Undetected (7 page)

If an enemy nation—or, for that matter, their allies—would ever find out what was in this woman's head, billions of dollars of military hardware would be at risk, and decades of underwater dominance would disappear. The oceans would become a level playing field, even if the numbers were still vastly superior on the U.S. side. No wonder security was hovering over her.

He looked over at her. “Who have you told?”

She offered a slight smile. “You.” She ate another bite of her ice cream. “I asked Lieutenant Commander Toombs if I could use the lab here to run down my ideas, since moving around terabytes of classified data is a bureaucratic nightmare. He arranged for me to use his office at night and opened up an audio lab for me so I could work without interruption. I'm running the idea against the data from the USS
Ohio
encounter with the British sub
Triumph
. The
Ohio
was cross-linking sonar with the USS
Michigan
when it happened. It's a big data set. So I snuck out for ice cream while it runs.”

Gina had moved on from working for the Navy six or seven years ago, and this was the idea she had nudging around in the back of her mind? Mark couldn't help wondering about the ideas she hadn't taken the time to explore.

“The concept isn't without its limitations,” she added. “It requires cross-sonar to be running. The active ping is faint,
which theoretically means it will work better with one sub above and one below a thermal line. The amount of cross-sonar conversation necessary is exponentially higher than a cross-sonar search, a fact that risks someone being able to gather enough data to crack the algorithm behind cross-sonar itself.

“And operationally it will only be helpful at the margins. The odds that two U.S. subs, with towed arrays deployed, running cross-sonar, miss hearing an enemy sub are very small. Their noise profile is too high. But an active ping should give you added range so you can pick them up at a farther distance than what cross-sonar on its own can give you.”

Bishop appreciated the limitations, but he already saw one key use. “An active ping would solve the problem of a sub lying in wait, with its engines and propulsion powered down, drifting and waiting for someone to come across his path. Right now we have to trust luck—someone on board drops a wrench, or closes a hatch too loudly, or the natural drift requires them to engage the drive shaft every few hours to keep from settling too deep. But the new electric-diesel combination subs can rest on the ocean bottom on the continental shelf, down around 400 to 500 feet, and are difficult to locate until they lift off the ocean floor. An active ping that couldn't be traced to its originating location would be a significant help in finding them.”

She nodded and slid the lid back onto her ice cream. “There isn't enough data in this British sub encounter to give me more than a probability that this works. It looks promising, but I don't know if it's more than that.”

“What do you need?”

“A couple more weeks and I'm going to be at the end
of what I can do with the existing data. I need a sea trial to test the idea. And that's going to be a problem. It can't be run at Dabob Bay. It's going to take ocean time. I need two fast-attacks and a boomer, although I might be able to give an answer with three fast-attacks. I need the right mix of sea conditions, with a choreographed set of maneuvers to create the permutations in data I need to see. There will be a massive amount of data to record. And if I'm wrong, that sea trial risks giving away cross-sonar to anyone within listening range.”

“You lay out the probability it works, you'll get your sea trial to gather data,” he predicted.

“I hope so.” She started to say something, stopped, appeared to change her mind, and simply said, “I don't expect this idea to hold up, Mark. But it's probably going to take that sea trial to put my finger on where it falls apart. I think it may prove fragile, only working a portion of the time based on the sea conditions. It seems extra sensitive to white noise, which is what I'm trying to test for now with the existing data. Nothing would be worse than running a test that tells you all is clear, only to find it didn't see an enemy sub sitting nearby.”

“All of a submariner's life is probabilities, Gina. If this could find a quiet sub that other techniques miss—even if it could do it in only one out of five times it was tried—it would still save lives. Whether the risk to cross-sonar being reverse-engineered is worth it depends on the variations where this proves helpful and the time it takes to execute the ping.”

She nodded. “Anyway, that's what I'm working on.”

“I appreciate you telling me, trusting me.” They had started walking again, and he closed up his own ice cream. “Earlier, you said ideas, plural. What else are you exploring?”

“I'd rather not say until I know if it is even feasible. I'm still looking for a data set that will let me explore the idea. It's . . . well, it's kind of out there, even for me,” she admitted.

“This idea was kind of out there too,” he remarked. “Let me know if you need some help finding that second data set. I'll see if I can get you what you need.”

“Thanks.” She glanced at the time. “I need to get back to the lab. My data run should be finishing up.”

“I'll stay in touch, Gina, see if I can find out for you when Jeff is due back in port.”

“I'd appreciate it.”

“Can I tell anyone what you told me tonight?”

She bit her bottom lip, then nodded. “Use your discretion.”

“One person, I'm thinking. Rear Admiral Hardman.”

“I'll trust your decision on it.”

