Empire Rising (33 page)

Two days earlier,
Annapolis
had slipped under the polar ice pack, proceeding at ahead flank through the deep water portion of the Arctic Ocean. The Commanding Officer's Eyes Only message had instructed him to abandon all caution; time was paramount. As
Annapolis
began the most dangerous leg of its underwater journey—transiting the Alaskan continental shelf toward the Bering Strait passage—Ramsey had maintained a high speed, slowing only to ahead full. But the high speed increased their peril.

The last portion of their voyage beneath the ice cap required transit in water depth less than six hundred feet. Although the bottom was mapped, not every feature was known and water depth could decrease rapidly. Additionally, although the thickness of the ice pack was normally uniform, there were also random ice keels jutting downward, blocking the submarine's path. Ramsey had already been forced to detour twice. That was difficult enough traveling alone, even more perilous with two submarines following closely behind.

Two Virginia class submarines,
New Hampshire
and the
Virginia
herself, were hot on
Annapolis
's heels. Not far behind them were both of the Atlantic Fleet's SSGNs. Their loadout of 154 Tomahawk missiles each was sorely needed in the Pacific, now that
Ohio
and
Michigan
had launched theirs, and most of the surface ships were lying on the bottom of the Pacific Ocean.

As Ramsey pondered the Navy's decision to risk both of the Atlantic Fleet's SSGNs in the dangerous under-ice transit, his immediate concern was the two Virginia class submarines following closely behind
Annapolis
. The trio were transiting at an uncomfortably high speed, and if
Annapolis
had to slow down unexpectedly, he had to rely on the awareness of
Virginia
's crew to prevent them from ramming into the back of
Annapolis
, and the same for
New Hampshire
's crew behind
Virginia
, avoiding a disastrous underwater fender bender.

As if on cue, the Sonar Supervisor's voice came across the 27-MC. “Conn, Sonar. We're picking up some unusual broadband noise ahead.”

Ramsey examined the spherical array display on the Conn. The background noise level directly ahead had increased significantly. The Sonar Supervisor followed up, concern in his voice. “Conn, Sonar. The intensity is increasing rapidly. If it continues at this pace, it'll interfere with our under-ice sonar. We won't be able to detect where the ice keels are.”

As the Sonar Supervisor finished his report, Ramsey heard the unusual sound: a deep rumbling, audible through the submarine's hull. The watchstanders in Control exchanged questioning glances, and Ramsey's uneasiness grew as the volume increased. He walked over to the sonar shack, opened the door, and stuck his head inside the dark room, illuminated only by the glow from the sonar displays. The Sonar Supervisor was standing behind the three sonar operators on watch, pressing a set of headphones to one ear. The Chief looked up from the monitors as Ramsey spoke.

“Do you have any idea what it is?”

The Sonar Supervisor shook his head. “I've never heard anything like it. It isn't coming from a specific bearing. More like a wide swath, advancing toward us.”

Ramsey returned to the Conn, viewing the broadband monitor with mounting concern. The increasing sound level was starting to blank out the forward sector of the spherical array sonar. Ramsey glanced at the monitor to the left. The same thing was happening to the under-ice sonar. In a few minutes
Annapolis
would be blind, unable to ping and detect a return from the ice above, or directly ahead. Ramsey turned toward the Officer of the Deck, stationed on the Conn between the two periscopes, staring at the under-ice sonar with the same concerned expression.

“Slow to ahead two-thirds,” Ramsey ordered. “Inform
Virginia
and
New Hampshire
on underwater comms that we're slowing.”

The Officer of the Deck complied, relaying the propulsion order to the Helm, and
Annapolis
began to slow as the rumbling continued to increase in intensity. The OOD attempted to contact the two fast attacks as directed, his voice going out on the underwater communication circuit—not much more than a speaker transmitting into the water. Ramsey hoped the two Virginia class submarines heard the report over the rising background noise.

