by Larry Bond
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Table of Contents
About the Author
Copyright Page
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AUTHOR’S NOTE
It takes some time to total up the number of projects that Chris Carlson and I have worked on together. Even if you only count the ones that we actually finished, it’s an impressive sum, spread out over thirty-plus years.
I will freely admit that the idea for this story came from Chris. I didn’t even think the Status-6 torpedo was real until he showed me the information online—including the November 2015 photo “leaked” by the Russians. And it takes a creative (and dark) mind to make that nightmare weapon even more frightening.
One would think that after creating so many stories together, the process of writing would become routine, but each book has been different. Not only do we try to do better each time, but the structure of each plot can drive who takes on each role. Real-world circumstance can also impact who does what when, but our ability to jointly cope with such speed bumps is one reason we’ve been able to do this so long.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
Americans
Hardy, Lowell, The President
Patterson, Dr. Joanna, The First Lady
Hyland, William, National Security Advisor
Peakes, Raymond, Director of National Intelligence
Richfield, Henry (Hank), Secretary of Defense
Lloyd, Andrew, Secretary of State
Gravani, Clifford, Secretary of the Navy
Schiller, Frank, GEN, Chairman, Joint Chiefs of Staff
Hughes, Bernard, ADM, Chief of Naval Operations
Sanders, Mike, RADM, Deputy CNO for Information Warfare
Chatham, Russ, CDR, CNO Intelligence Staff
Dorr, Robert, CAPT, CO SUBRON 12
Gabriel, Bradley, CDR, Assigned to Deputy CNO for Submarine Warfare
Forest, Mark, LCDR, Assigned to Deputy CNO for Submarine Warfare
Bartek, Representative Steve, D-WI, Member of House Armed Services Committee
Emmers, Senator Tom, R-KY, Member of Senate Armed Services Committee
Hendricks, George, National Security Council Analyst
Sellers, Dwight, White House Chief of Staff
McDowell, Evangeline, President’s Personal Secretary
Brady, Melinda, Joanna Patterson’s personal secretary
Perry, Dr. James, Tensor lead analyst, Central Intelligence Agency
Cavanaugh, Dr. Daniel, Army explosives expert
Berg, Jane, Lenny Berg’s wife
Berg, Ethan, The Bergs’ oldest son
Sheridan, Chad, USS Shippingport (ARDM 4) dry dock supervisor
Ulrich, Dr. Mark, Expert from Council on Nuclear Weapons
Submarine Development Squadron FIVE
Mitchell, Jerry, CAPT, Commanding Officer, DEVRON 5
Gustason, Dylan, CDR, Chief Staff Officer DEVRON 5
Matthews, Skip, LS2, DEVRON 5 staff, Logistics Specialist
Wheatly, Myron, LCDR, Maintenance Officer, DEVRON 5 staff
Mitchell, Dr. Emily, Mrs. DEVRON 5
Mitchell, Charlotte (Carly), Kid, DEVRON 5
USS Jimmy Carter
Weiss, Louis, CDR, Commanding Officer
Segerson, Joshua, LCDR, Executive Officer
Gibson, Paul, ITCM, Chief of the Boat (senior enlisted man aboard)
Malkoff, Kurt, LCDR, Navigator
Norris, Tom, LCDR, Chief Engineer
Hilario, Hector, LT, Main Propulsion Assistant (MPA)
Owens, Kathy (Kat), LT, Weapons Officer
Ford, Benjamin (Thing 1), LT, UUV Officer
Lawson, Steven (Thing 2), LTJG, Assistant Weapons Officer (AWEPs)
DiMauro, Philip (Mario), LTJG, Sonar Officer (Sonar)
Truitt, James, ENS, Chem/RADCON Assistant (CRA)
Alvarez, Miguel STS2, UUV Sensor Operator
Frederick, Lionel STS1, UUV Sensor Operator
Russians
Fedorin, Ivan Olegovich, President of the Russian Federation
Trusov, Aleksandr Aleksandrovich, GEN, Minister of Defense
Gorokhov, Nikolai Vasil’evich, VADM, Commander, Drakon Project
Apalkov, Sergei Ivanovich, CAPT 1st Rank, Construction leader
Kalinin, Boris Igorovich, CAPT 1st Rank, Chief of Staff to Admiral Gorokhov
Chekhov, Dmitry Mikhailovich, CAPT 3rd Rank, Meteorologist
Komeyev, Vladimir Olegovich, ADM, Commander-in-Chief, Russian Navy
