Dietz turned to the helmsman officer at the ship-control station. "Pilot, all stop. One-five-zero feet, ten-degree up bubble."
The lieutenant at the panel pulled back on the throttle and his stick, the animation on his display revealing the ship's control surfaces responding. Dietz reached for a microphone hanging from a coiled cord in the overhead. "Maneuvering, control, downshift pumps and shift the reactor to natural circulation. Sonar, conn, slowing, coming shallow."
"Conn, Maneuvering aye," an overhead speaker rattled, the acknowledgment from the engineering control center. "Reactor's in nat-circ."
"Conn, Sonar aye."
The deck came up to a steep incline. McKee listened for the sound of dishes breaking from the galley on the upper level, the ship's stowage for sea his pet peeve, but silence prevailed. The numerals on the conn depth display rolled from 600 feet up to 150.
"Above layer, Captain," Dietz called. The ship had ascended out of the deep cold, above a dividing line where the sea was warmed by the sunshine. Above the thermal layer their sonar gear could hear the noises from the surface. "Sonar, conn, one-five-zero feet, baffle clear. Pilot, right fifteen degrees rudder, steady course south, ahead one third."
The pilot at the ship-control console acknowl-
edged, and the ship came around, making sure there was no one close.
"Conn, Sonar, leg complete, no contacts."
"Pilot, right fifteen degrees rudder, steady course north."
The ship completed its slow circle. Again the report came from sonar—no contacts around them. The sea was empty.
"Officer of the Deck, PD," McKee said, ordering Dietz to periscope depth. The deck came up again, more shallowly this time. Dietz stepped behind the starboard periscope well and called, "Lookaround number two scope."
The pilot answered him: "Depth one four zero, speed four knots."
"Up scope," Dietz called, reaching into the overhead for a circular control ring. With a thump of hydraulics a stainless-steel pole rose up through the hull. The large optic control module emerged. Dietz slapped down the periscope grips, the triggers on them activating the motors that would rotate the heavy instrument. Dietz put his eye up to the rubber eyepiece and began spinning in rapid circles. A television widescreen came on high in the crowded overhead. The view was out of the periscope, complete with the same cross-hairs Dietz saw in his view. The view depicted the undersides of the waves high over the ship. The waves were large, a seastate of at least four, McKee thought. All the better for a periscope approach, since the waves hid the scope.
Dietz called, "No shapes or shadows." The control room was quiet, waiting for the periscope to
pierce the surface above. The room tensed to accept Dietz's command "Emergency deep," should a surface ship appear.
"Nine zero feet," the pilot called. "Eight five feet, eight four, eight three ..."
"Scope's breaking," Dietz said as the view panel showed white foam splashing against the eye piece.
"Eight zero feet, sir."
"Scope's clear," Dietz announced, speeding in circles around the periscope. The view out the widescreen blurred as the OOD spun the scope in four rapid circles, looking frantically for close hulls, but the widescreen was empty.
"No close contacts," Dietz said. "Low-power surface search." He slowed his rotation, now studying the sea with a sixty-second-long circle. Still no surface ships. "High-power search." Dietz's circles slowed, taking four minutes to scan the sea. Still the view showed only a featureless overcast sky and the dark blue sea.
"Conn, Radio." A new voice came from the overhead speaker. "Request the Bigmouth."
"Pilot, raise the Bigmouth," Dietz commanded from the periscope, his voice muffled by the optic module. With another hydraulic thump the large multifrequency antenna came out of the sail and extended skyward to receive the burst transmission from the orbiting Navy satellite. McKee checked his watch—0714 and a few seconds. The antenna would dry off, and at 0715 the communication would begin.
"Radio, Conn, broadcast received, Bigmouth coming down." A hydraulic thump again sounded
as the radiomen lowered the antenna themselves. "Captain, Radio, flash traffic in the computer, sir."
McKee turned to take the radioman's WritePad as the youth hustled it into the control room. This would be it, McKee thought. Either the White House had decided to scrub this mission, or they would have orders to attack.
