TSUNAMI STORM (11 page)

Hart Office Building, Washington, D.C.

Senator Elizabeth Bechtel stared at Ann Miller who sat across from her. “Tell me you made some progress.”

Ann grinned. “The more powerful people are, the more they ignore the little people.”

Senator Bechtel chuckled. “And the little people all have eyes and ears.”

“They do…” Ann replied. “Here’s what your boy, Rod Schneider, has been up to.” Ann opened a folder and handed her a single piece of paper laid out as a spreadsheet. “People he visited along the left, dates across the top. Notice anything interesting?”

Bechtel looked at the sheet. “So who’s this Billingsly? He’s the only one Rod visited every single day.”

“Deputy Director of Covert Operations,” Ann replied. “No idea what they discussed, but Vice Admiral Billingsly is getting daily photo updates on something. Most popular pick is China.”

“Any idea where in China?” she asked.

Ann shrugged her shoulders. “Nothing definitive – could be anywhere.”

“So why China?”

“Strange things are going on over there.”

“I know. First they expel all of our people, and then they stop shipping products to us. Last word from the State Department is that China has refused entry to all American commercial ships. All trade between the U.S. and China has unofficially come to an end.”

Ann sat back in the chair. “That’s a huge economic hit to China’s economy, but it helps explain the other thing.”

“What other thing?” the senator asked, becoming more curious.

“The mainstream media isn’t reporting the story, but Chinese warships have become confrontational with U.S. Naval vessels. Our ships are being pushed back to 200 miles off the coast of China.”

“That’s international waters – they aren’t supposed to do that,” Bechtel said, feeling more agitated.

“As long as our ships stay beyond 200 miles, there’s no problem,” Ann said. “Rumor has it a Navy admiral took a run at the 200 mile line with an Aircraft Carrier. A Chinese destroyer cut across its path and reportedly launched a deck-mounted torpedo at the carrier.”

“A live torpedo?”

“We don’t really know. The Aircraft Carrier changed course to go back behind the 200 mile line. As soon as it turned, the torpedo went dead in the water.”

“Oh my God,” Bechtel exclaimed. “Could it have sunk the carrier?”

“My sources tell me China has torpedoes that are nuclear capable. Whether that torpedo had a nuclear warhead, we’ll probably never know. At least my hope is we never have to find out.”

“And this didn’t make the news?” Senator Bechtel asked incredulously.

“No. The White House has squashed everything to do with this story. Nobody’s going to touch it.” Ann leaned forward and spoke softly, “What I don’t get is if China wanted to go to war with us, why didn’t they just go ahead and sink the carrier?”

Bechtel drummed her fingers on her desk and twisted her mouth.
It’s a good question,
she thought.
China has gone through most of the motions a country does before they declare war, except they haven’t closed the U.S. Embassy. Nor have they withdrawn their embassy from Washington. Is that the last step? Are we that close to war?
“We’re missing something,” she said. “Something important.”

The look on Ann’s face indicated she was debating telling the senator something. “What are you thinking?”

“There’s a resource,” Ann said. “The guy’s retired – ex-Defense Intelligence Agency Analyst. He spends a lot of time fishing and hunting, so you’re going to have to leave a message and wait for him to get back to you.”

“Have you talked with him?”

“On previous situations, yeah. He knows what’s going on in the world. His specialty is Global Strategic Analysis.” Ann dug a card out of her folder and handed it over. “A word of advice,” she said seriously. “Call once and leave a message. Do not pester him or you’ll never hear back from him.”

* * *

Senator Elizabeth Bechtel bullied her way into Sam Forrester’s office at the State Department. “You said you’d keep me informed.” She stood defiantly and stared at him.

His posture visibly wilted in front of her. “Not intentional. We’re neck deep in political sharks right now. Everyone who’s anybody wants to know what’s going on. We just don’t have any answers.”

“You could have told me our Navy is being pushed back away from China.”

Forrester glanced away from her. “That’s not for general consumption. You need to keep it quiet.”

“And the Chinese torpedo fired at a U.S. Aircraft Carrier?”

“Christ!” he replied. “How did you find out about that?”

“Same way I find out about everything – not from you!”

He turned away from her and looked out the window.

“How close are we to war with China?” she asked in a soft tone.

“I wish I knew,” he replied quietly, continuing to stare out his window.

“The Chinese embassy is still open, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” he replied. “I’ve tried to get in to see the ambassador. So far they have ignored all of our requests.”

“What about our embassy in Beijing?”

“Still there – still open. Same thing – they’re ignoring us.”

“This doesn’t make any sense. If they are preparing for war, why keep the embassies open, and then not talk to us? What are we missing?”