Balakin, Viktor Yanovich, VADM, Deputy Commander-in-Chief, Russian Navy
Lavrov, Vasiliy Vasil’evich, CAPT 1st Rank, Senior intelligence officer
Drugov, Pavel Antonovich, CAPT 1st Rank, Chief of Staff to Admiral Komeyev
Zhabin, LT, Sever acoustic array detachment officer-in-charge
Mirsky, Stepan, CAPT-LT, Ka-27M helicopter commander
PROLOGUE
The darkness slowly diminished as the periscope head approached the surface. Fuzzy, indistinct blobs drifted lazily across a dim gray background. By the time they came into focus, the periscope had raced past, emerging from the water, pointed upward into the overcast skies above the Arctic Ocean. A large ice floe was briefly lifted by the periscope head before being pushed aside by the momentum of the unseen submarine below. The subtle shock from the collision was transmitted down the periscope’s barrel, causing the eyepiece to shudder unpleasantly on the operator’s face. A low growl escaped his lips as he announced, “Scope’s clear.”
“You okay, Skipper?” asked the executive officer. He’d seen the periscope shake and knew his captain had been thumped … again.
“Yes, XO,” grumbled the commanding officer, “but I’m developing a severe dislike for ice.” Rotating the periscope to the correct bearing, he paused to shift the optics to high power and focused the image. “Alright, XO, there’s Master Two. Are you getting this?”
“Yes, sir, we’re recording.” The executive officer stared at the video display as the large icebreaker lowered a huge cylindrical object into the water. Whistling quietly he said, “That’s one honkin’ big sewer tube, Skipper. Could that be some sort of structural support member?”
The captain shook his head. “I haven’t a clue, XO. But that’s the second one we’ve seen being unloaded. Whatever it is, it’s obviously a critical component to whatever the Russians are building on the seabed.” Both men continued to watch in silence until the object disappeared below the water.
“Lowering number one scope,” announced the captain as he slapped up the handles and rotated the overhead hydraulic control ring. Reaching over to the intercom, he toggled the mike switch. “Sonar, Conn. Any sign of our friend?”
The speaker crackled with the response. “Conn, Sonar. Negative. We haven
’t seen hide nor hair of Sierra eight. The ice noise to the east is particularly bad. Contact was last held on a bearing of one zero eight.”
“Sonar, Conn, aye.”
Pausing to consider his next move, the captain ordered the officer of the deck to get the boat back down to one hundred fifty feet and head northeast. Stepping down from the periscope stand, the CO motioned for his executive officer to join him at the navigation plot.
“Still concerned about that Akula?”
The captain nodded sharply. “Absolutely! The only thing worse than having a detected Akula wandering about is an undetected one hiding in the acoustic underbrush, waiting to pounce at the worst possible moment. Been there, done that, and I don’t want to do it again!”
Taking a deep breath, he pointed to their current position on the chart, then traced a line with his finger. “Let’s reposition to the northeast and see if we can’t get a better vantage point to watch the next unloading evolution. Say … about here.”
The XO leaned over to get a better look. His face became uneasy. Grabbing a set of dividers, he measured the distance to Bolshevik Island and ran an arc that nearly touched his captain’s finger. “That’s cutting it awfully close to the twelve-mile limit, sir.”
“Agreed, but we’re still a half mile outside and I don’t intend to linger. We reach this spot, we’ll take a few observations, and if nothing is happening we’ll head north toward the pack ice. Is the SATCOM buoy ready?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the XO. “Everything but the last video has been uploaded, and they’re doing that right now. The video segment is a short one.”
