Читать книгу Leviathan - Joaquin De Torres - Страница 7

Naval Base Guam

Commander Naval Forces Marianas

COMNAVMAR

The air in the conference room seemed thick and humid despite the chill of the air conditioners. It was also thick with apprehension and tension. All but a few were aware of the reason for the uneasiness that stirred among the individuals from the moment they filed in. Lieutenant Brightman was amazed at how much Navy brass was actually present. She was equally amazed at how many of those flag officers neither shook hands with, nor made an effort to greet Salas or his staff. They greeted each other, took one look at Salas and moved to their places at their tables. This was highly unprofessional and highly disrespectful given the fact that they were the ones who needed his help.

Even the room set-up was secular and divisive in her assessment. Three long tables were set up in a U-shape. The admiralty and their staffs sat on one side; Salas and his staff across the divide on the opposite side. On the table that made the base of the U, sat a laptop and miscellaneous documents. Behind that table were two massive wall screens, already powered on, waiting for some video presentation, thus the laptop.

With less than five minutes before the meeting’s official start, Kira looked around the room. All the seats on the Navy side of the conference table were taken. Two admirals and two captains took up the table seats, while commanders and their staff members took up chairs behind them. Salas had brought only five members of his staff with him, so she and the seven shared an entire table. It appeared like an old-school military tribunal with the tight-jawed judges on one side, and the accused on the other. The cold reception, the separated seating and the scrutinizing stares were obviously the barbed points of a message for Salas, that although he was needed, he was not welcomed.

She looked down her table. Salas was at the far end, inaccessible to her. Between them sat his prized technical colleagues: Miguel Santos, Nu’u Pali, Ian Camacho; Sakura Funihashi and PRAS’ PR and military liaison Kelly Genero. She

leaned over to the young woman next to her, Funihashi, one of Salas’ newest but technically brilliant understudies. Half Japanese and half Chamorro, Funihashi looked more like a runway model than a scientist. Her long black hair, dark skin and exotic almond eyes turned the heads of everyone in the room when she entered.

“This place has all the cheer of a Turkish prison,” Kira said sardonically. “They hate us already and no one’s said anything!”

“Not us, Kira; Dr. Salas,” whispered Funihashi. They both looked at Salas who had his gaze fixed on one of the admirals across from them.

“Who’s that?” Kira asked. The man next to Funihashi, Ian Camacho, leaned over and whispered.

“That’s Admiral Stone. He and Joe are mortal enemies.”

“Why?”

“Joe exposed him two years ago for environmental dumping in the ocean. Subs under his command were jettisoning waste that was washing up on our beaches. Not just paper and metal trash but broken equipment, parts and chemicals. Joe tried to go through Navy channels to take care of it, but because of his anti-Navy reputation, he was blown off. He wrote 15 letters to the Secretary of the Navy, with photos and measurements, but nothing. Joe then went to the EPA, but ocean dumping isn’t covered under their restrictions.”

“Then what?”

“So, Joe went to the press and accused SUBPAC and the Navy of covering up the mess. This triggered a global outcry and a month-long protest of sub base at Pearl Harbor. It didn’t stop him from keeping his job, but Stone’s reputation as an environment killer was sealed, which also gave the Navy a huge black eye. One of the many.”

This was the first time in two years that Joe Salas was in the same room with Admiral Tom Stone, commanding officer of the Pacific Fleet’s submarine headquarters, and the animosity between both men lingered still. The man next to Stone looked at Salas with even more disgust, but turned his head each time Salas looked at him.

“Now that guy,” Camacho continued, pointing subtly at the full-bird captain next to Stone. “Joe cost that guy his star.”

“Dude!” exhaled Funihashi. “What happened!?”

“Joe had been lobbying for years to end or limit the use of the Navy’s hyper-strong Low Frequency Active Sonar or LFAS.”

“Hyper-strong sonar?” asked Kira.

“The LFAS blasts sonic waves in the water so strong that it not only confuses the internal navigation of whales and dolphins, making them herd onto beaches; but destroys their eardrums, nervous system and hemorrhage their internal organs,” added Funihashi.