Forrester walked away from the window. “Unfortunately, a large part of politics involves timing, posturing and drama. We’re going to have to wait and see what happens.”

Falls Church, Virginia

Vice Admiral James Billingsly and Jessica again held their monthly dinner party with the usual guests. After dinner the three men retired to the study for Cognac and cigars.

“I don’t know what you did,” Ralph Cummings said. “But you made things worse, not better. I can’t get in to see anybody connected with China.”

Billingsly nervously knocked the ash from his cigar into the ashtray.
They know what I did, and they are going to use the same technology to attack us. This is my fault.

Billingsly shifted the conversation over to Clive Bentonhouse. “What about the Iranians? Are they returning to the negotiation table?”

“They are,” Bentonhouse replied. “And they seem to be in more of a mood to compromise.”

Of course they are.
Billingsly thought.

* * *

“The Chinese are doing something?” Jessica asked as they got ready for bed.

“Yes,” Billingsly replied.

“James, exactly what is happening?”

“I can’t go into any details, but the new level of technology we have is being duplicated by the Chinese.”

“So they will have the same technology we have?”

Billingsly glanced around the room. “What they’re building will be bigger than what we have.”

“Well, isn’t that how this technological weapon thing works? You always told me that it was a constant ratcheting process. We develop a superior technology, and before too long, someone else develops something better. Then it’s up to us to create something even better. Isn’t that always going to happen?”

“Yes, yes, it is,” Billingsly admitted. “It’s just that it takes decades to develop new technology and then the damned Chinese simply steal and duplicate what we have done. It can take us twenty years to develop a new weapon system and it takes the Chinese only two years to steal it and catch up with us. It just isn’t right. Something has to be done to stop this insanity. I have to figure out how to stop what they’re doing.”

“James, I know you’re upset, but there will be an answer. You’ll see. Just give it some time.”

She doesn’t understand,
Billingsly thought.
Time is something we just don’t have.

* * *

Billingsly watched with dread as Rod Schneider plopped the new report on his desk at the Pentagon.

“In case you were thinking of using force against the new facility in northern Manchuria, you need to look at this.”

Billingsly flipped open the folder and read. “Brigade level?”

“Yep,” Schneider replied. “The place is crawling with 3,000 troops, and not just your average grunt. This is China’s top combat unit, with anti-aircraft missile support. They’re even starting construction on what looks like a military air station, ten miles down the mountain. Whatever motivated them, they’re taking it seriously.”

Billingsly buried his face in the palms of his hands.
This just keeps getting worse.
“Okay, thanks for the update.”

As Schneider left, Billingsly pressed the intercom button. A repeat of his last meeting with the Secretary of Defense was not something he was looking forward to. The problem was this wasn’t going to be a repeat; it was going to be worse.

* * *

“We can’t let them finish this facility!” Billingsly firmly stated.

“And we’re going to do what to stop them? Nuke the place?” the Secretary of Defense replied. Billingsly lowered his head momentarily. “Admiral, we’re not starting World War Three over this. Am I getting through to you?”

“Yes, Sir,” Billingsly said as calmly as he could. “We could…”

“Enough!” the Secretary of Defense shouted. “We’re already getting pushed back by China’s military. We don’t need to make matters worse. Whatever you’re doing over there, shut it down, NOW.”

“Yes, Sir, but…”

“NOW, Admiral!”

“Yes, Sir,” he replied strongly. Billingsly turned and left.
Why is all of this falling apart? And why now?

Puget Sound, Washington

Captain Paul Jacobs stood in the small trapezoid-shaped observation platform in the top of the sail (or what used to be the conning tower on older submarines) and guided his vessel out of the Bangor Submarine Base and toward the open ocean
.
The U.S.S. Massachusetts – SSN 224 – was a Seawolf Class Hunter - Killer submarine, assigned to Submarine Squadron 5, Pacific Fleet, based out of Bangor, WA. The sub was 353 feet long and 40 feet wide, displacing 9,138 tons of sea water when submerged. The
Massachusetts
had a crew of 14 officers and 146 enlisted personnel on board.

Jacobs was amused at how Navy tradition had developed its strange and sometimes twisted logic. Technically, a boat was something small that could be lifted up onto a larger ship. The early submarines were small and carried anywhere from one-to-six-man crews, so they were boats. Over the years, submarines became much larger, but the classification of boat still stuck, even though the
Massachusetts
was considerably larger than many of the Navy’s ships.

Jacobs checked his watch: 2:08 AM. The weather report called for overcast skies. He examined the sky above for any large holes in the cloud cover. So far there weren’t any. The low fog that had formed on the surface of the water just after midnight swirled gently around the sub as it moved silently through the water, giving the
Massachusetts
the cover it needed. As one of the four most advanced submarines in the world, foreign countries tried hard to keep track of where it was, when it came into port, and especially when it left. Satellites and ground observers were his main concerns for as long as the
Massachusetts
was on the surface. Once he reached deeper waters and slid quietly beneath the waves, his sub would become the deadly invisible threat to America’s enemies that it was designed to be.

