“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
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 objects 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.