McKee scanned the message list. There were three, the first an emergency action message, the second a brief operation order, classified merely top secret so McKee could share it with his officers, the last a secret-classified intelligence message. Unfortunately, the most important message to McKee was the one he would get to last. The emergency action message, at flash precedence, would wake up the ship's officers who'd just gotten to sleep after their all-night midwatches and would empty the officers' wardroom, where the remainder were starting their mornings over eggs, fruit, and coffee.
McKee looked up at Dietz. "Emergency action message, OOD."
"Aye, sir." Dietz reached for another microphone cord, this time for the shipwide PA system. "Communications emergency!" he called, his voice booming throughout the ship. "Communicator, navigator, radio senior chief lay to radio! Communications emergency!''
McKee looked at his watch, timing the arrival of the three tactical crewmen. It took all of thirty seconds. The navigator, heavyset Kiethan Judison, led the brigade. Judison was a Texan with a mop of hair obscuring his eyes. His drawl and loud voice usually announced his coming long before he was
even on the deck level of his destination, but he had a piercing intelligence and an explosive wit, the two catching by surprise anyone foolish enough to judge him on appearance alone. Behind him was David Dayne, the communications officer, a sloppy and lackluster kid McKee was having trouble shaping up, and then the radio chief petty officer, Senior Chief Morgan Henry, a Maine fisherman's son with a barrel chest, shaved skull, and pallid skin. Lieutenant Commander Judison stepped up to the railing of the periscope stand on the starboard side where McKee stood, his face expectantly raised.
"Communication party present," Judison announced unnecessarily, the loudness of his voice piercing the previous churchlike quiet. "What've we got, Skipper? Emergency action message?"
"EAM's aboard, Nav," McKee said, thrusting the WritePad at Judison. Judison's manner changed from brash to meek in a heartbeat. The EAM had just put the ship cm a wartime status, and the message required the communications team to authenticate it with one of the sealed packets in the double safe. Judison passed the message on to Dayne and Henry, then the three filed out of the room through the aft door to get to the sealed authenticator safe in the executive officer's stateroom. Within sixty seconds they were back, Judison holding a foil package over his head.
"Authenticator juliet papa delta hotel eight mike," Judison said, putting the Alka-Seltzer-sized packet in front of McKee. McKee read it and compared it to the EAM's authentication line, which
demanded authenticator number JPDH8M. It matched.
"Open it," McKee said.
"Open it, aye sir," Judison said formally. He was shaken, McKee thought. A sight he'd never thought he'd see. The navigator's fingers shook slightly as he ripped open the package. Inside was a small sheet of heavy paper with alphanumerics written on it. "Authenticator reads, 'November whiskey five four zero tango,'" Judison said. Senior Chief Henry looked over Judison's shoulder.
"NW540T," Henry said. "Confirmation."
"Mr. Dayne, read the message authentication requirement," McKee ordered. It seemed ridiculous, but the level of formality was required. Devilfish was being ordered into combat—those orders would be as official as the Navy would get.
"NW540T, sir."
"Very well. Navigator, scan the operation order," McKee said, handing the computer to Judison.
Judison read, his eyes becoming wide. He looked up. "We're shooting," he said. Dumbly, he said it once more.
McKee look
ed up to see Petri looking at him. For a second he thought she looked good, attractive in a different way for a woman. That he'd ever think a woman would be sexy in submarine coveralls would have been inconceivable before the fight with Diana. Now maybe he was changing, a psychological glacier moving a tenth of an inch at a time, but moving all the same.
"XO, convene the officers in the wardroom with
Mr. Dayne on the conn, Mr. Homer aft," McKee said. He looked around the now deserted control room. An odd feeling overtook him. Soon a combat watch would be manned here, and he would be shooting torpedoes in anger.
It wasn't much of a briefing, McKee thought. There was just not much to tell the crew. But they couldn't go into battle without an officers' briefing.
