Larry Bond - Shattered Trident

Ensign Olivia Andrews quickly manipulated a few buttons on the fire control panel, and the bottom screen on her console changed to an electronic Geoplot display. “Merged track data sent to the port VLSD, sir,” she reported.

“Very well,” replied Sobecki. The plot popped up onto the big screen; two bearing lines jutted out from North Dakota ’s track. One was on a bearing of two six six, the other down one one zero. Jerry noticed immediately the lack of range information.

“You didn’t get a range off the wide-aperture array?”

Sobecki shook his head. “No, sir. The explosions were pretty far away, at least thirty nautical miles. Sonar, play the audio for the western event.”

The sonar supervisor acknowledged the order and soon the sound of the ocean filled the control room. At first, all Jerry heard were the noises from local biologics and the occasional fishing boat. Then came the first explosion, followed soon by the second. They were clearly explosions, and they were distant; beyond the ranging ability of the passive arrays along his submarine’s flanks.

The second set of explosions was a mirror image of the first. Again, there was no doubt as to what they were. A cold chill ran down Jerry’s spine. Was this just the beginning?

“The explosions in both cases were five or six seconds apart, Captain,” said Sobecki.

“Sounds about right for a salvo interval from a Kilo-class boat,” Thigpen interjected.

Jerry agreed. “Yes, it does. Unfortunately.” Then pointing toward the western event, he asked, “Was Fargo still in contact with that new Kilo?”

“As of the last data dump, yes, sir. Our little drone was firmly in trail,” Sobecki replied.

“When’s the next scheduled comms window?”

The engineer pointed to an open menu on one of the command workstation’s displays. “A little under three hours from now, sir.”

Jerry frowned; three hours seemed like an awfully long time to wait.

“We could send it a coded pulse to command it to come up sooner,” suggested the engineer.

“But that means transmitting,” Thigpen warned. “Our orders are pretty explicit about remaining undetected, sir. If Fargo is still in trail of the Kilo, there’s more than a good chance they would pick up the pulse as well.”

“A good point, XO,” Jerry conceded. “But do you think they would be able to recognize the pseudo-random noise pulse as being a valid contact? Or would they be more likely to blow it off as spurious noise?”

“Skipper, I wouldn’t know a funky pulse from snapping shrimp. My point is that we don’t have a good understanding of the modifications to the Vietnamese boat’s sonar. We know it’s an all-digital version of the older Rubikon sonar, but is it smart enough to recognize a funky pulse? I dunno, but it is something we need to consider.”

Jerry nodded silently, translating Thigpen’s carefully spoken “we” to mean “you.” Sipping at his coffee, Jerry took a hard look at the information on the VLSD. Thigpen’s concerns and Admiral Burroughs’s stern admonition, “You cannot be detected. Clear?” echoed inside his head.

The Vietnamese were new to submarines, and the Russians were notorious for providing only basic system and operational training. The upgraded Rubikon sonar suite on the Vietnamese Kilos was theoretically capable of picking up the signal, but Jerry doubted very much that a newly trained operator would recognize it as something worthy of interest.

And there was the sense of urgency nagging at him. Three hours was a long time to wait for the data from his UUV. It very likely had information on the attack to the west that he needed to pass up the chain of command as soon as possible. If the balloon had just gone up, as he feared, he had to report now, not three or four hours from now. He made up his mind.

“Engineer, send the coded pulse to Fargo and come to periscope depth to receive the satellite downlink. Get the CTs ready as well; there is probably a hell of a lot of chatter going on up there right now. XO, get the commo up and prepare another OPREP-3 message. I think the war we’ve been told to watch for has just started, and we need to let our bosses know ASAP,” ordered Jerry.

Thigpen and Sobecki acknowledged their orders, and the control room became abuzz with activity. Jerry had watched his XO’s face as he gave his instructions. If Thigpen disagreed, it didn’t show.

Jerry thought about hanging around in control, but that would send the wrong message. He had to show he trusted his people if they were to believe in themselves. Instead, Jerry headed back to his stateroom. He was awake now; he might as well get some work done while he waited for Fargo’s data.

On his way out, Jerry overheard Thigpen telling the messenger of the watch to wake up Mr. Franklin. The young lad dutifully answered, “Aye, aye, sir,” but then added, “XO, would you like a cup of coffee, too?”

“Coffee!?” uttered Thigpen cynically. “I don’t need no stinkin’ coffee. I have adrenaline!”

Jerry tried to review the previous week’s reactor plant chemistry logs for the third time. He just couldn’t concentrate long enough for them to make any sense. He knew the logs were important—reactor plant safety was a major consideration in any submarine CO’s evaluation—but it was extremely difficult to focus on something so mundane when a war was starting around you. Mercifully, the Dialex phone rang, rescuing him before he tried yet again.

“Captain,” Jerry answered.

“Skipper, CDO. We have the data from Fargo, and you’ll want to see this.”

“Very well, Engineer. I’ll be there shortly.” Jerry hung up and gratefully slid the chemistry logs back into his inbox. They’d keep.

Jerry deliberately walked casually toward the control room, taking deep breaths to help calm himself. He had to look composed, confident. “You should never look frazzled,” he’d been counseled by Kyle Guthrie, his old skipper on Michigan . “The crew looks to you for stability, particularly when things start getting crazy.”

Strolling past the radio room, Jerry paused and stuck his head in to see how the message was progressing. Inside he saw Thigpen, Franklin, and one of the info techs working furiously.

“How’s that message coming, XO?” Jerry inquired. He really didn’t need to ask, the three were clearly going at it with hammer and tongs, but every once in a while it was kind of fun to pull Thigpen’s chain. You never knew what kind of response you’d get. Jerry remembered, with the type of fondness that only comes with the passage of time, how often Guthrie had tugged on his line.

Thigpen was hovering over the console, twitching as he pointed toward the screen. “No! Move that part here. No, not there, here! Yes, right there. Good!” blurted the XO. Looking up and seeing Jerry in the doorway, Thigpen held up one finger as he bounced from one foot to the other. “Give us another minute, Skipper, then we’ll have something for you.”

Jerry smiled, nodded, and continued on. Upon entering control, he saw LT David Covey hard at work on the spare console. The port VLSD had the output from one of the photonics masts on it, while the electronic support system’s audible signal kept beeping in the background. Sobecki sounded a little stressed as he gave rudder orders. The track display on the starboard big screen showed a large number of contacts. It sure was busy up here.

“Command Duty Officer, report,” Jerry ordered.

“Sir, we’ve downloaded Fargo’s data and you were right, she saw the whole thing. Dave has been busy sending the highlights to the XO for the OPREP-3 message,” responded Sobecki.