to enter the Reactor Compartment.”

  “Enter,” the ELT replied.

  Radek took a deep breath and stepped inside.

  * * *

  It felt like he had entered a furnace; the heat was almost suffocating in its intensity. Radek paused, trying to acclimate himself to the scorching heat before he climbed the ladder to upper level, where the top of the reactor protruded through the deck. Petty Officer Tell joined him, likewise stunned by the stifling heat. Radek breathed alternately through his nose and his mouth, attempting to discern which was less uncomfortable, finally settling on the nose; his tongue dried almost instantly when he tried to breathe through his mouth.

  Radek grabbed the metal rungs on the ladder, a small pouch of tools gripped in his right hand. The rubber gloves and shoes made the trip treacherous, his feet sometimes slipping off the thin rungs. He kept a firm grip on his bag of tools. Submarine sonars were sensitive, and a metal tool dropped onto a deck or bilge could be heard for miles, giving away their presence. He could feel the heat through his thick gloves, and when he was halfway up the ladder, the hot metal became uncomfortable to hold. By the time Radek reached upper level, breathing had become an almost impossible chore. As Tell finished climbing the ladder behind him, Radek moved toward the top of the reactor vessel, his eyes following the cable run where it penetrated the Reactor Compartment, splitting into the individual cables leading to the control rod drive mechanisms on top of the reactor.

  The S9G reactor was surprisingly small considering the thirty megawatts of power it generated. Only ten feet in diameter and fourteen feet tall, it was extremely compact, even more so after factoring in the reactor vessel’s one-foot-thick Inconel steel walls. Inside, the vessel held enough fuel to power the North Carolina for its entire thirty-three-year life span. Clambering carefully onto the top of the reactor, Radek stopped along the edge by fuel cell 2-3, checking the cable tag to ensure he had selected the correct control rod. Tell joined him a second later, and the two men began disassembling the end of the cable. The disassembly was relatively straightforward, as would be the assembly after the wire was reconnected; the end of the cable was secured by two standard bolts, their nuts lockwired to prevent counterclockwise rotation, ensuring the two fasteners remained tight despite any vibration.

  After cutting the lockwires, they quickly removed the bolts. As Radek pulled back the end of the protective metal sheath, exposing the wiring underneath, he froze. The frayed copper wiring had broken at the worst possible location, only a quarter inch out of the CRDM as it began its bend toward the combined cable run. It didn’t look long enough for the splice to hold.

  Pulling a crimper from the tool bag, Radek decided to give it a try. With enough exposed wire, the splice was a simple, fifteen-second job. But with only a quarter inch of wire on one end, the splice would have to be held carefully in place. Compounding the process was the effort of handling the crimper itself. It was difficult enough wearing the bulky gloves, but his hands were sweating profusely, his fingers slipping inside the insulated rubber gloves. Operating the crimper correctly under these conditions, it seemed to Radek, would be like trying to pick up a marble with a baseball glove.

  He slid the splice over the wire sticking up from the CRDM, then slid the crimper in place over the end. As Reactor Technician Chief Joseph Radek squeezed slowly, but firmly, the crimper slipped out of his hand. It bounced off the edge of the reactor vessel, ricocheted off the reactor piping, and landed in the bilge twenty feet below with a loud, resonating clank.

  USS KENTUCKY

  Inside the darkened Sonar Room, Petty Officer DelGreco’s head jerked up, the metallic transient echoing in his headphones. DelGreco picked up the 27-MC. “Conn, Sonar. Metallic transient, bearing two-four-zero.”

  Tom acknowledged DelGreco’s report, and a moment later, Malone stuck his head inside the door. “What’ve you got?”

  “Someone just dropped a tool. And it was close, too. Very clear.”

  Malone processed DelGreco’s report. With no contacts on the sonar screens, it meant the transient had come from an undetected, submerged contact. And if they were close enough to hear a tool fall onto the deck but not pick up its broadband or narrowband noise signature, it could only be a high-end submarine. But there were no American subs in the vicinity according to the waterspace advisories. And the odds of crossing paths with a Russian submarine this far out in the middle of the Pacific Ocean were minuscule. It made no sense. But not much had made sense this patrol: Washington, D.C., destroyed, a nuclear launch order, the bizarre encounter with the 688s.

  Malone turned to Tom, who was scrutinizing the sonar screens on the Conn. “Man Battle Stations Torpedo. Come left to course two-four-zero. Let’s find out what’s out there.”

  USS NORTH CAROLINA

  Standing next to the Sonar Supervisor, Commander Gallagher cursed under his breath. Sonar had reported a loud mechanical transient coming from their own ship, and the Control Point had responded to the Sonar Supervisor’s query, confirming Chief Radek had indeed dropped the crimper into the bilge and was now in the process of retrieving it.

