Authors: David Capps
U.S.S. Massachusetts, Pacific Ocean, Off the Coast of Oregon
Captain Jacobs sat with Silverton, Stephanos and Adams in the wardroom. “This is what I see at this time,” Jacobs said. “I was thinking the ghost sub was North Korean, it has the screw signature of an old Russian Alfa, but it didn’t make sense because it was decommissioned nearly twenty years ago and was supposed to be cut up into scrap. We have a Chinese frigate with full ASW capability riding shotgun on the surface, effectively hidden from radar and satellite surveillance by the hurricane on the surface. That didn’t make any sense, either. Russia and China aren’t exactly friends but North Korea and China are, at least to some degree. Yet I can’t really see them cooperating with each other on something like this.”
“But what if China bought the old Russian Alfa?” Silverton asked.
“And replaced the old liquid metal reactor,” Jacobs finished. “Then what we see would make at least some sense.”
“They’re planting something heavy on the ocean floor,” Stephanos said. “How does that fit in?”
“How far apart?” Jacobs asked.
“About eighteen miles,” Stephanos replied.
“So we have no idea how many of these things they have planted or how many more they intend to plant, or what these things actually are,” Jacobs said. “Why here?”
“They appear to be placing these things at the bottom of a valley on the ocean floor,” Silverton added.
“Valley?” Adams asked.
“Yeah,” Silverton replied. “Here’s a map of this section of the ocean floor.”
Adams stared at the map. “Oh God, no.” he said quietly.
“What do you see?” Jacobs asked.
“Any of you guys grow up in California?” Adams asked. He looked around at the blank expressions on their faces. “I did. This isn’t just a valley – it’s an earthquake fault line.” He grabbed the map and looked at the small printing along the line of the valley. “Oh God. It’s the Cascadia Subduction Zone. The heavy things they’re planting, they’ve got to be mines, every eighteen miles, they probably run back to where the Subduction Zone meets the San Andreas Fault.”
“How bad?” Jacobs asked.
“2002, a 9+ Subduction Zone quake took out every city along the coast of Chile and moved the coastline by twenty feet. 2004 a 9.2 Subduction Zone quake destroyed coastal Sumatra and parts of Indonesia. 230,000 people died right after Christmas. This thing will take out every city in the Pacific Northwest and send a massive tsunami halfway around the globe. That’s how bad,” Adams said.
“We have to be sure,” Jacobs said. “This could start World War Three.”
“It’s not like we can sink it from here,” Silverton replied. “We still have to sneak up on it. That’ll give us more time to verify what we think is happening.”
“And when we do sink it,” Stephanos said. “We’ll have an Anti-Submarine Frigate right on our butt.”
Silverton looked over at Adams. “I’m just thinking about your dad’s story of the
Scorpion
. He believed it was a sub-on-sub conflict where both subs sank, and there was no one around to tell anyone what happened. What if we go after the ghost sub and we don’t come back? No one on the surface will know anything about what’s coming. We need to think of the people we can save if we break off our pursuit, get out of range of the Chinese Frigate and warn COMSUBPAC in Hawaii.”
Jacobs thought for a minute. “Whatever mines are currently laid are going to detonate at some point, correct?”
“Yes,” Adams replied.
“How far does the Cascadia Subduction Zone run?”
Adams looked at the map again. “Past Vancouver Island.”
“So this ghost sub is only a little more than half way along the fault, right?” Jacobs asked.
“Yeah,” Adams replied.
“If we break off now, get clear of the Chinese Frigate, go to periscope depth, notify COMSUBPAC and try to reacquire the ghost sub, what are the chances that we will get back to it in time to make a difference?” Jacobs asked.
Everyone sat there looking down at the map. Silverton shook his head. “By that time the ghost sub will have laid most if not all of the mines. The quake will have its maximum damage. Yes, we will be able to warn people, but if we are delayed at all, the ghost sub could disappear. Once it’s done laying mines, we’re never going to catch it. It’ll be gone.”
