Leviathan

www.WHOI.edu

Prologue

"Guam. Population: 210,000. A territory of the United States since 1898 when the Spanish surrendered the island at the end of the Spanish-American War.

"A tiny speck of rock in the Pacific Ocean some 3,800 miles west of Hawaii; 1,600 miles southeast of Japan; and 1,500 miles east of the Philippines. And did I mention it’s just a speck? Thirty miles long by 12 miles wide at its widest point, it is the largest gem in a necklace of tropical, mountainous and volcanic islands known as the Mariana Islands Chain.

"The world calls the local people Guamanians, but they call themselves Chamorros. A rich, historical ethnic blend of multi-raced islanders consisting of the Guamanians, Filipinos, Palauans, and numerous blends of Polynesian and Asian ancestry. Basically, if you look like you could be an extra in a Bruce Lee movie, you’re probably from Guam.

"The weather is sunny and balmy all year round; the water within the surrounding reef is as warm as bathwater, shimmering blue-green and crystal clear. At least, that’s what the tourist website photos show. In fact, other than the business generated by its U.S. military bases, tourism is the island’s number one export. But unless your country touches the Pacific, you’re in the military or watch Discovery Channel, you probably have no idea that this island even exists.

"No one really famous or significant has ever come out of this tiny island. Well, I take that back. If memory and Wikipedia serves, one Kim Santos was crowned Miss World in 1980. A couple of years later, one Joe DeTorres became the first island-borne Chamorro ever elected to a Stateside public office as mayor of Pittsburg, California; a rustic, blue collar town some 50 miles east of San Francisco.

"Hmmm. What else? Oh wait! Did I mention SPAM? Of all the island’s exotic delicacies, SPAM is the local’s favorite meat source; that is, if you can call SPAM meat! In Guam, it’s called Chamorro steak and, apparently, any dish made with beef, chicken or pork can be substituted with SPAM, and it will supposedly taste even better. What-EVER!

Anyway, so why the hell is the Navy sending me all the way from Virginia to this God-forsaken rock in the first place?

The young woman looked away as if annoyed by the thought of it. The flight from Virginia to Guam was 16 and a half hours. She checked her watch: Less than an hour to go. Knowing that the journey was almost at an end, she proceed to give her report.

Because I have to find someone, she huffed. "Someone important. I have to find a man—one man—whom the Navy desperately needs. Kind of ironic really because this man has been the bane of Navy public relations for the past six years.

"From his scientific journals, to his international interviews and video documentaries, this man and the Navy have been at war on several fronts. Mortal enemies—the classic story of the little guy against the government establishment; the hourly-wage worker versus the multimillion-dollar corporation; the Monk seal versus the Great White.

Well, apparently this seal has some serious teeth of his own because when the dilemma arose, the tragedy that I’m not to speak about until I meet him, this guy was the first person everyone said they needed. His very enemies, the commanding officers of the Pacific Fleet and the Pacific Submarine Fleet; the Chief of Naval Operations and the Secretary of the Navy—all requested him by name. All these men despise the very man they so desperately need. In fact, there was no one else they wanted. She smiled to herself. It’s funny how things work out.

"After that call, they contacted my CO, Admiral Kyoko Kaneshiro at WEPs, and that’s why I’m involved.

The Navy needs this guy to help investigate either the scene of an accident, or the scene of a crime. Either way, the scary thing about it all is that this scene is more than six miles beneath the surface of the ocean; in a stretch of area that, I thought, made Guam famous in the first place: the Marianas Trench.

She pressed the button of her handheld voice recorder, let out a long breath and began rummaging through her carry-on bag. She found the dossier folder that held all the information on the man in question, sandwiched between some of those magazine journals and four books he’d written. There was a crackle on the loudspeaker.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, this is the captain speaking. We are on final approach to Antonio Won Pat Memorial airport and will be landing in 20 minutes. Local time is 4:43 P.M. Weather on the ground is 83 degrees with light winds. A beautiful day. We hope that you’ve enjoyed your flight these last 16 hours. I know it’s been a long journey, but I hope we’ve made you comfortable.

"Please make sure your seatbelts are fastened, and that your tray and seat are in their upright and locked position. If you have any loose articles, please stow them in the overhead compartments or under your seat. And please keep all electronic equipment and cell phones off until we touchdown.

On behalf of my cabin crew, I’d like to thank you for flying Delta Airlines. Flight attendants, please prepare for landing.

The captain was right, it had been a long flight; her longest. But she got plenty of sleep and she was not fatigued at all. The evening was young. With the man’s work address in hand, she decided that once she got her rental car and checked in at the officer’s quarters on base, she would go and try to find him. It was Friday, and a guy like this was probably married to his job, so he’d still be at the office.

She settled back in her seat for the landing. Like she had a couple of times during the flight, she pondered why the Navy would send 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 to 23 knots.

When we get within 300 meters, open the window.

Roger that.

It didn’t take long for the Texas to catch up. But in that time, Frost could see that her crewmembers were visibly anxious, staring rigidly at their instruments or at the IMAX screen. The image on the screen showed the digitally-detailed rendering of the Texas from an aerial and side view, moving closer in behind the computer-generated oblong shape labeled Unidentified. Also rendered was the topography of the area they were in, such as undersea ridges, mountains and canyons.

Three hundred meters, Captain.

Roger that. Open the window, Roy.

Roger. IMAX transfer to outer view. As if someone had turned off the interior lights and drew open the curtains, the IMAX screen’s view transformed from digital images to live. Like standing behind the glass of a SeaWorld aquarium, the view of the ocean came alive. Using the outer underwater cameras embedded into certain parts of the hull, the IMAX program was a new edition to the submarine fleet.