Ramsey studied the sonar screens intently, searching for a clue to the unusual noise. It was broadband only, with no discrete frequencies, but as the sound grew louder, the rumbling was punctuated with loud bangs, which sounded like explosions. The noise was racing toward them, and in another minute, there would be so much noise in the water that their under-ice sonar would no longer be able to pick up its return.
Annapolis
was about to go blind, just like the two fast attacks behind her.

Three blind mice. Three blind mice.

The nursery rhyme rolled around inside Ramsey's head as he tried to understand what was happening. He was hearing explosions—he was certain of it—accompanied by the rumbling reverberations bouncing off the ocean bottom and the ice pack above. But then a new sound reached Ramsey's ears; sharp, ear-splitting cracks. Finally, it dawned on him.

“The ice pack is breaking apart!” Ramsey shouted to no one in particular. Someone was bombing the ice pack, blinding
Annapolis
and every Atlantic Fleet submarine making the under-ice transit. Even worse, as the ice pack broke apart, the jagged ice was shifting, twisting and repositioning, some fragments shifting up while others sheared downward, directly toward
Annapolis
. Although the submarine's steel hull was three inches thick, the ice keels would tear through the submarine's skin like papier-mâché.

Ramsey shouted so everyone in Control could hear him over the deafening noise. “This is the Captain. I have the Conn. Helm, back emergency!”

Annapolis
began to slow as the propeller churned the water in reverse. Ramsey worried
Virginia
might ram into the stern, but he didn't have any choice. Until the situation stabilized and
Annapolis
could paint a picture of the underwater world with its under-ice sonar again, it was best not to move.

As Ramsey's submarine coasted to a halt, he called out, “Helm, all stop!”

The intensity of the noise peaked and then began to abate, but as the rumbling explosions swept past
Annapolis
, the sharp cracking sounds intensified. As his crew listened to the dreadful noise with upturned faces,
Annapolis
shuddered and began tilting to starboard, accompanied by a loud screech coming from the starboard side of the ship.

Ramsey held on to the Conn railing as the submarine listed fifteen degrees to starboard, the loud screech sounding like someone raking their fingernails down a chalkboard. An ice keel was shifting downward, impacting the submarine's hull, and Ramsey hoped the hull remained intact. Even though the water depth was less than Crush Depth, if the submarine went down under the ice pack, there'd be no way for the crew to escape.

The screeching sound ended and the submarine began to right itself. But as Ramsey breathed a sigh of relief, the Flooding Alarm activated, followed by a 4-MC emergency report.

“Flooding in the Engine Room. Flooding in Engine Room Upper Level.”

There was little Ramsey could do. An Emergency Blow would send the submarine careening up toward the ice pack above, potentially impaling the submarine on another ice keel. If they couldn't stop the flooding and pump the seawater out of the bilges, they'd become a permanent fixture in the under-ice landscape. As Ramsey listened for the follow-up report from the Engine Room, the nursery rhyme began rolling around in his head again.

Three blind mice. Three blind mice
.

 

53

USS
MICHIGAN

Four hundred feet below the ocean's surface, as
Michigan
continued her westward transit toward China's coast, Christine O'Connor sat across from Captain Murray Wilson at the small fold-down table in his stateroom, his dark brown eyes probing hers in silence. She had asked a straightforward yet difficult question, one that had been hovering on the periphery of her mind from the moment she met Wilson in Control her first day aboard. It was obvious the answer was difficult as well; the submarine captain was searching for the right words.

For the last ten days,
Michigan
had been lurking east of Japan, guarding the amphibious ships from Chinese submarines while preparing for the SEAL mission. Twenty-four hours ago they had headed west at ahead two-thirds, stealthily approaching the Nansei island chain curling down from Japan's southwestern island of Kyushu. They would soon pass through the Tokara Strait, where they would likely encounter Chinese submarines protecting the supply lines to Japan from any American submarines that had survived the Pacific Fleet's demise.

