“Lord, look at those seas. I would hate to be those boys on the frigate and cruisers. I don’t think they’re going to be too enthusiastic about chow tonight,” Captain Roger Thorne said as he removed his eyes from the periscope and then turned the sail cameras and monitors on throughout the ship for his crew to see what the surface navy was currently battling. “One MC, please,” he said as the chief of the boat, MCPO Harry Hadland, handed the microphone over to his commander. “All hands, this is the captain. We’ll be holding station for the next eight hours. We’ll keep Houston as shallow as possible during that time, so we’re still going to get some roll. During this time, there will be no hot meals, so saddle up to the salad bar, ladies and gentlemen; it’s going to be a long ride.” He was getting ready to hand the chief of the boat back the mic and then clicked the button once more. “It could be worse; you could be up top with the surface boys. So let’s keep the bitching to a minimum, and don’t eat all the ice cream.”
The young sailors around the control center chuckled, relieving the tension of the impending hurricane they found themselves surrounded by. The captain, satisfied that his crew was up to the task, went to the navigation console and leaned over the projected map.
“Captain, the latest plot shows the surface fleet and transports are clearing the storm just to the south of Greenland; they will soon slow and take shelter in shallow seas. The Nimitz and her group are only an hour from getting to calmer waters. Only one fire and four injuries reported from the fleet. The task force got off lucky. Why didn’t anyone pick up on this weather? We could have had some serious issues here.”
Captain Thorne looked up from the navigation plot and rubbed his eyes, and then he winked at his second in command, Lieutenant Commander Gary Devers. “According to CINCLANT, there’s hell to be had with the meteorologists about storm predictions. I suspect a few boys will be reassigned soon to Iceland, or at the very least Alaska.”
Both men laughed but soon became serious as the huge attack sub took a sudden pressure dip from the waves above them.
“Feels like the entire Atlantic is knocking on our door,” Devers said as he grabbed for the console until their stomach-churning roll was stopped.
“I’d take her deeper, but with a frigate and two battle cruisers in harm’s way, I want to be able to go to rescue stations at a moment’s notice.”
“Understood, Captain.”
“Well, I think I’ll get some of that salad,” the captain said as he stretched. “First officer has the deck.”
“Aye, first officer has the deck.”
“Conn, sonar.”
Lieutenant Commander Devers took the mic so the captain could go eat. Thorne hesitated anyway. “Sonar, conn.”
“We have an unknown signature bearing three-two-seven degrees, north, eighty miles out. We missed it because of the high swells, but we have a solid fix now.”
“Roger,” Devers said as he and Thorne simultaneously leaned over the plot board. “Okay, three-two-seven degrees. Those aren’t our boys up there,” Devers said as the captain increased his frown.
“With the Russian battle group here”—Thorne pointed to an area three hundred nautical miles from the Houston—“and with us, the two cruisers, and the frigate here.” His finger moved to another spot on the chart. “That leaves us an unknown in our vicinity.”
“Sonar, course and speed of target?” Devers asked into the mic.
“Speed is, well, she’s not moving as far as we can tell, sir. Still hard to get a good fix because of the high seas, but her course is erratic. Sir, she looks dead in the water.”
“It has to be Russian,” Devers said as he watched the captain use his grease pen to trace a course to the target area.
“Gary, get to sonar and get me a precise fix. Also, get off an extremely low-frequency message to Nimitz and explain the tactical situation. Tell command we will attempt to investigate.”
“What about the frigate and cruisers?” Devers asked.
“Tell them to stand by and not to sink until we return.”
Devers chuckled and then left control. Thorne took the mic and then faced the men in control who were watching with concern. “Sonar, size estimate of target?”
“Undetermined at this time, Captain. Best guess is possible heavy cruiser displacement.”
“Civilian traffic?” he asked.
“Nothing but the Ruskies — excuse me, Russians, sir, just to the north.”
“Mr. Cartwright, let’s bring her about. Take her down to two hundred, all ahead flank.”
“Aye, Captain. Steering three-two-seven degrees, all ahead flank. Give me two hundred feet in depth.”
The USS Houston turned her massive, blackened, sound-baffling bulk toward the unknown target eighty miles away that was braving one of the worst storms in North Atlantic history. The Houston’s crew felt the sharp angle of the bow dip low in the sea, and the increased reactor noise tripled as the huge warship started to speed her way into the unknown.
For what seemed like the first time in years, the director of America’s securest and blackest operational group in federal service toured the expansive facility situated 1.5 miles beneath the sands of Nellis Air Force Base just outside of Las Vegas, Nevada.
Dr. Niles Compton had come a long way from the days when he had been recruited from MIT and Harvard by a man who, if the country had known existed, would be one of the most beloved and celebrated Americans in the history of the country. For fifteen years since taking over for that very man, Dr. Niles Compton had tried to live up to former senator and onetime general Garrison Lee. After years of trying, it had been Garrison Lee’s longtime assistant and close confidante, Alice Hamilton, who set him straight—“Be you, Niles,” she once told him. “Garrison recruited you for your talent, not because he needed talents like his own.” Niles smiled in remembering her talk. “Garrison was a military man, but he always believed this group needed civilian control and oversight, and civilian freedom to maneuver, not a man bound by military correctness and order. He needs you, Niles.”
As Compton limped through the curved plastic-lined hallways of the underground complex, the men and women of the Group nodded and greeted him. They still had not become used to seeing this man out of his offices on level seven. Lately, to the surprise of the six hundred — plus men and women on the Group’s roster, the director was found at all hours visiting and greeting his people in their laboratories, engineering departments, and the many classrooms, where the continuing education of all members of the Group was a major priority.
The Group had come to be more comfortable around the brilliant man from MIT — even the black eye patch covering his damaged and now useless right eye or the limp he now suffered with because of the attacks from deep space during the Overlord operation were now a commonplace sight among the halls and vaults of the Group. Most — behind his back, of course — now compared his infirmities to those suffered by Compton’s mentor, Senator Garrison Lee, right down to the eye patch and scarring on the right side of his face and his limp.
Compton strolled into the immense cafeteria at 3:30 A.M. and went directly to the kitchen and the men and women doing the day’s baking. He sat with them and had coffee and talked about their routine. After he left, the bakers and cooks exchanged looks of disbelief that the director had sat and spoken with them.