Endangered Species Ch. 01-08

Author's Note: This book is the same universe and events of Dominant Species, but in a different territory. It can be read independently or as a sequel.

USS Maine SSBN-741

Somewhere in the Northern Pacific

Day six of my midshipman cruise and the monotony of a Boomer patrol was setting in.

It was mid-afternoon by the clock on the wall of Main Control. I was standing next to Ensign Terry McGuire, my Diving Officer qualification card in my back pocket. We were going over the handling characteristic of the Ohio-class Ballistic Missile Submarine.

It wasn't nimble. At almost nineteen-thousand tons submerged and nearly the length of two football fields, it didn't change speed or direction easily. You had to plan your maneuvers and anticipate how long things would take to start, then steady out. Put the rudder left, and it would take a few seconds to see the heading change. Once it got going, you had to reverse the rudder to stop the turn. The ship handled like a barge, not a speedboat.

Angles and Dangles yesterday kicked my ass. It's a drill where the submarine rapidly changes depths and headings on command. We overshot our target depth by thirty feet, and you'd think the world had ended by how Captain Grimes responded.

The mission of the USS Maine was silent deterrence. On patrol, we were a hole in the ocean carrying twenty-four Trident II missiles, each with a dozen nuclear warheads that could reach anywhere in China or Russia in minutes. If the Russians couldn't find us, they couldn't prevent a missile launch. It was that threat of survivable retaliation which had kept the nuclear powers from using them since 1945.

Ensign McGuire was patient and thorough as we discussed the items on my qual-card. I knew him from our time at the Naval Academy, two years ahead of me in my company. No one could date a Plebe, so he waited until my Youngster year to ask me out. I'd turned him down, not wanting the drama of dating a senior. He was still interested in me, but now he was a commissioned officer, and I was a senior Midshipman, and he was my direct supervisor. I was off-limits again.

That didn't stop him from checking out my ass and tits under my poopy-suit, the blue overalls that were the underway uniform for officers. I'd grown to five-ten, and Varsity Soccer kept my body firm and strong. My dirty-blonde hair was in a ponytail hanging out the back of my ship's ballcap.

"Conn, Radio, flash traffic emergency action message. Recommend Alert One."

Lieutenant Bond was the Officer of the Deck and was in charge of the control room; he picked up a microphone and answered. "Incoming EAL, recommend alert one." He switched to the 1MC, speaking to the whole ship. "Alert One, Incoming Emergency Action Message."

"What's going on now?" I wasn't in the control room for the last drill.

"Captain in Control," the Chief of the Watch announced.

The Captain wasn't expecting this. I could tell by his look. "Man Battle Stations Missile, spin up all missiles for strategic launch," he ordered.

"Battle Stations Missile, set Condition 1SQ for Strategic Missile Launch," the Lieutenant spoke over the 1MC.

"Dive, make depth one-five-zero feet."

"Make depth one-five-zero feet, dive aye," I responded. I was under instruction, so I had the job unless Ensign McGuire took over. "Ten-degree rise on the fairwater planes, going to 150 feet."

The planesman acknowledged the order and pulled back on his control. "Helm, three-degree up-bubble."

"Three-degree up-bubble, aye." He pulled back slightly on his control, causing the planes in the stern to raise slightly. He watched as the angle bubble indicator moved up, bringing the planes back to neutral at a three-degree angle.

"Passing 400 feet, going to 150 feet," I announced.

Control was filling with people as the ship manned battle stations. Ensign McGuire was assigned here anyway, and I went with him, so we stayed in place as other officers arrived and took over. I sneaked a look back; two officers were next to the Captain. "Sir, we have a properly formatted Emergency Action Message."

"I concur with a properly formatted Emergency Action Message," the second officer added.

"Authenticate the message."

The XO went to a small safe along with the two officers. "What is going on," I whispered.

"No one will do anything with the message until properly authenticated. The code changes daily. We keep it in the safe."

I nodded, still watching the depth indicator. "Passing 300 feet, going to 150 feet."

"Control, Weapons, Condition 1SQ set, missiles one through twenty-four spun up for strategic launch."

Shit was getting real.

"Whiskey, Xray, Alpha, Delta, Charlie, Tango, Tango," the first officer read.

"Whiskey, Xray, Alpha, Delta, Charlie, Tango, Tango," the second officer replied. "Captain, the message is authentic."

