The president asked Admiral Rhodes, “How long before we can have a submarine ready to launch another test missile?”
“About forty-eight hours to prepare a missile with dummy warheads, pull a submarine in for on-load, then have her in position to launch.”
“Validate the design first. Will forty-eight hours be enough time?”
“We’ll have an answer by then, sir.”
The president turned to Dunnavant. “Let’s see if this works.”
45
USS MICHIGAN
USS Michigan owned the Black Sea. From a NATO perspective, that is. She was the only NATO submarine in the area, so colliding with another friendly submarine wasn’t a concern. However, three Russian Kilo submarines were also in the Black Sea, and thus far, intelligence messages had provided no information on their locations. Wilson looked up from the electronic navigation chart as Lieutenant Commander Al Patzke, the submarine’s Executive Officer, entered the Control Room. Patzke stopped in the Radio and Sonar Rooms for updates on communications and the contact picture — there were only a few merchant ships in the area — then approached Wilson, ready to relieve him.
Two days ago, after receiving reports of Russia’s invasions of Ukraine and Lithuania, along with a report that the three Kilo class submarines had sortied to sea, Wilson had augmented the normal watch sections with additional sonar and fire control personnel. Additionally, either Wilson or Patzke would be in Control. Wilson was wrapping up his six-hour evening shift, looking forward to some sleep before returning for another stint in the morning.
After reviewing the submarine’s status with Patzke, Wilson stationed him as the submarine’s command duty officer, authorized to give orders normally reserved for the Commanding Officer. Wilson then departed Control for his daily tour. With most of the crew asleep in their racks, it would be quiet throughout the guided missile submarine, with the watchstanders going through their hourly routines. Wilson had learned that the mid-watch was the best time to tour his submarine, providing the opportunity to talk with his crew.
Having recently been in Sonar and Radio, Wilson toured the Torpedo Room, then stopped in the Missile Control Center where the submarine’s Tomahawk missiles were launched. All were operational. He continued aft, stepping into the Missile Compartment as the submarine tilted upward, proceeding to periscope depth to copy the message broadcast. In the level beneath Wilson, the bulk of the crew slept in nine-man bunkrooms between the missile tubes, while the SEALs and Navy divers slept in berthing installed in the second level during the submarine’s conversion into a guided missile submarine.
Wilson traveled down the port side of second level, stopping beside tube Twelve as the submarine leveled off at periscope depth. He knocked on the side of the tube, then pulled back the brown curtain and entered the berthing unit assigned to the three senior SEAL officers aboard: the SEAL detachment commander, John McNeil, and the two platoon leaders. Commander McNeil and Lieutenant Bob Acor were asleep in their racks, while Jake Harrison stood with a towel wrapped around his waist, his hair damp, applying deodorant. The SEALs were workout fanatics, but Michigan had limited exercise equipment and they had to take turns. It looked like Harrison had just finished a late evening workout.
“Evening, Captain,” Harrison said, tossing his bath kit onto his rack.
Rumor had it that Harrison was considering retiring from the Navy. The prior-enlisted officer had his twenty years in and could move on to a second career at any time. It seemed unlikely to Wilson; Harrison appeared to enjoy being a Navy SEAL.
“I hear you’re thinking about getting out?”
“I’m evaluating it, sir,” Harrison replied, “but haven’t decided. I’m up for lieutenant commander in another year and I’d like to see if I make it. My wife, on the other hand, would prefer I retire sooner rather than later.”
Wilson understood Harrison’s predicament. He’d had the same discussion with his wife many times. The emotional strain from deployments was tough on a family. Plus, although Wilson took his submarine into danger on occasion, the SEALs dealt with life-threatening situations far more frequently.
Michigan tilted downward and Wilson felt a vibration in the deck. The submarine was increasing speed to at least ahead full. He spotted the Messenger of the Watch hurrying down the side of the Missile Compartment, pulling to a halt as he passed Missile Tube Twelve. He entered the SEALs’ bunkroom and handed Wilson the message board. “New orders, sir.”
Wilson read the first message, which explained the increased speed. Michigan had been assigned a new operating area off the western shore of the Black Sea. The next message explained why. He looked at McNeil, still asleep in his rack. Harrison followed Wilson’s eyes and he nudged his boss, waking him up. McNeil swung to a sitting position, rubbing his eyes.
“New orders,” Wilson said as he handed the message board to McNeil. “Rescue mission for Russian President Kalinin and Christine.”
“Our Christine?” McNeil asked as he accepted the board.
Wilson nodded, then reflected on how the SEALs aboard Michigan had taken ownership of Christine O’Connor, having retrieved her off China’s coast, assisted at Ice Station Nautilus, and rescued her not long ago in the Black Sea.
McNeil said, “That woman is a blue bug light for trouble.”
Wilson laughed. “That much is true.”
The SEAL commander finished reading the message and handed the board to Harrison, then poked Lieutenant Acor in the rack below. The platoon leader pulled himself from his bunk and stood in his skivvies, waiting for his turn at the message board while McNeil filled him in.
“Extraction mission; the Russian president and Christine O’Connor, a few miles inland, just north of Sochi. Get with Harrison and come up with a plan.”
McNeil asked Wilson, “When will we be on station?”
Wilson did the calculations in his head. “About this time tomorrow.”
46
KINGS BAY, GEORGIA
Commander Britt Skogstad stood in USS Maryland’s Bridge cockpit, watching as two tugs pushed the ballistic missile submarine slowly toward the explosive handling wharf. It was an evolution he’d done many times to offload Trident missiles for maintenance, replacing them with freshly refurbished ones. This time, however, there would be no offload. Tube Twenty-one was already empty, having launched a missile with inert warheads a few days ago. Unfortunately, the missile had veered off course, breaking the string of 165 consecutive successful Trident missile launches. It wasn’t their fault, Skogstad told his crew, but it still left a bad taste in his mouth, being tied to the first Trident missile failure in thirty years.
They would get another chance, however. After entering the explosive handling building, they’d load a new missile into tube Twenty-one. Skogstad spotted the replacement missile on the wharf, lying on a trailer after being extracted from a heavily guarded stowage bunker. It was an eerie sight at times, passing the secure area in the early morning hours on the way to the piers; concrete sentinel watchtowers rising through the fog, searchlights illuminating the bunkers guarded with multiple rings of barbed wired fences, perimeter motion detectors, and controlled access worthy of a Mission: Impossible movie set.
The two tugs finished their task, gently pushing Maryland against the wharf between the two explosive handling buildings. Lines were attached to the submarine from inside Explosive Handling Wharf Two. Slowly, Maryland was pulled into the covered building.