The Seawolf class was the Navy’s most expensive and deadly submarine, the end result of over a billion dollars in research and development before the keel of the first boat was laid down. As an attack submarine, a Seawolf class ship had one primary mission: kill other submarines.
The Seawolf had indeed destroyed another submarine, but been destroyed in the process. It had been lost in the Bermuda Triangle gate stopping the captured USS Wyoming from launching the remainder of its missiles. The Wyoming’s first MIRV missile had destroyed Iceland and the Seawolf had barely stopped a second launching, which would have split the meeting of the tectonic plates in the center of the Atlantic and devastated America’s eastern seaboard and Europe’s western coast.
It appeared from the report, that the captain of the Seawolf had accomplished this mission in a most drastic way — by detonating one of his sub’s own nuclear weapons while it was less than three miles from the Wyoming, destroying both subs in the process.
The report noted that it had been a rather extreme command decision by the Seawolf’s captain, Joe McCallum, but surmised it had been his only choice given the lack of time and the strange effects of the gates on electro-magnetic systems, which had most likely negated using most of the Seawolf’s weapons in their normal mode against the Wyoming.
Costing over two billion dollars to build, a Seawolf attack submarine incorporated every advance in underwater warfare ever developed. It had Mark-48 torpedoes, along with Tomahawk cruise missiles. And it packed that punch in a surprisingly small size, bucking the recent trend of making submarines larger. At 353 feet long, the Seawolf was not much longer than the first US Navy sub given that name during World War II. However, its forty-foot beam was almost twice the diameter of those earlier vessels.
The rear two-thirds of the submarine were taken up with the nuclear power plant, engine room and environmental control systems. Stokes’ cabin and the rest of the living and working areas were in the forward third. Stokes commanded thirteen other officers and one hundred and twenty enlisted men.
At the present moment, the Connecticut was five miles due east of the Devil’s Sea gate, so the report on the Seawolf encounter near the Bermuda Triangle gate held great interest for Stokes. More importantly, on a personal note, though, was the fact that the commander of the Seawolf, Captain McCallum, had been a classmate of Stokes at the Academy. His eyes went back up to the view of the Academy. The camera was panning by the chapel and he could visualize McCallum’s wedding, two days after they had graduated twenty-one years ago. Stokes had been best man and McCallum had returned the favor on the next day.
Over the years that followed the two had crossed paths in their careers often, making their way up the ranks. McCallum getting command of the Seawolf had been considered a plum assignment and Stokes had to admit he’d been jealous until the board had chosen him to take command of the second Seawolf class to be commissioned.
And now McCallum — and his crew — were gone. Stokes looked down, noting that the fingers of his right hand were twisting the large gold ring on his left. The setting was black hematite, the exact same that McCallum had gotten. On one side was their class crest and year of graduation and on the other the Academy Crest, a shield, with a trident running behind it, two fasces on the side and the motto: Ex Scientia Tridens. Out of knowledge sea power. But the report on the death of his friend gave Stokes little knowledge and raised more questions than it answered.
What the Shadow was, how the gates were formed, most importantly why this strange force seemed bent on destroying the world, all were unknowns. Stokes orders were to monitor this side of the gate. He knew that the destroyer USS Thorn was with the FLIP on the south side. On the west side, a Los Angeles class attack submarine held post, while on the north, the destroyer USS Fife.
They had the gate bracketed, but given what had happened to the Wyoming, the Seawolf, Stokes wondered what good it did. He was still pondering this when a sharp chime sounded, then a voice came out of the speaker bolted above his door.
“Captain to command and control. Captain to command and control.”
Stokes was out of the door, through the connecting corridor and in the operations center in less than five seconds. “Report?” he called out as he went to the center of the high tech C&C, which was at the base of the sail.
“We’ve got activity on the edge of the gate,” his executive officer (XO) informed him.
“Helm back us off, two-thirds,” Stokes immediately ordered. “Weapons, prepare targeting information.” He turned to his XO. “What kind of activity?”
“Noise.”
Stokes was irritated at the vague answer. “What kind of noise?”
The XO turned to the chief sonar-man. “Tell him Chief.”
“Captain—” the petty officer held out an extra set of headphones. “You’d better listen yourself. I’ve never heard anything like it.”
Stokes put the headset on, cutting off the sound of activity in the command & control center. He heard a faint, high-pitched, echoing sound that went up and down in volume. After a couple of moments, he pulled back one of the cups. “No idea, chief?”
The petty officer shook his head. “It’s coming from the gate.”
“Almost sounds like whales,” Stokes said.
“It’s not whales.” The petty officer sounded convinced.
“Porpoises?”
The chief considered that. “Maybe, but I’ve never heard that many mixed together. And there’s something else in there. Some other source.”
“Forward it to the FLIP. They’ve got that dolphin lady there. Maybe she can make sense of it. Stand down from battle stations.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Reizer closed Davon’s lifeless eyes and placed his jacket over his head. She had been raised a Catholic, but had no idea what faith the young man had held. Her knees hurt from kneeling but she remained at his side for several minutes, saying the few prayers she could remember from her childhood. When she could think of nothing further, she got to her feet and finally considered her predicament.
She could discern no diminishing in the walls of fire, indeed, if anything, they might even be higher. Decades of walking the plain and looking at aerial imagery had imprinted every single line in her mind’s eye. She knew she was in the middle of an intricate maze with walls of death surrounding her.
Was there a way out without crossing a line? It was something she had never considered.
She considered it now.
Another half dozen five hundred pound bombs dropped out of the Chernobyl gate, clattering down on those that had already been deposited. The thirteenth one was indeed unlucky as it came out nose down, detonator armed.
It hit and exploded, setting off an instantaneous reaction that detonated the other twelve bombs. Kolkov’s calculations had been for six bombs, not thirteen. The concrete containment wall buckled, bulged and then collapsed. The vast majority of the explosion was used up in that effort, thus the immediate effects of the blast were minimal to the other three reactors and the nearby town.