Wilson had ordered the crew members not on watch into their bunks. He expected they would get little sleep from the time they entered the Strait until their mission was complete and
Michigan
was safe again in deep water. Christine had taken advantage of the temporary lull in the ship's activity to ask Wilson for a few moments of his time. As the second hand on the clock in Wilson's stateroom ticked toward the twelve o'clock position, Christine realized Wilson had been silent for over a minute.

Finally, Wilson answered. “No, I don't blame you for the predicament I was put in. It was the president's decision to sink the submarine my son was on, and he would have come to the same conclusion even without your recommendation. It was the only option.”

“Thank you for your understanding,” Christine replied. “I keep telling myself the same thing. Yet it's hard not to feel responsible. For failing to stop the Mossad's launch order against Iran. For failing to devise a better response. For forcing you into an unimaginable position.”

“No one forced me to do anything, Christine. Admiral Stanbury asked for my assistance, and I willingly gave it. We couldn't let
Kentucky
launch and annihilate an entire country. When you weigh the lives of seventy million versus one hundred and sixty, the scale tilts one way. Fortunately, things turned out better than they could have. But enough of that episode in our lives,” he added. “What else would you like to know?”

Christine was happy to leave the
Kentucky
incident behind, moving to the next topic on her mind. “Why did you turn down flag rank, and end up in command of
Michigan
instead?”

Wilson leaned back in his chair. “I turned down promotion to Rear Admiral because I wanted to end my career at sea, not behind a desk. I told Stanbury what I wanted and he made the arrangements. There are only two submarines in the Pacific Fleet a captain can be assigned to—
Michigan
and
Ohio
, and
Michigan
was due for a change of command. A few strings were pulled, and I got the orders.” Wilson smiled for the first time since their discussion began.

Their conversation was interrupted by the Officer of the Deck's voice, emanating from the 27-MC speaker in Wilson's stateroom. “Captain, Officer of the Deck. Hold a submerged contact, designated Sierra four-five, bearing two-nine-three. Range and classification unknown.”

As Wilson retrieved the microphone from its holster next to the speaker, Christine decided they were fortunate indeed to have Wilson in command, the most experienced submarine officer in the Fleet. Wilson spoke into the microphone. “Man Battle Stations Torpedo silently.” The Officer of the Deck repeated back the Captain's order as Wilson stood, returning the microphone to its holster. “Let's head to Control.”

*   *   *

Christine followed Wilson out of his stateroom and was almost bowled over by the Messenger of the Watch and LAN Technician of the Watch, sliding down the ladder from Control. One was on his way to the Chief's Quarters and officer staterooms, the other headed aft to rouse the crew from their bunks in the Missile Compartment. After the two men passed by, Wilson and Christine ascended the ladder into Control.

Michigan
was still in its normal watch rotation, with only one-third of the crew on duty. The Officer of the Deck, Lieutenant Steve Cordero—the most experienced junior officer aboard—stood on the Conn between the two lowered periscopes, his eyes fixed on the sonar display. Wilson stepped onto the Conn, stopping next to Cordero, examining the display as he motioned Christine toward the fold-down chair on the starboard side of the Conn. Christine settled into the chair as she listened to the two men's conversation.

“Sir, the ship is on course two-nine-zero, ahead two-thirds, four hundred feet. Hold six surface contacts, all distant contacts. Sonar is still analyzing Sierra four-five.”

Additional personnel began entering Control, energizing dormant consoles and donning sound-powered phone headsets as their displays flickered to life. The Executive Officer and Weapons Officer also arrived, followed by the submarine's Engineering Officer, Lieutenant Commander Kasey Faucher, who relieved Lieutenant Cordero as Officer of the Deck. Cordero manned the last dormant combat control console.

The XO hovered behind the three consoles keeping track of target position, while the Weps hunched over the Fire Control Technician at the Weapon Launch Console. The Weps cast furtive glances in the Captain's direction, and Christine wondered why, finally realizing the reason. If the submerged contact was a Chinese submarine, each torpedo aboard
Michigan
would become a dud as soon as the Chinese submarine transmitted a sonar pulse.