"I concur, Captain."

The Captain took the message and read it, then handed it to the XO. He read it and handed it back.

"Passing 200 feet, heading to 150 feet," I announced. "Helm, zero the bubble."

"Zero the bubble, aye, ma'am."

He pushed forward on his control, and the ship slowly leveled out before we hit 170 feet. The fairwater planes were still up, so we continued to rise as the helmsman held the submarine level. I anticipated the sluggish response this time, and we stopped at 152 feet before easing to depth. "Officer of the Deck, at 150 feet."

"150 feet aye," he responded.

"Nice job," Terry said quietly.

"This is the Captain," he said over the 1MC to the ship. "The National Command Authority has raised the readiness condition to DEFCON FOUR due to a major solar storm event. The storm may disrupt communications and result in a loss of power over large areas. Stand down from Battle Stations Missile and set Condition 2SQ." Captain Grimes looked over to Lieutenant Bond. "Officer of the Deck, practice hovering at launch depth, then continue our patrol." He grabbed the XO and walked out.

"Captain has left Control," the Chief of the Boat announced.

"Diving Officer, hover at 150 feet."

"Hover at 150 feet, aye," I replied. "Helm, all stop."

"All stop, aye."

It would take a few minutes for the submarine to slow to a stop. Without movement through the water, the rudder and planes were useless. You had to move water between tanks fore and aft, or pump water in and out of those tanks, to maintain depth and angle. We'd talked about it, and I'd watched it once, but now it was my job. I knew how much water we'd added to the ballast tanks during the dive, so I started by having the Chief of the Watch remove that much. It would get me in the ballpark before we came to a halt.

We spent thirty minutes at hover before returning to depth and speed. I felt good as we were relieved at the end of our watch. I'd gotten more things signed off on my qualification card, and I had a few hours tonight to study.

I used the head, then headed to the wardroom for dinner. An Ohio-class submarine had a lot of space compared to my Dad's Los Angeles-class submarine, which he told me was far more than the Sturgeon-class submarines he'd been on early in his career. Not an inch of space was wasted, though. A deterrent patrol was 92 days long, and there were no port calls or resupplies. The hatches closed last week and wouldn't open again until we were returning to our homeport of Bangor, Washington.

The cruise would take the entire summer of my senior year. I even had to take some finals early to fly out in time. I'd arrived with my seabag and Midshipman Third Class Mike Newman. While I was learning to be a junior officer, he would be working with the enlisted crew on board. Both of us selected this cruise so we'd have enough time to earn silver Dolphins, the award for qualifying Submarines in the enlisted ranks. The XO warned us we'd have to work our asses off to get them in a single patrol. Regardless, we'd be awarded a pin for completing a deterrent patrol, a replica of a Ballistic Missile Submarine. We'd be able to wear both pins on our uniforms after that.

I went to take a seat near the end of the table, far from where the Captain and XO sat. No such luck. Captain Grimes waved to me, pointing at an empty seat. I sat down between the Chief Engineer and the Weapons Officer. "How are your qualifications coming, Summers?"

"Good, Captain. I should be ready for my Diving Officer board in two days." Watchstation qualifications required a final board, usually chaired by the CO or XO.

"I'll set up a board," the XO, Commander Melanie Potter, said as she wrote a note in the spiral notebook all officers had stuck in their back pockets. The XO had pulled me aside early on; she'd been one of the first female officers to qualify in submarines after women were allowed to serve on ballistic missile submarines in 2010. There weren't many women around, and we were still under a microscope. "You have to be smarter, work harder, and prove yourself to the men around you," she'd told me. "You WILL get your dolphins, or my bootprints on your ass will still be showing when you return to Annapolis. If you need help, you ask." I hadn't forgotten that. So far, the crew has stayed professional. I'm sure Potter put the fear of God into them before we arrived.

"When did you figure out it wasn't a drill," the Captain asked?

"I saw your face when you came in," I replied.

"We drill to be perfect in the real world. The EAM could be anything, so we must be ready for anything. Our country depends on us doing our job right. Millions of lives hang in the balance."

I nodded; it was the conundrum of the nuclear forces. If you ever had to launch, you've failed in your mission. The Captain wasn't kidding about millions of lives. We carried enough firepower to wipe out every major city in Russia.

