Crossing Savage (10 page)

Only Peter, his father, Murph, and Davis hung on. They were settled in front of the fireplace, absorbing the heat and seemingly mesmerized by the crackling flames. The conversation was minimal with stretches of minutes passing by when no one spoke—just staring intently at the dancing flames.

The periods of silence were getting longer as fatigue was gaining the upper hand on each of them. Breaking the silence Davis said, “Murph and I will run random patrols around the cabin, probably establishing a perimeter maybe 500 yards out. We'll recon in the morning and then make our decision.”

Murph yawned, fighting back drooping eyelids, and then added, “Be sure to let us know when and where you plan to be during the day. Anytime you leave the defensive perimeter, one of us will go along.”

Professor Savage frowned. He had been expecting these orders. “Look, gentlemen, I understand you are here on orders from the Defense Department, and I sincerely appreciate your dedication and commitment. But I'm here with my team to complete a lot of work in a very limited time. I cannot afford to be slowed down.”

“Don't worry, Professor; we won't be in your way.”

“You probably won't even know we're there,” added Davis.

Peter, clearly seeing an argument brewing, interrupted and suggested a round of whisky.

Before Murph could answer, Davis spoke up, shaking his head. “Would love to, but not while we're on duty.”

That earned a hard stare from Murph.

“I get it. Can I get you a fresh coffee?” Peter asked over his shoulder, on the way to the kitchen.

“No, I think we're good,” said Davis. That earned a second glare from Murph.

Professor Savage remained staring at the fire, deep in thought—or maybe it was just fatigue? Peter wasn't sure. He came back from the kitchen with a tray holding two generous shots of Buffalo Trace, keeping one and giving the other to his father. All were quiet for a few minutes, absorbing the moment as they stared at the flames performing the most primitive ballet, one that has entranced both ancient and modern man.

Murph sensed the need to pick up a different line of conversation. As he glanced around the room, his eyes locked on two antique firearms that were hanging on the wall above the front door. “Are those rifles originals?” he asked.

Davis winced, knowing it was a lame question.

Peter smiled to himself. “No, they're replicas. The one just above the door is a .58 caliber Zouave rifle, state-of-the-art during the Civil War and still plenty deadly up to 700 yards. But I can't shoot it well beyond 200 yards. Took a 400-pound black bear with it this past spring—one shot. The rifle above it is a .50 caliber Hawken-style percussion rifle.”

Murph nodded understanding. “Never shot a muzzleloader. I hear it's difficult.”

“It can be. The biggest challenge, I think, is training yourself to hold steady. The lock-time is long compared to a modern weapon. And you need to be very good with open sights. Dad used to shoot a lot of black powder. And I remember he was pretty good too… better than me.” His father nodded at the compliment and raised his glass to Peter.

When he was younger, Peter had often gone to the range with his father. But those were more innocent times, before each man's opinions and prejudices had grown to place an untenable weight on their relationship. The son and father, once closest of friends, learned to live lives apart from each other to prevent the strained relationship from deteriorating further. And at that moment, Peter regretted the loss of so much time he had wasted, treating his father more as a casual friend.

It was clear to Peter that everyone was slowing down. The long day and physical exertion were beginning to conspire against the four men. Their thoughts drifted off and their eyelids were beginning to feel heavy. Peter shook himself from his half-conscious mental state. He had one more thing to share with his father and the two marshals before they called an end to a very long day.

“Just so you all know, those guns above the door are loaded. Took care of it earlier today—fresh charges and percussion caps. Don't horse around with them. But if you need to shoot something, that's what they're here for.”

The professor stared uncomfortably at Peter. For the first time he was beginning to feel that maybe his stubborn commitment to carry out this expedition might not have been such a good idea.

Chapter 7

September 24

Under the North Pacific

Unbeknownst to Professor Ian Savage's team
and the two U.S. marshals, at the exact moment they were loading their gear onto the charter boat at Sand Point, a routine drama was unfolding 300 miles south of their position under the wind-whipped waves of the North Pacific Ocean.

A Virginia class nuclear attack boat, the
USS New Mexico,
SSN 779, was on patrol under the command of Captain Earl Berry. A native of San Francisco, Captain Berry was proud of his African-American heritage. He was even prouder to be one of only a few African-Americans commanding a U.S. Navy warship.

The submarine had been recently commissioned and had undergone its sea trials a year earlier. At 7,800 tons displacement and 377 feet in length, it could cruise quietly and very fast, with a top speed of 32 knots. Its nuclear power plant allowed the submarine to remain submerged on a mission for up to three months.

