Fatal Thunder: A Jerry Mitchell Novel (37 page)

“I take it you’re not entirely pleased with this arrangement,” noted Samant bluntly.

Jacobs smiled thinly. “Whether or not I’m happy about this plan is irrelevant, Captain. Personally, I agree with Dr. Patterson’s reasoning. My boss, however, does not, and he’s the man I have to work for. I’m sure you can understand the complicated position I’m in. Nothing personal, but the sooner I get you two out of his hair, the better.”

Petrov and Samant nodded; they’d both experienced similar situations sometime during their careers. “Any news on the patrol aircraft search?” asked Samant.

Jacobs shook his head. “Your navy has put up almost a dozen Bear F sorties so far, and they haven’t found or heard a blessed thing. What I don’t understand is why it’s taking so long to get the P-8 Poseidon squadron involved in the hunt.”

“The 312
th
Squadron is under the Eastern Naval Command, the same one that
Chakra
belongs to. The flag officer in charge, Vice Admiral Dhankhar, is the leader of this wretched plot and he ordered our brand-new P-8I squadron, the only one we have, to stand down.” Samant glared with anger as he spoke.

“Most of the squadron’s officers, including the pilots and mission commanders, were sent to an ASW training symposium in Mumbai. At the same time, many of the aircraft were scheduled for maintenance on their engines and acoustic systems. We’re scrambling to get the planes up and running, but it will be at least two more days before the next one’s ready to fly. All that was available for immediate service were six elderly Tu-142s with outdated sensors.”

“How inconvenient for us,” grumbled Jacobs. Samant shrugged apologetically; there wasn’t anything he could say in response to the sarcastic remark. Suddenly, Jacobs’s cell phone rang. He noted the caller’s identity. “Excuse me while I take this call.” Samant and Petrov nodded their consent.

“CSO,” said Jacobs, answering the phone. After a short pause, he continued, “Yes, sir, I’ve picked up our guests and we are en route to the squadron piers. We should arrive in about fifteen minutes.”

*   *   *

Jerry found it a bit strange scanning the road leading up to the wharf with his binoculars. Usually he would look for contacts at sea or in the air; concentrating his search landward was definitely not the norm. Then, in the distance, Jerry saw the flashing lights of a police car. Followed close behind by another vehicle. Leaning over the flying bridge, he raised the bullhorn and shouted down to Thigpen. “XO! Incoming!”

Thigpen signaled his response by waving his ball cap and sent two sailors quickly across the brow to help with their riders’ gear. Turning to Lieutenant Covey, the officer of the deck, Jerry ordered, “Dave, get us under way the moment our guests are aboard.” The junior officer acknowledged the order, and radioed the tug to stand by.

A minute later the two cars pulled up to Wharf B and came to a screeching stop just short of the small crane that was ready to remove the gangplank. Jerry saw the squadron CSO jump out, call over to the two sailors, and point to the opening trunk. As the men ran over to grab the seabags, Jerry saw Petrov and Samant getting out of the car. Thigpen rushed toward the two and rendered a smart salute. Gesturing toward the brow, he urged them to board. Jerry waved a quick greeting when they looked up at the sail. Once the two sailors with the seabags were clear of the gangplank, the small crane lifted it off the hull.

“On deck,” announced Covey through the bullhorn. “Take in all lines!” As soon as the last line came over from the pier, a loud prolonged blast blared from the ship’s horn:
North Dakota
was leaving port. The deep throbbing of a diesel engine abruptly roared to life as tug
Goliath
started to pull the submarine from the wharf. Down on the pier, Jacobs was walking along the edge, repeatedly motioning with his right arm for the sub to leave. Jerry tipped his cap in deference to the squadron’s second-in-command, and then saluted. Jacobs returned the honor and waved good-bye. His face wore a broad smile of relief.

The squawk from the intercom on the bridge suitcase informed Jerry that his guests had dropped off their gear in the XO’s stateroom and were making their way to control. They had requested permission to come up and pay their respects to the commanding officer. Jerry nodded his approval, and the OOD answered, “Permission granted.”

A toot from the tug’s whistle told Jerry and the OOD that
Goliath
had detached herself from
North Dakota
’s hull. As the submarine gradually started to get way on, the tug took up a supporting position astern. The concrete walls of the inner harbor channel passed by slowly, as if one were on a leisurely stroll. Just ahead of them was the exit into Apra Harbor proper, and beyond that, the open sea.

