Endangered Species

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 Executive Officer 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.