Nowhere was this more evident than from Doc’s current vantage point, where the distinctive scents of the five intruders overpowered his sensitive nostrils. Without having to even hear her voice, he knew that one of them was female. Yet another chewed tobacco, while all of them were most likely meat eaters.
Of course, masking their own body odors through eating a native diet was only one of the tricks that this group of neophytes needed to master in order to survive. They made too much noise, and wasted valuable time fidgeting with their high-tech NVGs.
They also needed to better utilize listening halts to become more aware of their surroundings, while their R&S teams had to learn to slow down and quit trying to cover so much territory on their sweeps.
It was only too apparent that these soldiers had never seen battle. They were most likely instructors from nearby Fort Leonard Wood, whose combat was limited to organizing war games.
Doc had been there himself, and knew they’d get a sobering dose of reality the moment Mariano inevitably changed their rules of engagement.
Chapter 51
For Captain Terence McNeil Lockwood, his duty was perfectly clear — he’d continue the repair efforts on his sonar and communications systems, while at the same time prepare to execute the EAM that the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff had personally conveyed to them via Nightwatch. Only a few minutes ago, a rumbling explosion had sounded outside their hull, and Lockwood feared they’d be unable to fulfill this sworn obligation.
He assumed that the most likely source for the blast was a torpedo exchange between the phantom submarine that had collided with them earlier and the U.S.S. Polk. Because they still didn’t know this fact for certain, or whom the victor was if this exchange had indeed come to pass, he could only pray that they’d get the all-clear from the Polk by 0500, the preappointed time for the first Trident to fly.
To ensure that this launch went off without a hitch. Lockwood exited the control room, where he had been coordinating the repair effort, and headed aft. This brought him to the upper deck of the missile compartment. Other than the engineering spaces, which occupied the after end of the boat, the missile magazine was the largest single compartment on the Rhode Island.
He paused for a moment to survey the twenty-four launch canisters. They were positioned twelve to a side, and painted an orange-tinted red. Each one of them held a nuclear-warhead tipped Trident missile. Only a pair of these Tridents would be needed to fulfill their current duty, and Lockwood headed down to the magazine’s second level to check their status.
He found his weapons officer, or weps, as he was better known, in the missile control center. Weps was seated in front of the main launch console, his complete attention focused on the twenty-four rows of digit-sized buttons that occupied the center part of the console. At the moment, only the buttons labeled 1 and 24 were illuminated, as were the four buttons beside them marked 1SQ, denote, prepare, and away.
1SQ referred to the state of readiness needed to precipitate a launch. It was a compilation of factors including the state of each missile’s three-stage, solid-fueled propulsion system. Of equal importance was a spinning up of the latest targeting data.
In order to hit a target thousands of miles away, the missile had to know the coordinates of the target and the precise location of the submarine at launch. The Rhode Island’s twin MK-2, MOD 7 Ship’s Inertial Navigation System, would provide the exact point of missile release, through a complex array of electro statically supplied gyroscopes, accelerometers, and computers.
The target coordinates were relayed in the EAM, and were automatically fed into the system so that the crew would never know a warhead’s exact destination. That way, a crew member with relatives living in Moscow wouldn’t have to live with the knowledge that one of their Tridents was targeted on the Russian capital, or on any other location that might have personal significance.
“How much longer until we have 1SQ on those two birds, Weps?” asked Lockwood in greeting, a heavy weariness to his voice.
Weps replied without taking his eyes off the console.
“Another fifteen minutes and we’ll be good to go. Captain. Sorry about the continued delay. That collision did a lot more damage than we had originally thought, but I promise we’ll be ready when it’s time for launch.”
“Let’s continue to pray that sometime within the next fifty minutes the geopolitical situation will change for the better, and we’ll be ordered to stand down,” remarked Lockwood.
“From that commotion outside our hull, it sounds to me that whatever mess we’re in is only heating up,” said Weps.
“I don’t suppose you have any additional info on the source of that explosion, or have since heard from the Polk?”
Lockwood reached out to innocently massage Weps’s shoulders.
“Right now, I know just as much as you or any other member of the crew. I have cob’s personal assurance that by the time we’re ready to ascend to launch depth, he’ll have sonar up and Gertrude functioning. That way, if our phantom submarine is still around, at least we’ll be able to tag them, and talk to the Polk if we need to.”
The 1SQ button to missile number one began blinking, generating a frustrated curse from Weps. It was as he initiated a diagnostic to trace the problem that Lockwood’s XO paged him.
“Skipper, the folks in Engineering are reporting a strange scraping sound. It seems to be originating from outside our upper hull, at the forward end of the engine room.”
Chapter 52
“I’ve got the yellow stripe,” reported Benjamin Kram, his eyes riveted on the real-time scene visible on the control panel’s video monitor.
“Forward ten meters, starboard three.”
The video picture was compliments of a miniature camera set into the mini-sub’s lower hull. The bright yellow stripe it was focused on was painted alongside the Rhode Island’s aft, upper deck access way In order to mate the mini-sub’s transfer skirt directly onto this access way the pilot expertly manipulated his joysticks, causing the thrusters to propel them slightly forward and to the right.
“There are the crosshairs!” Kram proclaimed.
“Down one.”
There was a distinctive, clamorous clanging noise as the mini sub settled down onto the Rhode Island. Kram had to utilize yet another video camera to finalize the alignment, and it was with great relief that he gave the order to attach the transfer skirt and pressurize.
“Commander Gilbert,” he added to SEAL Team Two’s mustached CO, “if it’s all right with you, I’d like to join your men when they unseal the hatch.”
“Me and my ladies would be honored for your company during this historic, first operational transfer,” Gilbert proudly replied.
To extract himself from his cramped command chair, Kram had to grasp the overhead handholds and scoot backward into the passenger compartment. Together with Gilbert, they hunched over and continued farther aft into the transfer module, a circular compartment with a round hatch cut into its deck.
They made certain that the pressure was equalized before kneeling to un dog this hatch, which noisily squealed as they yanked it toward them. Exposed below was the dark gray outer skin of the Rhode Island’s upper hull. Portions of the bright yellow decal that Kram had been watching on the monitor were also visible, and they had to call upon two muscular SEALs to deploy the heavy iron tool needed to actually crack open the Trident’s hatch. It too opened with a grating squeal, and there was a popping sensation, followed by a cool draft of polythylene-scented air.