“Yes, over hundreds of whales were stranded and died on beaches all around the world where Navy subs tested the sonar in the early 2000s. At that time, that guy--Captain Stu Brewer--was in charge of sonar testing. He knew the bio frequencies were killing marine animals, but continued testing the model because he had stock in the defense contractor who produced it. Joe sent letters to the Navy Subsurface Research lab, not only warning them about the dangers, but that he intended to go over their heads if they didn’t respond. Well, when they brushed him off, he contacted a few friends at NOAA and in Congress who invited him to present his findings.”

“Oh man! That’s when Dr. Salas became a legend!” said Funihashi with a smug smile.

“The Navy was again crushed, but this time politicians were involved which meant the media was all over it. Talk shows, science forums, the works. Salas stood like a vigilante against the Navy’s cover-ups and arrogance. Several of those pro-Salas politicians were even re-elected for taking his side.”

“So what happened to Brewer?”

“He was transferred from sonar testing and stricken from the Admiral selection board. No matter what he does until he retires, he’ll never be promoted again.”

Kira sat back with a smile of satisfaction.

“Yet, here he is.”

“He’s Director of Operations at SUBPAC now. Imagine that, two officers eviscerated by Joe, now working together.”

“Sitting across the man who put their balls in a mason jar!” Funihashi spat, hiding her smile with her hand. “And now on the same side. What could be any more humiliating? This could get ugly.”

“Who’s the other admiral at their table?”

“That’s Terrell Glass; Commander, Pacific Fleet. Great man,” answered Camacho.

“Admirals Glass and Stone!” snickered Funihashi. “Perfect couple!” Kira smiled and looked at Camacho with a more studious expression.

“Ian, you look familiar to me. And your name--”

“Don’t ask. He’s my brother.”

“Really! Alex is your brother? He’s one of WEPS super studs! He did some dynamite work for the Deep Strike project in Japan a year back.”

“Yeah, I heard about that. That’s my bro; he’s way better than me.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” said Salas, finally breaking his stare with Stone. “If I didn’t have you, I couldn’t have done half of what we’re famous for.” He smiled proudly at Camacho.

“ATTENTION ON DECK!” someone announced out loud. Everyone in the room stood up as four officers and one civilian entered the room.

“Carry on,” answered the officer who entered first. As everyone sat down, this man--tanned, islander-looking and nearing 60--stopped to shake hands with Admiral’s Glass and Stone. He then came around the tables towards Salas, who remained standing.

“Hello, Jody,” said the admiral. “Good to see you.”

“Hello, Sir. It’s always good to see you, too.” They exchanged warm smiles. The admiral nodded to the rest of the crew and moved back to an open seat with the other four in his party. Salas sat back down.

“That was COMNAVMAR, Admiral Frank Duenas,” said Camacho. “He’s Chamorro. That’s his XO, Captain Marlene Hagen, and the other woman is Captain Brenda Whitehurst, CO of Guam’s sub base. They’re big supporters of Joe and our work. I don’t know those other two guys.”

“Good afternoon everyone,” began Duenas. “There’s a lot to cover, so we’re going to get started. This is an investigation and lives are at stake, so we’re all bound to get a little emotional. That’s fine. But it’s imperative that we work together as the White House and the Pentagon are going to need answers.” He looked at the two men that Camacho couldn’t identify and nodded. They stood up and moved to the front of the room. The civilian, a short but robust gentleman of about 55, remained standing while the officer sat at the laptop position.

“Thank you, Admiral Duenas. Good afternoon everyone, I’m Dr. Dan Aurelia, director and chief investigator at the Naval Undersea Incident Investigation office in San Diego. This is Commander Ben McLaren and we’re going to take you through what could possibly be the worst submarine disaster since the Russian Kursk sank with all 118 crewmen way back in 2000.” Aurelia’s clear British accent commanded authority, and his face was serious and grim. “Now, I’m going to be frank about this presentation. What you are about to see is going to shock you. And I’ll confess, that in my more than 40 years of subsurface experience in the Royal Navy; first as a sub rider, then sub skipper, deep salvage contractor, then as an undersea investigator; I have never experienced nor imagined what Ben is about to show you on the screen.”

