Arctic Gambit

by Larry Bond

  Time to do his job, and the questions were simple enough. “All right. How many of these cylinders are there? What’s the water depth? What can you tell me about how they’re constructed?”

  “The water depth where that cylinder was photographed was ninety-eight fathoms,” Forest reported.

  Trust the Navy … Cavanaugh thought. He did the mental math and came up with 588 feet deep. Call it a 180 meters.

  “We’re not sure how many cylinders there are. Our best guess is more than four, but less than twelve. We don’t think there’s anything fancy about their construction. Standard structural steel, most likely.”

  “And is there a diagram of the installation?” Cavanaugh asked hopefully.

  “I’m afraid not.” Forest shrugged. Gabriel looked apologetic. “All we really have is the photo. Everything else is deduced from that.”

  “Then how can I tell you where to place the charges?”

  “We can’t use demolition charges. Jimmy Carter’s unmanned underwater vehicles can’t carry anything heavier than thirty pounds. But the submarine carries as many as fifty Mark 48 torpedoes. Their warhead is six hundred fifty pounds of PBXN-103.”

  That was something he could hang his hat on. “All right,” Cavanaugh announced. “Given that warhead, I can tell you what it can do to that cylinder at different distances. But how will the torpedoes find the cylinders? Aren’t they acoustic homing? And what type of fuzing are you looking at?”

  “We’re working on those,” Gabriel said hopefully.

  24 July 2021

  1820 Eastern Daylight Time

  Situation Room, The White House

  Washington, D.C.

  * * *

  They clustered at one end of the long table near the podium. They certainly didn’t need all the space. There were only a dozen people involved in planning or approving the mission, and for the time being, it was going to stay that way. Besides CDR Gabriel, LCDR Forest, and the somewhat surprised Dr. Cavanaugh, it included Admiral Hughes, the chief of naval operations; General Schiller, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff; and the secretaries of the navy and defense.

  Gabriel sat at a laptop, working the mouse and keyboard as the others stood behind him, studying the notes on the laptop’s screen.

  It had been a long day and a half for Cavanaugh, with meals inside the small planning cell as they worked out ways to get the torpedoes to home on target, the warheads to detonate, and what their effects would be—thank Heaven at least the depth was known. Then they spent almost as much time trying to imagine what could possibly go wrong, and how they could adjust to still get the job done. He’d been outside exactly once, with LCDR Forest as an escort, so that he could call a neighbor to ask them to feed his cats. He’d spent the ride from the Pentagon to Pennsylvania Avenue rubbing his chin and wondering how scruffy he looked.

  President Hardy entered unannounced, with a navy commander close behind, and everyone quickly stood. Hardy introduced the commander as Lou Weiss, skipper of Jimmy Carter, a submarine. He’d arrived only a short time ago from Groton. While everyone exchanged introductions and greetings, Cavanaugh noted the contrast between the officers’ crisp summer uniforms, de rigueur for the White House, and his own bedraggled sport coat and tie. Even Hardy managed to make slacks and a polo shirt look military. The shirt was navy blue with a submarine and the name “Memphis” embroidered in gold.

  Hardy sat as Gabriel moved to the podium and called up the first slide. “Mr. President, Captain Weiss, this is Jimmy Carter’s route north. It’s nine days, five hours, transiting at an average speed of about twenty-two knots. We optimized speed while maintaining a high level of covertness—especially for the last twelve hundred miles where interactions with Russian navy assets have a greater chance of occurring. We’ve prepared a draft of a complete voyage plan for your review.”

  Hardy nodded and looked to Weiss, who observed, “Having just been up there, the final approach leg has to be at a much slower speed, of course.”

  Gabriel shrugged. “We weren’t sure how you’d want to use your UUVs during the final leg, nor do we have any insight into changes in the area’s defenses, so that last part’s pretty much a placeholder.” He gestured to the rest of the planning cell. “We’re a little thin on experience with unmanned underwater vehicles, and again, you were just there.”

  “And I can’t decide how I’ll make my approach until I see how we’re going to make the attack.”

