Mississippi tilted upward, leveling off at two hundred feet while the sonar technicians scoured the surrounding water for surfaced and submerged contacts. Skeens was cycling through the various sonar displays on the left screen of his workstation when the Sonar Supervisor, standing only a few feet away behind the Broadband Operator, spoke into his headset.
“Conn, Sonar. Receiving a bell-ringer.”
Waller acknowledged the report. The small explosive charges dropped into the water nearby directed Mississippi to establish communications with the Roosevelt carrier strike group. Since they were already preparing for a trip to periscope depth, there was nothing else to do.
After giving the sonar technicians a few minutes to complete their search, Waller ordered, “Sonar, Conn. Report all contacts.”
“Conn, Sonar,” the Sonar Supervisor replied. “Hold no contacts.”
“Pilot, come to course one-eight-zero.” Waller ordered a turn in case there were contacts hidden in the submarine’s baffles behind them.
The Pilot tapped the ordered course on the Ship Control Station display, and Mississippi’s computer adjusted the rudder to the optimal angle, turning the submarine to starboard. After steadying on the new course and waiting a few minutes for the towed array to stabilize, Waller ordered, “Sonar, Conn. Report all contacts.”
The Sonar Supervisor again reported no contacts, which wasn’t surprising this far off China’s coast and far from the shipping lanes. However, it also meant they hadn’t closed the gap on their adversary.
Waller ordered, “Co-Pilot, raise Number Two Photonics Mast. Pilot, ahead one-third. Make your depth six-two feet.”
Mississippi tilted upward, beginning its ascent.
The fast attack submarine leveled off with the top of its sail four feet below the ocean surface, and the receiver mounted atop the photonics mast downloaded the latest round of naval messages and tactical updates. Waller watched the geographic display on the Officer of the Deck’s workstation update with the current positions of the Roosevelt strike group, accompanied by a white, scalloped symbol ten miles east of Mississippi. The launch datum.
As Waller studied the geographic display, the Quartermaster reported a GPS navigation fix had been received, then Radio followed.
“Conn, Radio. In receipt of a flash message.”
Waller replied, “Radio, Conn. Bring the message to Control.”
A radioman arrived a moment later, message clipboard in hand. Waller read the directive. A missile salvo had been fired at USS Roosevelt, with two missiles making it through, damaging the aircraft carrier and terminating flight operations. Mississippi had been directed to track down and sink whatever launched the missiles. They were Weapons Free.
Waller handed the clipboard back to the radioman, then ordered, “Pilot, make your depth four hundred feet, increase speed to ahead full.” Turning to the Quartermaster, he said, “Report bearing to launch datum.”
“Bearing zero-nine-three,” the Quartermaster announced.
“Pilot, come to course zero-nine-three.”
The Pilot entered the new course, and Mississippi turned back to the east, surging toward the launch datum.
Thirty minutes later, with Mississippi closing on the point, Commander Waller ordered Mississippi to slow to ahead two-thirds, reducing the flow of turbulent water across the bow, flank, and towed array hydrophones, extending the range of the submarine’s acoustic sensors. It had been an hour since they detected the launch transient, and whatever created it surely hadn’t loitered in the area. Assuming a transit speed of twenty knots, the evading submarine would be twenty nautical miles away by now, beyond the range of Mississippi’s sensors, assuming it was a quiet fourth-generation submarine.
Waller waited for the report nonetheless, which the Sonar Supervisor delivered moments later. “Conn, Sonar. Hold no contacts.”
It was a guessing game now, attempting to determine which direction the target had headed. Mississippi was near the eastern edge of its operating area and would have to request additional water if Waller decided to head east. The Reagan strike group was to the south, which meant it was unlikely the target had headed that way. The north seemed most probable, skirting around the top of the Roosevelt strike group, headed home to China.
Assuming, of course, the submarine was Chinese. Waller was sure the Office of Naval Intelligence was already working on it, evaluating the flight parameters of the missiles, as well as having Roosevelt’s crew scavenge the carrier for missile pieces. Hopefully, enough would be gleaned to determine the perpetrator, which would lead to the next question. Why?
Someone else would answer that question. Waller had been tasked with sinking their adversary. But he had to find it first.
“Pilot, come to course north. Ahead full.”
Mississippi swung to port, increasing speed.
3
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Christine O’Connor, the president’s national security advisor, leaned back into the leather upholstery of the black Lincoln Town Car as it pulled away from the Pentagon’s mall entrance, returning her to the White House after her weekly visit to the Pentagon. Seated beside her was Secretary of Defense Bob McVeigh, carrying an orange Top Secret folder in the locked courier pouch on his lap. Christine could tell his mind was churning, reviewing the information the Office of Naval Intelligence had gleaned from the attack on USS Roosevelt, as well as the implications.
It was only a day ago when SecDef McVeigh called the president, informing him of the missile attack. Inside the folder in his courier pouch was the information collected over the last twenty-four hours, which he’d shared with Christine this afternoon. The evidence left little doubt in her mind as to who was responsible. Just when she’d reached the verge of pushing the Russians from her thoughts, they’d been thrust to the forefront again.
As the Town Car traveled across the Arlington Memorial Bridge into Washington, D.C., sliding past bumper-to-bumper traffic headed out of the District, not even the clear blue sky and warm spring weather could pull her thoughts from the wintry landscape atop the polar ice cap. Despite her best efforts, the memories were constantly there, crowding her thoughts during the day and haunting her dreams at night. Each time she looked at her hands, she couldn’t escape the memory of what she’d done to Captain Steve Brackman, the president’s former senior military aide. Former, as in deceased.
Christine felt emotion gathering in her chest, so she peered out the sedan window. She studied the pedestrians traversing the sidewalks, the construction along Constitution Avenue, the federal building facades. Anything to distract her. She brushed a lock of hair away from her face, and ice-cold fingers touched her skin. The events above and below the polar ice had left a chill in her body that wouldn’t thaw. It was only a matter of time, she told herself, before the memories faded, the pain eased. Until then, stay busy, stay focused.
Upon her return from Ice Station Nautilus, she’d thrown herself into her work, spending sixteen-hour days in the West Wing, seven days a week, stopping only to eat, sleep, and work out at the Pentagon gym. Thankfully, her acquaintances at the gym didn’t bring it up. Didn’t ask why she had killed her good friend. As she returned to the White House, she was grateful McVeigh was accompanying her and would sit in the Oval Office chair Brackman would normally have occupied while discussing military issues with the president. The empty chair during her meetings with the president the last few weeks had been a painful reminder of what she had done.