Mark saw her safely back to the 7-Eleven parking lot. Security would drive her back. He held the passenger side door for her, said a quiet good night.

If he had wondered what else he was going to be doing during his R and R, a chunk of it had just filled in. He'd keep an eye on Gina until her brother got back to port and discreetly alert the Navy to what was coming.

Operational security meant closing down knowledge of this to a very few people who absolutely had to know. She'd elected to tell him. She, without a doubt, was going to tell her brother. They needed someone with rank involved, which led him to Rear Admiral Hardman. Keep it at that, hopefully, and keep her buffered from people bothering her. She didn't yet need help for the work—she needed time, data, and the freedom to work uninterrupted.

He had a headache.
An
active ping that could not be heard.
What he hadn't told her was the fact she had raised the risk to her brother's life by over half, depending on if this worked, and if and when other countries acquired the capability. Espionage inevitably acquired everything significant. Jeff commanded a fast-attack, and shooting them, sinking them early in a confrontation was the only way to take on a battle group and survive.

Mark got into his car, sat behind the wheel thinking, sighed, and hoped Gina's second idea wasn't also going to turn on its head established submarine tactics. His job was changing because of this woman, and he wasn't entirely sure it was a good thing. Her cross-sonar discovery was a significant help. This new idea . . . this active ping that couldn't be heard . . . was going to be a great addition right up until the day an enemy could also do it—and then it was going to really hurt. He'd spend the 90 days out on patrol, bracing himself to hear a torpedo in the water with the
Nevada
as its destination.

The number of subs the U.S. had operationally deployed, the tactical advantages they had, were formidable. But science could shake what was a solid wall and open new cracks. They needed her ideas. He didn't believe in a one-person-only kind of discovery. Gina's having the idea guaranteed others would eventually have the same idea. It was better to know the science and what was possible than to hide from it and simply hope no one else would figure it out.

Other countries might pursue the idea for a while and set it aside as too far out there, as not viable. But the U.S. wouldn't make that mistake. They would understand its capability and its limitations, they would classify it above code-word clearance, and then they would figure out how to defend against the day someone else figured out the same thing.

The military was a proactive branch of government. Sticking their heads in the sand was just plain dumb. He was one of 28 men entrusted with half the deployed strategic nuclear deterrent, and
dumb
wasn't in his vocabulary. He had a solid grounding in nuclear engineering and military history, well-learned tactical smarts and operational skills. The Navy would need to get ahead of this possibility as quickly as it could.

Mark parked in the Delta Pier lot. The USS
Nevada
needed his focus for the next few hours. Hand-over was a thousand details being coordinated at all levels of the boat, and he was the one who backed up his crew. Some of the classified materials regarding missile codes and launch packages were for his eyes only. His attention had to be on the hand-over, and he'd put it there for the next few hours. But he intended to get back to Gina before the day was over. They needed an agreement on how she'd proceed, whom she'd speak with, and he needed a word with the security personnel watching out for her. That security now wasn't a courtesy but a national-security priority.

His job had taught him how to understand the important, urgent, and necessary, and cope when they collided. Get the
Nevada
safely turned over to the blue crew. Then see how he could help Gina. It was going to be a busier day than he had originally planned. He should have bought something with caffeine to go with that ice cream. He was tired down to his bones, and for a fleeting moment he wished she had told someone else. He sighed.
Jeff's sister.

She'd told the right guy.

J
ust before six a.m., the duty officer showed Commander Bishop into Rear Admiral Henry Hardman's office. The head of Submarine Group 9, Hardman was the man responsible for every squadron, submarine, and submarine crew at Bangor.

“A good patrol, Bishop.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The rear admiral poured coffee, handed him a mug, and waved him to a chair. “I'm speaking at noon to
Nevada
gold. Something urgent enough you need to jump that schedule by six hours—you've got my attention. What do you need, Commander?” He returned to his desk and sat down.

Bishop was relieved to have this conversation sitting down. “You're aware Gina Gray is in town?”

“I am. She asked for access to the acoustical lab to explore some sonar ideas. Toombs didn't have details on what those ideas were. She's not one to share details until she can put her hands around the substance of an idea was my perspective on it.”

“I've known her for a few years through her brother, Jeff Gray. I had a conversation with her last night.”

“You look . . .” Rear Admiral Hardman set down his coffee. “Why don't you just tell me the bad news?”

“What if you could actively ping, and they couldn't hear you?”

Hardman thought for a moment, then winced.

“I'm the first person she's told. It made sense you should be the second to hear.”

“Appreciate that,” Hardman replied.

