by Joe Nobody
What little noise she did generate moving through the depths had never been recorded by any nation. If the Chinese did manage to detect the intrusion, it would be nearly impossible for them to pin the trespass on the US Navy.
The covert operation had gone off without a hitch until two months ago.
After making several close-in passes to the communist nation’s undertakings, Utah had filled her enormous computer banks with enough sonar penetration and observation data to keep the intelligence analysts back in San Diego busy for months. The newest member of the Pacific Fleet, having completed her mission, changed course and began the lengthy journey back to her new home in Southern California.
It was during a routine satellite download that the train had started to jump the tracks. “Do not, repeat, do not report to San Diego,” the written order had stated. The communiqué had also included a new patrol area and mission profile. Utah was to cruise in a racetrack pattern out in the middle of the world’s largest body of water until receiving further orders. The boat was instructed to maintain strict radio silence – further, to avoid contact with any and all forces that might enter her Pacific patrol zone.
Captain Ulrich had been puzzled by the development, but the career naval officer had seen his share of bizarre orders. His boat was on a secret mission, and unusual things often occurred under those circumstances. “Hell, Jack, for all we know, the Chinese ambassador is in San Diego for a few rounds of golf, and the Navy doesn’t want us sailing into port with guilty faces,” he had teased. His lighthearted explanation and sense of humor lasted only so long though.
As ordered, the Utah began making wide circles under the ocean. For the first week, Ulrich had taken the opportunity to exercise some of the young vessel’s new equipment and capabilities. Week 2 was spent conducting fire drills and evaluating other emergency procedures. By the end of week three, everyone on board was sick and tired of the mundane routine. They were literally sailing in circles, and the frustration level of the crew was escalating with each round.
It was the chief of the boat who delivered the first disconcerting news of the mission. “Sir, we’re running out of food,” the sage, old submariner had announced during one of the staff meetings.
“How can we being running low, Chief? We’ve got less than a third of this ship’s regular crew aboard.”
“We didn’t load her to the gills before we left the yard,” the senior enlisted sailor answered. “We were only supposed to have been out to sea for six weeks, tops.”
Ulrich’s frustration finally boiled over. “I’m going to make sure San Diego hasn’t forgotten we are out here,” he boomed.
The decision to violate a direct order was not easy for the disciplined military leader. “I sleep well at night knowing that I value the lives of my men,” Ulrich considered. “I can’t imagine notifying widows that their husbands died for this country, not on a battlefield, but because we ran out of chow.” Ordering the boat up to communication’s depth, the captain initiated contact using the Navy’s most secure, scrambled satellite channel.
No one answered.
“Now that’s just plain weird,” Ulrich commented. “No one is home? What the hell?” While the captain had not expected an offer of tea and cookies, he would have welcomed his reprimand from the base commander for having disobeyed orders. Hell, any response would have been more settling than the pervasive static filling the bridge.
The ominous and inexplicable silence prompted an immediate attempt using a secondary communications capability. Again, there was no acknowledgement to their hail. “What about Pearl Harbor?” Commander Cisco suggested.
There was no response from Hawaii either.
One of the communications specialists then made another stunning discovery. “Sir, I can monitor the civilian satellite systems as well, and there are no newscasts, telephone calls, or data transfers. It’s like the entire world has gone dark.”
“Surface the boat,” Ulrich had ordered. “Raise the emergency antennas. We’re going to make a phone call.”
Finally, using one of the most primitive systems on board, they heard a voice sound across the airwaves. “Colonel Thompson, Commander San Diego Naval Base. State your business,” the gruff responder demanded.
“Colonel, this is Captain Ulrich of the USS Utah. We’ve been trying to raise anyone on the Pacific Rim for three days now. What the hell is going on?”
“What is the name of your ship?” asked the distant, garbled voice.
“It’s not a ship; it’s a boat … a submarine. Utah, Colonel. The USS Utah.”