Moments later, Samant and Petrov emerged from the access trunk, squeezed past Covey and the pilot in the crammed cockpit, and climbed up to join Jerry and the lookout on the flying bridge. Each man sported a brand-new
North Dakota
ball cap, complete with scrambled eggs on the brim. Grabbing Petrov’s right hand, Jerry gave him a brief pull to get him up and over the railing.

“Thank you, Jerry,” grunted Petrov as he gained his footing. “My God, this is a
very
cramped bridge.”

“Yeah, well, I suppose in comparison to a big Russian nuke boat this would be a little on the small side. But we like to keep things sleek and trim,” Jerry replied a little defensively.

“Trim?” challenged Samant, trying to find some more space without bumping into the lookout. It was cozy up on the flying bridge with the four of them. “This is even more compact than what I had on my Kilo!”

Jerry shrugged; there was no way he was going to win this debate. Resigned, he politely changed the subject. “Once we clear the breakwater, we’ll disembark the pilot and then crank her up to warp nine. We have to dogleg our way out of the harbor because of the numerous spots of shoal water.” Jerry pointed to the large splotches of blue-green seawater dotted all around the boat.

“Is that the channel to our left?” Samant asked, pointing to a very slender band of darker water off the port bow. He had a slight frown on his face.

“That’s it,” responded Jerry. “It’s wider than it looks from here. We have a good two hundred and fifty meters between the two reefs.” The Indian nodded and seemed to relax. He then started a complete 360-degree visual sweep, looking around at the water, nearby landmarks, and the sub’s position within the channel; exercising a well-rehearsed routine. Jerry then noticed the Indian dolphins on Samant’s uniform. They were very similar to the U.S. Navy’s submarine insignia. Except where the submarine conning tower was on the U.S. badge, the Indians had a pedestal with three lions arrayed back-to-back.

Samant’s dolphins dragged Jerry back to his last conversation with Captain Simonis. The commodore had issued direct orders that neither foreign officer was to have access to the radio room or the engineering spaces. Simonis was less than happy at the very thought of two senior, submarine-command-qualified naval officers running around loose on one of his newest boats—and at sea!

He grumbled at first about Patterson’s “casual disregard” of the security risk, but Simonis at least admitted she had some valid reasons for her recommendation. And she did use the chain of command this time. The only other guidance Jerry received was to put the pedal to the metal once he had submerged.
Chakra
had a two-day head start, and Simonis wanted all his subs on station well before the rogue Indian boat was expected to arrive in Chinese waters. Since
North Dakota
had the first patrol area near Hong Kong, she’d have to fly to make it in time.

Turning around, Jerry caught a glimpse of Petrov’s face. His expression was a strange mixture of confusion, wonderment, and … uneasiness? Worried that something was wrong with his friend, Jerry asked, “Are you okay, Alex?”

Petrov immediately smiled, but his face took on a slight pinkish hue. “Oh, yes. I’m fine, Jerry. It’s just that … well, I’ve never gone to sea in a short-sleeve shirt before.”

Jerry bit down on his lower lip, while simultaneously taking in a slow, deep breath. He was trying very hard not to laugh at Petrov’s awkward confession; his friend was already embarrassed enough as it was. Samant either didn’t try, or failed utterly, as a hearty guffaw burst out. As soon as he was done laughing, he said, “Pay no attention to him, Captain Mitchell. Aleks has done nothing but complain about the fine Indian spring we were having.”

Petrov ignored Samant’s comment and tried to explain; his face had already transitioned to a deep red. “I’ve always had to wear at least a light jacket when I went out to sea, and oftentimes a heavy winter coat. It just seems very strange not to need one, that’s all.”

Feeling it was now safe, Jerry chuckled. “Well, Alex, a fifty-degree southerly shift in latitude will do that to you. You might as well enjoy it while you can, it won’t take us long to reach the dive point, once we clear the harbor.”

Fifteen minutes later, they passed the entrance to the breakwater and Jerry had the OOD slow while the pilot climbed down the rope ladder and hopped over to the tug. After another quick toot,
Goliath
pulled away and
North Dakota
was free to accelerate to a higher speed.

