Protocol 15

Chapter 10

10

THE SCENE OF THE CRIME

Submarine USS Colorado, near the mouth of the Persian Gulf. October 16, 1:01 a.m. local time (Oct. 15, 4:01 p.m. EST).

The intercom in the control room of the submarine cracked to life as the sonar operator, Petty Officer Third Class Thomas, stationed in an adjoining compartment, called to the captain in the control room. “Conn, Sonar. New sonar contact bearing 025. Designate contact, Sierra One.”

“Sonar, conn, aye,” the captain replied. He then asked, “Is it surface traffic?”

“No, sir. This contact is submerged. It’s a long way out. About twelve thousand yards off the starboard bow. Can’t identify. The computer’s chewing on it now, sir.”

“Sonar, conn, aye.” The captain turned to the executive officer. “XO, slow to ahead two-thirds. Station the section-tracking party. We expecting any company?”

“Aye, sir. Helm, all ahead two-thirds.”

“All ahead two-thirds, Helm, aye,” another sailor said.

The executive officer picked up a mic. “Station the section-tracking party.” He then turned to the captain. “No, sir. Latest intelligence shows nothing on the boards. Sure as hell wouldn’t expect to find another sub out here.”

“Conn, sonar,” sonar operator Thomas called, “I’ve got a possible ID on that contact, sir, but you’re not going to like it.”

“Whad’ya got, Thomas? The computer can’t identify it definitively? I’ve got to know if this is a hostile, son.”

“At this distance, the computer is only offering up a guess.” Thomas winced as he delivered the news that this was an older-class ballistic missile submarine. “But, it’s designated the contact as a Delta IV.”

“A Delta IV? A Russian boomer? You’ve got to be kidding me. And, anyway, every sub the Russians ever built is in that computer’s database. How could it not know for sure?” the captain said.

“I don’t know, sir. But I’ve refocused the sonar at the contact’s bearing to see if I can get a better reading. And there’s something strange. I can hear the turning of the screws.” Thomas tried to imagine a sub, its propellers turning while it sat dead in the water. “But it’s like the Russian sub’s not in motion, sir.” Something about the thought chilled him.

“What do you mean the sub isn’t in motion? You just said the screws are turning.”

“Yes, sir. From what I can hear, I’d say the sub is not in motion. The computer agrees. It’s weird, the screws are turning but the contact isn’t advancing forward. And, I’m hearing . . .”

“Hearing what?”

“Grinding, sir. I hear a grinding sound.”

Lieutenant Commander Omansky, executive officer of the USS Colorado, leaned toward the captain. “Sir, what if the Russian is grounded? It would make sense, right? The screws are making revolutions but the boat’s on the bottom, causing the grinding sound.”

“If it hit the floor, why the hell would it still have its screws making revolutions?”

“Conn, sonar,” sonar operator Thomas called, “I can hear . . . its, s**t, it’s cavitating. I’m definitely picking up the heavy sounds of bubble formation and their subsequent popping. But, I don’t get it. We normally only hear that when a propeller suddenly increases in speed.”

“So?”

“The sound isn’t coming from the screws, sir.”

“Christ, if it’s not coming from the screws, what’s causing the cavitation sounds then? What the hell is going on?”

“At this distance, the sounds are very faint, but it’s definitely cavitating. I can hear a huge plume of bubbles. It’s like they’re escaping from the hull. It’s just that I can’t—I can’t make it out, sir.” He paused, listening to the diminutive sounds. “Ow, s**t!”

The sonar operator yanked the headset off, wincing against a sudden loud noise.

“Sonar, conn, what’s going on?”

“Sir, I think the contact’s hull just breached!”

“What?”

“There was a huge, metallic cracking sound. Sounded like the hull just cracked wide open. I could hear water rushing in. That submarine is flooding with water, sir.”

Spinning around, the captain called out. “XO, man battle stations. Come right, heading 025. All ahead two-thirds.”