I prayed to God that we'd never get one with a launch order because that would mean the end of the world was upon us.

Ch. 2

Two days later, I was standing my first official watch as the Diving Officer on the 1800-2200 shift. We were doing standard deterrent patrol courses, six knots far away from everything in a big box. The Captain was in control, conferring with the XO and the Communications Officer, Ensign Denning. "Captain, the ELF antenna is picking up nothing but static for the last 46 hours," he said. "No periodic communications, no emergency action messages, nothing." ELF stood for Extremely Low Frequency, a system using long, buried antennas to communicate with submarines underwater. We towed a long antenna behind us to pick up the transmissions.

"The EAM warned us there would be disruptions," the Captain replied.

"ELF is independent of atmospheric conditions, sir. The signal transmits through the earth, not the air."

"There's more than that," Commander Potter replied. "When was the last time you got a contact report?"

Captain Grimes had to think about that. A ballistic missile submarine's job was to stay hidden. If their passive sonar picked up merchant or military traffic, we'd turn the other way. If we needed to get somewhere, we would figure out its course and speed using time/bearing analysis and set our course to stay clear of it. TBA plotted the bearing to the contact over time, including us making at least one course change. If the target doesn't change course and speed, you can figure out how far it is from you, its direction and speed, and how close it will pass.

All Captains have night orders; I'd read them, and all contacts passing within 10,000 yards (five nautical miles) required a verbal report, any time of day or night. The Pacific held shipping lanes, fishing boats, pleasure craft, and military ships. Contact reports were a common occurrence, but the XO was right. I didn't remember hearing any during my last three watches.

"It's been a while," he admitted.

"Too long."

They kept talking while I pretended not to listen. The discussion was interrupted by a call on the 21MC. "Conn, sonar, surface contact bearing 040. Based on starboard relative bearing rate, range to target is less than a thousand yards."

THAT had the Captain's attention. We were at patrol depth, far below the surface, so it wasn't like we would hit it.

The Captain responded. "Sonar, Captain, how did this guy get so close without us knowing?"

"Contact appears to be dead in the water, sir. No engine noises, machinery noises, nothing. We hear the waves hitting the side and the creak of metal only. Current bearing is 053."

Captain Grimes looked at the Officer of the Deck. "Turn left fifty degrees and bring us to periscope depth, Lieutenant."

"Aye, Captain. Dive, come to course two-niner-five, and make depth eight-five feet."

"Come left to course 295 and make depth 85 feet," I answered. "Helm, left standard rudder, steady course 295."

"Left standard rudder, steady course 295 aye, ma'am." He turned his wheel and began the turn.

"Chief of the watch, pump 800 gallons from the forward trim tank and 500 gallons from aft trim tank."

"800 gallons from forward trim, 500 from aft trim, aye."

"Passing 000, coming left to 295."

I'd wait for the turn to complete before changing depth. Thirty seconds later, Helm reported steady course 295. "Ten-degree rise on the fairwater planes, three-degree up-bubble," I ordered. Three minutes later, we were at periscope depth, doing four knots.

The Captain put us two miles west of the contact. If they looked our way, our periscope would appear in the setting sun's glare. "Sonar, Conn, bearing to contact?"

"Contact bearing 083, no change."

"Conn, aye. Raising periscope, radio, and ESM mast." The Captain raised the periscope carefully, watching as it approached the surface. Modern submarines didn't use optical scopes; they extended high-resolution cameras through the sail that never penetrated the pressure boundary of the submarine. I stayed focused on maintaining exact depth. If we got too shallow, the periscope would be easy to spot. The ESM mast would sense any radios, radars, or other electromagnetic transmissions nearby.

I wished I could see what the Captain did, but I had to focus on my job. The Captain reported contact information. "Cruise ship, bearing, mark, angle on the bow port eight-zero." That meant we were looking at her from just forward of her port beam. "No lights, no activity, no distress signals. Any radar?"

"Nothing on ESM, sir."

"Radio, conn, report status."

"Nothing but static on the frequencies, Captain."

"Down scope, down the ESM mast. Officer of the Deck, maintain current course and dive to four hundred feet."

"Dive to four hundred feet, aye." I gave the orders, essentially the reverse of what I'd just done, while the Captain discussed the contact with the Navigator, Officer of the Deck, and Executive Officer.