“If we act now, we reduce the intensity of the quake by reducing the number of mines on the fault line. That’ll save people too,” Stephanos said. “The risk is if we all die in the process, we can’t warn anyone. But if we survive, we reduce the damage from the quake,
and
we get to warn everyone.”
Jacobs looked into the eyes of his most trusted officers on the sub. It was one of those lose/lose types of decisions.
“It’s your boat,” Adams said. “You have to choose.”
U.S.S. Massachusetts, Pacific Ocean, Off the Coast of Oregon
“Right now what we have is a worst case scenario,” Jacobs said. “How confident are we that that scenario is actually true?” No one answered. “Okay, let’s take this one step at a time. I’ve never been a bolt-and-run kind of guy, so we are going after the ghost sub. In that process we should be able to verify at least some of what we suspect. If I am convinced the ghost sub is laying mines, we kill it and take on the Chinese Frigate. If we start World War Three, so be it. I am not going to sit by and let an attack on our country go unanswered.”
The four men exited the wardroom and took their places for battle stations. As Jacobs and Silverton entered the control center of the
Massachusetts
, Lieutenant Kent announced, “Captain has the con.”
Jacobs hit the intercom button, “Torpedo room, con, what’s your status?”
“Con, torpedo room,” Lieutenant Grimes answered, “four Mark 48, mod 7 torpedoes in tubes one through four. Tubes 5 through 8 are open, Sir.”
“Lieutenant Grimes, load four MOSS decoys in tubes 5 through 8 and notify me when complete,” Jacobs ordered.
“Loading four MOSS torpedoes in tubes 5 through 8, aye-aye, Sir,” Tiffany replied.
“Helm, reduce speed to twelve knots, maintain current depth, and heading, silent running rules in effect,” Jacobs ordered.
“Twelve knots, 1500 feet, heading true north, silent running, aye-aye, Sir.”
Jacobs looked at Silverton, “Everybody at battle stations?”
“Yes, Sir,” Silverton replied.
“Close all watertight doors.” Jacobs ordered. “Sonar, con, let me know immediately if there is any change in screw speed of the ghost sub.”
“Con, sonar, notify of any change, aye-aye, Sir.”
Stephanos notified the Captain of every thousand yard change in range. At the expected two-hour interval the ghost sub slowed again.
“Helm, all stop,” Jacobs ordered as he put on his head phones.
“All stop, Sir.”
Current range?” Jacobs asked.
“Current range is 19,000 yards, Sir,” Stephanos replied.
“Are they turning to clear baffles?” Jacobs asked.
There was a pause. “Single soft ping, Sir, mapping the ocean floor.” Several tense minutes passed before Stephanos said. “Tube sounds again, Sir, no screw sounds.”
“Okay,” Jacobs said. “Helm, ahead slow, come to course 090 and stop.”
“Come to course 090 and stop, Sir,” the helmsman answered.
“Anything?” Jacobs asked.
“Screw sounds, the ghost sub is picking up speed, Sir,” Stephanos reported. The silent wait continued to about the six-minute mark. “Heavy impact with the ocean floor, Sir.”
“Anyone following us?” Jacobs asked.
“Baffles are clear,” Stephanos said.
“Let me know when we are at 18,000 yards,” Jacobs said. “Helm, come to course 000, speed twelve knots, maintain depth.”
“Course true north, twelve knots, maintain depth, aye-aye, Sir,” the helmsman answered.
“XO you have the con,” Jacobs said. He immediately took off his head set, went to his cabin and closed the door.
Jacobs immediately threw up in the sink. After several more wrenching heaves the nausea subsided. He heard a soft knock on his cabin door.
“Captain, are you all right?”
It was Adams. Jacobs ran water in the sink to rinse the mess down the drain.
“Captain?”
Jacobs slowly opened the door. His face felt damp and drained, his jaw quivered slightly and his hand was shaking. He felt about as miserable as a person could get.
“May I enter, Sir,” Adams asked softly. Jacobs motioned him in and closed the door behind him. Adams stood while Jacobs took a wet washcloth and wiped his face and then sat on his bed. “I’m just here to listen, Sir, nothing more.”
