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Authors: William H. Lovejoy
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steadied himself by gripping the jamb of the hatchway.
The intercom blurted with Mostovets’s soprano, “Captain, Control Center. Deploying antennas. I will know about surface traffic momentarily.”
Gurevenich did not expect to find other ships in the area. They were three hundred kilometers southeast of the Kamchatka Peninsula.
“All right, Kartashkin, you may transmit.”
“Yes, Captain.” The radioman leaned into his console, depressed the button that activated the transmit mode on his headset, and said, Seeʼnee - dva - sem - zelyoʼnee .”
Blue-two-seven-green, the code they had been instructed to use in the ELF message.
They did not hear the response. Three burst-messages, communications compacted into one-fiftieth of a second bursts, were transmitted by the Molniya satellite, accepted by the data receiver, and recorded. They would play them back at normal speed.
The radioman scanned his equipment. “I have the transmission recorded, Captain.”
Gurevenich punched the intercom button. “Lieutenant Mostovets, take the boat back to fifty meters depth and resume course.”
“Fifty meters, Captain. Proceeding, now.”
As the deck tilted, Gurevenich wondered what was so important that Fleet headquarters would use military emergency channels to send him a top secret communication.
He could not imagine that war had broken out, but that did not alleviate the ball of lead that had formed in his stomach.
*
0331 HOURS LOCAL, 16° 22' NORTH, 158° 58' WEST
*
SECRET MSG 10-4897 l/SEP/0322 HRS ZULU
FR: CINCPAC
TO: USS BARTLETT USS KANE USS LOS ANGELES USS PHILADELPHIA USS HOUSTON
1.CURRENT ORDERS SUSPENDED.
2.PROCEED AT BEST POSSIBLE SPEED TO 26N 176E.
3.CAUTION. CIS VESSELS LIKELY IN AREA. DO NOT ENGAGE.
4.RPT ALL CONTACTS THIS CMD.
5.DETAILED ORDERS AND COORDINATES TO FOLLOW.
Cmdr. Alfred Taylor, captain of the nuclear attack submarine (SSN) Los Angeles , read the decoded message, then handed it to his executive officer, Lt. Cmdr. Neil Garrison.
Garrison, a short and lithe man built for earlier submarines, read through it quickly. He asked, “You think this is it?”
“I wouldn’t have expected it in this political climate, Neil. It’s probably some minor crisis.”
“With Bartlett and Kane involved, we may have a ship down.”
“That’s possible.”
Taylor moved over to the plot and studied it. Taylor had been in submarines for twelve years, but this was his first year as a commander and he was proud of his boat, even if it was almost twenty years old, and he had confidence in his crew. He was a compact man, kept that way by a daily set of exercises in his cabin. The planes of his face had become a little convex in the last couple of years, and his blond hair would have shown more gray if it were longer. He walked with a slight limp, the result of not moving fast enough and catching his leg between a concrete pier and a docking tender.
“All right, Neil. Plot it and give me a course.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Garrison bent over the plot.
“Mr. Covey,” he said to the Lieutenant (j.g.) who had the conn, without turning toward him.
“Sir?”
“What is your status?”
“Sir, depth sixty feet, heading zero-one-five, speed one-seven knots.”
Taylor watched as Garrison drew his line. Garrison looked up at him.
Taylor nodded his approval. “Mr. Covey, make your depth seventy-five feet. I want a heading of two-seven-five and tell engineering we want top turns.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Covey’s tone carried a new excitement.
Garrison stood upright. “At least we’ll shake off a little of the boredom, Skipper.”
The constant regimen of training, meant to keep them alert and on edge, often dulled the edges.
“We may at that, Neil.”
*
0608 HOURS LOCAL, 33° 11' NORTH, 118° 27' WEST
Each dome was two hundred feet in diameter and one hundred feet high, and there were three domes. They rested on steel piers driven deeply into the seabed and were connected by twelve-foot-long
The intercom blurted with Mostovets’s soprano, “Captain, Control Center. Deploying antennas. I will know about surface traffic momentarily.”
Gurevenich did not expect to find other ships in the area. They were three hundred kilometers southeast of the Kamchatka Peninsula.
“All right, Kartashkin, you may transmit.”
“Yes, Captain.” The radioman leaned into his console, depressed the button that activated the transmit mode on his headset, and said, Seeʼnee - dva - sem - zelyoʼnee .”
Blue-two-seven-green, the code they had been instructed to use in the ELF message.
They did not hear the response. Three burst-messages, communications compacted into one-fiftieth of a second bursts, were transmitted by the Molniya satellite, accepted by the data receiver, and recorded. They would play them back at normal speed.
The radioman scanned his equipment. “I have the transmission recorded, Captain.”
Gurevenich punched the intercom button. “Lieutenant Mostovets, take the boat back to fifty meters depth and resume course.”
“Fifty meters, Captain. Proceeding, now.”
As the deck tilted, Gurevenich wondered what was so important that Fleet headquarters would use military emergency channels to send him a top secret communication.
He could not imagine that war had broken out, but that did not alleviate the ball of lead that had formed in his stomach.
*
0331 HOURS LOCAL, 16° 22' NORTH, 158° 58' WEST
*
SECRET MSG 10-4897 l/SEP/0322 HRS ZULU
FR: CINCPAC
TO: USS BARTLETT USS KANE USS LOS ANGELES USS PHILADELPHIA USS HOUSTON
1.CURRENT ORDERS SUSPENDED.
2.PROCEED AT BEST POSSIBLE SPEED TO 26N 176E.
3.CAUTION. CIS VESSELS LIKELY IN AREA. DO NOT ENGAGE.
4.RPT ALL CONTACTS THIS CMD.
5.DETAILED ORDERS AND COORDINATES TO FOLLOW.
Cmdr. Alfred Taylor, captain of the nuclear attack submarine (SSN) Los Angeles , read the decoded message, then handed it to his executive officer, Lt. Cmdr. Neil Garrison.
Garrison, a short and lithe man built for earlier submarines, read through it quickly. He asked, “You think this is it?”
“I wouldn’t have expected it in this political climate, Neil. It’s probably some minor crisis.”
“With Bartlett and Kane involved, we may have a ship down.”
“That’s possible.”
Taylor moved over to the plot and studied it. Taylor had been in submarines for twelve years, but this was his first year as a commander and he was proud of his boat, even if it was almost twenty years old, and he had confidence in his crew. He was a compact man, kept that way by a daily set of exercises in his cabin. The planes of his face had become a little convex in the last couple of years, and his blond hair would have shown more gray if it were longer. He walked with a slight limp, the result of not moving fast enough and catching his leg between a concrete pier and a docking tender.
“All right, Neil. Plot it and give me a course.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Garrison bent over the plot.
“Mr. Covey,” he said to the Lieutenant (j.g.) who had the conn, without turning toward him.
“Sir?”
“What is your status?”
“Sir, depth sixty feet, heading zero-one-five, speed one-seven knots.”
Taylor watched as Garrison drew his line. Garrison looked up at him.
Taylor nodded his approval. “Mr. Covey, make your depth seventy-five feet. I want a heading of two-seven-five and tell engineering we want top turns.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Covey’s tone carried a new excitement.
Garrison stood upright. “At least we’ll shake off a little of the boredom, Skipper.”
The constant regimen of training, meant to keep them alert and on edge, often dulled the edges.
“We may at that, Neil.”
*
0608 HOURS LOCAL, 33° 11' NORTH, 118° 27' WEST
Each dome was two hundred feet in diameter and one hundred feet high, and there were three domes. They rested on steel piers driven deeply into the seabed and were connected by twelve-foot-long
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