“Look, buddy, I don’t know who you are or how you’re getting through on this frequency, but the United States Marine Corps doesn’t take kindly to pranksters. There is no submarine named Utah. I have no Captain Ulrich on our personnel roster. Get off this channel right now.”
“Colonel, we are out of supplies and need to dock immediately. Can I speak with someone from the Navy, please?”
“San Diego Naval Base is on lockdown, whoever you are. Any naval officer would know that. Get off my radio, sir.”
For over an hour, the captain pleaded, begged, threatened, and stormed. It was a one-sided conversation, the Marine officer either unwilling or unable to respond.
That exchange generated more questions than it answered. Why was the base on lockdown? Why was a leatherneck monitoring the radios? Why had a colonel identified himself as the facility’s commander?
Needless to say, the staff meeting the following morning was tense. After a lengthy debate that resolved nothing, the captain made a decision that could possibly end his career in the US Navy. “Set a course for San Diego,” the skipper ordered. “This is bullshit. I’m not going to allow my crew to starve just because some fucking jarhead is having a bad day.”
Utah had remained submerged until just over 20 miles off the West coast, finally surfacing, as was standard procedure.
They emerged from the depths into a dark, dreary, overcast day, opaque banks of fog rolling across the surface of the Pacific. Still, it was reassuring to see natural daylight – however dim it might be in this dense weather.
“That fog is as thick as pea soup,” Chief Daniel observed, his eyes glued to the bridge monitor. “I’ve never seen anything like it on the left coast. New Jersey or Annapolis, sure, but not out here.”
The captain ignored the comment, keeping to the business at hand. “Standard docking protocol,” he ordered. “Let’s get this boat tied up and find out what in the hell is going on.”
The order, however, soon led to another issue. “Sir, I can’t raise the harbor master’s office on any frequency. Nor is radar detecting any tugs in bay.”
Without tugboats to guide and push Utah safely into a pier, the large vessel was nearly helpless. Both Ulrich and Cisco were embarrassed, not having thought that far ahead.
“All stop,” the captain ordered instantly, throwing a troubled look at his second in command.
“Answering all stop, sir,” the helm acknowledged a few seconds later.
The deck plates felt different under Jack’s shoes, confirming that Utah’s waterjet propulsion system had indeed ceased pushing the massive vessel through the sea.
“I’m going topside,” Ulrich then announced. “Something just doesn’t look right.”
“Prepare the sail ladder,” Cisco ordered, the command sending several sailors in motion.
Less than a minute later, Utah’s senior officers were climbing up the seldom-used metal rungs to exit at the top of the boat’s sail.
This was extremely rare territory, Jack having only journeyed outside the very top of Utah’s pressure hull on a few occasions. A hiss, pop, and clank signaled that Ulrich had released the hatch and was now climbing out onto the small platform.
Before the boat’s first officer could follow his captain’s shoes up the ladder, Ulrich's next words raised the hairs on Jack’s neck.
“What the hell!” the captain exclaimed before his waist had e
ven cleared the hatch. “Back! Back down, Jack!”
Cisco did as ordered, sliding quickly down two rungs of the metal ladder. He heard the hatch slam shut almost instantly.
“Radiation? Is there radiation outside? I need a reading, right now!”
The captain’s voice was strong enough that Cisco didn’t feel a need to repeat the order to the bridge crew below. Less than 10 seconds had passed before a voice answered the skipper’s desperate inquiry. “All readings are normal, sir.”
Jack, peering up between his captain’s feet, spotted relief flush across the man’s face. “Oh, thank God,” Ulrich whispered. “Make a hole, coming through,” the senior officer then ordered.
Cisco descended the last rungs of the ladder as fast as he could, skimming on the outside rails for the last few steps. Ulrich was hot on his heels.
“Commander, you’re with me,” he ordered, flashing past the bewildered first officer. “Have the pharmacist mate to meet me in the infirmary immediately,” he continued.
