Choke Point

Highly toxic, and proof positive that whatever the source material was that had reacted with the supersaturated saline solution of the sea, it had generated a “significantly high temperature differential of plus or minus four degrees.”

Everyone was suddenly a Gloomboots. First question: Why hadn’t the Coast Guard water sample revealed any toxicity? Even if the Coast Guard vessel had not passed exactly over the dumbbell zone and somehow missed a clear sonar profile of the sea bottom there, the surrounding water surely would have been toxic enough to have been measured by a Coulter counter that could identify minute parts per million. Second question: Were there any known naturally occurring toxicities of this type on the sea bottom in that part of the strait?

The answer to the second question was no. Oceanographic charts showed no wrecks in that location that might be leaking toxic materials.

Albinski, however, reflecting on his long SEAL experience of invasion beach surveys, was able to offer a reasonable explanation for the Coast Guard vessel not discerning any temperature anomaly. Its prop would have been churning the sea’s surface so violently, he said, and sucking in such a flood of colder water from outside the dumbbell perimeter, that any temperature difference could have been so small as to be virtually undetectable, given the mix.

“All right,” Jensen told Duty Officer Morgan at Bangor. “Order a side-scan sonar.” The expense was now warranted, for he knew that if Greenpeace, the Sierra Club, or any of the other environmental organizations got wind of this anomaly — it didn’t bear thinking about. And that very morning the Chief of Naval Operations in Washington, D.C., had e-mailed a request for Jensen to forward an updated resume vis-a-vis his estimation of COMSUBPAC-9’s liaison with Puget Sound residents. The CNO was doubtless gearing up in the search for a successor who rated high in PR skills. In the same e-mail the CNO asked Jensen to rate his own performance on a scale of one to ten. Jensen e-mailed that he was a nine. He told Margaret he believed he was a ten but it was prudent to show a little humility.

“Have our two SEALs go back and do a deep dive,” he ordered Duty Officer Morgan. Morgan suggested the divers use Frank Hall’s oceanics vessel Petrel II. The oceanographic ship had all the required equipment for a deep dive, even LOSHOK explosive to send sound waves down for its side-scan sonar should the sonar’s electric transponder malfunction. Plus Petrel II, more commonly known as Petrel, was a civilian ship and a common sight in Northwest waters. A simple press release from Bangor could claim Petrel was moving farther west of Nanoose Bay, where it was usually employed to retrieve practice torpedo debris. The release could emphasize the Navy’s zero tolerance for scrap metal, especially the miles of torpedo guidance wire that, since the thousands of practice firings during World War II, had until now been permitted to pollute the strait.

“Damn good PR, Morgan,” said the admiral.

“And it’ll be the truth,” Morgan added, elated by the admiral’s appreciation. “I mean, this anomaly is polluting. Have to clean it up.”

“Precisely.”

There was silence on the line. “Admiral?”

“Why didn’t the CG water sample show anything?” the admiral asked. “This water bottle would have been taken below the prop wash that Albinski was talking about?”

“Faulty equipment?” proffered Morgan.

“Perhaps.” But the admiral didn’t sound convinced.

“Want the Coast Guard to do it again, sir?” suggested Morgan. “Same vessel. Tell them not to change any of the equipment. Do it just as they did the first time. A double check.”

“Good idea.”

The Coast Guard steamed over the “dumbbell” in the morning fog and took another sample. It showed a three-degree difference in the water and high toxicity.

“What in hell’s going on?” Jensen asked Morgan from his study, his voice tired. He hadn’t had a wink of sleep since Morgan called in the first situation report. Before the duty officer could answer, Jensen continued, “Where’s the Utah? Could it have anything to do with this?”

“No way, sir. Last SITREP says that it’s heading into the strait as we speak. Over twenty miles to the west. It had a practice target firing. And one false alert. Nowhere near the anomaly.”

The admiral paced his office, gazing out at the cobalt blue of the Hood Canal and the wildly beautiful mountains of the snow-topped Olympic peninsula beyond. Something was odd about the Coast Guard not getting any anomalous reading the first time around. No salinity change. No temperature change. “Weird,” he muttered. Then the admiral had a burst of inspiration, his voice suddenly losing its fatigue. “It’s an old torpedo, Morgan! By God, why didn’t I think of it before? Leaking. Those two divers reported it’s a small source area, right? Cone- shaped?”

“Yes,” agreed Morgan.

“Damn torpedo’s buried in mud, Morgan, that’s why Coast Guard sonar didn’t pick up a profile! How long will it take those two divers from the RIB to reach Petrel?” he asked impatiently. “They would need the ship’s special salvage deeper diving gear.”

“They could be there within half an hour, sir — it’d only be a short helo hop from Port Angeles to the ship.”

“Do it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What’s going on?” Margaret Jensen asked her husband as he appeared, bleary-eyed, at the kitchen table.

“I don’t know,” he answered truthfully, less sure about his idea of the torpedo now. Sonar penetrated mud. Still, whether you got a profile did depend on the angle of approach. He knew about Ballard’s difficulty in finding the Titanic. Still … God, he wished life was simpler. She slid the Seattle Post Intelligencer toward him. “Dammit, Margaret, just once I’d like to get the paper in one piece. After you’re finished with it I can’t find a damn thing.”

She poured him coffee. “It’s probably nothing.”

“It’s something,” he said, turning the paper inside out until he finally found the social section.

“There’s a good photo of you,” Margaret told him, “on page two.”

He grunted, but turned to it nevertheless. She was right. Both of them looked good — though she’d never admit it. He couldn’t remember Margaret ever saying she’d taken a good photo. Couldn’t remember any woman saying she liked her photo. Something always wrong with their damned hair. But there they both were, standing next to the wonder boy Gates himself. “It’s something toxic,” he told her.

“How long before you know the cause?” she asked, without looking up from the funnies.

“Tonight possibly. Divers are going down.”

“Again?’

“To the bottom. Civilian research vessel.”

“I should hope it’s before nightfall.”

He said nothing, turning the paper noisily back to the front page. China and Taiwan were on the boil again. Beijing, resurrecting the confrontations of the fifties and sixties, when the PLA had shelled the Taiwanese islands of Matsu and Quemoy, was warning Taipei not to proclaim independence. If it did, Beijing said there’d be war. The admiral shook his head. The U.S. should never have agreed to defend Taiwan, he thought. If push came to shove, there’d be a war against China as well as the war against terror. War on two fronts — any military’s worst nightmare.

“Isn’t that dangerous?” Margaret pressed. “Sending them to the sea bottom in those conditions?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll say a prayer.”

“Thanks.”

Margaret folded her hands and closed her eyes. He envied her faith. He’d lost his long ago. Some commanders, like the retired nuisance, General Freeman, hadn’t, but even Freeman’s faith was qualified, his adage being, “Love thy neighbor and keep the son of a bitch in your sights.”

As Jensen worried and his wife prayed, the oceanographic ship Petrel was casting