Eyes wide and glittering with satisfaction, Commander Bower’s lips curled into a proud grin. He took a deep breath in through his nostrils, as though, despite not yet opening the hatch, he could already smell the fresh air.
It was the first time the Omega Deep had surfaced in three weeks. It would be a short stay, an hour at most, in order to upload information regarding their testing so far, and also to receive any incoming communications. Particularly, whether or not the President was to give the final approval for Omega Deep to complete its final phase of sea trials.
Six miles away, a salvage ship sent out a constant barrage of sonar pings. The commander glanced at the radar operator’s notes. “Do we know whose vessel that is? If it’s a spy ship, it’s the worst one in history because it’s making a hell of a lot of noise.”
“It’s a private salvage vessel, allegedly owned by an American. The name on the AIS transponder is the Maria Helena.”
“The Maria Helena?” A wry smile twitched the commander's lips. “What’s she doing this far north?”
“I believe she’s searching for something on the seabed.”
“Here? Now?” The commander asked. “That seems like one hell of a coincidence.”
The sonar operator — a sharp, twenty-five-year-old brunette he’d hand-picked after she achieved the highest marks to ever come out of Fleet Sonar School— shrugged. “It might be.”
“What the hell are they supposed to be looking for?”
“Do you recall that sound we identified forty-eight hours ago?”
Dwight cocked an eyebrow. “The possible explosion? You finally found a report on that?”
“Yes, sir. It wasn’t an explosion, but it was close to it. More like a ship being dropped from a height. Whatever it was, the vessel eventually struck the seabed — we picked up two sounds. The original impact with the surface of the ocean, and the subsequent impact on the seabed nearly twenty minutes later.”
“What are you thinking?”
“My guess is it was caused by a large aircraft slamming into the sea. At least a 737, but maybe even bigger — possibly even a 747 or A380, God help them.”
“A commercial jet?”
“Possibly, although there is no report of any aircraft going off the radar from Air Traffic Control.”
“If you’re right, why did it take so long?”
The operator asked, “Take so long for what, sir?”
“You said there were two distinct impact sounds. One when the aircraft or whatever it was struck the surface of the sea, and a second one when it hit the seabed.”
“Yes.”
“So, why did it take twenty minutes? I mean, if an aircraft struck the ocean this far north — where even on a good day, the seas were ten feet high and rough — it would almost certainly break apart on impact, wouldn’t it?”
The operator took a deep breath, briefly closed her eyes. “There’s a chance it got lucky.”
“Can’t be too lucky, it still ended up on the seabed.”
“True, and if anyone got out alive, they’d probably freeze to death. But I don’t think anyone survived.”
“Why?”
“Because, according to our surface buoy, no one made any radio transmissions after the aircraft was on the water.”
Commander Bower nodded and closed his eyes. He knew what that meant. Everyone on board was already dead.
“All right. When we receive our orders, we’ll find out if there’s anything to it. They won’t let us test the Omega Cloak if there’s an international search underway in the region. It would be far too dangerous.”
He opened his eyes and took in the scene.
Turning on his heel, the commander surveyed his ship and his crew.
Banks of colored monitors were fixed desktop-to-ceiling above control modules. Sailors surrounded him in oversized ergonomic office chairs at their stations. The operations center of the Virginia class block VII experimental nuclear attack submarine looked more like something from the stock exchange than the bridge of the submarines he commanded as a younger man.
Instead of outboard watch-standers in jumpsuits manning the helm, dive, and ballast controls, there sat a pilot and copilot at computer touchscreens. Sonar, combat control, navigation, and command all worked together in the open-plan war room of the modern attack sub. With 34 feet of beam, there was plenty of space.
They had come a long way with this project. His project. And now, after so many years, he was pleased to have lived to see it reach fruition.
The world would soon see what the Omega Deep was capable of.
James Halifax, the submarine’s Executive Officer, approached. At five-foot-two, he was a short, wiry, and a somewhat unhappy fellow. The XO had a permanent chip on his shoulder, something he unsuccessfully attempted to conceal from his CO. He’d been overlooked for the past three command positions that had come up. It wasn’t his fault. The U.S. Navy had plenty of good men and women who were keen to do the job. Just not enough submarines to go around.
Dwight Bower didn’t like the man. Nothing personal, except for a personality clash. But Bower respected him plenty and was glad he was on board the Omega Deep.
Halifax was intelligent, if a little too wily. He was arrogant, but his ability justified that. Dwight and his XO had clashed a number of times over the years. Bower had very nearly been the cause of the man’s discharge three years ago after an incident, resulting in a court-martial, at which Bower had been called upon to give his expert opinion. In the end, the court-martial had been overturned. Halifax had been reinstated as an XO on the USS Alaska until Bower had personally requested him on board the USS Omega Deep.
Despite their personal differences, Halifax’s intelligence and steadfast determination — edging toward belligerence — made him a prime choice for the role of XO. Bower didn’t need a sycophant — he needed a competent ally to help command the world’s most advanced nuclear attack submarine.
Traditionally, the U.S. Navy’s fleet of nuclear attack submarines was armed with conventional weapons, but the Omega Deep was the first of the American attack submarines modified to be equipped with nuclear-armed cruise missiles — 42 of them to be exact.
It was a lot of responsibility. Bower was happy to share this honor and this burden with someone like Halifax. It was for this reason Bower singled the man out for the position.
Halifax met his eye and handed him a small piece of paper. “Communications have received a coded message from the Pentagon, sir.”
“Thank you, Mr. Halifax.” He took a breath. “Any news regarding that explosion?”
Halifax’s lips thinned to a hardened smile. “Yes. It was a Boeing 747 Dreamlifter cargo aircraft, en route to Quonset Point, Rhode Island.”
General Dynamics Electric Boat — one of the companies used by the U.S. Navy to build submarines — was based at Quonset Point. “The cargo aircraft was one of ours?”
“No. British owned. I’m not sure what sort of cargo it was carrying.”
“Okay.” Bower sighed. “Any survivors?”
“No. Three crew. None found. All presumed dead.”
“Does the Pentagon want us to assist in the search?”
“No. Apparently, the Maria Helena’s located the wreckage and the British Air Accidents Investigation Branch have requested the Maria Helena begin the retrieval of the flight data recorders.”
“Understood,” Commander Bower said, as he took the note and unfolded it onto the navigation table.
His eyes swept over the note.