  The helplessness of their situation was infuriating. Twenty minutes earlier, they had been the hunter, about to slay their unsuspecting prey. Now they were defenseless. If their adversary discovered them and attacked, the North Carolina was done for, their only consolation residing in the slim chance they coul
d also sink their target with a lucky return fire. As Gallagher mulled over their unfortunate predicament, the situation took a turn for the worse.

  “Conn, Sonar. Upshift in Doppler. Sierra five-seven has turned toward.”

  Gallagher grabbed the Sonar Supervisor by the collar, his face twisting with emotion, unable to conceal his anger and frustration. “Pass the word throughout the ship. I want everyone to freeze where they are. No one moves a muscle until I give the word.”

  * * *

  Inside the Reactor Compartment, Chief Radek was climbing the ladder back to upper level, the crimper retrieved from the bilge and back in the tool bag in his hand, when he heard the Control Point yell through the RC doorway.

  “Freeze! No one moves until the Captain gives the order!”

  Radek stopped where he was, at the worst possible location, right beside the middle of the reactor vessel. As he waited, he imagined his insides cooking as if he were in a microwave oven, invisible neutrons and gamma rays passing through his body. The heat from the ladder seeped through his gloves, and he had no choice but to alternately let go with one hand, letting his glove cool in the 160-degree air before swapping hands, the gloves getting hotter with each iteration. After one of the swaps, he unclipped the pocket dosimeter from his collar and read the amount of radiation he’d received thus far.

  Jesus.

  More than he’d received in his entire time in the Navy. But then again, submarine reactors were extremely well shielded and he had never entered the Reactor Compartment only minutes after shutdown from high power. Sweat was dripping down his forehead into his eyes, but he had nothing to wipe his face with; the plastic anticontamination clothing was useless in this regard. So he occasionally shook his head from side to side, flinging the liquid from his face, the salt from his sweat stinging his eyes as he waited for the word to continue moving. As he shifted his grip on the ladder yet again, Radek wondered what was going to cook him first, the radiation or the heat.

  * * *

  In the North Carolina’s Control Room, the tension in the air was thick, but the conversations remained calm, subdued. The fire control technicians continued their target motion analysis, adjusting parameters until they had determined the target’s new course.

  It had turned directly toward them, and was now less than two thousand yards away.

  The Virginia-class submarine’s new Control Room layout, with the sonar consoles in Control rather than in a separate room like other U.S. submarines, offered Gallagher a clear view of the bright white trace off the North Carolina’s starboard beam, growing stronger by the minute. As the Executive Officer stood behind the combat control consoles in the frigid compartment, beads of sweat formed on his forehead. The XO cast frequent, expectant glances in Gallagher’s direction, waiting for the order to shoot. Gallagher knew what he was thinking. Maybe if they got off the first shot, they could surprise their target, and at such a close range, leave it with insufficient time to return fire.

  But that was risky. Shoot first and almost guarantee mutual destruction, or sit tight and play the odds their target would somehow pass by without firing.

  Gallagher decided to take the middle ground, calmly announcing, “Firing Point Procedures, Sierra five-seven, tube One.” He looked over at his XO. “But we will not shoot unless fired upon first.”

  The fire control tech at the Weapon Launch Console sent the course, speed, and range of their target to their Mod 7 torpedo in tube One, along with applicable search presets, although just about any preset would have been okay in this situation—after a quick ninety-degree turn to the right after its launch, their torpedo would be staring directly at its target. It couldn’t miss.

  Thirty seconds after Gallagher issued the order, the North Carolina was cocked and ready, a single button push away from launching its MK 48 torpedo.

  USS KENTUCKY

  Inside the sonar shack, Petty Officer DelGreco traced his finger along the narrowband frequency display. So far, they had picked up three transients. If there really was a contact out there, the first indication would appear on the narrowband display as the Kentucky’s sonar algorithms pulled the discrete tonals from the surrounding water. Now that they were at Battle Stations, the sonar shack was packed, the entire division jammed into the small room, each operator assigned a specific function, quietly conferring between themselves and with the Fire Control Party in the Control Room over their sound-powered phones.

  Scanning his display, DelGreco keyed on an unusual patch of low-frequency noise. As he adjusted the analysis settings, three tonals rose from the background, each frequency clean and distinct, which could mean only one thing.

  A burst of commotion to the left caught DelGreco’s attention. A faint white trace was burning in on the spherical array broadband display. A narrow, clean line, not the fuzzy traces produced by merchant ships. But what excited the Broadband Operator and the two techs beside him was that the contact was coming in at only one depth/elevation: zero degrees. DelGreco glanced at the sound velocity profile again, a steady negative slope, which would bend all sound downward as it traveled through the water. A trace burning in at the zero D/E in this kind of ocean environment meant the contact was close, inside one thousand yards, and at the same depth as the Kentucky. Worse, the contact was dead ahead.