  Gabriel grinned. “We’ve made a lot of progress with that.” He pressed a key, and the slide shifted to show an acoustic target transponder beacon. The two submariners had explained the device to Cavanaugh that afternoon. The navy used them in torpedo tests and in live fire exercises when they wanted a torpedo to home in on a particular target.

  The commander explained, “We’ve arranged to fly in every beacon in the Navy’s inventory from Norfolk, Bangor, and San Diego. They should arrive in Groton late tomorrow. Counting the beacons already in storage in Groton, that will give us eighteen. Captain Weiss, these weigh about ten pounds each. They’re cylindrical in shape with a length of fourteen and a half inches and a diameter of three and a half inches. How many do you think each UUV could carry?”

  Weiss looked thoughtful. “The vehicles have a small cargo module that can carry a total weight of one hundred and fifty pounds. So weight won’t be an issue. The trick will be packing the beacons into the existing deployment tubes we currently use for the deep-water positioning beacons. The two beacons are similar in size, more or less. I’d say four, maybe as many as six if we get creative.”

  Cavanaugh saw LCDR Forest making notes. Gabriel continued, “The beacons are built with a transponder mode that transmits a frequency-shifted chirp. We can set it up so each beacon will respond to a particular torpedo, and that torpedo will only home in on that beacon.”

  Carter’s skipper nodded understanding, and looked a little relieved. “I like the transponder idea. It won’t make any noise until the torpedo goes active, which will be at short range. The Russians would almost certainly detect the beacons if they just started pinging as soon as they were planted. The less warning time the Russians have, the better.”

  Gabriel nodded agreement, but he wasn’t smiling. “That’s true, Captain, but we can’t depend on the Russians being complacent. We’ll have to use the UUVs to first scan the perimeter, then we need to get a good look at the facility so we can see how the launcher is laid out.”

  “We have no idea what it looks like?” Weiss was asking Gabriel, but he looked at the others as well, almost begging someone to say he was mistaken.

  “Captain, the only way we even know where the facility is located is because we know the locations of the ships supporting the construction. We’re reasonably sure that the launch facility will be within a hundred yards of the location Toledo provided.”

  “So we will preload the UUVs with beacons, send them out to do a reconnaissance, and then…” Weiss trailed off.

  Gabriel explained, “Once we know what the facility looks like, you figure out the best spots for the beacons, and then drive the UUVs to each location. After the last beacon is in place, the vehicles can head back to the sub, and you commence launching torpedoes.”

  “It’s better if the UUVs stand off and watch,” Weiss replied. “That way we can get a real-time battle-damage assessment. If we need to set more beacons, the UUVs will already be in the neighborhood.”

  “Good point,” Gabriel responded. Forest took some more notes.

  The lieutenant commander asked, “Captain, how far away can you control the UUVs?”

  “Six thousand yards, maybe eight, in good conditions. It was pretty noisy up there, and my controllers had problems with anything over five thousand yards.”

  “Which means you’ll have to get through the minefield,” Gabriel concluded. “We were pretty sure of that, and neither of us could figure a way to program the UUVs without bringing them all the way back to Carter after they scout the t
arget.”

  Carter’s skipper and the president both shook their heads at the idea. “They don’t have to come all the way back,” Weiss replied. “They just have to get close enough for us to communicate reliably with them.

  “We can also use the vehicles to place small neutralization charges on some of the mines.” Weiss sounded confident. “My crew has actually practiced that in the simulators, and we know exactly what type of mine the Russians laid.”

  “We budgeted time for that in the plan,” Gabriel added. “Still, the torpedoes have a range of ten miles at high speed. If we could operate the UUVs at a greater distance, Carter herself would never have to enter Russian territorial waters.”

  Hardy cut in. “I think the subtle difference would be lost on Moscow.”

  “I’m comfortable with making a gap in the minefield and taking Carter inside if we need to, but I can see if my crew can boost the communication range while keeping us covert,” Weiss decided. “The biggest unknown is how long it will take to reconnoiter the place and how many beacons to use, as well as where we’re supposed put them. Have you put together any guidance for us on how to do that?”

