06 Jun 2000, 2355LT (1355Z)
The KILO class submarine slowed to almost a halt.
“Come up to fifteen meters,” the commanding officer murmured, “And raise the observation periscope.”
He squatted down and met the eyepiece as it emerged from the deck. The old submariner slapped his eye to the rubber eyepiece and easily swung the scope, watching the blue-green haze gradually lighten as the sub came up.
The scope broke the glass smooth sea surface. There wasn’t even a cloud in sight to disturb the perfect blue on blue of sea meeting sky.
“We are all alone. Raise the radio mast and report to headquarters.”
The destroyer seemed to come out of nowhere. One minute, they were alone in this stretch of sea, the next the destroyer was bearing down on them.
There was nothing to do. Admiral Suluvana was not someone to toy with. If he said to remain hidden to stop the American submarine, then the JAWAL had to stay hidden.
“Make the weapons in tubes one and two ready!” the commanding officer shouted out. “Shoot on bearing zero-eight-nine, range two-one hundred meters.”
He felt and heard the torpedo tubes impulse as they threw the torpedoes out into the sea. The destroyer turned broadside to him and then away, as if it meant to out run the two weapons. He could just make out the Australian flag flying from the mast head.
The two weapons detonated almost simultaneously, directly under the destroyer. The blast lifted it high in the air, before breaking its back. The two sections settled down and then slipped below the surface.
The sub commander lowered his periscope. The last thing he saw before the JAWAL once more descended into the deep was groups of sailors trying to climb into the few life rafts that had broken free.
08 Jun 2000, 0200LT (0700Z)
“We have an intercept.”
Fort Meade, Maryland was America’s best kept secret. Even most of the senior military officers had only a glimmer of an idea of what happened in the shiny black glass buildings. And the National Security Agency wasn’t about to do anything to raise the veil of mystery.
Deep in the bowls of the main building, over a hundred feet below the red clay surface and beneath some thirty feet of concrete and steel, one of the analysts pressed his headphones to his ears and scrutinized his computer screen.
The supervisor rose and stretched. It was a long, slow night and they still had four more hours. Anything to break the boredom.
“What is it?” She growled. “Another taxi driver in Jakarta trying to get lucky?”
“No, ma’am,” the analyst replied. “This has the signature of one of those submarines we were told to watch for. I’m sending it to decrypt now.”
The supervisor grabbed her red phone and punched the speed dial button. “Sir, we have a hit. We’ve found one of them.”
13
08 Jun 2000, 1515LT (09 Jun, 0115Z)
“Commodore Calucci, this is Peg Hunter.” It was not a call that Peg enjoyed making. She always felt uneasy talking with the Commodore. He could not be trusted. Every word had to be guarded.
“Hello, Peg, I’ve been meaning to call you. My wife and I are having a reception for the wardroom of a Japanese sub that is due to visit this weekend. Why don’t you come over to the house? Say nineteen-thirty on Friday?” the Commodore replied.
Looking out the window, Peg could see his home directly across First Street.
“That would be nice, I’ll be there,” she responded without enthusiasm. “But that isn’t the reason for this call. I have a boat full of very anxious wives. Wives who are expecting their husbands back. They were supposed to have been on weekly ops and should have returned yesterday. The wives will be at my house for a picnic supper in three hours. What do I tell them?”
“Peg, didn’t my chief of staff call you last Friday?” the Commodore queried, knowing full well that no such call had been ordered. Now he had to figure out what to say without either divulging the true mission or alarming the wives.
Ever since the loss of the Scorpion in 1968, the Submarine Force had been particularly sensitive about their families. On that awful day the Navy had allowed the families of the crew to unknowingly stand on the pier from morning until late afternoon awaiting the ship’s return. Only as the sun slipped toward the Western horizon did the submarine squadron commodore arrive to tell the wives the dreaded news that the boat was missing. It was several months of intense searching before they found Scorpion’s final resting place in ten thousand feet of water west of the Azores.
Since then submarine squadrons had maintained a semi-official liaison with the CO’s wife to keep her abreast of expected arrival times and some parts of the boat’s schedule. It was an expected part of the Commodore’s duties, but Calucci had neglected it.
“No, he didn’t and I was home all day,” she answered coolly. She knew as well as the Commodore did that he should be much more concerned for the crews of his boats.
“Well, the boat has been assigned to a surprise special warfare exercise up in the Aleutian op areas,” he replied, without missing a beat. “It came up at the last minute when a San Diego boat had material problems. They’ll be out for a few weeks.”
This was the cover story that SUBPAC had come up with to explain SAN FRANCISCO’s unexpectedly long “weekly ops.”
“Why don’t I stop over at your place this afternoon and meet with your wives? I can get there
