USS Towers Box Set

by Jeff Edwards

  Brenthoven raised his eyebrows. “Mr. Ambassador, at the very least you have what appears to be a military coup on your hands,” he said. “Your own news services are openly describing it as a civil war.”

  “It is not civil war,” Kolesnik said. “It is a minor local struggle. Nothing more. An insignificant uprising.”

  Brenthoven fished his small leather notebook from the pocket of his jacket, and held it without opening it. “The entire Russian military has been moved to a state of high alert, including your strategic nuclear missile forces. You’ve mobilized nearly every available naval vessel in your Pacific Fleet. There are foreign combat troops on your soil. From the perspective of the U.S. government, that doesn’t sound insignificant.”

  “It does not involve the United States.” Kolesnik said. “We appreciate your concern, but this is an internal matter.”

  “My government does not agree,” Brenthoven said. “We have reason to believe that the insurgents have managed to deploy one of the ballistic missile submarines that was stationed in Kamchatka, along with its arsenal of 48 nuclear warheads. Mr. Ambassador, that’s more destructive force than the entire human race has unleashed in the history of this planet.”

  The ambassador nodded gravely. “It is the K-506, the Zelenograd.”

  Brenthoven jotted the name and hull number of the submarine in his notebook. “Has the sub been located yet? Have your naval units detected her?”

  “Him.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You asked if our naval units have detected her. But Zelenograd, submarine ‘K-506,’ is a he, not a she.”

  The national security advisor smiled weakly. “I’ve never been much of a Sailor, sir. It was my understanding that seagoing vessels are always presumed to be female.”

  The Russian Ambassador returned the thin smile with an equally weak smile of his own. “American ships, yes. Russian ships, no. Russian vessels are always male. The tradition goes back at least to Pyotr Alekseyevich Romanov: Peter the Great. Perhaps farther.”

  Brenthoven rubbed his chin. “I wasn’t aware of that.”

  “There is much that America does not know about Russia,” the ambassador said. “And there is much that Russia does not know about America. Even with the Cold War behind us, our countries do not understand each other.”

  He shook his head. “We thought we understood you as adversaries, but we were deluding ourselves. Now we attempt to understand you as allies, and we are still … what is the word? Baffled? We are still baffled by you.”

  Brenthoven nodded. “Both of our governments have mastered the art of misunderstanding,” he said. “But Mr. Ambassador, this is one case in which we can not afford misunderstanding.”

  “You are quite correct,” the Russian Ambassador said.

  “I’m glad we’re in agreement,” Brenthoven said. “Are you in a position to discuss the level of U.S. involvement? Or is that a matter better arranged by our respective presidents?”

  Ambassador Kolesnik held up a finger. “Again we misunderstand each other. I agreed that our countries must make every effort to avoid miscommunication during this crisis. I did not agree to American involvement in my country’s internal affairs. My instructions from my government are quite specific. This matter will be handled by the Russian military, under the command of the Russian government.”

  “Mr. Ambassador, the nuclear missiles aboard that submarine have more than enough range to reach the United States. With all due respect, sir, that’s exactly what they were designed to do. Unless you have some method of guaranteeing that they will not be launched against American cities, I don’t see how we can sit back and treat this situation as an internal Russian issue.”

  “You can treat it as an internal issue because that’s exactly what it is: an internal issue,” the ambassador said. “As to a guarantee that your country will not be targeted, I think we can make such a promise.”

  The answer took Brenthoven by surprise. “Pardon me, sir … Are you saying that there is some sort of foolproof technical safeguard that prevents the missiles from being fired?”

  The ambassador brushed a speck of lint from the left sleeve of his suit jacket. “As with your own missile submarines, there are certain mechanical and electronic safeguards in place, but their effectiveness depends upon the loyalty of the crew. If the crew of K-506 is disloyal, as their actions so far seem to indicate, we cannot rely on those safeguards. With the cooperation of the First Officer, the Missile Officer, and most—or all—of the crew, the captain of that submarine can launch those missiles whenever he wishes.”

  Brenthoven frowned. “What you’re saying is …”

  “I’m saying we must assume that K-506 can launch its missiles.”

  “Mr. Ambassador, now I’m really confused,” Brenthoven said. “How does this guarantee that the United States will not be targeted by that submarine’s missiles?”