“Excellent! We’ll launch it once we’re clear of the damn ice chunks—” The captain didn’t get a chance to finish the sentence; the loud beeping of the WLR-9 acoustic intercept receiver cut off his words.
“Conn, Sonar. High frequency active sonar, close aboard, bearing one six five. We hold nothing on that … Oh, God! TORPEDO IN THE WATER, BEARING ONE SIX FOUR! WEAPON IS RANGE GATING!”
The commanding officer leapt toward the periscope stand. “Captain has the conn! Helm, left full rudder! All ahead flank, cavitate! Launch countermeasures!”
The submarine’s heading swung northward, its speed building at a painfully slow rate. Looking at the WLR-9 display, the captain realized the incoming weapon was on a steady bearing—right toward them. “Helm, steady on course zero two zero! XO, launch another set of countermeasures and get the SATCOM buoy away!”
“Sir, the ice…”
“To hell with the ice! Launch the damn buoy!”
For a brief moment the captain thought one of the countermeasures had broken the torpedo’s lock on his boat. But the weapon’s electronic confusion lasted but a moment and it swerved back toward the American submarine. Another pair of countermeasures was launched … no effect. The torpedo relentlessly closed the distance.
The explosion shook the boat violently. People were bounced out of their chairs, loose gear went airborne, and a loud roar could be heard aft. The submarine snapped over to port and pitched downward. The helmsman and stern planesman yanked on their yokes … the controls refused to respond.
“Emergency blow!” shouted the captain in desperation.
The lights flickered.
Suddenly, a monstrous jolt rocked the submarine, people and objects were thrown about like rag dolls, the screech of the hull yielding to the impact could be heard above the din. Then the lights went out … and darkness fell.
1
PHONE CALL
11 June 2021
0440 Pacific Daylight Time
Bangor, Washington
* * *
Emily felt Jerry’s body tense, and she came fully awake. He was sitting up, rigid, listening to the phone.
Small-hours phone calls were hardly worth mentioning in the Mitchell home. Jerry had given his staff a fair-sized list of situations that required contacting the squadron commander immediately, regardless of the hour. She usually slept straight through them. Most were just a notification, or a simple question. Jerry would say a few words, hang up, and go back to sleep himself.
But this time, he listened and asked quick, short questions. If his body language hadn’t alerted her, his tone would have—softly spoken, but intense, and Emily knew enough about submariners to become more concerned the longer he spoke.
“How long?” Then, “Who has been notified?”
After a long pause, he added, “Yes, go ahead, but I’m coming in anyway. Tell the driver I’ll be ready in fifteen. Good work, Myron.” Jerry set the phone down, then turned to Emily.
“It was Myron Wheatly,” he explained softly, because four-year-old Charlotte was sprawled between them, thankfully still sound asleep. LCDR Wheatly was the squadron maintenance officer, and the command duty officer that night. “We got a call from SUBRON Twelve in Groton. Toledo has missed her last three communications windows.”
Alarm flashed through her, and she had to remember to whisper. “Lenny Berg’s boat? It’s overdue?”
“Not officially,” he cautioned. “That won’t be until it’s due back at base, several weeks from now.”
“But does Jane…”
Charlotte stirred, stopping Emily in midsentence. Jerry took the opportunity to smoothly disengage from the little girl’s arm and ease himself out of bed. He’d heard the concern in his wife’s voice, and came around to her side of the bed, kneeling down next to her head to whisper.
“There are a lot of reasons she could be out of comms, and SUBRON Twelve is already working the problem. They called me because Captain Dorr knows Lenny’s a good friend of ours. I’m going in so I can get a classified briefing, and to make sure Myron didn’t miss anything.”
Emily nodded. Time to be the commodore’s wife. “I can get Charlotte to daycare, no prob,” she added. Sometimes she rode with daddy to the base’s daycare, but not at 0440. “And this is still classified,” she stated, although it was really a question.