"Good morning, gentlemen, Captain, XO," Judi-son drawled. The navigator stood in front of the projection flat-panel display, which was blank. The room was full of the ship's sixteen officers, the department heads gathered at McKee's end of the table, Petri on his right, the engineer on his left. Judison had put on some half-frame reading glasses. "You've all probably been wondering why we left Norfolk in such hurry, flames coming out of our assholes, not even any time to, say, pick up the captain. Then we pick him out of the sky and flank it south off of Brazil to some godforsaken hole in the ocean labeled Point Zulu." He paused, his sense of drama inflating him. Get on with it, McKee thought, but let the navigator continue.
A map of the South Atlantic flashed up behind Judison with their track shown from the equator south, Point Zulu the track's termination. "Turns out we've got an EAM aboard. Mr. O'Neal, what's an EAM?"
The young electrical officer looked up. He'd been aboard for less than a year and still was working on qualifying in submarines. His first name was
Ryan, but his nickname was Toasty, and the officers all called him that.
"Emergency action message?"
"Correct. And what's that mean?"
"Orders to go into combat."
"From whom?"
"Uh, Unified Sub Command?"
"No. The term 'NMCC mean anything to you?"
"NMCC," Toasty stammered. "Naval . . . Military . . . Communications . . . Central?"
The experienced officers roared in laughter. Judi-son scowled over his glasses, amused.
"Try National Military Command Center," he said gently. "Read 'Pentagon.' Read 'President.' Men, these orders come from the top, from the President herself." Judison turned to the display. "Over the horizon, sailing directly toward us, is a carrier battle group, owned by the Ukrainians, hailing from the Black Sea." He turned to Toasty O'Neal. "That's why, Mr. O'Neal, we call it the Black Sea Fleet." O'Neal waved off the sarcasm, smiling. "Our orders are simple. Sink it. Sink every ship while remaining undetected." Judison took the glasses off, his face serious and cold.
McKee scanned the crowd, gauging their reactions. The officers were frowning, not in anger but in concentration. Karen Petri's mouth had dropped open for just a second, then shut, her jaw clenching, her dark eyes smoldering. She glanced over at McKee. She was worried, he realized, and the look at him was her attempt to find solid ground. Still, despite whatever fears she felt, no one else would see them, and for that she received high marks.
McKee took a moment to look at the officers, suddenly feeling extraordinarily lucky that these men were under his command. The ship was top-of-the-line, the crew the Navy's best, the mission clear-cut and unambiguous.
"Okay, order of battle." Judison stood to the side of the flat panel, while video clips began to roll. "Lead ship of the flotilla is the Admiral Kuznetsov, a huge aircraft carrier, the Ukrainian answer to the Nimitz class." The video showed the carrier from the air as it plowed the sea. "This is target number one, the high-value unit. Next, the cruisers, four of them."
The navigator continued, profiling each ship of the fleet. McKee bit the inside of his lip as he realized that with one carrier, four cruisers, eight frigates, six destroyers, two oilers, and four amphibious transports, there were not many torpedoes to spare, particularly if he targeted several torpedoes per high-value unit.
"Finally, gentlemen, the wild card. The Black Sea Fleet has a small squadron of Severodvinsk Generation Four nuclear submarines attached. We think one of them got underway with the fleet when it sortied through the Med. If the Severodvinsk is screening the fleet, we may have some company."
Without an antisubmarine screen, the fleet would be easy pickings. An antisubmarine attack submarine, though, could blow the whole assault. But there was nothing they could do but stay alert.
"And gents, that's all we have for you. Contact time is eleven hundred, so you have about an hour to take a dump and study the war plan op-brief. We'll be manning up at ten forty-five. Any questions?"
There was only one, from the rider. A "rider" was an officer not of ship's company, usually from the squadron staff, who rode with the boat on an operation to gain experience or to evaluate the ship. This run, Lieutenant Commander Mike Kurkovic was onboard, the surgeon general from Unified Submarine Command HQ, a surgeon who was riding to see if there was any merit to the idea of assigning medical doctors to the crews of subs. Up to now, noncommissioned medics had taken the load. Kurkovic was a tall youngster, blond and stern and Slavic, wearing round metal-rimmed glasses. He had the top secret clearance for everything they were discussing, but for him to come to a war briefing and then ask a question seemed out of line. McKee raised an eyebrow and looked over at the doctor.
