Leviathan. Joaquin De Torres
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her--a weapons research officer--to an assignment that seemed clearly a case for a naval investigator, or at least a subsurface officer. And even more puzzling, why did WEPS give her no more than a five-minute, sanitized spiel about the situation then push her onto the plane? Standard operating procedures called for a full-blown, detailed situation report with defined goals and parameters.
“You’ll get all that when you get there, honey,” Admiral Kyoko Kaneshiro had said with a sympathetic smile. “Just make contact. Get his help. But you’ll have to earn his respect to do that.”
“Earn his respect, ma’am?”
“He will test you, toy with you and try to anger you,” the admiral stated as if she knew him personally. “He’s good at that. You might even have to pass some kind of character examination before he lets you in the door. Remember, he doesn’t trust anyone who wears this uniform.”
“So, what chance do I have?”
Kaneshiro flashed her warm confident smile at the young woman.”
“If you stand strong, don’t back down and earn his trust, you may get him to open up just enough.”
“I have some questions about the purported incident, Admiral.”
“There’s no time for that right now, honey. Your flight leaves in three hours and you need to pack.”
“Okay, ma’am, but about this person I’m supposed to find—”
“Read his books and articles on the plane. It’s not hard to know where he stands on issues, especially those against us. If you can just get him to help us, you will have done more than we could have ever imagined. The duty van is outside and will take you to your apartment, and then to Dulles. Go now, honey.”
The vision of her conversation evaporated as the engines whined loudly. She sighed heavily and ran her fingers through her blond hair just as the 747’s wheels touched the ground roughly and the engines roared in reverse. The entire plane rattled for a few moments then stilled itself as it rolled towards the terminal. After the aircraft halted, passengers immediately began standing and retrieving their belongings from the overhead compartments. She remained seated. She twisted her lips in a defiant scowl as she looked outside at the palm and coconut trees outlining the perimeter of the airport.
She let out a resigned sigh.
“What the fuck am I doing on Guam?”
Chapter 1 — First Encounter
USS Texas
Pacific Ocean
78 miles west of Saipan
Four days prior
“What’s its position now?”
“Dead ahead, Captain. Distance 525 meters. She looks like she’s descending.”
“What’s our depth and speed?”
“Eight hundred and fifty feet; 12 knots, Captain.”
Captain Sandra Lynn Frost, 36, famous for her meteoric rise through the officers ranks and one of a handful of women selected to command a hunter-killer submarine in the U.S. Navy, kept her eyes on the large flat screen. The screen, dubbed the “IMAX” by the crew, wrapped halfway around her command and control bridge, and was partitioned into several data delivering displays. It was the most obvious and stunning change after the Virginia-class attack sub’s most recent modernization and refit period.
Although most of the sub’s sensors, armament and electronics remained untouched, the entire bridge was revamped, designed by WEPS to give a more spacious and futuristic look. The control room was widened and lengthened. Instead of the claustrophobic spaces choked with consoles as on previous generations of subs, the bridge on the Texas was designed for more comfort and maneuverability.
Consoles for navigation, weapons, sonar and communications were spread out and partitioned, yet easily accessible to the captain who could freely walk about in the new spacious area. The overhead, or ceiling was raised; pipes, ducts and protruding devices were recessed or hidden, giving more bulkhead, or wall space for the endless panels of computer screens. The captain’s chair or console was comfortably in the center of the space like an island surrounded by rows of consoles on each side and to the rear. And from that vantage point, Captain Frost could comfortably view the massive panoramic screen ahead of her.
Digital imagery computers synchronized with the sub’s sonar gear gave a 3D video-game-type rendering of what was in front of and around the sub in real time. Other parts of the screen, as well as smaller screens imbedded on the bulkheads gave the bridge crew of 15 people all the battle data and tactical information they needed.
Frost, highly-respected for her cool under pressure, was also known for her affinity for Colonial British Navy customs, addressing everyone, officer and enlisted, as “Mister” or “Miss.” This had a calming effect on everyone, and added a nostalgic and chivalrous touch to their positions. All but her XO, Commander Roy Lesher, was addressed this way. He was addressed as Roy. They dated after the Academy years ago, so they kept their familiarity intact. Familiarity was very important to Frost who abandoned the strict, parochial style of vernacular on her bridge, and instead encouraged a more relaxed and common form of communications amongst her officers and crew. She’d never felt comfortable with the Navy’s robotic style of belting out orders or pre-determined responses, and when she became commanding officer she ordered her crew not to “respond” but to “talk” to one another.
The present situation was getting less than comfortable for the officers and enlisteds on the bridge as the chase continued. True to her name and reputation, Frost kept her voice calm despite her watch crew’s growing agitation.
“She’s diving, Captain!”
“Calm down, Miss Evans,” she answered placidly to a young sonar officers. “That’s what submarines do.” This drew a small chuckle from the personnel. “We’re going to take a closer look at her. Prepare to dive. Mister Price, bow planes 20 degrees down angle.”
“Twenty degrees down angle, aye.”
“Make our speed 18 knots.”
“Speed, 18 knots,” repeated Lesher into his mike.
“Let’s follow her down. Dive.”
“Commence dive. Twenty degrees down angle.”
Petty Officer First Class Price, sitting in the bow planesman seat pushed his steering wheel down until the digital display read 20 degrees. The sub arched down slightly as she decended.
“She’s leveling off, ma’am.”
“What’s her depth?”
“One thousand and twenty feet, ma’am.”
“Level off at the same depth, Mister Price.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Frost looked over to Lesher on her left who was working another computer near the sonar screens.
“Have you found anything, Roy?” The man cocked his head slowly as he checked his data.
“Yes and no, Captain. She’s got at least three propellers, so she’s huge. But the cavitation signature is not in our sub ID database, and our database is up-to-date.” He shook his head again. “Call me crazy, but despite her speed and depth, she doesn’t appear to be a military sub.”
“Well, that’s probably the best we’re gonna get at this range with passive sonar. We’re going to have to get closer,” Frost responded. Lesher continued.
“If we get close enough, we might be able to take some photos to send back to SUBPAC.” Frost was already nodding in agreement before her XO completed his sentence.
“Let’s catch up with her a bit. Increase speed to 23 knots.” Lesher raised the mike to his mouth.
“Increase