“Tippy-top,” Jerry confirmed as he got dressed. “But not officially. They’re just keeping the information close-hold to avoid worrying the families. They won’t even tell the other boats in Squadron Twelve until it’s necessary. Hopefully, it won’t be.”
Long practice helped Jerry get downstairs and outside just as the duty driver arrived. As he got in, Logistics Specialist Second Class Matthews reached back and handed Jerry a printout. “Commodore, Mr. Wheatly said you’d want to see this, and there’s a travel mug of coffee in the cup holder next to you.”
“Bless you, Petty Officer Matthews,” Jerry answered, taking the document and placing it in his lap. Reaching for the coffee with one hand while turning on a small reading light with the other, he saw that the document was a timeline of USS Toledo’s patrol, and now search. The last transmission from her was four days ago.
He frowned, feeling guilty about lying to Emily. Well, not exactly lying, but he hadn’t told her that the navy’s standard procedure after a sub missed two comm windows was to send out a priority message saying: “You OK? Please respond.” The balloon officially went up when the deadline for an answer to that call had passed. That had been at 0700 this morning, eastern time, hence the predawn call to Jerry.
The part of Jerry still waking up groused that they could have waited another few hours to call, but the people on SUBRON Twelve’s staff knew that Lenny and Jerry had been shipmates and close friends ever since they served together on Memphis. How many years ago? He and Emily were godparents to Lenny and Jane’s oldest boy, Ethan. While Jerry’s star had risen a little faster than his friend’s, he was sure that after Lenny finished his command tour on Toledo, he would be moving up.
They were right to call, whatever the hour. Jerry’s squadron, Submarine Development Squadron Five, controlled three boats, all fitted with advanced technology that might someday be fitted to the rest of the submarine fleet, or unique equipment that would allow a sub to perform a difficult, very specialized task, such as retrieving large heavy object
s from the ocean floor, or carrying underwater robots for scouting. If any of that gear could help find Toledo, or save her if she was in trouble, he didn’t want to waste a minute.
Jerry desperately hoped that some circumstance or combination of circumstances had prevented Toledo from communicating, although it was hard to imagine what that could be. Subs had more than one way of phoning home, and sub sailors were pretty creative.
Thinking about Lenny and their days serving together aboard USS Memphis made him think about Memphis’s captain, then Commander Lowell Hardy. Their skipper had also moved on and up since that cruise. Jerry had the urge to call Hardy. Not to tell him about Lenny. He’d already know. Just to talk and share their worries. But you can’t just phone the president of the United States.
11 June 2021
0935 Eastern Daylight Time
The Pentagon
Arlington, Virginia
* * *
“He’s agreed to let SUBFOR and SUBRON Twelve handle the search, at least for now.” Commander Russ Chatham was on the CNO’s intelligence staff. He leaned back in his chair, visibly relieved.
Rear Admiral Mike Sanders, Chatham’s boss, smiled. “How was your first time briefing the president?”
Chatham just shook his head. “A typical nuke. He wanted to know everything. Thanks for warning me.”
Sanders’s smile widened. “Bitter experience, Rusty. You don’t get a pass from Hardy because you’re an aviator.”
“He knows as much about Toledo’s status, and Tensor, as anyone in the Navy right now. I could tell he wanted to ask more questions, or tell us to do something else, but he knew there was nothing else to learn, and we were already doing everything we could.”
“With any other politician, you would have lost an hour explaining why adding more searchers wouldn’t help, or why we haven’t already announced her as overdue.”
Rusty countered, “But he still wants updates twice a day, and immediate word if something new pops up.”
Admiral Sanders replied, “And hopefully it’ll be good news. In which case this just becomes part of Toledo’s patrol report, and no fuss. If we do declare her overdue, with the search area right next to Russian waters, too many questions will be asked about why we were there. It’s not a normal patrol zone. The last thing we want to do is draw anyone’s attention to Tensor.” Even in a very secure space, Sanders used the code word for the intelligence target, rather than its name.
