Twenty-four Days (Rowe-Delamagente series Book 2)

by Jacqui Murray

  Rowe's phone chirped, as did Xibon's.

  "Hey, Bobby—"

  "Virginia attacked a cruise ship."

  Xibon seemed to be getting the same news. The terrorists had called the President's bluff.

  The Caribbean

  The Carnival Dream

  Half of the three thousand passengers aboard the $740-million-dollar British American-owned Carnival Dream were milling along the spotless deck, shooting skeet off the bough, sunbathing by the ship's sparkling pools, or enjoying a pre-prandial drink at the poolside bar to work up an appetite for the seven-course farewell dinner. Today marked the end of a five-day Caribbean cruise and they were determined to get their pound of pleasure from the final hours.

  A few octogenarians ambled along the starboard bough as the cruise liner steamed home. Several pointed to a bubbly trail burrowing through the water on a course for the ship’s back flank. One old WWII vet recognized it, but his warning came too late. The torpedo slammed into the cruise ship, plowed through the extravagantly-furnished staterooms, stopping only when its nose protruded from the opposite side like a tumescent tumor.

  The 130,000-ton Carnival Dream with one hundred fifty seven-thousand horsepower could sprint at twenty-eight knots flat out, but not with a hole the size of a whale in its hull. The Captain frantically ordered, Right full rudder, flank speed but there was no way to avoid the second torpedo. This one broke the cruise ship’s keel. Screams flooded the sparkling summer sky as passengers caromed off bulkheads or were crushed beneath the crumbling infrastructure.

  The call went out to abandon ship. Dozens of guests didn’t wait for lifeboats, preferring to leap into the warm Caribbean water. To their surprise and joy, help arrived immediately in the form of a massive gunmetal grey shape that broke the ocean's surface a hundred yards from the sinking ship. The Keyhole satellite orbiting overhead identified the domed profile with its distinctive fin and flat gray conning tower as a Virginia-class sub, the United States’ most modern attack sub and the tenth Navy vessel named for the Commonwealth of Virginia. When seamen popped up from its hatch, the frightened, drowning mass of humanity cheered.

  Until the chatter of gunfire erupted and the rescuers executed every man, woman, and child. When no targets remained, the sub submerged and disappeared.

  The whole gory massacre took less than five minutes.

  Washington DC Restaurant

  Table of Adm. Xibon and Dr. Rowe

  "Patch me through to Sampson....” Xibon had the phone to his ear. USS Sampson had been famous six months ago when it intercepted a drug running boat and made the biggest bust ever by a US destroyer.

  “Captain? This is Admiral Xibon. I speak with the authority of the CNO. ... Virginia attacked a cruise liner in your backyard. ... Yes, I realize sonar shows nothing. Why is complicated... No, Captain, we're getting help for the civilians. Your job is to get that sub. Lock your sonar onto these coordinates,” and he provided the latitude-longitude of the attack. “You see something, it means they’re attacking. Beat them to it ….You’re what?"

  Xibon activated speaker. “Sampson is under attack.”

  “TAO, sonar, we have a positive contact, bearing two-seven-zero, range one thousand yards.”

  The Captain's voice rang out. "Incoming torpedo!" “General quarters!” “Evasive action! Flank speed!"

  Xibon’s hands balled into fists. “Get out of there,” he pleaded through clenched teeth, but he knew Virginia was too close. Sampson would never get her engines up to full speed fast enough.

  Rowe felt the color drain from his face at the thought of the sailors and their families. They proudly put their lives on the line to defend the nation, but who expected it to be America’s backyard, dammit.

  "It missed!” the voice over the phone cracked with emotion. Rowe slammed his hand down. Silverware bounced and water sloshed over the table cloth. “Captain, Radar. We’re not the target. Sonar's picking up cavitation,” tiny vacuum bubbles created by propeller rotation. Their collapse emitted an identifiable hiss. “There’s a sub on the reciprocal heading from the torpedo launch throwing on speed fast. Two screws—American, at bearing one-eight-zero, range eighty-five hundred yards. It’s Jimmy Carter.”

  Xibon jumped up and yelled over his shoulder as he left, “I’ll see about those codes.”

