Broward raised his eyebrows.
Clearing her throat, she continued, “The details of what I’m about to tell you are in that file. It’s all there.” Pointing to the folder, she paused. “We are the Adam taskforce, brought about by a madman. A deranged nuclear physicist. Our group has determined that a threat he made eleven days ago is a real and imminent threat, a danger to humanity.” She took a breath and continued, “He has submerged somewhere off the California coast, possibly right under us, an armed and time-triggered W-88 thermonuclear warhead with a half-megaton yield. He named it Adam in his message, thus our group’s name.”
Calm, eyes fixed on her, he responded, “Holy mother of God. When is it set to explode? Do you know?”
“Yes. In his encrypted warning, he sets March 14, pi day, as the day. It’s a long story why, but let’s leave it there for now.”
Standing, then walking to a calendar on the wall, he flipped the month from February to March. “Have you determined a search area, other than the whole Goddamned Pacific?”
She expected his comment. It had become the recurring concern in her meetings; each time it was mentioned, she cringed. “Yes, sir. Our current data indicates an area no larger than one-hundred-twenty-seven square miles, a ten-mile-radius semicircle, centered on Dana Point. We’ve stepped up our efforts to narrow it down.”
“Well, we’ll work with what we have until you supply more constraints. It’s just going to take longer. Can a member of your group refresh my memory of the W-88 warhead? That’s a pretty old weapon, if I remember right. Off a Trident missile.”
Gruber spoke up and answered his question, detailing the warhead. The only words that stuck were ‘six feet by two feet.’
Broward shook his head. “Well, we have found warheads before, but with radar signatures of their descents into the water. We’re basically working blind here, but we’ll get started.”
Focused on the task, not the problems, Cross redirected the discussion, “Do you have any towable scintillators on board, Captain? I’ve towed various sensors behind the Glider with pretty good luck. I can do that.”
“Yes a few. We also have scintillators pods for our Bluefins. We’ll outfit them for radiation detection. They can be running, searching by morning.”
Poole sat back in her seat. The conversation had turned.
The Captain put his hands together, thumbs under his chin, staring down, thinking, “Now I have a small problem here. If I tell my crew we’re sitting over an armed, time-triggered nuclear weapon, I expect to have a pretty low morale on board, possibly leading to a mutiny as pi day nears. I would rather keep it quiet, as you’re doing with the public. Panic will help no one.”
Poole nodded agreement.
He continued, “Obviously, I have to tell them what we’re searching for: a lost missile nose cone. Possibly nuclear. Nothing more. What I’d like to do is float that cover story around, aboard the ship. Our external cover story will be we’re doing cable repair on the CHUS submarine cable. The one tying the U.S. and China together. If we’re spotted, and we will be, that’s our story. Let’s get to it.”
Approving nods and cautious smiles rounded the table. Broward smiling, clapped his hands together and stood. “Now follow me into the Officer’s Mess; we’ll have some of that breakfast we’ve been smelling all morning. Then we’ll tour the ship.”
Following their meal, the Captain ushered the group around the ship on his standard visiting-dignitary readiness show. He had earlier submerged a tethered Remus UUV, and in the Operations Room, a lone sailor sat in a darkened room, lit only by surrounding screens, watching the drone he commanded. A large panel of displays around him relayed its data, flashing randomly, accompanied by occasional beeps and buzzes. The room smelled of electronics and hot metal.
“This is our Combat Information Center, also called our Operations Room,” he said. “We control our drones from here. We can have up to five out roaming the ocean simultaneously. Any more that that, we find the signals tangle, they lose sync, and we have to send divers or more robots down to find them. Kinda defeats their purpose.”
Pointing to another long section of seats, all centered on large displays, he continued, “Those stations supplement the bridge’s sonar, acoustics and radar capabilities. They’re much more sensitive and detailed. The bridge can see and hear ships, subs, weather and underwater hazards. We see the armaments aboard those ships, their draft depths, the types of hazards and, of course, track our own UUVs, UAVs and ROVs. We can even hear the clicks and whistles of whales, telling us what type and size of cetacean we’re dealing with. Some, like the enormous blues, can mimic fast-moving subs on our sonar. But their sounds give them away. We’ll be tracking, watching, and listening to Mr. Cross and his mini-sub from here as he searches below us.”
Awed by the capabilities, Poole and her group moved on, following Broward. Cross and Briscoe lagged behind taking to the sailor. They wanted to know more about the Bluefin, how it would carry the scintillation probe, and where its data would be displayed on the screen. Not surprised by his answer, that he knew nothing of a scintillation probe, they quickly rejoined the group on the upper deck.
The UUV, UAV and ROV storage deck was one of the group’s favorite stops on the tour. They were able to touch, stroke and examine the submersibles, wondering what stories they held, where they’d been, and which one, if any, would be lucky enough to find Adam.
From there they followed Broward to surround the little yellow sub, the Canyon Glider, sitting on a rail dock, waiting to be hoisted overboard. Cross stood proudly receiving questions. Sparse but to the point, they inquired about maximum depth of dives, length of dives and number of personnel it could carry. He answered, thirty-five-hundred meters, about two miles depth, ten hours, and two people: one pilot, one passenger. He then went on to explain the emergency break-away bathysphere inside the outer yellow hull. If the Glider were caught deep underwater, unable to surface, there was a lever inside that triggered explosive bolts, separating the hull from the life-sustaining capsule. In theory the sphere would float to the surface, saving the occupants. He stressed “in theory” because he had never been forced to use it.
The group wound around the large upper-deck and stopped at the helipad. They had spent three hours, oohing and ahhing the ship’s modern features. It was equipped for anything, including combat, if that ever occurred. It had not, so far.
They were convinced the search was in the best hands possible. Their fears were eased by the competence of the Captain and the capabilities of his ship. Although they wanted to continue, a few of them were feeling queasy. The Captain, listening to their comments, found they were ready to stand on firm ground again; the ocean had become rough, rocking and heaving the ship, frequently tumbling members of the group against walls, pipes or to the deck.
Looking up at the Osprey, he raised an arm, circled his hand in the air, and whistled. On command, the turbines started with a deep rumble, increasing in pitch to a loud whine within seconds. The air smelled of diesel exhaust. A crewman stepped out onto the pad, by the door, awaiting the team.
Broward looked across the group. “Mr. Cross, I assume you’re staying with us.”
“Yes sir, as long as needed.”
“We have a stateroom for you in Officer’s country. It’s a two person stateroom. Would anyone else like to room with him during our time on station? Does anyone else feel they have experience that may be of help to him and us?”
The group looked around at each other, shrugging their shoulders, then Poole elbowed Briscoe. “Officer Briscoe, they need you. You trained Mr. Cross. Your help could be invaluable. You’re a master diver; you belong with this effort.”