“What have you got for me. Lieutenant Ritter?”
Lieutenant Michael Ritter had been reading a complex message on his monitor screen, and Kram’s question caused him to flinch nervously.
“I’m sorry, sir. You caught me deep in crypto space
In fact, I was just completing the decoding sequence of the VLF TACAMO transmission responsible for the exercise’s abrupt cancellation.”
Kram peered over his subordinate’s shoulder, and found himself unable to decipher the computerese visible on Ritter’s monitor screen.
“I would have hated to see that message before you decoded it,” he sarcastically quipped.
“What’s it say?”
“It looks to me like an EAM, sir.”
“The receipt of an Emergency Action Message would certainly override an exercise,” reflected Kram, still trying his best to make sense out of the screen’s scrambled contents.
“Why don’t you contact them on Gertrude and get a verification? I’ll be in Sonar, and you can reach me there when you get an answer.”
Ritter was already reaching for the underwater telephone as Kram exited the radio room. Directly across the narrow passageway was a closed hatch, with the words sound shack printed above it. The state-of-the-art sonar equipment inside provided their ears to the underwater realm in which they sailed, and Kram heard for himself the sounds of the sea beyond, the moment he entered the cramped, dimly lit compartment.
The familiar cries of a pod of whales emanated from the overhead speakers. It was a mournful, ethereal symphony, made up of long-drawn-out bellows, and gentle, catlike me wings interspersed with rumbling bass trills. Kram identified the faint, high pitched wavering sound in the background as belonging to a large freighter that had passed almost directly over them earlier, and which the sonar watch team had designated Sierra Eleven.
This team was comprised of three individuals who were huddled over their consoles, totally unaware of their newly arrived visitor. Kram smiled upon noting that the current sonar watch supervisor, or “Sup,” as he was known to his men, was Petty Officer First Class Brad Bodzin. Bodzin was the Folk’s senior enlisted sonarman. A grizzled veteran at the age of twenty-eight, the Houston, Texas, native was known for his rather remarkable intuitive abilities and easygoing, hands-on management style. He was presently standing behind his seated associates, and Kram listened as he shared his unique expertise.
“Because humpbacks sing in long, repetitive phrases, it’s possible to time our sprint-and-drift sequences to coincide with the portion of whale song that’s most conducive to masking our signature.”
“I certainly never learned that one at the Naval War College,” remarked Kram, who stepped forward and greeted Bodzin with a fond pat on the shoulder.
Bodzin’s face blushed with embarrassment.
“I never meant to infer that such a tactic was part of our official operational doctrine. Captain. But you’ve got to admit that taking advantage of the natural sounds of the sea makes good sense.”
Kram replied while scanning the waterfall displays of the BQ7 conformal array and the BQ-21 broadband unit.
“I do believe I once read a Norwegian Navy white paper that promoted the use of naturally existing marine biologies for submarine operations in the littorals, and in theory, it’s not that crazy an idea.”
“Especially with the increase of the world’s marine mammal stocks,” added Bodzin, excited to have his CO’s feedback.
“The end of unrestricted whaling has led to an amazing turnaround of whale populations. We’re monitoring them in ever increasing numbers, with the Navy even using SOSUS to prove this point.”
One of the humpbacks projected a deep, sonorous bellow, and Kram watched the signature of this cry display itself on the BQ-21 as a thick white line.
“It’s almost ironic,” he said with a grunt.
“But as the whale population increases, the number of blue-water, nuclear submarines has gone in the opposite direction.”
“Quantity isn’t everything, sir,” Bodzin reminded him.
“The number of nuclear-powered submarines might be down, but you’ve got to admit that those new boats are awesome. Seawolf is one mean, quiet dude. And even with all their military cutbacks, the Russians are still managing to put to sea an entire new generation of sophisticated attack subs.”
“Sup, I’ve got Sierra One again!” interjected SIC James “Jaffers” Echoles, the broad-shouldered black man responsible for monitoring the series of low-frequency, passive hydrophones mounted around the Folk’s bow.
“Bearing zero-four-zero, with a relative rough range of twelve thousand yards.”
Both Kram and Bodzin noted a slight flutter on the BQ-7’s waterfall display. The sound line continued to develop, and Bodzin reached up into the overhead air duct and removed a can of Dr. Pepper and a Mars bar.
“Jaffers, my man, you win again,” said Bodzin while handing over the cherished prize, accepting a high five, and returning his glance to the green-tinted display screen.
“We must have been in their baffles the whole time,” he added wondrously.
“That boomer is one quiet big lady.”
Kram accepted a call on the intercom, and he wasted little time sharing its contents.
“Mr. Bodzin, it’s time for the Polk to go back into the Anti-Submarine Warfare business. Radio just got the word that the Rhode Island has received an EAM, which means we go from a special ops platform to keeping any unwelcome strangers off their tail.”
“Does this mean that today’s transfer of the SEALs by mini sub is scrubbed, sir?” asked Bodzin.
“That depends on the EAM,” answered Kram while turning to exit.
“If it’s canceled. Captain Lockwood wants to reschedule the transfer for later this afternoon. Now I’d better inform Commander Gilbert.”
Kram left Sonar and continued aft, to the control room. He found the Chief of the Boat standing behind the ship control station. Chief Roth, his usual unlit cigar clenched between his teeth, was seated in front of COB. At his sides were the planes man and the helmsman, their hands tightly gripping aircraft-style steering yokes.
A single, practiced glance at the variety of readouts and gauges mounted into the bulkhead before them showed Kram that they were currently traveling on a northerly heading, at a depth of five-hundred and seventy feet and a speed of sixteen knots. He didn’t have to go over to the nearby navigation station to know that they were due east of Florida, and approximately twelve hours away from the Rhode Island’s home port of King’s Bay, Georgia.
“COB, I believe we now know why the transfer exercise was canceled,” announced Kram.
“Don’t tell me. Captain,” retorted COB, a boyish grin on his heavily furrowed face.
“I bet Captain Lockwood finally realized he was gonna be stuck with our SEALs for an entire twelve hours.”
Kram snickered.
“If I know Lockwood, that probably crossed his mind. But the only thing that got him off the hook this time was the receipt of an EAM.”
This revelation caught the attention of Chief Roth, who looked up and matter-of-factly voiced himself without taking the cigar out of his mouth.
“Is it another exercise, sir?”
“I sure hope it is,” said Kram.
“The most I could get out of Radio was that the Rhode Island was notified of an alert change to DEFCON Four.”
“The Russian President must have gotten another cold,” quipped COB.
“Or maybe the Chinese have gone and hijacked another ocean liner.”
This comment caused Roth to playfully grimace, and Kram snapped back, “I’m sure the alert is only routine, and chances are it will be rescinded shortly, with Lockwood wanting to attempt another transfer later this afternoon. I was on my way to share the news with Commander Gilbert. I gather he’s still down in the rec room.”