  Rowe nearly knocked his chair over following Xibon from the restaurant. The only upside of this was if Virginia was in the Caribbean, it couldn’t reach the Sea of Japan in six days.

  Chapter Forty-six

  Day Eighteen, Thursday, August 24th

  The Caribbean, aboard the USS Jimmy Carter

  Jimmy Carter was a special operations submarine tasked with counter-intelligence work. In this case, it had been called in to play ‘rabbit’ so Sampson could practice ASW—anti-submarine warfare—tracking. This was common among US warships, to keep themselves sharp in case the real thing arrived. Since the last naval battle was the Falklands—and that was the Brits—the crew figured this would be as authentic as they ever got.

  They concluded the exercise an hour ago at which time the Captain, a twenty-year veteran of three different classes of submarines, ordered all engines stop, no noise, while they waited for International Maritime Organization identifying number 246433—a Carnival cruise liner—to leave the area at which time Carter would proceed with assigned duties of collecting electronic intelligence, anything from wiretaps to cell phone traces to cyberthreats.

  Then, out of the blue, two torpedoes slammed into the cruise ship.

  “Sonar, where did those fish come from?”

  “There was a blip, but it disappeared. No subs in the area,” came the frightened but puzzled voice of the twenty-six-year-old Sonar Technician First Class on his second tour of duty aboard Jimmy Carter. “I don’t even pick up screw noises,” the steady, throbbing, syncopated beat made as each propeller blade cut through the turbulence from the sub’s rudder and stern planes. “It must be dead in the water.”

  How the hell did sonar miss an enemy sub? A second later, his Sonar Tech yelled, "Torpedo in the water! Bearing zero-zero-zero, range four thousand yards."

  "General quarters! Initiate evasive action."

  "Initiating evasive action, aye, Sir!”

  “Identity.”

  The Sonar Tech replied, “Screw count indicates a Virginia class—one of ours.”

  That fit a FLASH message the Captain had received. “Word is she’s invisible to sonar. Fire two torpedoes the general direction where those fish originated. Let’s see if we can spook her.”

  “Fire One! Fire Two!” "Conn, sonar, second enemy fish in the water. Range thirty-four hundred yards, bearing zero-zero-zero."

  The captain barked, "String nixie and energize MICM!" This was a cable run behind the sub to simulate its magnetic hull. Attached to the end was the Nixie which simulated propeller sounds. Together, they hoped to trick the torpedo into locking onto a false signal.

  "Helm, hard right rudder, course one-two-eight, full speed ahead."

  The Helm repeated the order and snapped the wheel to the right. The torpedo bought the nixie's deception and exploded one hundred yards off Carter’s left rudder. The submarine rocked violently. Lights flickered, dimmed, and reasserted themselves.

  "Damage control!" Two submariners injured. Three leaks, but everything contained.

  “Captain, both our fish missed.”

  The Captain clenched his jaw. “Put the second torpedo on speakers.”

  “Aye, Captain.” A rhythmic churning noise flooded the room with an underlying hiss. It softened the longer they listened. “Second torpedo past and opening.” It missed them.

  "Prepare tubes one and two. Be ready to lock onto a signature." If the bastard fired again, Jimmy Carter would be ready. "Helm, left fifteen degrees rudder."

  The Captain initiated a series of rapid-fire orders to find his attacker, but got nothing. After three minutes, he changed tactics. They would hide in the bottom ridge terrain until th
e enemy gave up and then skedaddle back to port. "Prepare to dive, twenty degrees."

  The navigator responded crisply, "We are rigged to dive." "Dive!"

  The alarm blared as the boat’s nose plowed through the murky depths.

  "Passing three hundred feet, sir… Passing four hundred fifty feet... six hundred feet."

  "Level off below the thermocline," the layer of ocean where temperatures changed so rapidly, it minimized the ability of sonar to find a sub. In the Captain’s mind, it balanced out Virginia’s sonar shield. "Engines one-third."

  There they hovered, well below any depth Virginia would expect to find them. The sea looked like tar except for a splash of whitecaps overhead. Five minutes, ten, and then thirty while the Captain imagined Virginia sniffing around for them. Sound gave a sub away faster than anything else and right now, Jimmy Carter’s noise footprint was close to invisible.

