by Dave Edlund
He briskly walked the short distance and examined the name on the stern—End of the Rainbow III was proudly painted in bold black lettering over a white hull. Most of the top side was painted British racing green. The professor examined the boat, noting some patches of rust, but overall it appeared to be well taken care of. A large stack of steel traps was lashed down to the deck, so clearly this was a working boat during the crab season.
As Ian Savage was scrutinizing the vessel, a bearded head appeared through an open window in what he assumed was the bridge and called out, “Looking for something?”
“Yes, and I found it. I’m Ian Savage. I have a charter contract with you.” Less than a minute later the man exited a hatch at the rear of the super structure and strode across the deck before walking down a gang plank onto the dock.
He introduced himself as the captain and suggested that Professor Savage and his academic team haul their gear over from where it was piled on the dock. They would sail in just under two hours to travel the final 53 miles to Chernabura Island, and Ian still needed to purchase groceries. He left his students to rest on the charter boat under the supervision of Professor Sato, and accompanied by his son, hired a taxi to take them to the main grocery store. Sandpoint was little more than a village connected to a fishing fleet, so there was only one store to purchase food, but if they had been looking for a bar there would have been many to choose from.
Finally, with their supplies loaded onboard, End of the Rainbow III made the journey in just over four hours. The sea was moderately rough, not bad at all for this time of year the captain explained, and no one got motion sickness. So far, they were off to a good start.
The charter boat pulled into a cove on the west side of the island. The surf was gentle there, and it was very easy to shuttle their gear to the beach in an inflatable skiff powered by an outboard engine that continually expelled a cloud of blue smoke.
One of Peter’s first jobs after leasing the hunting cabin had been to erect a large storage shed at the beach. In addition to a couple of tarps and some basic tools, he also stored two 4x4 ATVs and ten gallons of gas.
Once on the gravel beach, the crates, duffle bags, boxes, and other provisions—including the red steel locker containing the seismic charges—were transferred to the ATVs and driven inland to the cabin. It was only three-tenths of a mile to the cabin, but it took several trips to shuttle all the equipment and supplies there. It was hard work, even with the mechanized assistance. Although the charter boat had arrived at about 2:00 in the afternoon, it was approaching dark by the time everything had been transported from the boat to their temporary home. Then came the chore of unpacking and settling into their rooms.
There were a total of nine in the party: six academics plus Peter and two U.S. marshals—present on the orders of Colonel Pierson. Professor Ian Savage was the team leader—he had organized this expedition. Professor Kenji Sato from the Tokyo Institute of Technology was an accomplished mathematician and long-time collaborator with Professor Savage. Sato-san had invited his postdoctoral student, Junichi Morita, to join the expedition. Junichi had jumped at the occasion, since mathematicians seldom had such an opportunity for fieldwork.
Rounding out the academic team were three students from Professor Savage’s group. Harry Martin and Daren Colton were both postdoctoral students. Harry received his Ph.D. in chemical engineering from Tufts University and Daren graduated with a Ph.D. in chemistry from the University of Colorado, Boulder. The final team member was Karen Bailey, a graduate student who had received her B.S. degree from Georgia Tech.
The two United States marshals—Troy Davis and Jack Murphy—were stationed in Anchorage. They joined the group the day before and had spent some time talking to everyone on the team to gain a better understanding of the people they were protecting. Davis and Murphy had been briefed by James Nicolaou and understood that Professor Savage’s team was present on Chernabura Island to conduct seismic surveys and gather geological samples.
Troy Davis and Jack Murphy had both served honorably in the military prior to becoming marshals. Davis was a marine sergeant and Murphy—Murph as he was known to his friends—was army airborne. Both men had served in the first Gulf War.
The two men met following the war, when they were training to become marshals, and quickly became good friends. They had worked together for the last nine years and had learned to anticipate each other’s actions. That, combined with their military training and combat experience, made them an accomplished team.