He nodded to his partner and the image of an American submarine—the USS Texas (SSN 770)—filled one screen; on the other was the sub’s unclassified information: class, size, length, weight, armament, homeport, etc. McLaren flashed up images of the sub as Aurelia read some of this information aloud. He put up the official command photos of two individuals and kept them up on the screens side-by-side.

“Captain Sandra Lynn Frost and Commander Roy Lesher, the CO and XO of the Texas,” Aurelia started again. “Some of you may know them personally.” He paused and gave time for the officers from COMSUBPAC who arrived from Hawaii to reflect on their colleagues.

“The USS Texas sent its last tactical report at 2230 on the night of the 15^th, last Thursday. In that report it stated that she was in pursuit of an unknown-class, unknown-origin subsurface contact, some 78 miles west of Saipan. SUBPAC gave Frost the authorization to investigate and to go as low as test depth if need be. The final sentence in the TACREP was that they were in pursuit and descending. There have been no other messages since then. No TACREPs, no SITREPs, no position reports, no e-mails, nothing.” After another long pause, Aurelia sat down and McLaren stood up. He retrieved a spherical metallic object the size of a cantaloupe from a large carrying case and held it in his hand.

“Many of you are familiar with this device. It is one of several camera balls that is attached to the photonics mast on all modified Virginia-class subs. This mast replaces the traditional optical periscope in the sail, so it’s as if you’re looking through a digital camera lens, which can be zoomed, widened or adjusted for certain light and densities. But this mast has another function, taking photos.” He tapped on his laptop and the photos of Frost and Lesher were replaced by a series of photos of the photonics masts and its cameras.

“Of the several masts on the sail such as the data delivery mast, the ESM mast and others; the newly designed photonics mast is the only one that can detach from the sub and float to the surface. This was designed so subs could take high-res photos of undersea terrain, sunken objects, mine patterns, diving and salvage operations, damage of hulls, etc. and let them float to the surface for pick-up and analysis. A sub could stay submerged and working at incredible depths, while their photos could be analyzed on the surface.

“Captain Frost, being at such depths and unable to transmit her message, did the only thing she could: She jettisoned the photonics mast and all the cameras with it.”

“What message are you referring to, Commander?” asked Admiral Stone, clearly confused.

“Her cry for help,” he answered grimly.

The room rumbled in quiet tones as questions drifted amongst the individuals. Kira looked at her team and they all had puzzled looks. Aurelia stood up to speak again as McLaren returned to control the laptop.

“The camera balls were extracted from the water by Guam’s Coast Guard. There’s a locational beacon in each ball that activates once they hit the surface. They were brought here and we were called on Friday. We spent all of Saturday and Sunday analyzing the data. We will now show you what the Texas saw in her final moments.” McLaren put up the first set of photos which drew numerous questions as expected.

“It’s a submarine of some type,” Aurelia acknowledged. “But in these pictures it’s simply a dark object getting larger like an approaching whale.” Then the next set of photos were shown when the sub was at and less than 100 meters distant.

“Oh my God!” gasped several voices. “What is that!?”

The next set was displayed when the object was at 50 meters and hands were now covering mouths.

“Look at that! It’s a monstrosity!”

“This is the bogey just before it impacted the Texas.” Aurelia stepped back and just let this image stay on the screen. “Ben, go ahead and enhance it.” He looked at the audience. “With our digital enhancement program we were able to clear up the smudges, haziness and murkiness of the sea water.”

As McLaren tapped the necessary buttons, the audience waited silently for the colors, shading and contrasts to melt into the image.

“Here it is,” Aurelia announced. The room nearly fainted in mass at what they saw.

“SWEET MOTHER OF GOD!” exhaled Admiral Stone. In fact, the room was filled with numerous religious personalities spoken in different combinations but with the exact same level of despair and discomfort.

“The next set, please.” When McLaren put them up the audience fell silent with disbelief. They watched the enhanced images of the intruder’s blades cutting into the Texas’ hull and spilling its guts in a cloud of debris.

