Their CO carefully read the faces one at a time, formulating a subjective assessment of each man’s condition. He made a couple of mental notes to discuss later with the doctor. Then his thoughts turned inward, struggling to dig deep and tap whatever energy reserves remained, to do the expected. After all, he was the captain, their captain, the one expected to shoulder the crew’s burden with superhuman strength. What a bunch of crap, he groused. The world’s in the shitter, and I’m supposed to pull a miracle out of my ass. A glance from the XO told him it was time to get the show on the road. His number two appeared to be holding up heroically.
Jackson reached out and smoothed the curled edges of the nautical chart, folding it over the table’s edge. Their future, or the next piece that truly mattered, lay before them on the tabletop. It depicted the navigator’s pencil-drawn track all the way from Bangor to the Strait of Juan de Fuca, and on to the Pacific. The transit distance appeared overwhelming for a submarine with a bounty on its head. He pressed his finger lightly against the chart and methodically traced the transcribed route, one that he had memorized from numerous transits. His lips moved in silence as he incremented the miles and did time-distance calculations on the fly. Without prompting, the navigator broke into a recitation. He was young, like all the officers aboard, and scared. His voice showed it as he stumbled over the first few words.
“We’re here, Skipper,” the young man said, wiping his brow with his sleeve. “We’ve got fifteen miles to the sound. The depth is anywhere from two hundred to three hundred and fifty feet. The Defense Mapping Agency has told us the soundings may be no good. They say the bottom is cluttered with sunken logs and tree stumps. Plus unchartered sandbars. An attack boat struck one two years ago, right here.”
The lieutenant’s fingers moved northward on the chart. It took him a second to catch his breath. “It’s better once we get by Foulweather Bluff and into the sound. But then it’s twenty miles ’til the strait.” Jackson knew all this but let the navigator go on. It was an essential part of rebuilding his wardroom’s shattered confidence.
“I calculated that at five knots we could easily be here by morning,” he said, pointing at a location five miles beyond Foulweather Bluff. “That’s if we started after dark, 2130 to be safe.”
Jackson frowned and rubbed his chin, now covered with rough stubble. He closed his eyes momentarily to clear his thoughts, to get balanced. He was searching beyond the highlighted pencil dot on the chart. The strait, that shallow, broad inland sea that led to the vast Pacific Ocean, that’s where his eyes were now transfixed. What lay out there? Who might be lurking?
Russian visitors had never dared venture into the landlocked Strait. They were satisfied to loiter off Cape Flattery in deeper water, hoping to tag a careless Trident departing for patrol. The executive officer, squinting to study the chart from the side, interrupted. He looked puzzled, which was unusual for him.
“How the hell are we going to make it to the sound, Skipper, let alone the strait?” Jackson didn’t immediately answer. His mind still focused on Cape Flattery. “I know you’re there, Ivan,” he said under his breath.
“What was the last position on that Akula out of Petro?” he asked the group, his head screwing left and right. Jackson referred to the latest and greatest Russian attack submarine that rivaled American boats in quietness, sensor performance, and weapons, and vastly outperformed them in raw speed and operating depth. One had been lurking a few hundred miles from the West Coast for two weeks. In a few short years, the Akulas had become the bane of American submarine skippers long accustomed to technological superiority and a very comfortable acoustical advantage. An ensign standing next to the master chief answered first.
“Ninety miles southwest of the Cape, Skipper.”
“That’s six hours to the entrance at fifteen knots,” grunted the completely bald operations officer.
“He can go faster,” reminded the XO. “None of our attack boats are near.” With ample warning, US attack submarines would have scrambled from San Diego or Pearl and sanitized or “deloused” the narrow approaches to the Trident transit lanes. But this Akula had no such worry. The nearest US attack boat was a thousand miles away. “He could make it in four,” the XO added as an afterthought.
“Maybe to the mouth, but he’d be crazy to steam down into the strait, Skipper,” offered operations officer.
The executive officer had astutely picked up on the captain’s mental restlessness. “He knows we can launch in the strait. That bastard could be sitting at the edge of our launch depth, just waiting for us to make a stupid move.”
The executive officer plucked the navigator’s dividers from his hand and marked off the distance from the entrance eastward. End over end they went, the sharp points digging into the chart. “If he made the entrance in four hours, he’d need another four to get in position. Even if he slowed to ten knots, he could reach here, well past the six hundred-foot contour.” All faces leaned forward in unison to see the spot under the XO’s forefinger. It was sobering.
The ops officer scrunched his face. He was habitually throwing cold water on other people’s ideas, but he knew his job inside and out. A more gregarious man than the stiff executive officer, he was the perfect complement. The sometimes feuding pair brought a balance to tactical discussions.
“Ivan wouldn’t go that shallow; he’d lose his tactical advantage, his maneuverability. He’d hang around in seven hundred or eight hundred feet of water to maximize sensor performance. He’d let us come to him. In four hundred or five hundred feet of water with this mucky bottom he wouldn’t be able to hear shit. Acoustical torpedoes wouldn’t work worth a damn either. I’ll bet he’s counting on us to make a run for the ocean.” A chorus of nods validated the ops officer’s sensible observation.
“I don’t know,” Jackson said softly, circling his finger around the disputed location. “If I knew a Trident was alive, I’d steam up to the pier at Bangor if I had to.”
Jackson looked over at Ops. “You’ve got a point, though. There’s a limit to how far he would go. Looks like 123-30 degrees to me. After that it would be dicey. Farther east and he could get in deep shit with the bottom. You’re right.” He nodded grudgingly. “He’d be too unfamiliar with the waters to screw around.” Jackson stretched his arms out in front, resting his sticky palms on the table. He let out a relieved sigh.
“So where does that leave us?” He started to think out loud, chewing on the options — something his officers always appreciated. “We’d have to go to 123-30 degrees ourselves in order to launch, which we’re not ordered to do yet. The EAM was only an alert. No one knows for sure we’re alive. If the order comes, we could launch in the strait, but it would be a lousy choice. Someone would surely see the missiles broach, and I’d wager we’d be dead in less than an hour. Or the Akula could surprise us and slip farther east than we think and nail our ass. No, we have to keep moving and go for the Pacific. But we’ll take our time and try to draw him out.” Jackson seemed satisfied. So did the others.