Working out of Anchorage, they covered a large portion of Alaska—nearly all of it, in fact. Most of the time, their case load consisted of suspected smugglers—usually vodka, cigarettes, and drugs from Russia—and locals growing marijuana on Federal land during the long summer growing season. The plots were constantly moved from one area to the next. With so much wild land and so few people, hiding the marijuana plots was fairly easy. And even if a field was found, it was even harder to determine who was tending it and obtain a conviction.
Murph liked to retell one case, a couple years back, when he and Davis had hiked into a marijuana plot roughly ten miles off the nearest forest service road. The terrain was demanding, made even more dangerous by the occasional booby trap. The plants were dispersed amongst evergreens, making them more difficult to detect by air. When, with guns drawn, they surprised the caretaker, the guy seriously tried to convince Murph and Davis that he was growing hemp for rope manufacture, not smoking. He gave up the sales pitch when Davis ordered him to drop the 12-gauge scattergun slung over his shoulder.
Later that day, Murph and Davis were considering the bust when Murph asked, “I wonder if a four inch length of hemp rope would make a good joint? You know, wrap some paper around it and light it up?”
“I’d say it’s the wrong variety,” replied a dead-pan Davis. “But to be sure, you could ask the experts. George Carlin would know, but he’s dead. Are Cheech and Chong still around?”
Chernabura Island is roughly oval in shape, just a bit fatter at the southern end. It’s 5.1 miles long, north to south, and averages 2.3 miles wide. Like all of the Aleutians, the island is volcanic, formed from the collision of the Pacific Plate with the North American Plate. The Pacific Plate drops off into a deep subduction zone immediately south of the island chain. As the rock and sediment, combined with layers of accumulated organic waste from thousands of years of sea life, is pulled down into the Earth’s mantle, it is heated to the point of melting. This newly formed magma is filled with incalculable volumes of superheated gases—formed from the thermal decomposition of the accumulated organic matter and the water that was an integral part of the sediment covering the ocean floor.
All of this gas, combined with the fluid magma, relentlessly seeks out weaknesses—cracks or vents—in the miles of overlying crust. When it does find a path to the surface, the release of pressure results in extremely violent eruptions.
Peter’s cabin was located on the northern end of the island, close to the western shore. An ancient volcanic peak about one-half mile northeast of the cabin rose to 1,070 feet. A short ridge of similar peaks crossed the midsection of the island roughly east to west. As far as Peter knew, that topography of Chernabura Island had never been named.
The cabin was situated in the valley formed between the ridge to the southwest and the peak to the northeast. Two freshwater lakes in the valley provided abundant fishing opportunities. The entire island was National Forest land.
Peter Savage had purchased a 99-year lease on the old cabin a few years earlier. He had found the island beautiful and obviously secluded, which meant he seldom encountered another human. It offered a reasonable amount of game to hunt—black tail deer and both black and brown bear. Although he had yet to see a moose, occasionally he came across tracks. Maybe the odd moose sometimes swam over from neighboring islands. The lakes were deep enough that they held ample populations of trout. Why the lakes didn’t freeze solid Peter could not say; maybe they were spring
fed or had hydrothermal vents.
The cabin itself was a classic design. Built maybe a century earlier, probably by a grizzled trapper or hunter, the cabin was constructed entirely of logs. Whole logs formed the walls and support beams; split and hewn logs made the gables and interior walls. The roofing was split shakes, and Peter had spent about a month during the summer a year earlier removing the old roof, splitting new cedar shakes, and then applying the new roofing material. He figured this would be good for at least twenty years, with luck a little longer.
The summer after Peter bought the lease he had spent a tidy sum to ship in new kitchen appliances—marine-grade diesel stove, microwave, and built-in luxury espresso machine. Since getting deliveries to the remote island was unbelievably expensive, Peter opted for electric appliances. This led to the next phase of the cabin upgrade—a hybrid solar and wind generation system backed up by a large diesel generator. With plenty of storage batteries to capture power from the solar and wind generation, he seldom had to run the generator.