"Sir, the ship lost power and navigation. The law of the sea would have us surface and render aid."

"We can't do that, Nav. We are on patrol. If there is no immediate hazard, we cannot get involved," the Captain responded. "They are not transmitting a distress signal, nor did I see anyone on board."

"Can we at least radio this in? Get a rescue going, or at least report it as a hazard to navigation?"

The Captain shook his head, no. "We're at Defcon Four, Lieutenant. We stay hidden and silent unless it is an emergency. If the Russians or Chinese try to take advantage of the solar storm, we will lead them right to us."

We continued for another hour before sonar picked up the next contact, dead in the water off our port bow this time. The Captain had us go through the same drill. This time it was a container ship with no lights, no power, and distress signals. "The Northern Lights are insane. I've never seen them this bright," he reported as he looked through the periscope. Since it was night, and the ESM detected no nearby activity, he decided to investigate further.

"Prepare to surface the ship," the Captain ordered. As Conning Officer, I got to go up the sail with him and the lookouts.

The first thing I noticed was the smell of the outside air. It wasn't the salt air I smelled.

It was the decay. If you put a dead mouse inside a rotting fish and left it out on a warm day, you'd be close, but this was a hundred times worse.

I squeezed into the opening at the top of the sail, taking the forward position. The lookouts went right and left, the Captain behind me. I plugged in my headset and checked communications with the helmsman and planesman still down in control. The Captain had me drive the submarine a thousand yards off the port side. We saw no signs of life, even after firing a flare across their bow.

The flare did illuminate a body on the bridge wing. "None of the lifeboats were missing," the Captain remarked. "Prepare to dive," he ordered.

I was first down the ladder, returning to my spot as the Officer of the Deck and Chief of the Watch made preparations. The Captain was last down, security the hatch and climbing down into Main Control. "Ready to dive, Captain," the Officer of the Deck reported.

"Submerge the ship, make depth four hundred feet," he ordered.

I had just finished the orders when my relief arrived. I should have hit my rack, but my head was working overtime to wrap my head around what I'd seen. I headed to the Wardroom for Midrats, the nighttime meal for people working late watches.

I wasn't the only one. Half the wardroom was there despite the hour, as news of the ghost ships spread like lightning. The Captain was looking for an explanation. "Could a solar storm be powerful enough to knock out power to a ship?"

The Chief Engineer nodded. "I doubt it, but an EMP weapon could. A high-altitude nuclear burst over the west coast would fry electronics and knock out power lines over half the country. I imagine it would do a number on the engines of those ships. Most don't have battery backups of any size."

"That doesn't explain the dead guy we saw or the lack of human activity," I challenged. They looked at me, and I shrank back into my seat, looking down at my sandwich. "Sir. I mean, with no power and no air, it must be stifling inside the ship. I'd expect to see them camping out on the bridge wings to get the breeze, not hiding."

"She's right," the Captain said. "No one knew we were there, and nothing changed after I fired the flare. I don't know if you caught the smell." From the OOD's reaction, he had. "There is a mass die-off going on. It smelled like a red tide."

"An air burst would explain the lack of radar emissions and radio signals," the XO agreed. "Were we able to receive anything from the National Command Authority?"

"No, ma'am, the radios didn't pick up ANY transmissions, civilian or military," the Communication Officer replied. "No satellites, either."

"There weren't any elevated radiation readings when we surfaced, area or airborne," the XO challenged.

"That doesn't rule out a high-altitude burst," the Engineer replied.

"If the nuclear explosion was that high, why did the people die?" Hey, if they needed someone to ask stupid questions, a nub (non-usable body) like me could do it for them. "There was no blast damage on the ships."

The XO nodded. "And we're not exactly over the target area. You'd expect it right over San Francisco if they wanted to knock out the Pacific Coast. We're six hundred miles west of there."

The Captain tapped the edge of his coffee cup. "We'll talk more in the morning. Navigator, head for the northeast portion of our operating area. If someone is attacking the United States, I want confirmation."

I finished my sandwich and headed for bed, worried about what was going on topside. What was it like on land if it was this bad out at sea?

Sleep didn't come easily.

Ch. 3

The next day brought more of the same, and the drifting vessels became more common as we got closer to the coast of Washington. It wasn't just commercial shipping; the hulks included fishing boats and yachts.