Salas’ eyes were full of dread, as were everyone on his team. McLaren pushed the sets on until photos of the severed aft end of the sub came into view, rolling and plummeting into the darkness. By then most of the audience was in tears, holding their faces in their hands, or covering their mouths as they wept. Admiral Duenas turned to Salas, both men’s eyes shimmering with emerging tears. The images then went blank and the screens returned to their digital blue color.

“Unfortunately ladies and gentlemen, that’s where we are,” said Aurelia. He surveyed the audience and felt their tremendous grief. He went back to his notes as the sobs, the sniffles and the silence pervaded the room. McLaren spun up his next set of images on the screens—detailed images of the intruder both actual and digitally rendered.

“Based only on the images you’ve just scene, Ben was able to piece together what we think this thing looks like.” More gasps ensued as they looked at the 3D rendering of the sub. “It’s approximately 450 feet long, 45 feet wide, and displaces 16,000 tons submerged. Five tons make up for its outer body armor alone. It didn’t fire any torpedoes; instead, it used its speed and these bladed edges to rip the Texas apart.” He pointed to the open scooped face. “We don’t know what it is, but there’s something hidden inside here. You can see that the lower jaw is hinged, so it may carry mini subs or mines.”

While Aurelia paused to take a swig from a glass of water, McLaren merged both screens to display a detailed satellite map of the Marianas Islands. With a tap of a button, he zoomed closer and closer into the image until it displayed the waters over the Marianas Trench. The image morphed into the canyon below the surface of the water. The image turned from actual to digital as the software allowed the trench and canyon to be viewed as if all the water had been removed. The cliff faces, mountainous terrain, sheer drops and the ocean floor—everything, was digitally rendered. He looked at Salas.

“This must look very familiar to you, Dr. Salas. This rendering is taken from your 3D imaging software that you designed years ago.” Salas nodded. Aurelia used a light pointer on the screens while McLaren manipulated the viewing angles.

“We believe the Texas was attacked here at 1,050 feet, and finally sunk somewhere down here in the abyss. There’s a possibility that parts of her could be on this ledge here at 3,000 feet, but then it’s a sheer drop from there to this ledge here at 16,000 feet.” Salas raised his hand. “Yes, Doctor.”

“There’s a powerful canyon current which travels south from 10,000 feet from Sarigan down to Rota before it moves east. The wreckage most likely will be farther south because the current moves steadily at 20 miles an hour.” Aurelia moved quickly around the tables and handed Salas his light pointer who retraced the path of the current.

“I would say right here is the best chance to spot the wreckage. There’s a long, flat ledge, about 130-feet long by 63 feet wide, under these boulders here. The current crashes into this cliff face here because of the topography, then veers off and back into the flow. A lot of debris would have settled there, at 18,500 feet.”

“That’s why your presence is so crucial, Dr. Salas,” said Aurelia with relief and appreciation. “The trench is your backyard. No one knows these waters better than you.”

“Jody, your deep submergence vehicles are the only ones on earth that can reach the bottom of the trench and work there for hours,” said Admiral Duenas. “And your knowledge of the trench is second to none.”

“You will have the Navy’s full cooperation, Dr. Salas, as well as any funding you need,” added Admiral Glass. “First, find the Texas, son. Then, if possible, find the son-of-a-bitch who did this.”

“If you can locate it, you will contact Admiral Stone who will direct his subs to destroy it,” added Aurelia. He joined everyone else in the room looking at Salas’ team. They were now the focus of attention.

“Dr. Salas, I know you never thought you’d ever hear this,” continued Aurelia with a slight hint of urgency. “But the Navy needs you. Desperately. If that thing can destroy an American sub and disappear into the abyss, it can go on destroying and no one could ever go down and get it.”

Salas nodded slightly as the mission described to him became blatantly clear.

“Somehow, you and your team have to find the secret of this killer sub.” A dark look of dread masked Aurelia’s face. “There’s no one else we can turn to.”

Salas turned his head to Camacho who was already looking at him. His wide eyes confirmed everything Salas was feeling:

They both knew who designed the monster.