Bishop waited as Admiral Hardman thought it through. This was the man he trusted most in the Navy, the one who'd been his mentor and advisor as he worked toward becoming a ballistic missile submarine commander. The admiral had fought in combat when submarines were firing torpedoes at each other. He'd been at sea watching the USSR split back into individual countries. He'd seen underwater warfare tactics evolve. If there was one man able to capture the implications of Gina's statement quickly and to its full effect, it was this man.

Hardman looked over at him. “She works alone?”

“Always has.”

“I was around when cross-sonar appeared as her Ph.D. thesis:
What
if two subs could cross-link sonar data and not
be overheard?
She hadn't said a word to anyone. I think I was the fourth person to read the foundation documents for it. Jeff was selectively alerting people to what she'd figured out. She had it all in her mind—the algorithms, the data cherry-picking formula, the speeds that might be possible. We gave her the lab access she needed, and she built a functional scale model of it in the deep-water tank and had cross-sonar
running in under a month. It worked without modification at sea trials two months after that. We put it operational in the field within a year and have been frustrating enemies and allies alike ever since.

“I've known for years she was going to drop another earth-shattering idea on us one day.
What if you could
actively ping, and they couldn't hear you?
Of everything I thought I might hear, I didn't see that one coming.” He picked up his coffee mug, spun the liquid, finally looked over. “Until her brother is back onshore, you've got another job to do.”

“Figured as much, unless you want Toombs to take it from here.”

“She chose you to tell. She got into town less than two weeks ago. I gather she had the idea in mind, she just needed the data to test it against?”

“Appears that way. She didn't offer details on how it works, just that it requires cross-sonar to be running. She was running a data set last night—the USS
Ohio
encounter with the Brit's
Triumph
.
Ohio
was cross-linking sonar with the
Michigan
when it happened.”

“Okay.”

“She's going to need a sea trial test to get the full data she needs to study. Two fast-attacks and a boomer, different sea conditions. At a guess probably the Molokai Ridge, the continental shelf, and maybe an arctic ice. Nothing is noisier than glacier ice cracking and crashing into the sea.”

“A month out, the USS
Connecticut
is wrapping up tests on an upgrade package for the MK48 torpedo,” Hardman said. “The
Ohio
will need a shakedown after refit. If the
Nebraska
flows out of the dry dock smoothly, it could be pushed a week on the deployment window. Sit down with
the schedulers and look at the next few months, see what's possible.” Hardman set aside the coffee.

“If this were anyone other than Gina Gray,” the man continued, “I'd say hand it off to the Undersea Warfare Center to schedule and plan a trial. But this is an idea we're going to want to keep close to the vest—nothing written down that describes it, no whispered conversations, no allusions to the fact it's out there. For now, just you and me, and when he's back, Jeff. Ask her not to speak to anyone else. The word is you're looking at testing an upgrade to cross-sonar, which will improve its speed. That will be sufficient for what you need to do.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Does she realize the danger in this idea?”

“She does, although I don't think she fully appreciates all the implications yet.”

“As long as we can do it, and no one else can.”

“I hear you, sir,” Bishop said. He glanced at the time. He had to get back to the
Nevada
, and the admiral had someone waiting for him in the outer office. Bishop rose to his feet. “Security is around her, but it's temporary. You might want to quietly see if it can be raised to national security asset without having to tell anyone why.”

“Done.” Hardman leaned back in his chair. “She hit us with cross-sonar when she was 20, and now this when she's 30. I think I may want to retire before she hits 40.”

Bishop smiled, understanding the sentiment.

“Put me on a close update loop, Commander.”

“Yes, sir.” He returned the coffee mug to the used side of the service tray and headed toward the door.

“Bishop?”

He turned.

“Every military career has the odd kind of eddies and currents that can turn an officer into a flag officer—you're in one now,” the admiral said. “SecNav will have this on his desk within hours of confirmation that it works.”

“I'm aware of that, sir,” Bishop replied. “I'm more concerned with how to buffer her, as the weight of the Navy is going to come hard after that point, wanting to dissect her work.”

“For now, four people know. Let's leave it at that and let her work.”

Bishop nodded his agreement. “Gold crew would like to present you with the Seaweed Trophy at noon,” he said.

Hardman laughed. “I've earned it. See you in six hours, Bishop.”

“Permission to come aboard?”

In the command-and-control center, Bishop leaned over to look up the ladder, recognizing the voice. “Permission granted.”

The
Nevada
's blue crew commander, Nathan Irish, descended the ladder. “Good to have you back, Mark.”

“Thanks, Nathan. It was a busy deployment. Brits, Aussies, Chinese, and Russians were all showing their colors in the Pacific. We were dodging everybody on this patrol.”

Bishop's XO entered the center from deeper in the sub. Bishop turned to hear Kingman's update.