  Gabriel nodded. “That’s what we have Dr. Cavanaugh for. Go ahead, Doctor,” he urged the civilian.

  Cavanaugh had not expected to be briefing the president that afternoon. Especially after working nearly thirty-six hours with little time for rest or basic cleanliness. He suppressed his nervousness by focusing on the numbers. “I’ve calculated the optimum and maximum distance at which a Mark 48 warhead will completely wreck the steel launch tubes. We investigated using two torpedoes homing on the same beacon, or two beacons next to each other, but that wasn’t reliable. There are many possible layouts the Russians could use, and I’m halfway through writing guidance…”

  Hardy interrupted. “How confident are you of these possible layouts?”

  Cavanaugh shrugged. “They’re all likely, Mr. President, and I can’t say it’s exhaustive. There are many different possible configurations, depending on what assumptions—”

  “That’s what I thought,” the president intruded. Turning to Carter’s captain, Hardy asked, “Captain Weiss, do you have any issues with letting Dr. Cavanaugh ride with you?”

  “None at all, Mr. President. We’ve plenty of space. He’d be our honored guest.”

  Everyone was looking at Hardy; some with amusement, others were perplexed. Cavanaugh swallowed hard. The only submarine he’d ever been aboard was at the Nautilus museum in New London. In his line of work, he’d done his best to avoid being in the water at the same time as something that was going to explode.

  It wasn’t being aboard a submarine that gave him pause. It was being aboard a submarine that was going to attack Russia—after navigating a minefield. But they would only get one shot at this, and Cavanaugh wanted it to work as much as anyone.

  “I can do it, Mr. President,” he answered, feeling awkward and pretentious, and trying to sound confident. “I’ll have to get Mrs. Gray to look after my cats,” he added, thinking out loud.

  Hardy nodded. “Problem solved. Don’t worry, Doctor. The food is great, and you’ll love the Bluenose ceremony.” The president smiled broadly.

  Cavanaugh nodded silently, not wanting to confess he’d never heard of it. He saw LCDR Forest making more notes, and then started a list of his own.

  Gabriel stepped away from the podium. “That’s all I have.”

  Weiss said, “Then I should go over the voyage plan Commander Gabriel has put together. I’d like to get back to Groton as soon as possible. Tonight, if it can be arranged.”

  “Definitely,” Hardy answered. “If those beacons are arriving late tomorrow, how quickly can you be ready to sail after that?”

  “Six hours or so, sir, if the yard does everything properly and we warm up the reactor while we’re still in the dock.” Looking both at the president and ADM Hughes, he asked, “When will Captain Mitchell be informed, sir? Technically, I’m still part of DEVRON Five, but I’m betting he hasn’t heard about any of this.”

  “No, of course not,” Hardy answered almost automatically. He appeared distracted, and after a moment said, “I wish you and Captain Mitchell could spend some time together working out tactics for using the UUVs.”

  “Is there any way to bring him in, sir?” Weiss asked. “We could organize a video conference.”

  Both the CNO and Hardy immediately disagreed. Hughes said, “I wouldn’t trust a conversation about this operation being transmitted, secure channel or not.”

  Hardy added, “And that’s not what I meant, Captain. I mean a couple of skull sessions where you can brainstorm ideas, then beat them to death and see which ones refuse to die.” He paused for a moment, then another, and finally said, “All right, Lou. I’m putting Captain Mitchell onboard as mission commander.”

  Cavanaugh watched the others’ reactions. He understood what the president’s order implied about his confidence in Weiss, but the other officers’ protests, in spite of Hardy’s position, surprised him.

  Weiss looked almost like he’d been slapped. “Mr. President, if you don’t think…”

  The CNO was ready to intercede, and put an arm out to stop Weiss before he said something that couldn’t be unsaid. Even Gabriel and Forest looked like they wanted to say something, although he couldn’t image what.

  Hardy held up a hand, motioning them all to calm down, which they did. “Lou, I’m going to be a hard-ass here. There’s a damn fine chance that you’ll pull this off brilliantly, but it’s not one hundred percent. It never will be, but I need it to be as high as we can possibly get it—the consequences of a failure are astronomical.

