Dispatches Read Free Page B

one-one-zero,” she said, grabbing the door handle and pulling it open far enough to slip inside. “Tell the TAO I’m on my way down to CIC.”
    The bridge felt like a sauna compared to the bridge wing, the temperature outside barely hovering above freezing. The familiar smell of burnt coffee permeated the dark space, competing with the salty, open ocean air. She closed the watertight door and locked the handle, hearing the door hiss. The ship’s positive pressure system, designed to prevent biological or chemical weapons intrusion, had recharged the pressure behind the door. The system ran continuously while they were underway.
    “OOD, let’s get a lookout on that relative bearing with night vision. You never know,” she said, heading toward the ladder that would take her off the bridge.
    “Aye, aye, Captain,” said the young officer.
    “Captain’s off the bridge,” announced a hidden petty officer to her right, startling her.
    She felt the ship turn as she slid down the ladder, landing in front of the door to the captain’s stateroom. Her stateroom. Located between the bridge and the Combat Information Center, it gave the commanding officer quick access to either critical station, a necessity she had never fully appreciated before assuming responsibility for the lives of Gravely ’s crew. A few twists and turns later, she descended to the Combat Information Center entrance.
    “Captain’s in CIC!” yelled a sailor at a nearby console.
    A petty officer at the chart table announced, “Ship is steady on course one-one-zero.”
    Lieutenant Mosely rushed to meet her.
    “Ma’am, I have every sonar tech on the ship crammed into sonar control, trying to figure this out. There’s no traffic out here, so they were able to isolate the signal,” he said.
    “The contact just appeared out of nowhere?” she asked.
    “We’ve had the passive towed array below the thermocline layer for several hours, looking for any long-range stalkers,” he said, walking away. “ST1 Herbert is convinced this contact came into detection range above the layer, either snooping for electronic signatures or receiving updated orders. The submarine just descended below the layer.”
    “Does sonar have any idea what we’re looking at?”
    “They’re still trying to classify the contact.”
    “So this could be surface noise caught in a convergence zone?”
    “They don’t think so. The signature is too distinct to have crossed the layer and bounced around for hundreds of miles. Plus, it appeared too suddenly.”
    She nodded and followed him through the dimly lit CIC to the sonar control room. Beyond the curtain separating the two spaces, several men and women huddled around the AN/SQQ-89 Integrated Anti-Submarine Warfare Display. They quickly made room for her.
    “What do we have, Herbert?”
    “Ma’am, if I had to guess before the analysis was finished, I’d say we’re hearing reactor equipment.”
    “A boomer?”
    “I can’t say, ma’am. Could be a fast-attack boat,” replied the petty officer.
    “Not a surface contact?” she pressed.
    “Negative, Captain. Guardian just lit up our sector. No surface tracks.”
    Shit. The presence of a nuclear-powered submarine was bad news, regardless of the type. It meant Russian or Chinese nuclear assets had been sent closer to the U.S. mainland; a move deemed unacceptable by the National Security Council and Pentagon planners. Gravely ’s orders were specific: Hunt and kill any subsurface contacts in their operating area.
    The problem they faced was localization. The towed array gave them a direction, but no distance. Their first tactic would be to send an aircraft down the line of bearing from Gravely , hoping to detect the magnetic disturbance caused by the submarine’s metal hull. Unfortunately, this tactic wasn’t an exact science and could last for hours. Despite the sheer volume of math and science behind antisubmarine warfare operations, luck played an almost equally