The damned thing had to be submerged, but nothing could travel that fast under the water. The hydrodynamic drag alone would make it impossible.
No… That wasn’t quite true. The Russians had that crazy-assed supercavitating torpedo, the Shkval. Those things had been clocked at two-hundred knots or better. But Heller had heard audio recordings of a Shkval in action. They sounded like jet engines on steroids, not frying bacon. Besides which, Chief Scott was one of the top acoustic analysts in the fleet. He would recognize a Shkval from its acoustic signature.
Maybe the chief had dropped a decimal place in his mental speed calculations. He had come up with his answer pretty quickly.
That theory fell apart as soon as the Sonar Supervisor glanced up from his own figures. “My numbers match yours, Chief.”
The USW Officer took a few seconds longer. Then he looked up and nodded. “I’ve been over my math several times, Captain. I make the top-end more like four-hundred-fifty. Call the median just about three-hundred knots.”
Heller shook his head. “Nothing moves that fast under water. Nothing.”
The chief raised his eyebrows. “With all due respect, Captain, something damned well moves that fast. And whatever it is happens to be sharing our stretch of the ocean.”
CHAPTER 2
President Charles Bradley brushed past the two Secret Service agents and through the door of the White House Situation Room. His movements were brusque this morning. There was not a hint of his usual folksy demeanor.
Political caricaturists liked to depict his angular face as a rather robotic-looking triangle, softened only by twinkling eyes and the trademark Chaz Bradley grin. He didn’t feel much like smiling right now, though. In fact, he felt a nearly overpowering urge to throw things and scream at people.
Such mercurial impulses were rare for him. He never indulged them, and they usually didn’t last very long. His friendly manner and nearly perpetual smile were not pretense. He truly was a jovial man by nature, just not so much on this particular morning.
He strode to the head of the long mahogany table and dropped into his chair without a word. This was the sixth time in as many weeks that he’d been called away from a quiet Sunday breakfast with his wife. Six times.
Paige was a wonderfully patient woman. She understood the incessant demands of the presidency, but six times in a row?
She hadn’t said a word when the Sit Room Duty Officer had called Chaz away from the breakfast table. She had lowered her fork, laid her folded napkin beside her plate, and slid back her chair. She had timed the maneuver with care, getting to her feet in synchronization with her husband.
The message was clear… If Chaz Bradley had become too high and powerful to share a simple meal with his wife, then breakfast was cancelled.
Paige had gotten all of about three bites this time, so she would be in a lovely mood by the time he made it back to the residence.
Chaz settled into his chair and tried not to think about his next conversation with the first lady. He stared down the length of the table where his military advisors and key security staff were standing at attention. He waved for them to sit. “Alright, what is it this time?”
Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Air Force General Felix Boosalis, took position at the far end of the table.
The barrel-chested officer had earned his wings flying B-52s at the close of the Cold War. In those days, his aircrews had called him ‘the Greek with a beak,’ a reference to both his heritage and the long aquiline nose that dominated his bulldog face. They had occasionally shortened the nickname to just ‘the Greek’ or ‘the beak.’ Such informal appellations had fallen by the wayside when he’d been awarded the silver stars that adorned each epaulet of his dress uniform. At least within his earshot.
The wall-sized flat screen display behind him showed the presidential seal against a background of dark blue. The image was repeated on six slightly smaller screens along the two adjoining walls.
General Boosalis cleared his throat. “Good morning, Mr. President. We apologize for interrupting your breakfast.”
Chaz resisted the urge to add the word, “again.”
On all seven screens, the president’s emblem vanished, replaced by a photograph of a nondescript-looking cargo ship.
The general continued. “This is the Motor Vessel Aranella, a forty-thousand ton bulk freighter registered to a dummy corporation under the Liberian flag. Approximately two and a half hours ago, the U.S. Coast Guard patrol boat Sawfish attempted a routine inspection boarding of this vessel.”
On the screens, the freighter was joined by the image of a long hulled white boat with the familiar diagonal Coast Guard “racing stripe” across its bow.
The president glanced at the blue-jacketed briefing folder on the table in front of him, but didn’t touch it. He looked back up at the general. “I assume that your use of the word ‘attempted’ was not accidental, so I’m guessing that something went wrong. Badly wrong, if it was serious enough to yank me out of breakfast with the first lady.”
General Boosalis nodded. “Yes, sir.”
He thumbed a slender remote. The display screens changed to a brief black and white video clip, starting with a close-up view of combat boots and camouflage pants, pulling back to a quick glimpse of crouching uniformed men, going black, and then starting again.
The general allowed the snippet to play through several times before speaking. “This short video recording came from a reconnaissance robot deployed by the Coast Guard boarding team. It was relayed to Sector San Juan by a second class petty officer in temporary command aboard the Sawfish. As far as we can tell, the robot was disabled or destroyed only a few seconds after being activated, presumably by one or more of the unidentified personnel shown in the video. Immediately afterward, approximately seven hostiles opened fire on the boarding boat with automatic weapons. All five friendlies on the boarding team were down in seconds.”
At the mention of casualties, Chaz’s mind went instantly alert. He felt his posture straighten of its own accord as he made the mental shift from irritated husband mode to president mode.
Like any other man, he was subject to the distractions and irritations of everyday life, but this wasn’t some political or diplomatic foul up. American service members were dead. He owed them his full concentration. It was time to get his head in the game.
The video clip was replaced on the screens by another photo of a long hulled white boat, this one visibly damaged in numerous places, and trailing black smoke from a gaping hole near the stern.
General Boosalis nodded toward the screen. “This shot was taken from a Coast Guard helo called in to provide emergency evacuation for wounded personnel aboard the Sawfish. Based on a rapid assessment of visible damage, and the initial reports of the surviving crew members, we believe the hostiles launched approximately four over-the-shoulder rockets. Probably some variant of light anti-tank weapons, two of which the Sawfish maneuvered to avoid, and two of which did most of the damage you see here.”