As the two officers rushed through the narrow corridors, Jack finally had a chance to ask, “Sir, what is going on? Are you okay, sir?”
Ulrich paused in front of a bulkhead, scanning right and left to make sure none of the crew was within earshot. After confirming the area was clear of prying ears, the captain held up his hands.
Jack detected a coating of grayish, white powder on his captain’s skin. Upon closer examination, he realized that the same substance covered the senior officer’s uniform. “That’s not fog outside, Jack. That is this …. this … powder or whatever it is.”
“Oh, shit,” was all Cisco could think to say, the captain’s frenzied demand for a radiation reading now completely understandable.
The two officers soon arrived at Utah’s infirmary, met there by the boat’s top ranking medical specialist. Again, confusion was the reaction of the day.
The pharmacist quickly scraped off a sample of the substance and then began assembling a microscope from a nearby locker. “Go ahead and wash the rest of that off,” he advised the captain. “I have enough for analysis, and whatever it is, it can’t be good for your skin.”
The two senior officers idled quietly in the small facility while the medical specialist studied the mystery substance under magnification. Finally, pushing away from the microscope, he stared at the two officers and announced, “It’s dirt.”
“Huh?”
“It’s mostly dirt. I see small flecks of rock, common soil, sand, and a lot of ash.”
Cisco and Ulrich exchanged troubled looks. “How could there be entire fog banks made up of dirt?”
The pharmacist shrugged, “Unknown, sir. A huge forest fire, I suppose. That would explain the ash. So would a massive eruption of a volcano, or perhaps a mega-explosion like a nuke, or series of nuclear events. Whatever the cause, I would say this appears to be basically harmless other than the fact that I wouldn’t want to breathe it in for extended periods of time.”
Ulrich’s relief at not having been exposed to some poisonous or toxic substance was short lived. “That cloud covered all of San Diego,” he stated coldly. “Given we can’t raise anyone on the com channels, I’m thinking some sort of huge, regional catastrophe has occurred.”
Jack rubbed his chin, “Unprecedented forest fires? Earthquake and tsunami? Admiral Hawkins found out his daughter was dating a Marine?”
“All of the above?” the pharmacist added, smiling at the executive officer or XO’s jest.
“We need to get back to the bridge. This crew’s morale is already low enough. I can just imagine the rumor mill raging around this boat about now,” Ulrich stated.
As the captain started to leave, he pivoted quickly and glared hard at the pharmacist, “What we just discussed is confidential information. Understood?”
“Aye, sir. What happens in the infirmary, stays in the infirmary.”
On the way back to the bridge, the captain stopped at an unoccupied section of corridor and turned to his most trusted advisor. “Jack, without tugs I’m not sure we can get Utah docked. Given the radio conversation I had with the Marines, I’m also unsure that the Navy would want us adding to their problems in San Diego.”
“What are you thinking, Captain?”
“Maybe we should head up the coast a bit. Los Angeles? San Francisco? Perhaps even Seattle?”
Cisco pondered his commander’s line of thinking for a moment before responding. “The Navy doesn’t have any facilities for a boat like this in LA or San Fran. Even if those harbors are operational, we would draw a lot of unwanted attention cruising in under the Golden Gate.”
“I agree, but without orders, our choices are severely limited. Seattle has sub pens and the proper facilities, so maybe we sail north and see if we can raise Washington or Pearl Harbor along the way? It may have been only a temporary communications glitch, or maybe that cloud of junk floating out there is interfering with all this high-tech, whiz-bang equipment the Navy saw fit to bless us with.”
Jack nodded, “We have two, maybe three days’ worth of rations aboard. Either we find someplace to dock, or we break out the fishing poles and start eating the catch of the day.”
The first officer’s humor was well timed, Ulrich breaking into a wide grin. “Let’s do it then.”
“North it is, sir.”
Utah’s navigational computers calculated the voyage between the boat’s current position and the mouth of the Los Angeles harbor at just over three hours given surface cursing speeds.