His mind drifted back to the awkward conversation he had had with his girlfriend, Lynn Waggoner.
I needed more time to consider all of the consequences. She has obviously been considering her decision for months. Why couldn’t she give me the same time and consideration she took for herself? I asked her to wait until this next patrol was over, but no, she had to have an answer now. What did she really expect me to do?
Disappointment and guilt filled his heart. He’d hardly spoken to anybody before they left port. At least now the duties and activities of being on patrol would consume his mind and his time.
At least I hope they will.

The
Massachusetts
was running dark: no lights, no radar, and no radio, to help keep from being seen.
Running dark,
he thought,
what an ironic match for my mood.
The sophisticated BQQ10 Sonar and the AN/BSY-2 tactical system created a three dimensional representation of everything around the sub, including other ships, buoys and shipping lanes, but you still needed to watch out for debris and silent objects on the surface of the water, such as logs or dead trees that had escaped through rivers and found their way into the ocean, and the stray shipping container that had fallen off a freighter. That’s why his being on the top of the sail was so important.

“Passed Coupeville, new heading 270 degrees,” John Silverton, his Executive Officer, reported from the control center below. With the new heading, the open ocean lay straight ahead with new challenges and new concerns.
Maybe now I can leave the broken part of my life behind
.

* * *

Once the
Massachusetts
had submerged and settled in at a depth of 500 feet, Lieutenant Tiffany Grimes gathered her crew in the torpedo room. “As some of you are aware, the torpedoes stored in this compartment fall into four general classifications: the Mark 48, Mod 7’s are the heavy weapons of the
Massachusetts
, we also have several Mark 50’s, Mark 54’s, and ten Mobile Submarine Simulator or MOSS decoy torpedoes. The handling and readiness of each of these weapons is our responsibility. Safety is our primary concern. Each of these Mark 48 torpedoes is 19 feet long, 21 inches in diameter, and weighs 3,695 pounds. If one of them gets loose in here, people get injured or killed and our equipment becomes damaged. If that happens the
Massachusetts
loses its combat readiness. In addition, each Mark 48 carries a 650 pound high explosive warhead, so we’re not going to drop one, are we?”

“No, ma’am,” they all replied.

“Okay, Petty Officer First Class Caleb Johnson is your team leader. We are going to practice loading and unloading each of the different torpedoes until the operation becomes smooth, fast and automatic to everyone. Petty Officer Johnson.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant. The Mark 48, Mod 7 is an ADCAP, an Advanced Capability torpedo with CBASS, the Common Broadband Advanced Sonar System installed. It can be programmed to run in several different modes, listen for and acquire any number of targets and can also be guided by wire. These torpedoes cost the Navy $3.8 million apiece. The
Massachusetts
exists as a platform to transport these devices, identify targets, and deliver these weapons to those targets.

“Notice how each torpedo is cradled in the heavy steel frames and bolted into place with three clamps. This is because the
Massachusetts
can tip, roll, turn, rise and fall in any direction. The only time a torpedo is not clamped is when we are loading or unloading it. We’re going to begin with this one.” He placed his hand on a Mark 48 mounted near the deck.

Tiffany kept track of the time as he led her crew through the extensive safety procedure of moving the lifting frame in place, unbolting the torpedo clamps, and securing the torpedo to the lifting frame. The hydraulic cylinders lifted the torpedo above the cradle. Once in position, the lifting frame was driven forward by gears on a track, where the torpedo was placed on a loading tray. From there it was moved in front of an open torpedo tube and hydraulically pushed into place. The needed connections to the torpedo were made, the tube door was closed and locked and the torpedo tube was filled with water. Tiffany was learning the intricate process at the same time as her crew.

She looked at her watch. “Okay. Good job. You safely loaded your first torpedo. Load time was forty-eight minutes and twenty seconds.”

“How long is this supposed to take?” Hector asked.

Caleb Johnson grinned. “In case you thought this was a vacation cruise, best time so far is eight minutes and thirty two seconds.”

“We’ve got to cut forty minutes off our time?” Hector asked.

“Yes,” Tiffany said. “There are no shortcuts. Safety first. We are going to be loading and unloading torpedoes twelve hours a day, every day we’re at sea. This torpedo is ready to be programmed by the fire control center and fired. Right now, we’re going to drain the tube and leave the torpedo in there for this patrol. The Mark 48 right over here is your next one to load and it goes in this tube, so let’s get started.”