  “I’ve been where you are. I understand this will reflect on you no matter what I say, but this mission is more than vital. I get better vibes with both Mitchell and you aboard than with just you. I’d put your entire chain of command on Carter if I thought it would help.

  “This mission has to succeed, and I want you to put the success of the mission above everything else, including your personal feelings.”

  Cavanaugh watched as numerous emotions passed across Weiss’s face. He remembered that Hardy was a former naval officer, and a submariner, too. He was giving Carter’s skipper plenty of time to absorb the news and deal with his feelings.

  Weiss finally nodded. “I understand, Mr. President. Two heads are better than one. We’ll get it done.” Cavanaugh relaxed a little. Carter’s captain had used the pronoun “we” instead of “I.”

  Hardy looked over to the CNO, who said, “I’ll get Commodore Mitchell moving right away. I’m sure we can have him in Groton by sailing.”

  “Then I’ll leave you to work out the details, and wish you Godspeed and good hunting.” The president offered his hand to Weiss, who didn’t hesitate to take it, and even managed a small smile.

  The president left, and Forest hurried over to Cavanaugh. “While Commander Weiss is working with us, I’ll have a driver take you home. Pack, and don’t bother with any cold weather gear. Carter probably won’t even surface until you’re back in Groton. I’ll send the driver instructions on where to take you after that, but you’ll be flying up with Carter’s captain to Groton, probably very late tonight. I hope you can sleep on airplanes.”

  Cavanaugh grabbed the unclassified to-do list he’d started. It was the only thing he could take out of the room.

  Forest warned him again, “Don’t speak to anyone about any of this. If you have to tell someone why you’re gone, just say it’s DoD business, and you’ll be ‘on the road.’ And that ‘Godspeed and good hunting’ applies to you too, now.” Forest shook his hand solemnly. “And don’t forget about Mrs. Gray.”

  24 July 2021

  1930 Pacific Daylight Time

  Bangor, Washington

  * * *

  Emily was just beginning the bedtime festivities when the squadron duty officer called. She could tell it was from the squadron because the phone had a different ring. It was impossib
le to hear what Jerry was saying over splashing water and Charlotte’s singing. It didn’t last long, and after that, she was fully occupied with bathing a four-year-old who insisted, “I can do it!” As a mom, she’d learned long ago to set aside any expectation of efficiency and just accept the sheer randomness of it all.

  The normal routine was for Jerry to clean up the bathroom while Emily carried a towel-wrapped Carly into her room for pajamas and stuffed animal selection. This time, though, he wasn’t standing by at the bathroom door, and by the time their daughter was in bed, he still hadn’t appeared.

  Poking her head out in the hall, she could see the bathroom, untouched and unoccupied. She could hear him in their bedroom, though, and sternly warning their little one to “Stay in the bed!” she promised to be right back.

  Then she saw his sea bag, laid out on the bed, already half-full, and her heart sank. Jerry sometimes rode his subs on short trips, but those were always planned well in advance. And Jerry was in a hurry, with that expression he wore when he was focused.

  Emily didn’t bother with any of the obvious questions; besides, she didn’t want to distract him. “How long?” and then, “Where?”

  He looked up at her questioning face, but didn’t stop moving. As he headed for the master bath with his empty shaving bag, he answered, “Three weeks. They want me in Groton as soon as possible. There’s a plane waiting for me.”

  The overalls he wore underway were already in the bag, so she knew he wasn’t spending all that time in Groton. “You’re going out on a boat,” she stated flatly.

  “Yes.” His reply was just as flat. She’d always been very open and vocal about the joys of a squadron commander’s wife, who got to see more of her husband than the spouses of the submarine crews. This would be the first time he’d be gone for so long since he’d taken over the squadron.

  She’d put up with it while he was a submarine captain, sometimes for many months, mostly because she didn’t have any choice in the matter. Now, she found herself resenting even a three-week separation. Must be out of practice, she thought.