After 30 minutes of plying northwest toward the second largest city in the United States, the vessel’s radar operator reported, “Sir, I have zero contacts at any range. There are no indications of surface ships of any size. Additionally, my board indicates there are no malfunctions with our gear.”
Taking a glance at a nearby electronic chart, Ulrich confirmed what he already knew. The port of Los Angeles was well within the range of their radar’s capability. There should be dozens of commercial freighters, tankers, container ships, and other ocean-going tonnage entering and leaving one of the world’s busiest ports. Something was wrong.
“Carry on,” he mumbled, trying to digest it all.
A second troubling report arrived moments later. “Sir,” offered the navigator, “the depth here doesn’t match what the charts indicate for our location. The numbers are off significantly, and the variation is increasing as we move north.”
One of the most commonly used methods of finding or tracking a vessel’s location was known depths. Nautical charts, the road maps of seaways, noted the water’s deepness in great detail. While modern GPS tracking and other methods were commonly used, most savvy navigators still verified what their high-tech instruments were telling them in case of a computer glitch or hack.
“What is the variance?” the captain inquired, moving toward the navigator’s console.
“Over 50 feet shallow, sir. It’s like the continental shelf has been raised throughout this area.”
Ulrich frowned. Ten feet could be silting, old data on the chart, or even an error. Fifty feet was a huge discrepancy.
“Now 55 feet, sir,” the new reading was announced.
Cisco drew close to his commanding officer, speaking low at the captain’s shoulder so only the skipper could hear. “Earthquake? That would explain the ash, lack of communications, and a big enough emergency that the Marines would take over the entire base at San Diego.”
Did California finally have the big one? both men wondered.
It didn’t take the sub’s senior officer long to make a decision, “Bring us in closer to shore. I want the forward sonar scanning constantly. Keep 100 feet of water under this boat. It that understood?”
“Aye, sir,” responded the bridge crew, moving now with more purpose.
A short time later, the squatty, coffee and cream hills of the southern coast came into view, a dark line off the horizon. The photonic mast was displaying enough detail to give the navigator pause once again. �
�Sir, we should be in water over 300 feet deep, and I’m getting consistent readings of less than 200. Plus, I should be seeing the Carlsbad relay tower on the scope, and it’s not there.”
Ulrich moved to the man’s console, soon joined by the XO. Pointing with a pencil, the navigator touched the computer monitor. “The Carlsbad relay tower is the tallest manmade structure between Long Beach and San Diego. It is normally right there,” he continued, poking the monitor. “It doesn’t appear on radar or visual, sir.”
Both of the officers were familiar with the structure, a common landmark used by ships since its construction in the 1950s. Both men knew the tower was built to withstand everything from hurricanes to wildfires. Its disappearance was extremely troubling.
“How long before we should get a visual on Long Beach?” Jack asked.
“Twenty-three minutes, sir,” the seaman quickly responded, followed by a mumbled, “if it’s still there.”
Jack flashed the navigator a dirty look, “Stow that attitude, sailor,” he warned in a hushed, but serious reprimand.
“Aye, sir.”
Jack fully understood the navigator’s concerns – he was developing a deep ache in his own gut. But now wasn’t the time to let discipline slip. If even half of what they feared was true, a tight ship and crew was going to be the only thing that allowed them to survive.
The bridge was silent for the next several minutes, each man in Utah’s nerve center secretly counting down the time. Finally, the navigator announced, “Long Beach should be visible at 020 degrees, sir.”
Everyone inhaled as the photonic mast was pointed at what should be a well-defined skyline. When the picture cleared, only the captain’s voice was heard. “Oh, shit.”
Instead of the vibrant downtown of skyscrapers, apartment complexes, streets, and warehouses, nothing but water appeared ahead of them. It was if the ocean had swallowed the once massive port and nearby metropolitan area. “Where is the city?” someone finally asked. “I’ve never been to California. What am I supposed to be looking at?”