Fresh water was no problem—the island had plenty, and it was easy to run a flexible irrigation pipe from the closest lake to a pressurized storage tank in the root cellar. To avoid freezing pipes during the long, cold winters, Peter only had to shut off the water and drain the supply pipe and cabin plumbing. So far, these precautions had worked well.
In addition to a dining area off the kitchen, the cabin had a large main room complete with a stone fireplace that was large enough to stand inside. It would accept logs up to five feet long and, when the fire was blazing, it radiated an enormous amount of heat into the cabin and continued to release heat all night from the massive stone structure. Three bedrooms equipped with bunk beds shared a single bath. Having only one bath was not really convenient with a large group, but manageable. Besides, there was always the original one-hole outhouse behind the cabin if someone couldn’t wait.
After unloading the ATVs and storing the groceries, gear, and scientific instruments, everyone was ready to collapse. Soon, Peter had a roaring fire warming the room. Dinner was a do-it-yourself menu comprising of cold cuts, cheese, and salad. With full bellies and warmth from the fire, the students surrendered to fatigue one by one. Even Sato-san excused himself to retire to his bunk.
Only Peter, his father, Murph, and Davis hung on. They were settled in front of the fireplace, absorbing the heat and seemingly mesmerized by the crackling flames. The conversation was minimal with stretches of minutes passing by when no one spoke—just staring intently at the dancing flames.
The periods of silence were getting longer as fatigue was gaining the upper hand on each of them. Breaking the silence Davis said, “Murph and I will run random patrols around the cabin, probably establishing a perimeter maybe 500 yards out. We’ll recon in the morning and then make our decision.”
Murph yawned, fighting back drooping eyelids, and then added, “Be sure to let us know when and where you plan to be during the day. Anytime you leave the defensive perimeter, one of us will go along.”
Professor Savage frowned. He had been expecting these orders. “Look, gentlemen, I understand you are here on orders from the Defense Department, and I sincerely appreciate your dedication and commitment. But I’m here with my team to complete a lot of work in a very limited time. I cannot afford to be slowed down.”
“Don’t worry, Professor; we won’t be in your way.”
“You probably won’t even know we’re there,” added Davis.
Peter, clearly seeing an argument brewing, interrupted and suggested a round of whisky.
Before Murph could answer, Davis spoke up, shaking his head. “Would love to, but not while we’re on duty.”
That earned a hard stare from Murph.
“I get it. Can I get you a fresh coffee?” Peter asked over his shoulder, on the way to the kitchen.
“No, I think we’re good,” said Davis. That earned a second glare from Murph.
Professor Savage remained staring at the fire, deep in thought—or maybe it was just fatigue? Peter wasn’t sure. He came back from the kitchen with a tray holding two generous shots of Buffalo Trace, keeping one and giving the other to his father. All were quiet for a few minutes, absorbing the moment as they stared at the flames performing the most primitive ballet, one that has entranced both ancient and modern man.
Murph sensed the need to pick up a different line of conversation. As he glanced around the room, his eyes locked on two antique firearms that were hanging on the wall above the front door. “Are those rifles originals?” he asked.
Davis winced, knowing it was a lame question.
Peter smiled to himself. “No, they’re replicas. The one just above the door is a .58 caliber Zouave rifle, state-of-the-art during the Civil War and still plenty deadly up to 700 yards. But I can’t shoot it well beyond 200 yards. Took a 400-pound black bear with it this past spring—one shot. The rifle above it is a .50 caliber Hawken-style percussion rifle.”
Murph nodded understanding. “Never shot a muzzleloader. I hear it’s difficult.”
“It can be. The biggest challenge, I think, is training yourself to hold steady. The lock-time is long compared to a modern weapon. And you need to be very good with open sights. Dad used to shoot a lot of black powder. And I remember he was pretty good too… better than me.” His father nodded at the compliment and raised his glass to Peter.