Jacobs sat staring at the floor. Several minutes passed before he spoke. When he did his voice was soft and clearly shaken. “Twenty-two years,” Jacobs said. Adams sat on the one chair in the Captain’s cabin. “I’ve been in the Navy for twenty-two years. I’ve been through hundreds of exercises, drills, war games and simulations.” Adams nodded. Jacobs looked up, making eye contact. “In twenty-two years I’ve never had to kill anyone. Twenty-two years.” Adams sat quietly, apparently to let Jacobs work it out for himself. “The ghost sub is clearly on a time table. They aren’t stopping to clear baffles, which is a critical mistake. I am convinced that they are planting some kind of explosive device. That is an act of war, and we must respond accordingly.”
Jacobs slowly stood, tossed the washcloth next to the sink. “Our only choice is to kill the son of a bitch.” He rinsed his face with cold water, dried off with a towel, and turned toward Adams. A firm resolve had replaced the unsteadiness in his chest, the quivering and shaking had stopped. He was ready.
Jacobs strode confidently into the control center of the
Massachusetts
and looked around.
“Range 18,000 yards,” Stephanos reported.
“Fire Control, are the Mark 48’s in tubes one and two online?” Jacobs asked.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Program both torpedoes to home in on the ghost sub’s screw signature, silent approach, active ping and high speed attack from 200 yards, spread tube one to the left of target and tube two to the right of target 500 yards apart. Tell me when you’re ready.”
The ADCAP, or advanced capability, torpedoes had both propellers and pulsejet propulsor drives. This enabled the torpedo to approach its target silently, but at a slower speed, using the pulsejet. Once the torpedo reached the designated distance from its target, the twin high speed screws, or propellers, would kick in, and accelerate the weapon to its maximum speed.
The torpedoes also had a sophisticated sonar system built into them, allowing them to track a target in passive sonar mode, listening, essentially, and then go to active sonar mode, using sonar pings to positively locate the target, assess its size, and select the best place to strike.
“Why active pinging and high speed screws at 200 yards and not the usual 500 yards for the torpedoes?” Silverton asked.
“The Alfas can go from a dead stop to sixty knots in ninety seconds. The top speed on our torpedoes is fifty-eight knots. If we give them enough time, they can out-run the torpedoes. Two hundred yards and they can’t respond fast enough to get away.”
“Got it,” Silverton replied.
“Firing solution ready,” Fire Control said.
“Fire tubes one and two,” Jacobs ordered.
“Tubes one and two fired, Sir,” Fire Control replied.
“Helm, come to course 120, speed sixteen knots,” Jacobs ordered.
“Course 120 degrees, speed sixteen knots, aye-aye, Sir,” the helmsman answered.
“Why not 180 degrees?” Silverton asked.
Jacobs turned to face him. “First, we need our flank-mounted hydrophones to monitor what happens when our torpedoes go active, we don’t want that event in our baffles, and second, if someone discovers where our torpedoes came from, we don’t want to still be in line with that direction.”
Silverton smiled. “Lesson learned, Sir.”
Jacobs hit the intercom button, “Torpedo room, con, Lieutenant Grimes, load two more Mark 48, Mod 7 torpedoes in tubes one and two.”
She repeated the order ending with, “Aye-aye, Sir.”
“Time to get the hell out of here,” Jacobs said. He checked the tactical display. The run time showed 78 minutes in silent mode. Jacobs checked the time on his watch and made a mental note of when the torpedoes would go active. Sneaking up on the target was critical so the enemy would be caught by surprise when the torpedoes went active. Once that happened, though, your presence was no longer a secret, which made sneaking away even more critical. It was hard to know exactly when you were safe. Maybe you never were.
* * *
Tiffany led her crew in loading two more Mark 48, Mod 7 torpedoes into the bottom tubes. Through days of intense practice her crew had gotten the load time down under 10 minutes, but it still needed to be faster. She kept close track of the time. In the beginning, she had to remind members of her crew of what task came next. Now it was a silent ritual as each member went through the exacting steps. She took pride in their growing efficiency and skills, just as if they were her own family.