Slowly, the boat’s bow wave grew larger, expanding in both size and sound, becoming a loud wall of water slamming against the forward edge of the sail. Split by the unyielding metal, the frothing seawater tumbled down around the hull. Jerry always loved to be on the bridge when a submarine plowed its way through the ocean at high speed. Ever since that first time on
Memphis
, so many years ago, it never failed to fill him with excitement. Riding a boat on the surface with a flank bell on was just as addicting to him as flying a high-performance fighter. And he wasn’t the only one.

Samant wore a pronounced grin as he leaned casually against the railing. He relished the wind whipping past his face, and the occasional drop of seawater thrown high into the air, striking him, only made him feel more alive. By comparison, Petrov appeared calm and tranquil. He leaned forward into the brisk wind, his hands grasping the railing tightly, his feet staggered to provide the best support on the vibrating deck.

Just as Jerry thought Petrov was enjoying the ride, he saw a pained or troubled look flash on the Russian’s face. It then dawned on Jerry that his friend probably hadn’t been to sea since the collision almost nine years earlier, and that this trip was likely opening up old wounds. For a brief second, Jerry thought he saw a tear creeping across Petrov’s windswept face. Rather than encroach upon Petrov’s private contemplation by speaking, Jerry left him alone to deal with the demons that were troubling him. Sometimes, even time couldn’t heal all wounds—especially the really deep ones.

After about twenty minutes, Covey flagged Jerry’s attention and pointed to the display screen. They’d reach the dive point in another thirty minutes, and the OOD still had some work to do topside before they could submerge. Jerry nodded and turned to his guests.

“As much as I hate to say it, gentlemen, we need to go below. We’re getting close to the dive point and the OOD needs to take down the flying bridge. We can grab some fresh coffee before we submerge and you can observe the evolution from the control room.”

Samant wasted no time in moving. He slid past Jerry and crawled down toward the access trunk. Petrov, on the other hand, continued to stare off toward the horizon, remaining motionless.

“Alex?” Jerry whispered.

Petrov sighed and bowed his head. “I’m coming,” he replied with a tinge of weariness. Slowly, the Russian captain crept below. Jerry followed immediately after. At 1945 local time,
North Dakota
dove beneath the waves.

8 April 2017

2000 Local Time

USS
North Dakota

Pacific Ocean

Dinner was really late that evening; usually the first seating was before 1800, so the watchstanders could eat before they went on duty. But with the late departure from Guam, Jerry had decided to delay dinner and make it a “welcome aboard” event for their two guests. Its execution had been a masterstroke of diplomacy by the supply officer. It certainly served its primary purpose as an icebreaker for the members of the wardroom and the two foreign naval officers who were, technically, senior to their captain.

Lieutenant Steven Westbrook, the supply officer, had his cooks dish up a traditional Southern fried chicken supper with all the fixings, to include buttermilk biscuits and pecan pie with vanilla bean ice cream for dessert. Petrov’s nostrils flared at the aroma, and he dug into the hot chicken and mashed potatoes and gravy with gusto. Samant snickered as his friend chowed down on a thigh, and teased him about his lack of tolerance for spicy food. The Indian captain then went on to ask if U.S. submarines carried something with a little more “character” than Tabasco sauce.

Westbrook’s left eyebrow cocked up in prideful defiance. But his facial expression echoed his unspoken feelings—“Challenge accepted, Captain.” Excusing himself, the suppo went back into the pantry, and soon there was the sound of bottles being moved around. Jerry looked on with amusement—that is, until he saw his XO’s face. Thigpen’s eyes were as wide as saucers and he looked worried. Jerry’s quizzical look caught Thigpen’s attention, but all the XO could do was tightly shake his head no and very subtly tilt it in the direction of the pantry, as if he were trying to say, “Don’t let him do it!”

Before Jerry could say or do anything, Westbrook appeared from the pantry and walked back over to Samant. With a hint of theatrics, the supply officer placed a small bottle in front of him and said, “Here you go, sir. I’m sure this will be more to your liking.”

As the supply officer walked behind his skipper, Jerry heard him mutter indignantly, “Accuse my food of being bland, will you!”

Now Jerry was concerned, and he took a hard look at the bottle of orange-colored sauce in Samant’s hands. The label had a grim reaper on it; the scythe blade was a small red chili—not a good omen.