When he was younger, Peter had often gone to the range with his father. But those were more innocent times, before each man’s opinions and prejudices had grown to place an untenable weight on their relationship. The son and father, once closest of friends, learned to live lives apart from each other to prevent the strained relationship from deteriorating further. And at that moment, Peter regretted the loss of so much time he had wasted, treating his father more as a casual friend.
It was clear to Peter that everyone was slowing down. The long day and physical exertion were beginning to conspire against the four men. Their thoughts drifted off and their eyelids were beginning to feel heavy. Peter shook himself from his half-conscious mental state. He had one more thing to share with his father and the two marshals before they called an end to a very long day.
“Just so you all know, those guns above the door are loaded. Took care of it earlier today—fresh charges and percussion caps. Don’t horse around with them. But if you need to shoot something, that’s what they’re here for.”
The professor stared uncomfortably at Peter. For the first time he was beginning to feel that maybe his stubborn commitment to carry out this expedition might not have been such a good idea.
Chapter 7
September 24
Under the North Pacific
Unbeknownst to Professor Ian Savage’s team and the two U.S. marshals, at the exact moment they were loading their gear onto the charter boat at Sand Point, a routine drama was unfolding 300 miles south of their position under the wind-whipped waves of the North Pacific Ocean.
A Virginia class nuclear attack boat, the USS New Mexico, SSN 779, was on patrol under the command of Captain Earl Berry. A native of San Francisco, Captain Berry was proud of his African-American heritage. He was even prouder to be one of only a few African-Americans commanding a U.S. Navy warship.
The submarine had been recently commissioned and had undergone its sea trials a year earlier. At 7,800 tons displacement and 377 feet in length, it could cruise quietly and very fast, with a top speed of 32 knots. Its nuclear power plant allowed the submarine to remain submerged on a mission for up to three months.
Scheduled to replace the aging fleet of Los Angeles-class boats, the Virginia-class attack submarines had been designed for a broad spectrum of open-ocean and coastal missions. Because the current mission was to seek out submarines of other nations, identify them, and track them, the New Mexico was armed with the Mk-48 torpedo as its primary weapon, rather than cruise missiles designed to attack land-based targets.
The Virginia-class boats incorporated numerous technical i
nnovations. The traditional periscope had been replaced by a collection of high-resolution cameras and external optical sensors—including light-intensification and infrared sensors—mounted on extendable photonic masts. An infrared rangefinder and an integrated Electronic Support Measures (ESM) array could be deployed from the sail. The sensors and ESM sent digital signals through the pressure hull via fiber optic data lines.
Captain Berry’s orders gave him the latitude to determine exactly where to drive his boat on any particular day. He was responsible for a large section of ocean, and today he decided to patrol about 300 miles south of the continental shelf along the edge of U.S. territorial waters south of the middle Aleutian Islands.
Captain Berry and his crew were dedicated professionals, and the USS New Mexico maintained a high degree of discipline. They routinely practiced quiet operation since stealth was their greatest asset.
Sonar had already recorded and tracked several blue whales and countless fishing boats over the past three days. Today had begun like so many others, and there was certainly no indication to suggest it would become anything but routine. It was just another day on patrol, thought Captain Berry. Yet in this deep water between both the United States and Russian territories, the routine could be broken at any moment.
The sonar officer reported, “Sir, I’m picking up a weak contact, not biologic.”
Captain Berry replied, “Another fishing trawler?”
“No sir. Different signature. I’ve not ID’d it yet.”
The Captain and his executive officer, Commander Tom Meier, looked at the waterfall display with the sonar officer. “It’s this track here,” said the sonar man, pointing at a squiggly green line that moved from the top of the screen to the bottom. There were several other parallel squiggly lines representing sound data from other targets being tracked.
“The signal is too weak for the computer to come up with a positive ID. Based on what we have, it appears to be a small vessel, single crew.”