  DelGreco picked up the 27-MC mike. “Conn, Sonar. Hold a submerged contact, designated Sierra eight-five, bearing two-four-zero, inside one thousand yards, zero D/E!”

  The contact was only five ship lengths away, dead ahead.

  Collision was imminent.

  * * *

  Standing on the Conn, Malone responded instantly. “Helm, right hard rudder, steady course three-three-zero!”

  The Helm twisted the yoke to the thirty-degree position, beginning the ninety-degree maneuver to the right. But the Kentucky was traveling at only five knots, and the 560-foot-long submarine turned slowly. Even so, as Malone and Tom stared at the broadband display on the Conn, the bearing to the contact began to change quickly. It was close indeed, well inside one thousand yards now. They had stumbled over a submerged contact in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. But what type of submarine? And what was it doing here?

  Over the open mike, Malone requested the answer to his first question. “Sonar, Conn. Report classification.”

  Inside Sonar, they were coming up empty. The frequencies didn’t match any of the submarine classes in the Kentucky’s sonar system. However, due to the high bearing rate, they could determine with relative ease that the contact was stationary.

  “Sonar, Conn,” DelGreco announced over the 27-MC. “Sierra eight-five is dead in the water.”

  Sonar’s report took Malone by surprise. Things were making even less sense now. If the contact was stationary, then it was almost assuredly not a submarine. Unless a submarine was hiding on the bottom—not a possibility since the water was one thousand fathoms deep—or executing a stop and drop tactic against an incoming torpedo, it would never voluntarily come to a dead stop in the middle of the ocean while engaging another. Without speed, its towed array would droop vertically, rendering it almost useless, and the submarine could not maneuver to determine the target solution or close to within weapons range.

  If it wasn’t a submarine, what was it?

  Crossing Control, Malone opened the door and poked his head into the crammed Sonar Room. The controlled chaos inside died down as the Captain conferred with the Sonar Chief and Sonar Supervisor. “What the hell is this thing?”

  The two men were at a loss. But Petty Officer Cibelli piped up, “Maybe it’s an oceanographic survey instrument, collecting and transmitting ocean data. Suspended from a buoy on the surface.”

  Malone tried to connect the dots: Transients. Machinery noises. Stationary.

  Perhaps Cibelli was right, and it was an oceanographic sensor suspended underwater, the metallic clanks coming from an anchor chain connecting the sensor to a buoy as it bobbed on the surface. For the first time, Malone wished he
had a traditional active sonar system aboard his ballistic missile submarine like the fast attacks. Just one ping, he thought, and they would know whether Sierra eight-five was three feet in diameter or three hundred, and that would go a long way toward resolving what lay out there.

  As the contact drew down the Kentucky’s port side and began to open range, Malone decided they couldn’t possibly have stumbled across another submarine just sitting in the middle of the ocean. Whatever they had discovered was either oblivious of or ignoring the Kentucky’s presence as the ballistic missile submarine sped by. And that was very unsubmarinelike.

  Malone returned to the Conn and called for everyone’s attention. “I do not believe Sierra eight-five is a submarine. We’re going to return to base course and increase speed to ahead two-thirds to catch back up with the center of our moving haven. However, just in case, we’ll remain at Battle Stations for the next thirty minutes.”

  The Kentucky turned slowly back to course two-seven-zero, increasing speed to ten knots, leaving the mysterious Sierra eight-five behind.

  USS NORTH CAROLINA

  Commander Gallagher entered the Reactor Compartment passageway just as Chief Radek stepped out of the RC into the Control Point. His face was beet red and he was drenched in sweat. Petty Officer Tell stood outside the Control Point under an air-conditioning vent, his anti-contamination hood removed, his hair wet from perspiration.

  Chief Radek moved the radiac probe slowly over his anti-Cs, surveying his clothing for radioactive contamination as he briefed Commander Gallagher. “The break is too close to the latching mechanism, sir. There’s not enough wiring to properly crimp the ends together. We tried three times, but the connection won’t hold. To make the repair, we’ll have to disassemble the top of the latching mechanism, and we don’t have the tools or expertise required. I’m afraid we can’t relatch the dropped rod until we return to port and repairs are made.”

  That wasn’t what Gallagher wanted to hear. With a dropped rod on the bottom of the core, they were limited to ahead standard, an insufficient speed to successfully engage in combat. Even worse, the North Carolina wouldn’t be allowed to operate for long with an uneven flux in the core. Once Naval Reactors was informed the dropped rod couldn’t be relatched, the ship would undoubtedly be ordered to return to port immediately for repair.