"There's a lot you've discussed about the 'how' but not much about the 'why,' " Kurkovic said. "If that carrier is anything like the old Nimitz-classes, it has about three thousand people onboard. Maybe five. Add the other ships, and we're talking about seven or eight thousand sailors steaming in that fleet. God knows how many men are in the troop transport amphibious ships, but say that's ten or twenty thousand more souls. Captain, we're about to kill the population of a small town. Why? Who are these guys? What do they mean to us?"
McKee frowned, aware of the staring eyes of the men. This was his test, he thought. Had it not been for the USubCom doc, they would have dismissed, manned battlestations, and started firing. With this question, every officer in the room would have his doubts. Why would they ambush a fleet on the
basis of what boiled down to an e-mail with a few letters and numbers?
McKee stood up. "Gentlemen, XO, a few words if I may." The officers were watching him, not missing a word. "We're all officers in the U.S. Navy. The American Navy. Now, would America ever go out and ambush a foreign fleet—with twenty thousand souls aboard—without a damned good reason? Does anyone here, anyone, think that this operation was ordered without first having our diplomatic people do a full court press on the Ukrainians?" He paused. There were no hands raised. "And are we diplomats? No, we're not. So, are we privy to the results of diplomacy? Again, no. But we are America's enforcers. And as enforcers we've been called on to do what we're trained to do. What we've been ordered to do."
He continued, holding up a printout of the emergency action message. "This EAM, this sheet of paper ... let me ask all of you a question. The married men in the room, raise your hands." Ten hands came up. "Do any of you think that your marriage license is a mere piece of paper?" No one spoke. "Now, the marriage vows you took . . . anyone here feel like they were just words?" Still silence. "Each man in this room, including you, Doc, took an oath of office. Does anyone here remember what it said? Let me quote for you." McKee raised his right hand, his glare darkening. 'I do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic, that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same, that I will obey the orders of
the officers appointed over me, that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion, and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter, so help me God.'" McKee stared hard at the men. "Does anyone here feel those were just words? No? Well then, men, th
is EAM, this emergency action order, came to us from the President of the United States, and it orders us into action. Doc, it orders us to kill, to ambush, to assassinate twenty thousand men. I can only speak for myself, but that oath of office and that officer's commission in the Navy, they aren't just words, and that commission isn't just a piece of paper. It's a commitment. It's a message. A message to the President, that when she says 'go do this,' I do it. I don't ask why. I don't wonder what the results will mean to the greater world order. I just do it. That's what we're here for, Doc. This is what we do. It's more than our job. It's our duty. Yesterday our duty was to steam at damn near fifty knots at six hundred feet under the Atlantic to reach this square mile of ocean. Today our duty is to take the contents of our torpedo room and the fleet coming over the horizon and connect the two, to deliver the cargo we've carried from Norfolk at top speed. Our orders are to put a fleet—weapons of war, in case anyone here has forgotten—on the bottom of the sea. In less than an hour, I'll be on the conn lining up the battlecontrol system to shoot those targets. I suggest that all of you join me. Officers, dismissed."
to best-listening depth, float a small radio transmitter to the surface connected to a thin wire to the sensor, and relay the data of what it heard to the Navy CombatStar satellite, which would then relay it to the Cyclops computer. "One of the Sharkeyes goes to the right of the fleet, the other to the left, the right unit twenty miles away, the left forty. When the fleet steams into the middle range, thirty miles, we'll open fire with the Alert/Acutes."
Alert/Acute was the inevitable nickname for the extreme long range torpedo/ultraquiet torpedo, or ELRT/UQT, the Mark 58. The advanced torpedo was the latest generation of active-quieted units, which put out sound into the water intentionally, but sound in reverse phase to the sound emitted by the propulsor pump jet. Because the broadcast sound canceled out the machine-generated sound, the heavy torpedo could sneak up on targets invisibly. The Mark 58 could carry either a two-ton conventional PlasticPac explosive or a small plasma warhead. For this run, Devilfish's torpedo room had been loaded out with Mark 58 Mod Alphas, the PlasticPac-warhead variety.
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