Scheduled to replace the aging fleet of Los Angeles-class boats, the Virginia-class attack submarines had been designed for a broad spectrum of open-ocean and coastal missions. Because the current mission was to seek out submarines of other nations, identify them, and track them, the
New Mexico
was armed with the Mk-48 torpedo as its primary weapon, rather than cruise missiles designed to attack land-based targets.

The Virginia-class boats incorporated numerous technical innovations. The traditional periscope had been replaced by a collection of high-resolution cameras and external optical sensors—including light-intensification and infrared sensors—mounted on extendable photonic masts. An infrared rangefinder and an integrated Electronic Support Measures (ESM) array could be deployed from the sail. The sensors and ESM sent digital signals through the pressure hull via fiber optic data lines.

Captain Berry's orders gave him the latitude to determine exactly where to drive his boat on any particular day. He was responsible for a large section of ocean, and today he decided to patrol about 300 miles south of the continental shelf along the edge of U.S. territorial waters south of the middle Aleutian Islands.

Captain Berry and his crew were dedicated professionals, and the
USS New Mexico
maintained a high degree of discipline. They routinely practiced quiet operation since stealth was their greatest asset.

Sonar had already recorded and tracked several blue whales and countless fishing boats over the past three days. Today had begun like so many others, and there was certainly no indication to suggest it would become anything but routine. It was just another day on patrol, thought Captain Berry. Yet in this deep water between both the United States and Russian territories, the routine could be broken at any moment.

The sonar officer reported, “Sir, I'm picking up a weak contact, not biologic.”

Captain Berry replied, “Another fishing trawler?”

“No sir. Different signature. I've not ID'd it yet.”

The Captain and his executive officer, Commander Tom Meier, looked at the waterfall display with the sonar officer. “It's this track here,” said the sonar man, pointing at a squiggly green line that moved from the top of the screen to the bottom. There were several other parallel squiggly lines representing sound data from other targets being tracked.

“The signal is too weak for the computer to come up with a positive ID. Based on what we have, it appears to be a small vessel, single crew.”

Berry was studying the track when Meier observed, “I haven't seen a track like that before.”

“Distance and bearing?” Berry said.

“The signal is very weak, sir. I make it fifteen degrees. Distance is probably at least 40 miles.”

“Continue to track. Let's see if we can close the gap. Maybe we can improve the resolution and get a solid ID.”

“What do you make of it?” asked Meier.

“I'm not sure just yet. But if it's a Russian or Chinese sub, we need to shadow her. If the boat has been previously tracked and ID'd, then the computer should recognize her unique acoustic signature. Sonar, keep working the problem. I want to know when you have something.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Three hours later sonar announced, “Sir, the computer has ID'd the target with a high degree of probability. Russian submarine
Saint Petersburg,
bearing 27 degrees, distance fifteen miles. She's at a depth of 900 feet, beneath a thermocline. That's probably why we had so much trouble identifying her.”

“The
Saint Petersburg
was commissioned recently. I believe she uses a fuel-cell propulsion system,” Meier reported.

“This is the first time I've encountered a fuel-cell boat. She's pretty quiet; I'll say that for her,” added Captain Berry.

The captain was contemplating why the
Saint Petersburg
was here, very close to United States territorial waters. “Sonar, what's her bearing and speed?”

“Twenty-eight degrees; speed nine knots.”

“If she remains on her present course,” said Meier, “she'll have to rise to avoid the shelf. We should get a much better fix on her then.”

“Agreed,” said Berry. “Stay with her and keep our distance; try to get in her shadow. She may not know we're here. I want to keep it that way. When she comes up through the thermocline, be ready to record her signature. I want more audio data on her.”

The
USS New Mexico
continued to shadow the
Saint Petersburg
as it stayed on its heading. Predictably, the target sub rose to climb above the continental shelf about 75 miles south of Sand Point and slowed to four knots. As she came up through the thermocline, leaving the colder deep water for the warmer surface water, her acoustic signature became clear. Sonar started recording and would continue until ordered by the captain to cease.

Continuing on her path, the
Saint Petersburg
eventually crossed into U.S. territorial waters. “What's her business inside U.S. waters?” wondered Captain Berry aloud. “Tom, project her course on the screen.”

The XO put the present known course of the
Saint Petersburg
into the navigational computer. It was shown as a red line on an electronic chart displayed on a high-resolution color LCD screen.

