“Bluefin four out,” yelled the crewman, prepping number five for the cables. Cross, watching, positioned beside the Glider, held a predive checklist in his hand. Standing nearby, Briscoe tailed him, taking notes. Every weld seam, viewport and hatch, he inspected for cracks or damage. He had done it hundreds of times, yet each inspection was as important as the last. Completing the exterior check, he slid through the top hatch and sat at the controls.
“Vertical rudder, up,” Briscoe shouted.
“Horizontal rudder, right. Now left.”
“Motors forward.”
“Now reverse.”
A crewman rushed from the last Bluefin, his gloved hand holding an small metal canister. As he raised it to the probe, its aft light flashed rapidly, illuminating the sub with strobe-like stop-motion. Cross shielded his eyes from the flashing. His thumbs-up confirmed its operation.
“You’re good to go, sir. Radiation detected.” The crewman disappeared before Cross could thank him.
He added another box to his checklist, writing “Check Probe” beside it. He couldn’t forget that. It was new to him.
Another voice echoed across the deck, “Canyon Glider, you’re up next. Man your stations. Secure your hatch.”
He looked at his watch. It was six a.m. Right on schedule.
Briscoe’s left leg dropped through the hatch, then the other. Slowly, cautiously he slid into the cockpit beside Cross and sat. He was holding a small paper bag tightly under his arm. The electronic glow from the displays gave away his grin.
“What’s in the bag, Chief?”
Silence.
“What’cha got there Briscoe? You carrying arms?”
Sheepishly, he answered, “No. Donuts.”
Laughing, Cross chided, “Can’t take you anywhere. Gimme one.”
Briscoe handed him one from the bag. Popping it into his mouth, he reached up for the hatch and looked out. Traces of dawn showed in the sky. The hatch slammed down with his pull, darkening the cabin. He twirled the hatch lock just before hearing the heavy crane hooks clank into the rails below. A final sideways jerk told him the umbilical cord had been pulled. They were free, ready to launch. He sat back finishing his donut, Briscoe doing the same.
The Main Deck, reddened by the dawning sun, dropped swiftly below them, then shifted toward starboard and upward as they rode the crane’s cables down to the ocean. Soon, they were afloat, bobbing with the waves.
“Here we go,” Cross said, excitedly. His adrenaline flowed faster, his heart pumped harder as he pushed the throttle forward. Clear from the rail dock, the Glider floated away from the ship. From his notes, Cross programmed the day’s itinerary into the GINS computer then took a quick GPS reading. He looked at Briscoe, not looking well, and grinning, asked, “Are we having fun yet?”
“No. Get this thing submerged, under the waves. I’ve never liked this part. Too much chop.”
“Okay, Chief.” He pushed Auto, then activated the forward floodlights. The sub nosedived like a rock, water and mercury ballasts blowing loud blasts, correcting the dive rate, then minutes later it leveled out. Propulsion motors hummed, pushing it forward at four knots, its cruising speed.
Using the sub’s down-and front-looking sonar, Cross had set it to submerge to within twenty feet of the ocean floor, follow the terrain with the GINS, a gyroscopic inertial navigation system, toward Dana Point, then back. It was a long, boring trip, but he felt he could “outplay” the Bluefin drones.
A little over two hours had passed, not one blue flash from the probe, when the rudders activated, putting the sub in a huge u-turn. Then it started back for the ship, only ten meters away from its previous path. Briscoe looked at Cross and said, “Halfway through one leg and we’re already out of donuts.”
“I know,” he answered, shaking his head, “this isn’t going to work. We’re wasting our time out here when the Bluefins can outpace us two to one. They’d already be back at the ship by now.”
Briscoe nodded. He was regretting his decision to join Cross in the search. There was no point in the two of them being down there when he could be in the Ops Room tracking the Bluefins, or doing anything else. He needed more action. More results. He wanted to dive.
Together they decided to return to the ship and scrub the dive. They found it pointless, having been passed by three Bluefins on the trip, narrowly missing the sub. Slowly, they had realized their real value would show when the warhead was located and they were asked to disarm or remove it.
“Well, guys, I hate to gloat but I told Norton my robots are better than anything he could produce. You’re living proof.” Broward chuckled into his glass and poured another splash of scotch. “Now why don’t you two hang out with my crew, watching the monitors. Maybe you’ll learn something about searching.”
Cross frowned and nodded.
”Oh, did your Glider make it back on deck? Any problems?” he asked, sarcastically.
“Yeah, it’s fine,” Cross answered. Glancing at Briscoe, he added, “The Chief and I have more diving experience than you’ll ever imagine, Captain Broward. We’ll be in our quarters or the Mess Hall if you need us; maybe the Ops Room. When you’re ready to use us, let us know.” He popped a salute, “Permission to leave, sir?”
“Carry on.”
The day went better after that. On their way to the Mess, they stopped by the Ops Room, notifying SeaNetOps they were out of the water but still on board. NCAA basketball was on television; Houston was winning.
SEANET — DAY 3
Two days had passed without an alarm; the Bluefins had returned once for servicing and charging, but they were back out combing the ocean floor. Operating day and night, they had surveyed roughly one square mile per drone, yielding five square miles of warhead-free ocean. With over 120 square miles left, the situation seemed hopeless.
After conferring with his SeaNetOps team at their morning status briefing, Broward was convinced he needed more information. Either that or set sail to the furthest port and await the devastation from afar. He had always been hard-nosed, not afraid to face any situation, but he was not careless enough to let his ship sit over a thermonuclear undersea explosion.
Mulling the problem over at his desk in the CIC, he requested a secure ship-to-shore through ComSec and was granted access. The first call, through the secure line at Seal Beach NWS, was to Commander Norton asking for the Adam team leader’s number. Norton obliged and gave him Lt. Poole’s Crime Lab scrambler number. He placed the call.
“Hello?” the voice said calmly, a standard response on a scrambled line preventing further disclosure.
“This is Captain Broward, U.S. Navy, Ship’s Commander, aboard the Trident Tine. Can you get Lt. Poole on the line for me?”
“One moment sir.” Several clicks. A buzz. The scrambler reset.
“This is Lieutenant Poole. How can I help you sir?”
“We have a problem with our SeaNet exercise, Lieutenant.”
“Excuse me.”
“In two days we have scanned and cleared five square miles of the ocean floor off Dana Point. At our going rate we’ll have your suggested scan area completed by kingdom come. Can you help us?”