  The Captain whispered, "Steady course one-eight-zero. Use ship’s depth versus bottom terrain to prevent our signature carrying into the deep sound channel.”

  "Aye, Captain."

  Day Nineteen, Friday, August 25th

  The Caribbean, aboard the USS Sampson

  When Jimmy Carter reached port, the Captain credited Virginia's crew for his escape. "They did everything right, but a beat slow, which provided a window of escape for us. They saved our lives."

  Eight hours passed before the destroyer Sampson got its next bite.

  "Sonobuoy thirty-seven has active contact! Range nineteen thousand two hundred yards,” Sampson's helo squawked.

  "Torpedo launched! Bearing zero seven eight! It appears to be dead in the water."

  The Captain frowned. Fish didn’t stall. "Mark location. We'll come back.”

  Two ASW helos tried to box Virginia in with a curtain of depth charges until they ran out of fuel and were forced to return to base. After three hours and no sign of the sub, Sampson steamed back to the ‘dead fish’ marker.

  "Send down a bomb bot. Let’s see what we have before bringing it aboard,” the Captain ordered.

  An hour later, they dragged a body bag onto the deck. The Captain bent over the corpse whose throat had been cut. Pain washed through his eyes, replaced by a cold glare.

  “This is Jumah Najafian—Joey.” His voice trailed off. Joey was one of the good guys, popular with the crew, known for excellent work. No surprise these murderers singled him out, always faithful to Allah but an outspoken critic of the ‘crazies’ hijacking his religion. “Get word to Command we have him. His brother should be notified.”

  The Carnival Dream would go down in history as the first cruise ship sunk by torpedo since WWI’s British-registered Lusitania, coincidentally operated by Cunard who now owned Carnival. When survivors recounted how the gunmen who mowed down civilians shouting Allahu Akhbar—the war cry of Islamic fundamentalism—Western journalists reminded readers Islam was a religion of peace and love. They noted Muslims decried the type of waste and debauchery flaunted on the cruise ship. So you see, they concluded, blame is shared.

  Islamic mosques around the world offered prayers for the dead, explaining to the distraught families that loved ones lived a glorious life with Allah and the Prophets in Paradise, all praise and honor to their souls. In private, they wondered why Allah, praise be to his name, would allow the infidel to strike such a virulent blow in His name.

  The French offered condolences to the American President, but explained this would never happen in France for they lived in peace with their Muslim countrymen. The American President didn't bother to remind the French diplomats that people from thirty-one nations died on the cruise ship, including France.

  “Where’s it headed, folks?” James couldn’t hide his exasperation.

  Rowe brought up a world map that plotted Virginia sightings. “Al-Zahrawi will want to keep our attention on Virginia so whatever is unfolding in the Sea of Japan can do so unmolested. Find high-value targets reachable from the Caribbean in five days. That includes major cities along the US East Coast, oil wells in the Gulf of Mexico and off Venezuela, Disney World,” and he listed fifteen other locations.

  Conventional wisdom said the US should batten down the Capitol hatches, but no one since the Civil War had launched a naval attack on the Eastern seaboard. No one thought it possible.

  James adjusted his tie. “We can’t protect that many places. Narrow the list,” and the analysts went to work.

  Rowe shuffled to the back of the conference room and called Duck.

  "Kali’s fine Zero, but Eitan’s trying to reach you. He's frantic."

  Sun frantic was an oxymoron. Before Rowe even said hello, Sun started. "Get a SEAL team to coordinates,” and he rattled off a latitude and longitude.

  Rowe frowned. SEAL Teams were spread thin between the attacks on American ships and potential threats, but Sun was never rash and always right.

  “I’ll call Cy. Anything else, Eitan?"

  "Activate the F-15."

  Two hours after the attack on the Carnival Dream, James received a copy of a satellite message intercepted by SIGINT. It instructed Virginia to proceed to its final location. The sub had surfaced to receive the message; the cruise ship was extra. James set up a PUOL—permanent-until-over-location— for the Task Force within the National Counter Terrorism Center and he and Rowe moved into a nearby hotel.

