“Thirty minutes ago I was sitting here, staring out the window, asking the same question. I don’t know all the details, the science involved. Maybe they couldn’t reposition the ISS to do so. Or maybe they took out the smaller satellites as a test. But believe me, we’re working on it. We’ll get the truth.”
“Well, if you’re right about the test, we should take out the station immediately,” cried Bankole.
Becerra recoiled. “The political fallout from that… I need proof of what happened up there. My hands are tied until I get it.”
Bankole’s voice grew more stern. “Madame President, I suggest we direct one of our lasers on the ISS — as a precautionary measure.”
“Mr. President, you will understand if we do that?”
“Absolutely. I’ll send word. But you should be prepared to make a statement to the Brazilians and the Japanese if they discover what’s happening.”
“Of course.”
“And you’ll take out those spy planes?”
“With pleasure.”
“If there’s any change, I’ll contact you immediately. General Bankole? Capitaine Cimino? Our Joint Strike Force commanders will coordinate with you, as always.”
“Mr. President,” called Bankole, “I hope that you are compensating for your satellite problem and still keeping a sharp eye on the Arctic.”
“Rest assured, General. We are.”
Becerra said his good-byes and ended the call.
Of course he’d failed to tell Bankole that they’d now lost contact with one of their subs and were frantically reactivating the old Michigan ELF transmitter to reestablish ELF comms under the Arctic ice. The old system, shut down in 2010, took twenty minutes per character to transmit its three-letter alert.
“Mr. President?” called Mark Hellenberg, Becerra’s chief of staff, from his laptop across the aisle. “Bad news from Paris. We lost General Smith. He was forced to call in a kinetic strike on his position. But the good news is that enemy forces were also destroyed and we’re still holding the line there.”
Becerra nodded, averted his gaze. “Smith was a good man.”
“One of the best.”
“Mark, I have a feeling the Russians are planning something even bigger.”
Hellenberg’s tone grew ominous. “So do the Joint Chiefs.”
EIGHT
“Left standard rudder. Steady three-two-zero,” ordered Commander Jonathan Andreas.
The USS
Ekelund calculations utilized listen-only sonar bearings to solve an equation: the distance to a target was nearly equal to the speed across the line-of-sight of the target divided by the bearing rate (change of bearing per minute, in degrees).
Andreas didn’t just understand those calculations. As the commander of a nuclear submarine, they were part of his DNA. He liked to compete with the AN/BSY-1, the computer-based combat system designed to detect, classify, track, and launch weapons at enemy targets. It was man versus machine, and he truly appreciated the beauty inherent in mathematical formulas, an appreciation that had taken him far in his military career.
He was a Naval Academy grad with a B.S. in Marine Engineering, plus two years of postgrad school in Monterey, California, with a dual master’s in Nuclear Engineering and International Relations. He was forty-three, from the Midwest, and married with requisite two kids, a boy and girl ages eleven and twelve respectively. He was on the fast track for captain and needed a deep-draft command such as an amphib, maybe even a nuclear carrier, to get his ticket punched. He was destined for a submarine division or squadron commander billet, even admiral if his political party snagged the White House and he could complete his Ph.D. after the Naval War College. His current rank of Commander guaranteed him thirty years in the Navy even if he was twice passed over for promotion, the automatic death knell for any naval officer.
Yes, it’d been a good life and a textbook career, most of it served during peacetime.
But this war, he had quickly learned, changed everything and those changes could begin with the smallest contact on a sonar display.
In fact, twenty minutes earlier the sub’s BQQ-10 sonar processor had begun stacking dots on its waterfall display amid the background noise of Arctic shrimp. Once the fire-control dot-stacker display had finished its stacking, the right target course and speed had been determined, and consequently they had a weapons firing solution on what they determined to be a multiship contact.
Andreas took a deep breath, forced himself to relax.
He had deliberately chosen the new course for his final leg, knowing it would bring him back to a nearby
Andreas was prepared to execute “emergency deep” if necessary, his crew automatically taking the sub down to 150 feet in a crash dive to avoid a collision or escape an aircraft attack.
For now, though, he ordered one of
All the Virginia-class systems — weapon control, sensors, countermeasures, and navigation systems — were integrated into one computer and displayed on the Q-70 color common display console.
All right. They were fifteen miles due north of Banks Island, one of the Canadian arctic islands, and Andreas and his control center attack team now watched two columns of military assault ships glide through the frigid waters, each column preceded by a broad-hulled icebreaker.
Andreas’s crew quickly identified the lead ship behind the smaller icebreaker as the
Astern of the
The second column consisted of another icebreaker, an oiler, and an ammunition ship.
“XO, pull the manual and tell me what’s flying on
After a moment, the XO reported his findings. “Captain, that’s the personal pennant for a GRU general and a Spetsnaz field commander, and we’re getting it all.”
Just then, the two columns of ships began to split, the
“That’s interesting,” observed the XO.
“And smart,” added Andreas. “He separates his volatile, slower assets and sends them through the McClure and down into calmer waters of the Prince of Wales Strait, where they’ll probably rejoin in the Amundsen Gulf.”
“Isn’t that a little risky?” asked the Ops officer.
“Not really, Jack, he’s got assault choppers to provide air cover. They could get across Banks Island in ten to fifteen minutes.”
The Ops officer nodded.