  “K-506 is running southwest, toward the southern tip of the Kamchatka peninsula,” the ambassador said. “Senior naval officers in our Ministry of Defense are confident that the submarine will attempt to pass through the Kuril island chain and into the Sea of Okhotsk, where it will hide under the Siberian ice pack.”

  “And how does this help us?”

  The ambassador held up his right hand and tugged at the cuff of his shirt sleeve with the fingers of his left hand. “Because we have, as you say, an ace up our sleeve.” He dropped his hands into his lap. “The attack submarine Kuzbass is patrolling the Kuril island chain. At this very moment, orders are going out from our Pacific Fleet headquarters. Kuzbass will intercept and destroy K-506 at the entrance to the Sea of Okhotsk.”

  Brenthoven rubbed the back of his neck. “Mr. Ambassador, that sounds like a good strategy to me, but what if K-506 manages to slip past your attack submarine? We have a renegade nuclear missile submarine on our hands, with enough firepower to jumpstart Armageddon. Do you have a backup plan, in case Kuzbass doesn’t get the job done?”

  “Of course,” the ambassador said. “If K-506 makes it into the Sea of Okhotsk, which our Ministry of Defense assures me will not happen, our naval units will trap him under the ice pack. They will keep K-506 safely contained under the ice until our attack submarines can hunt him down and sink him.”

  “What if the submarine breaks through the ice layer and surfaces? American submarines break through the ice pack all the time. If K-506 surfaces through the ice, how will you stop it from launching its missiles?”

  The ambassador shook his head. “K-506 is a Project 667 BDR class submarine. We call this type of submarine the Kal’mar class. Your NATO designation is Delta III. This class of submarine was not constructed with the hull reinforcements required to punch through ice.” He shrugged. “If they try, the ice slices into their hull and they sink like your Titanic. The crew drowns, or freezes to death in minutes. They do not launch missiles.”

  The Titanic had been a British ship, not American, but this didn’t seem to be a good time to point that out. Brenthoven sighed. “I hope you are right, Mr. Ambassador. But I don’t believe my president will share your confidence. Unless I’m very much mistaken, he is going to insist on U.S. military involvement.”

  “My instructions from my government are quite specific,” the ambassador said again. “This is an internal Russian matter; and it will be handled by the Russian military, without help or interference from outside forces.”

  “President Chandler will not be pleased,” Brenthoven said.

  Kolesnik smiled. “No one will be pleased. This is the nature of Russian politics.”

  “I’ll relay your intentions to my president,” Brenthoven said. “He will want to discuss the matter with your president.”

  The Russian ambassador’s smile vanished. “I’m certain that he will. And President Turgenev will look forward to his call. But the outcome will be the same. There will be no U.S. involvement in this matter.”

  CHAPTER 17

  USS TOWERS (DDG-103)


  NORTHERN PACIFIC OCEAN (SOUTH OF THE ALEUTIAN ISLANDS)

  THURSDAY; 28 FEBRUARY

  1120 hours (11:20 AM)

  TIME ZONE -10 ‘WHISKEY’

  Captain Bowie opened the watertight door and led the way out onto the starboard side main deck. The two civilians, Ann Roark and Sheldon Miggs, followed him out into the morning sunlight, stamping their feet and adjusting their coats as their breath steamed in the chilly Alaskan air.

  Bowie suppressed a smile. It wasn’t really all that cold out here. The temperature was less than a degree below freezing, but the sudden transition from the warm interior of the ship made the air seem colder than it really was. The psychological effect was further magnified by the light coating of frost on the Kevlar life rails and most of the topside surfaces.

  Bowie rapidly scanned the horizon and then the sky, automatically checking for other vessels, navigational hazards, aircraft, and weather features that could endanger his ship. The sky was a vivid cobalt blue, marred only by a handful of wispy cirrus clouds above the jet stream. The sea within his arc of vision was clear of visible threats. He turned his eyes back to the civilians.

  The two could have hardly been less alike. Sheldon Miggs was a plump little dumpling of a man, with a bad comb-over and bright, lively eyes that signaled a keen wit and playful spirit. He was quick to laugh, even quicker to smile, and seemed genuinely fascinated by Bowie’s ship and crew.

  By contrast, Ann Roark was slim, dark haired, and pretty in a severe sort of way. From what Bowie had seen, the woman rarely smiled, and—unlike her co-worker—she didn’t seem much impressed by the ship, the crew, or the Navy in general. Oh, she was civil enough. Her conversation was never less than polite, but it was never more than polite either. And there was always something in her expression that hinted at a kernel of detached contempt.