“Captain, weapons, operations, and admin have completed their hand-over. Engineering is in the process of taking the final reactor readings. Lieutenant Commander Mann and I are ready to do the walk-through and send gold crew topside.”

“Granted.” Bishop held out his hand. “Take yourself topside when you're done and find your wife. I'll see you at the pinning. Excellent patrol, XO.” There was a wealth of pride in those final words, and the handshake reflected it.

“Thank you, sir.”

Bishop glanced at Irish. “Come down to the stateroom, Nathan. I've got the update on the missiles for you.”

Men cleared ladders and moved to the side in the passageways to let them through as Mark Bishop and Nathan Irish headed down to the captain's stateroom.

Bishop closed the door behind them. He motioned Nathan to take the desk chair. He spun the lock on the personal wall safe—there were three safes in the room—and pulled out his classified notes to give to Nathan. “Missile updates.”

While Nathan read, Bishop tugged up the bunk to get access to the storage below and confirm he had left behind no personal gear. He verbally gave Nathan the highlights of the report. “Tridents 9 and 11 need recertified, 21 has to be replaced because it has aged out, and there's still a problem with tube 4. We cooked through an extra two canisters of nitrogen holding the pressure constant. They want to pull out the Trident, blast the missile tube with a shot of their special ‘creamy red' to check the seals, then repressurize it empty. I'm thinking there is a hairline crack in the first locking seal. Tube 4 took that dropped ladder four patrols ago, which put a dent in the base casing, and I think this will flow back to that event.”

“We're going to be at the Explosives Handling Wharf for days,” Nathan guessed. “Any problems with the repairs on the dome?”

“None, but I put on the schedule new photos of the hull to
confirm the patch took the pressure without forming a cavity. We were never below 1,500 feet, so it wasn't severely stressed.”

Bishop stretched himself out on the bunk and reached to carefully peel back the tape and take down his pictures and note card. “I moved the second deck power relay module up in priority on the TRIPER list, but odds are good there's not going to be time to deal with it on this refit. It's bound to fail at the most inopportune time. Once it goes, anything you need to divert forward of the missile bay has to be done manually. It's got to be in the master board—everything else has been swapped or tested out.”

“That one's a headache rather than a crisis.”

“Medical still needs new refrigeration. They've promised it will make this refit, but you'll want to stay on top of that one. The cooks hate sharing their refrigeration with the blood supply.”

“Noted.”

“Those are the big items; the paper runs five pages for the small ones.” Bishop glanced over. “How's blue crew?”

“Short by two. I lost my Jack of the Dust provision master to the USS
Maine
and my best radioman broke his leg last week. I'm backfilling with guys from the USS
Kentucky
. Blue crew is dreading the 18-hour days of refit more than they are the time away on patrol.”

“I hear you.” Bishop got up from the bunk, pulled out his wallet, and tucked the photos and note card inside it. The missile keys and the authentication cards would be checked by the commander of the Strategic Weapons Facility in—he looked at his watch—18 minutes, when the
Nevada
officially went off patrol. “Rear Admiral Bowen should be here soon. Anything I can answer before he arrives?”

“Start at the back of the boat and work your way forward. What's the story behind the maintenance notes?”

Bishop talked through the maintenance they had done at sea. The boomers were aging, and everything had to eventually be swapped out for refurbished parts as a portion of the TRIPER program or else fixed in real time when it broke.

Knuckles rapped on the door at 10 minutes to the hour. “Permission to enter, Commander.”

“Granted.”

Rear Admiral Scott Bowen, Commander of the Strategic Weapons Facility Pacific, stepped into the stateroom carrying a briefcase. Bishop and Irish both came to attention. “At ease, gentlemen.” He set the briefcase on the desk and unlocked it. “Gold crew, your authentication cards, please.”

Bishop entered the access numbers on the red wall safe, opened the outer safe door, then spun a dial to enter the combination for the inner safe door. He removed a two-inch-high gray square box and used the commander's key from around his neck to unlock the box. Inside were six rows of authentication cards, each card sealed inside a thin piece of shiny metal foil.

A machine at the National Security Agency generated a string of randomly arranged numbers and letters, printed the identical code on two cards, then foil-wrapped each card while it was still inside the machine—the generated sequence was never seen by a person. A number, stamped in white on each foil surface, indicated the two packets held the same contents.

One set of the authentication cards was placed in the captain's safe the day before a boomer left for patrol. A matching set of the authentication cards would arrive at Strategic Command, with a subset beginning with the number one taken
directly to the White House for the President's Nuclear Briefcase—often called “the football”—carried by an Air Force officer everywhere the president went. A genuine Emergency Action Message from Strategic Command or directly from the president would begin with the number stamped in white on the foil, and the message would end with the string of numbers and letters found on the card inside that foil packet.