“Looks like her present course will take her just east of Chernabura Island and directly toward one of these islands just to the north—either Little Koniuji Island or Simeonof Island. At her present speed, I'm estimating it will take about twenty hours to reach either island.” He was pointing at a couple of large, irregular islands on the chart about ten to twelve miles northeast of Chernabura Island.

The captain and his XO intently studied the chart, looking for a clue to explain why the
Saint Petersburg
was heading in that direction.

“Maintain speed and distance from the target. I want to know everything she does. If she stops, we stop. If she turns, so do we. Do not lose her, and do not let her know we are here,” said Berry. Then he left for his quarters. He had a scheduled message to send, and this time he had something of interest to report.

The
New Mexico
did not have to surface to send or receive messages. But she did have to rise to a shallower depth to deploy her main antenna. Captain Berry prepared his coded message and ordered his communications officer to send it to COMSUBPAC on schedule. He reported the presence of the
Saint Petersburg,
as well as the
New Mexico
's actions in shadowing the target.

The hours ticked by slowly as they continued this game of cat and mouse. Both submarines moved in tandem north into shallower water, creeping toward Chernabura Island. The
Saint Petersburg
had slowed dramatically after she crossed the continental shelf. In order to have more maneuvering room, Captain Berry placed his boat farther east from the
Saint Petersburg
so that his target was to his port side.

Berry and Meir had hardly slept in the past 36 hours, and it was only the coffee and excitement that kept them sharp. All too often—fortunately—the patrols were routine and dull. Now they had a challenge, a purpose to practice and demonstrate their skills honed through years of training.

About five miles east-northeast of Chernabura Island, the
Saint Petersburg
slowed to a half knot—just enough forward speed to maintain maneuverability. The
New Mexico
did the same. The separation between the two submarines had remained constant at 8,000 yards. Both boats were at about the same depth, 210 feet.

“Now what?” the captain asked rhetorically.

They continued crawling north. Suddenly the sonar operator broke the silence. “New sound. Torpedo tube is being flooded.” The sonar man had his left hand on the headset while his eyes were locked on the displays in front of him, swiftly scanning back and forth, taking in the visual and audio data. He paused—listening, interpreting—before continuing his narration. “Now the outer door is opening.” His voice was beginning to rise and the atmosphere instantly became very tense. Meier felt minute drops forming on his forehead as it seemed the temperature had suddenly risen twenty degrees.

“Stay calm. There's no indication we've been detected. If she goes active, say so immediately,” instructed the captain.

Berry turned to the XO. “Load two Mk-48s in tubes two and four. Have them set to go active on command. Load the current position of the target into the torpedo guidance computer and have fire control on standby. Spread the word; this is
not
a drill.”

“Yes, sir.” Meier relayed the orders and huddled with the fire-control officer.

When he came back to the captain he said, “Sir, at 8,000 yards we're pushing the effective range of the Mk-48. If the
Saint Petersburg
takes evasive action—and it will—then our fish may run out of juice before they reach the target.”

“Understood, but I'm not taking any chances. If she turns and begins to close the distance, I don't want to be caught with our pants down.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Meier. He was a good officer, thought Berry, but still lacked experience. Berry had learned that being prepared never cost you anything, and it could save your ass if it all went to hell in a hurry.

“Continue to track and monitor. I still don't think she knows we're here, but I can't explain her actions so far. If she turns toward us and launches, we'll be ready to fire immediately and have time to deploy countermeasures and run at top speed for the shelf. If the
Saint Petersburg
is trying to avoid our two fish homing in on her, she'll be too busy to chase after us. Once at the shelf, we can go deep and set up an ambush.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Nothing like on-the-job training, huh, Tom?” Berry said with a sly grin. “It's the only way to grow the next generation of able captains.”

“Sir, I'm getting a new sound,” said the sonar officer.

Meier followed immediately, “The
Saint Petersburg
is steady on the same heading, no change.”

“Sonar, tell me what you have,” commanded Berry.

“Compressed air… now water flowing over an irregular object. No screws. This is
not
a torpedo. I think the target just jettisoned a canister or something.” As Meier breathed a silent sigh of relief, he couldn't tell if his captain was registering any emotion at all.

“Could it be a mine?” asked Berry.

“Could be, sir, but they have only jettisoned one, whatever it is.”

Berry was silent, contemplative. A couple minutes later sonar reported again. “I'm picking up what sounds like divers in the water. I have clear sounds of bubbles from scuba gear.” He continued to listen intently. The officers were huddled close to the sonar operator with an intensity and focus reminiscent of someone concentrating on a ballgame being announced, play by play, on the radio.