  Not for the first time, Bowie felt a fleeting urge to ask Ms. Roark what it was about him, his ship, or his people that she found so distasteful. He let the urge pass. She was entitled to her own opinions, however unflattering they might be to Bowie or to his chosen profession. All that really mattered was her performance, and that had been superb.

  Bowie still couldn’t believe that she’d managed to pull off the rescue of the Nereus. But she had pulled it off, despite his doubts. The woman was nearly as odd as her robot, but she was damned good at her job, no question about it. And as far as Bowie was concerned, that earned her a bit of slack.

  Miggs clapped his gloved hands together several times and looked around. The grin on his face was positively child-like. He was excited by the prospect of exploring the ship with the commanding officer as tour guide.

  Roark was just as plainly disinterested. Bowie had half-expected her to decline his invitation, but her desire to maintain the appearance of courtesy had apparently overridden her disinterest. She probably saw this as a necessary customer relations function, to be endured rather than enjoyed. Keep the Navy guys happy so they’ll keep signing the R&D checks.

  “Every time I see this ship, it’s a different color,” Miggs said. “Is that a stealth feature?”

  Bowie nodded. “It is.” He used the fingers of this left glove to brush away a small patch of frost on the bulkhead next to the watertight door. The surface under the frost was not the traditional haze gray color of U.S. Navy ships, but a dusty blue-gray. “We call this PCMS,” he said. “It’s short for Passive Countermeasure System.” He nodded toward Miggs. “Poke it with your finger.”

  Miggs did so. “It’s springy. Like rubber.”

  “There’s some rubber in it,” Bowie said. “But mostly it’s made up of polymerized carbon fiber, which makes it absorbent to radar.”

  “So this is like that stuff they use to make the stealth bombers?” Miggs thumped the springy material with the tip of his index finger. “What do they call that? RAM? Radar Absorbent Material?”

  “RAM is the Air Force version,” Bowie said. “We call the Navy implementation PCMS. It’s the same basic idea, but we have to use different technology.”

  Roark looked at the bulkhead but didn’t touch it. “Why is that? Was there something wrong with the Air Force way of doing things?”

  “Not at all,” Bowie said. “But a B-2 bomber weighs about a hundred and sixty tons, and it’s constructed mostly from advanced composites, with low radar signatures.” He patted the bulkhead. “A Flight Three Arleigh Burke Class destroyer displaces nearly ten thousand tons, and it’s built mostly from steel, which has a very high radar signature. Put simply, the Navy faces different technical challenges than the Air Force, so we have to take a different technological approach.”

  He smiled. “But we’re not above stealing good ideas from the Zoomies.” He waved a hand toward the superstructure of his ship. “Take a look at her topside design and tell me the first thing that pops into your head.”

  “It looks a little …” Miggs paused, as if unsure how to phrase what was on his mind. “… strange. Sort of … squashed, and oddly shaped.”

  “That’s as good a way to put it as any,” Bowie said. He looked up at the low pyramid shapes of the destroyer’s minimized superstructure and the steep rake of her short mast. “There are no right-angles in the topside design. No perfectly vertical surfaces, and damned few perfectly horizontal surfaces, apart from the decks. It’s called an advanced-geometry design. Every angle is calculated to minimize radar reflections. We got the idea from our buddies in the Air Force, and I believe we even cribbed some of their math for calculating the angles.”

  Miggs poked the springy PCMS tile again. “How well does it work?”

  “Well, the exact numbers are classified,” Bowie said. “But the ballpark figures are releasable to the public. Towers is 529 feet long, 66½ feet wide, and her radar cross section is just a hair larger than your average fiberglass motorboat.”

  Miggs looked impressed. “They can do all that with some tricky angles and these rubber tiles?”

  “Not entirely,” Bowie said. “Those are just the most obvious changes. If you’ll notice, the life lines are made from Kevlar. Until a few years ago, life lines were made from braided steel cable, which has a much higher radar signature than Kevlar.” He used the toe of one boot to point toward an oval seam in the deck. “You may also notice that the deck fittings are all retractable. Every chock, padeye, and cleat on the ship can fold down into a form-fitting recess below the deck, and lock out of sight. That shaves a little more off our radar cross section. It all adds up.”

