time.
“I found it in one of the older intelligence pubs we have for Russian nuclear weapons. This article number was used for the RT-21 Pioner. It was called the SS-20 Saber by NATO.” He held up the intelligence publication. “We’re lucky I was able to find anything on it at all. It was a theater ballistic missile the Soviets deployed in the 1980s. They fielded several hundred, but they were all destroyed as part of the 1987 INF treaty.”
“The what, XO?” asked a perplexed Ensign Jim Porter.
Bair gave Porter the typical forlorn scowl that all XO’s are required to master and said, “The Intermediate Nuclear Forces Treaty, you young pup!”
A light laughter erupted in the wardroom over the XO’s reply. But it didn’t last long, not because the humor wasn’t appreciated, but because everyone was dog-tired and stressed out.
“XO, the treaty didn’t allow for the destruction of the missiles or warheads by dumping them, did it?” Jeff Ho asked.
Bair emphatically shook his head. “Definitely not. The Soviets had to declare the total number they’d manufactured and international observers witnessed the destruction of the missiles and warheads. It was a big deal. They destroyed several missile types, and we disposed of our Pershing II and ground-launched cruise missiles as well. With observers watching both sides, of course.”
“So could the records be off?” Lenny Berg asked, but Bair didn’t even bother to answer.
Like everyone else in the wardroom, Jerry processed the news and tried to understand the implications. If the Soviets, and then the Russians, had broken a nearly twenty-year-old treaty, then what else had they concealed? It did explain the acoustic sensors. But how far were the Russians willing to go to keep this secret?
After almost a minute of silence, Bair said, “The Captain also said we’re heading home.”
Jerry managed to get his sandwich and then lay down for a while. He had the midnight to six in control and knew it was bad form to fall asleep on watch. As he lay in his bunk, trying to unwind, he found himself reviewing his quals again, trying to plan how to best use the time left.
He was still shaking the sleep off when he reported. Although they were still in the Kara Sea, the watch had already settled into transit routine. Lenny Berg was the Officer of the Deck, with Jerry as the JOOD. “Let’s hope for a nice, boring watch. It will put us six hours closer to home and six hours away from this place,” remarked Lenny.
Al Millunzi, the Main Propulsion Assistant, was the offgoing OOD, and he ran down the checklist with them: ship’s engineering systems all on line, except for one pump being checked, all sensors were on line, including both towed arrays, “And I don’t have to tell you about the weapons systems, Jerry,” he concluded. There was no criticism in his voice, but Jerry still felt bad. Although there was nothing to be done, he didn’t like letting the boat down.
Millunzi led them over to the chart table. “This is our position as of 2340.” Novaya Zemlaya lay along the western side of the paper, with most of the chart open water filled with soundings. Most of the northern Kara Sea averaged fifty to eighty fathoms, shallow for
Berg grinned. “Really? I’ll bet the Russians have a better one. Should we ask?”
Senior Chief Leonard, the offgoing Chief of the Watch, came over and reported to Millunzi. “The watch is relieved, sir.”
“Very well, Senior Chief. See you in the morning,” Millunzi responded.
Millunzi turned back to Berg and Jerry. “That’s it? Any questions? My rack is calling.”
“I won’t keep a man from his rest,” Berg replied, smiling. “I relieve you, sir.”
The offgoing watch section cleared out quickly, and Jerry settled in. Aside from some careful navigation and frequent depth checks, he was looking forward to a quiet, uneventful six hours.
“The biggest challenge on this watch is gong to be staying alert,” Berg prophesized. “Homebound watches are dangerous. Everyone starts to slack off. They’re too busy thinking of home and hearth, and not paying enough attention to their indicators.”
“Even in the Kara Sea?” Jerry asked, half-joking.
“It’s a state of mind, not a position on the chart. Check the fathometer every five minutes, and we’re going to come up with some drills for the control room team.” He looked at the qualification book Jerry had brought along. “What are you working on now?”
“I thought maybe the communications systems.”
“Since you knew you were going to be stuck with the comms officer for six hours in the middle of the night. Well done, Mr. Mitchell. Stand by for some merciless questioning.” He paused, with his ever-present smile, then ordered, “All right, get busy.”
Trying to start a habit, Jerry checked the fathometer — two hundred forty feet under the keel and six hundred above. Good. He started a detailed check of every instrument, every switch setting in the control room. Behind him at the chart table, Lenny Berg made a conspicuous display of sitting back and opening Jerry’s qualification book.
Jerry was a quarter through his inspection when Berg hit him with the first question. “What frequency range does the UHF whip cover?” Jerry answered correctly and continued checking. Lenny hit him with a question every three or four minutes, which was also Jerry’s cue to check the fathometer and review the quartermaster’s update of the chart.
They were forty minutes into the watch when sonar jarred them out of the routine. “Conn, sonar. We’ve detected some sort of explosion, bearing one four zero.”
Jerry felt adrenaline flash like electricity through him. Berg, along with the rest of the watch, sat up quickly, but he didn’t speak. He looked as if he expected Jerry to, though.
Jerry stepped over to the intercom. “Sonar, conn. Can you tell how big?”
“Conn, sonar, Very small or very far away,” replied the sonarman. “No other activity, either, just that one transient.”
“Conn, sonar aye.” Jerry responded, still puzzled. He didn’t like mysteries, and he looked toward Berg, but Lenny looked puzzled as well.
Well, whether this was one of Bair’s drills or not, all he could do was play it by the book. Step two was to tell the Captain. Jerry picked up the phone and dialed the Captain’s cabin.
“Captain.” Hardy had picked it up on the first ring.
“Officer of the Deck, sir, sonar reports hearing an explosion some distance behind us. Either very distant or a very small explosion.”
“Very well, I’m coming.”
Hardy was there in less than a minute, fully dressed. He was still studying the chart when sonar made another report. “Conn, sonar, we’ve detected a second explosion, bearing one five zero. It’s closer this time or a bigger explosion.”
Hardy pressed the talk switch. “Sonar, conn, verify that you hold no other contacts.”
“Conn, sonar, confirmed. We hold no other contacts.”
“Then it’s aircraft,” Hardy said.
Dr. Patterson came into the control room in a robe and pajamas. “Did someone say they’d heard an explosion?” Patterson’s robe was long and white, and it had the insignia of the White House embroidered on it. She managed to look sleepy and alarmed at the same time. Emily Davis followed her in, having taken time to dress.
Hardy looked annoyed but didn’t reply, so Jerry ventured, “Sonar’s detected explosions behind us. We don’t know what they mean.”
“Wrong, Mr. Mitchell,” Hardy corrected.
