Charles Taylor - Boomer

Robbie Newman had been quiet until then. As Director of Naval Nuclear Propulsion, he’d become responsible for putting new nuclear submarines into the fleet. He’d gotten away from day-to-day operational responsibilities. He was in Pearl because there remained the distant possibility of fatal engineering casualties to Alaska and Nevada rather than a devious plot. But such an accident was so unlikely. Reactor accidents simply didn’t occur. It could have been a valve or a vital piece of machinery, but the odds were too long to have two like this. “I’m not sure how many options we have open if we want to avoid broadcasting to Moscow, but am I correct in assuming we’re not using ELF right now to communicate with our boomers?”

“Right,” Larsen answered. “We’ll use that frequency only once, if we have to, in the next few days — when we’re up against the wall. The TACAMO aircraft are acting as communications relays because we may need to send more data. ELF’s too slow for that.”

“Then I think that leaves you with one choice,” Newman said. “You’ve got to get some hired gunfighters to protect your boomers. And there’s nothing sneakier than a nice quiet 688-class riding shotgun.” He smiled. “That’s my suggestion. You people know better than me how you want to work it out.”

“I can read your mind, Mark,” Ray Larsen said, turning to Bennett. “There’s only one foolproof way we can get the proper message to them — at least without raising curiosity.” He winked, pleased with his own idea.

Bennett waited because the CNO’s finger was still pointing at him. Larsen wiggled the finger. “We send a simple message, a one-time code to the C.O. of each boat we want to use. That won’t rattle Ivan’s cage. Tell him to come to periscope depth at a certain time for a pickup, or however you want to word it. Whatever it is, even though the Russians know we’re contacting some of our boats, which may be unusual, there’s not enough there to point any fingers.” The finger was pointed directly at Bennett’s chest. “Then at the appropriate time, so they have a decent chance, we parachute a SEAL onto that point. Give the SEAL something to attract the boat’s attention, anything that makes noise so sonar can localize it. They’ll find him eventually — hopefully before he dies of exposure.”

It did make sense. Tennessee and Georgia were in transit and should be safe. But Michigan and Florida were continuing patrol in their own sectors, unaware. They were in the most immediate danger, and Florida was about a two-day run from Alaska’ s last known position … too close!

Bennett turned around to look back at the Pacific display, There were enough attack boats out there to more than cover the boomers. But they were beneath the surface, where they belonged. There were reasonably secure ways of maneuvering surface ships without spilling everything to your enemy, but too many unusual communications with a submarine presented some challenges. Using attack boats to ride shotgun made sense. Getting them there was something else. But — yes, there she was — Manchester was there! Bennett closed his eyes and said a silent thank you for his hired gun. Ben Steel was there!

USS Manchester was new, less than a year on patrol, and she was only eighteen hours from Florida’ s sector. She was the second command for Ben Steel, who was considered by his peers to be the finest submarine captain in the fleet. It seemed pure luck to the others that he was the closest. Mark Bennett once again gave silent thanks.

Within an hour the message had gone out to the attack boats. It was very short and very simple—”package arriving surface” — and it included the time and position nearest their anticipated locations. There wasn’t a commanding officer who would mistake its import. If the subs were near their assumed position, the SEALs would be found. Once aboard the submarines, they would deliver their message directly to the commanding officers. Then they would have no choice but to be submariners until the boats surfaced off their homeport, if they ever returned.

The quartermaster read Manchester’ s position off the computer and checked it against his chart. “Five miles to the pickup point, Captain.” He had three inertial navigation systems, the second serving as a backup, the third to monitor the other two for accuracy. “Give or take a couple of yards. Seems to match up with sonar’s contact,” he added.

“Very well. Sonar, what do you make of it now? Any change?” Ben Steel asked. It was habit. Sonar would have sounded off at any variance in the contact.

“Still directly off the bow, sir. No change in bearing. Intensity’s just about the same as before. Looks like it’s remaining in the same position.”

“Classification?”

“Still manmade, sir.” That was what they’d determined previously. “I don’t know what the hell it is, but it’s broadband, so it’s obviously designed to attract our attention. No tonals. No cavitation. And the way the signal varies, I’d have to say someone’s operating it.”

Steel folded his arms and stared at his executive officer thoughtfully. “What do you make of it, XO?” It was the third time he’d asked the same question in the past half hour.

Simonds grinned and shook his head wisely. “You’re not going to get me on that one, Captain. I’m sure no one’s compromised that one-time codebook you have, so the message had to be authentic. My ideas haven’t changed. Pearl’s sending a present of some kind for us.”

“Even if sonar thinks there’s someone bobbing around on the surface?”

“COMSUBPAC’s job description requires that Admiral Arrow knows what he’s doing.”

“Take her to periscope depth,” Steel ordered. “We’ll ease in closer, keep her at about five knots. But stand by to pull the plug.” His last comment was more for himself. The emergency dive was second nature. Each watch stander was trained constantly for any emergency, but it made them more comfortable when Steel put the obvious into words.

With the voices of the OOD and the diving officer quietly conning the ship in the background, Manchester gained a slight up angle. Steel finally said to Simonds, “Why don’t you step into sonar and see what you can make of it? Maybe there’ll be a change as we close.” Ben Steel had never been a patient man; he was doubly irritable when he failed to understand something. “That message didn’t say there was any rush, and I’m not about to show my ass until I know who’s looking for it.” Ben Steel could have been Hollywood’s idea of a captain — black hair, dark eyes, white teeth to set off an olive complexion. He was quiet when he was thinking, yet his voice boomed when he gave orders, a smaller version of John Wayne.

Simonds, as both men silently understood, was unable to come up with anything that sonar hadn’t already indicated. Yet he accepted intuitively the processes his captain’s mind employed automatically.

Steel was at the larger of the two periscopes, the one with a camera that would display whatever he saw on the remote units around the room, before the diving officer had achieved a zero bubble. “Put it all on the screen,” he called out as he slowly circled with the periscope, scanning both the surface and the sky. His 360-degree rotation was an automatic—”dancing with the one-eyed lady” was the term. “I want backup.” But there was nothing more than waves and whitecaps and a gray cloud cover obscuring anything that might be flying above it.

“ESM report?” Was there a hidden inaudible electronic something waiting for them?