  Kali stayed at the safe house with Otto. The AI searched in concentric circles from Virginia’s last location, but the constant need to recalculate for the change in the ocean temperatures, salinity, movement, and the variance of other minute characteristics proved too much even for his robust proficiency. The sub escaped.

  It would be five days before the paint degraded enough to expose Virginia. That could be too late.

  And where was Mohammed?

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Day Twenty, Saturday, August 26th,

  FBI Safe House

  Kali poked her head into Sean's room. He got up an hour ago, heated corn dogs for dinner, but fell asleep without eating them. Duck had appeared out of nowhere, carried Sean to his room, took the corn dogs, a bag of chips, two apples, eight cookies, and evaporated.

  Two hours later she had a break-through. The survivors said they saw the sub, but the metamaterials should have made the sub invisible.

  “Otto. Run a simulation. The paint makes subs invisible to sonar. Does the same formula make it invisible to visual?”

  Otto whirred and then beeped. “No. In adapting the formula to sonar waves, it seems to have lost the ability to cloak visual.”

  “Access the satellite photos around Virginia when it attacked the cruise liner.” Photos populated his desktop, but one caught his attention: Virginia, floating amidst the debris.

  “I have something else we should share with Zeke.”

  “What’s that?” Kali was no longer surprised Otto read her mind.

  "Terror cells in Europe and North America use chat rooms for covert communications, but in North Korea, because their infrastructure is undependable, they hand-carry messages. I have been forced to find them physically via satellite images."

  Kali hid a smile. "The trials of a cybersleuth."

  Otto tilted his head up so his gleaming eyes focused on hers. "Why would I want to? Oh! You’re accepting fate. I understand. But still, I have found something that seems pertinent."

  When he told Kali what he found, she called Zeke.

  "May I help you?"

  Kali stopped. A receptionist on Zeke's phone? "Yes, I'm calling Dr. Zeke Rowe."

  "May I take your number and have him call you?"

  Kali considered that for a nanosecond. "I'll wait while you get him."

  The woman sighed. "I'm sorry. He is not to be disturbed, Ms... Delamagente. I'll let him know you called."

  Otto rolled over. "Would you like me to locate Zeke?"

  Kali narrowed her eyes. "By all means.” Did the woman think Kali was checking on dinner plans?

  Within seconds, Otto found Zeke'
s cell phone. "I don't believe his phone is with him."

  "Damn!"

  "That was merely an observation, Kali," Otto continued. "I can sample lines in the near vicinity if you believe he would leave his cell close to where he is."

  "Go for it."

  Otto chirred, "I located his voice. Shall I get his attention?"

  Kali raised an eyebrow. "Let him know the little lady would like to speak to him,” and then waved her hands in the air. "Just kidding, Otto. Tell him we uncovered critical information."

  She imagined the surprise to not Zeke, but the others in the room when Otto said, "Hello, Zeke. Kali and I have uncovered what she considers to be of critical importance."

  After a full three seconds, Zeke responded, "Otto? I hope you have good news. This end is depressing."

  "This is Kali, Zeke. First, the sub is only invisible to sonar, not visual.”

  Zeke grunted. “We’ll put the word out.”

  “And, I found Ankour Mohammed’s father. He’s Kim Soon Young—"

  "The Wonsu of DPRK."

  The babble of voices quieted behind him and someone asked, "What's a Wonsu?"

  "The most senior military officer in North Korea, equivalent to our top Army General. That changes everything. Mohammed’s father isn’t hoping to curry favor with superiors. He wants to establish North Korean dominance in world geopolitics."

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Day Twenty-one, Sunday, August 27th, Mid-day

  USS Bunker Hill, somewhere west of Hawaii

  SLQ32—called 'Slick 32' by operators—identified the ship as a Luhu-class Chinese destroyer. It appeared after the SAG group’s frigate, destroyer, and sub detached. The Captain explained to the crew that every available ship was protecting American shores. Bunker Hill was certainly capable of handling anything from North Korea. To his officers, the Captain explained the hijacker’s willingness to use Virginia militaristically made the sub a greater threat than the missile launch.