After waiting several minutes, giving Sonar time to adjust their equipment lineup and complete a detailed search, Kern ordered, “Sonar, Conn. Report all contacts.”
Sonar acknowledged and reported several contacts, none within ten thousand yards.
Kern called out, “Rig Control for black.”
The lights in the Control Room were extinguished, leaving only the faint multicolor indications on the submarine’s control panels and the red digital navigation repeaters glowing in the darkness. Kern adjusted the sonar display on the Conn, reducing its brightness to the minimum. Reaching up, she pulled the microphone from its holder and punched the button for the Captain’s stateroom. “Captain, Officer of the Deck.”
Murray Wilson answered, “Captain.”
Kern delivered the required report, to which Wilson replied, “I’ll be right there.”
Wilson entered the Control Room and joined Kern on the Conn, settling into the Captain’s chair on the starboard side. After reviewing the sonar display and the submarine’s parameters, Wilson said, “Proceed to periscope depth.”
Kern reached up in the darkness and twisted the port periscope locking ring. The barrel slid silently up through the submarine’s sail, and Kern folded the periscope handles down as the scope emerged from its well, then placed her right eye against the eyepiece.
“Helm, ahead one-third. Dive, make your depth eight-zero feet. All stations, Conn. Proceeding to periscope depth.”
The Helm rang up ahead one-third on the Engine Order Telegraph as the Diving Officer directed his planesmen, “Ten up. Full rise, fairwater planes.”
As Michigan rose toward the surface, silence descended on Control aside from the occasional depth reports from the Diving Officer.
“Passing one hundred feet.”
The Diving Officer reported the submarine’s depth change in ten-foot increments until the periscope broke the ocean’s surface. Kern began circling, completing a revolution every eight seconds, scanning the darkness for nearby ships. She spotted only two faint white lights to the west.
“No close contacts!”
Conversation in Control resumed, now that Michigan was safely at periscope depth, and Kern slowed her rotation, periodically shifting the scope to high power for long-range scans.
The Quartermaster announced, “Conn, Nav. GPS fix obtained.”
A moment later, Radio followed up. “Conn, Radio. Download complete.”
Kern announced, “All stations, Conn. Going deep. Helm, ahead two-thirds. Dive, make your depth one-eight-zero feet.”
The Helm and Diving Officer acknowledged, and Michigan tilted downward. After the periscope slid beneath the ocean waves, Kern lowered the scope back into its well.
“Rig Control for gray,” she announced, and the low-level lights flicked on.
A few minutes later, as Kern ordered the Control Room rigged for white, a radioman entered with a message clipboard in hand. Captain Wilson flipped through the messages: all but two were routine traffic. Michigan had received a new waterspace management message, along with new operational orders.
Wilson studied the OPORD, noting the complexity and urgency of the mission: eleven hours to get into position and sink a merchant escorted by Russian warships. Additional information would arrive SEPCOR — via separate correspondence. Wilson also noted the unique tandem arrangement with Jimmy Carter, which Wilson assumed had just received new orders as well. Sonar’s next report confirmed his assessment.
“Conn, Sonar. Detect burst of cavitation from Jimmy Carter. Down doppler. She’s increasing speed and turning to the northeast.”
Wilson called the Messenger of the Watch over to the Conn.
“Round up all officers. There will be a meeting in the Wardroom in fifteen minutes.”
To his Officer of the Deck, Wilson ordered, “Come down to six hundred feet, course zero-seven-zero. Increase speed to ahead flank.”
61
LEESBURG, VIRGINIA
It was after 5 p.m. when Christine emerged from the Pentagon, having stopped by the Navy’s operations center coordinating the merchant ship attack, ensuring the CIA had provided all relevant information about the ship and its contents. As a former Pentagon weapons program analyst and national security advisor, she was interested in the planning — it was a part of her previous job that she missed.
By the time she departed the secure spaces in the Pentagon and retrieved her cell phone, a message from McFarland awaited: the address of the CIA facility in nearby Leesburg, Virginia, where the radio taken from the Abbottabad compound was stored.
It was rush hour on the Capital Beltway and its arteries, and the ninety-minute trip to Leesburg in the back of her SUV provided an opportunity for her thoughts to wander: the pending attack on the merchant ship transporting the gas centrifuges, Secretary Verbeck’s potential involvement in the scheme and its cover-up, the prisoner taken from Abbottabad and what had happened to him, and Khalila’s true identity.
Her driver followed the GPS directions to the agency facility, turning from a main highway onto a two-lane road delving into a heavily forested area in the Virginia wilderness, with trees leaning over a poorly maintained road. After a ten-minute trip, the vegetation gave way to a several-acre clearing containing a three-story building surrounded by an electric fence topped by barbed wire.
Christine’s SUV stopped by the single entry point, guarded by two armed men, and the driver showed his agency ID. The gate slid aside and after entering the compound, the driver parked near the entrance. There were only a dozen cars in the parking lot.
Christine left her protective agents behind in the vehicle, and after another ID check in the building lobby, she was directed to the basement, where a single person manned a large warehouse of row upon row of containers stacked forty feet high. Upon closer examination, she realized it was a sophisticated filing system with built-in drawers.
Following a third ID check and an entry into the visitor log, the man looked up with a surprised expression after realizing who she was. Christine provided the drawer ID and the man typed it into the computer. A robotic forklift nearby started moving, turning in to one of the corridors, stopping midway down the row. Its arms rose, then slid into grooves where they clicked into place, and a drawer was extracted.
The forklift returned to the front of the warehouse, where it deposited the drawer on a table off to the side.
“Let me know when you’re done, ma’am,” the man said as he handed Christine a printout with the container combination.
Christine punched the numbers into the drawer’s electronic lock and lifted the lid. She sorted through the container’s contents, which appeared to be all of the electronic equipment taken from the third floor of the Abbottabad house. However, there was no radio. She searched the contents again and located the charger, but no radio.
She spotted a sheet of paper in a holder inside the container, which was an itemized list of the drawer’s contents. Christine went down the list, her finger stopping when it came across the desired item — handheld transceiver.
Christine turned to the warehouse attendant. “Do you know what happened to the transceiver that’s supposed to be in this drawer?”
“I can check the logs to see if it’s been checked out.” He began typing on his computer. “By the way,” he said, “why all the sudden interest in that drawer?”
Christine was surprised by the man’s question. “What do you mean, all the sudden interest?”
“You’re the second person who’s searched through its contents today.”