  “You mean it all subtracts,” Ann Roark said.

  “Right,” Bowie said. “That’s what I should have said. It all subtracts. It all goes to make us stealthier.”

  “So why do these tiles change color?” Miggs asked.

  “That’s a different feature of the PCMS,” Bowie said. “Ordinary PCMS tiles are just gray. But our PCMS tiles are impregnated with a special pigment that changes color in response to shifts in lighting. Under bright sunlight, it turns about the shade you’re seeing now, which is supposed to be nearly ideal for blending into the haze boundary between sea and sky. When the lighting starts to fall off, the pigment turns darker. It gets nearly black when the ship is in total darkness.”

  Miggs raised his eyebrows. “Wicked.”

  “We call it phototropic camouflage,” Bowie said, “and it does make us a little harder to spot visually and with optically-based sensors. But—popular myth to the contrary—it does not make us invisible.”

  Ann Roark flipped up the collar on her coat, and burrowed her hands into her pockets. She looked out to sea without speaking.

  “Let’s head forward,” Bowie said. “We can look at the gun and the forward missile launcher. Along the way, I’ll show you what we do to mask our infrared signature.”

  He turned toward the starboard break, but before he had taken two steps, the watertight door behind him opened and Lieutenant (junior grade) Patrick Cooper stepped out.

  Lieutenant (junior grade) Cooper came to attention and
saluted. “Captain, the XO sends his compliments, and requests your presence in your at-sea cabin. You have classified Flash message traffic, sir. Immediate execute orders.”

  Bowie frowned. Immediate execute? That didn’t make any sense. Towers wasn’t on the emergency surge list. The ship wasn’t even technically qualified for deployment yet.

  He nodded. “Thanks, Pat.” He turned to the civilians. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to leave you for a few minutes. Duty calls. But Lieutenant (junior grade) Cooper will be glad to take over as your tour guide until I return.”

  Cooper’s eyebrows went up. He obviously hadn’t expected to get roped into tour-guide duty.

  Bowie winked at the two civilians. “Pat’s a smart guy, and he’s just about ready to transfer to Naval Postgraduate School, so be sure to ask him plenty of difficult questions.”

  Miggs smiled and returned the wink. Roark did not.

  * * *

  Three minutes later, Bowie was sitting at the little stainless steel fold-down desk in his at-sea cabin, staring at a hardcopy radio message.

  //SSSSSSSSSS//

  //SECRET//

  //FLASH//FLASH//FLASH//

  //272042Z FEB//

  FM COMPACFLEET//

  TO COMTHIRDFLEET//

  USS TOWERS//

  USS ALBERT D. KAPLAN//

  INFO COMSEVENTHFLT//

  CTF ONE TWO//

  SUBJ/SURVEILLANCE TASKING/IMMEDIATE EXECUTE//

  REF/A/RMG/ONI/270812Z FEB//

  NARR/REF A IS OFFICE OF NAVAL INTELLIGENCE ASSESSMENT OF LIVE-FIRE HOSTILITIES ON KAMCHATKAN PENINSULA 27FEB//

  1. (UNCL) AS OUTLINED IN REF A, LARGE-SCALE ARMED CONFLICT BROKE OUT IN AND AROUND THE KAMCHATKAN CAPITAL CITY OF PETROPAVLOVSK AT APPROXIMATELY 0600Z 27FEB. INITIAL INDICATIONS SUGGEST THAT FIGHTING IS MILITARY IN NATURE, AS OPPOSED TO INSURGENT. ONI ASSESSMENT OF SCALE INDICATES MAJOR COMBAT OPERATIONS, CENTERED IN THE AREA OF RUSSIAN NAVAL FACILITY AT RYBACHIY.

  2. (SECR) U.S. INTELLIGENCE AGENCIES IN RECEIPT OF UNCORROBORATED REPORTS THAT UNIDENTIFIED ASIAN COMBAT TROOPS, POSSIBLY CHINESE, ARE PRESENT IN LARGE NUMBERS IN PETROPAVLOVSK. SAID TROOPS REPORTED TO BE HEAVILY INVOLVED IN COMBAT OPERATIONS. THESE REPORTS ARE UNCONFIRMED AT THIS TIME. U.S. INTELLIGENCE AGENCIES UNABLE TO ASSESS LEVEL OF ASIAN AND/OR CHINESE MILITARY INVOLVEMENT, IF ANY.