Created by the nation’s famed WEPS design laboratories, it allowed commanders to see and supervise undersea rescue operations, cable laying, topography surveying, mine placement and defusing, and under-hull repair of other ships without sending out divers. But in this instance, it would be used for visual ship identification.

When the IMAX cameras turned on, the scene was grey and dark. Foam and bursting water bubbles filled the screen.

We’re in her baffles.

Two hundred and fifty meters.

Thank you, Miss Evans. Decrease speed back to 18 knots.

Aye, Captain. Reducing speed to 18 knots.

Let’s get out of this bubble bath. Come right 15 degrees. Angle out.

Come right 15 degrees. Angle out.

With Frost’s every order, repeated by the XO, the action or maneuver was executed by the navigation, propulsion and sonar watch officers and technicians.

Whether on the bridge itself, or from the engine and maneuvering rooms back aft, the sailors of the Texas moved the sub exactly as Frost commanded. She had trained them brilliantly and they took pride in her trust. It didn’t matter where the answers or results came from, Frost trusted the people who stated them, and acted on their instincts as if they were her own.

Two hundred meters, Captain. One hundred and eighty and slowing. One hundred and fifty meters and steady.

Distance to the object?

We’re 70 meters abeam of her.

Roy, bring the camera view left. It’s still pretty murky. Can any of you see anything? The bridge crew of 15, split between officers and enlisteds shook their heads. Turn on the exterior search light from the mast.

Search light on, Captain. With the powerful light beaming into the depths, they penetrated the dark waters for about 70 meters. A few fish, and a swarm of krill swam in and out of the glow of the light. Other than that, there was only blackness, bubbles and the silhouette of the forward part of the sub.

Swing the light on her, Roy. Let’s see this thing. Lesher used the console-imbedded mouse ball and turned the mast light to the left.

Oh my God! a startled voice exhaled. Other whispers were clearly audible in low, nervous tones.

Look at the size of that thing!

It’s gotta be nearly two times the size of the our boat!

The shape! voiced Lieutenant Bingham, the weapons officer. Look at those sharp edges and fins. Look at those angled slats, like something extends out of them.

Is it Chinese? North Korean? Russian?

"More like Romulan!" Lesher mused.

Let’s calm down everybody, Frost soothed. This is obviously an experimental design of some sort. Look for any written or imprinted identification.

"Captain, sonar imagery has this thing close to 100 feet longer than the Texas, and about 30 feet wider," Evans stated in near disbelief.

It looks like it’s got armored plating, breathed Lieutenant Christiansen, the communications officer. Yes! Layered, armored plating.

Lesher moved to Frost’s side and away from listening range of the others.

What do you think, Sandra Lynn? he whispered.

I don’t know what to think. But something tells me we should get the hell out of here and report this.

I agree completely.

But we need to take pictures first and get them to the analysts at Pearl. This could be a prototype of some kind. Prepare the photonics mast for rapid shoot. We won’t have the luxury of time. Lesher nodded and left to attend the console that controlled the masts of the sail.

Okay, Captain. We’ll start at her props then work our way forward. Commencing photo run now. The mast camera took the first photo with a brilliant flash that lit up the churning propeller area. Suddenly, as if stung by a bee, the vessel swung its massive hull to the right.

SHE’S COMING RIGHT! yelled Evans. SHE’S GONNA HIT US, CAPTAIN!

Hard to starboard, Mr. Price, ordered Frost coolly. Emergency dive, 40 degrees down angle. Execute.

Emergency dive, 40 degrees down angle! Executing! repeated Price as he shoved the bow planes wheel forward.

Sound collision alarm, XO. Lesher hit the button.

The bridge pitched down sharply. Everyone braced against their consoles as the sub dove, narrowly escaping the hulking mass swinging over them like a giant crane.

Great move, Captain!

Secure collision alarm. What’s our depth? The clanging alarm ceased.

Approaching 2,000 feet, answered Lesher. Getting close to test depth.

You’re right, Roy. Level out at 2,000 and reassess our position.

Leveling out, Captain. Two thousand feet depth, reported Lesher who was standing over Price.

Miss Evans, where is that monster?

It’s. . .it’s. . . Evans’ mouth hung open in disbelief, unable to answer. Lesher saw her momentary paralysis and moved quickly to her and looked at her monitor.

It’s in front of us, Captain. Thirty degrees starboard at 1,300 meters. He turned to Frost. It’s coming right at us!

Jesus! That fast!? said a voice behind Frost. But she didn’t hear it.

Sound general quarters.

Sounding general quarters! The repetitive drone of the alarm filled the speakers throughout the sub as every sailor hurried to their assigned emergency battle station.

What’s her speed?

Twenty-five knots!

Let’s get closer to the surface so we can send a message to SUBPAC. Increase speed to 25 knots. Take us up. Thirty degrees up angle.

Increase speed to 25 knots. Bow planes 30 degrees up angle, repeated Lesher. The room now rotated upward in a 30-degree angle, and the crew’s voices again throttled with adrenaline and nervousness. All, except Captain Frost’s, who maintained her controlled demeanor.

Bogey at 1000 meters!

Mister Bingham, flood forward torpedo tubes.

Yes, ma’am!

Mister Avila, prepare a message for SUBPAC on our contact with the bogey. Coordinates and time of contact, et cetera. You know what to do.

Yes, ma’am! answered Lieutenant Avila, the ship’s COMMS officer.

What’s our depth?

One thousand seven hundred feet!

Bogey now at 500 meters, Ma’am!

All tubes flooded, Captain!

Open torpedo bay doors, Mister Bingham.

Doors opening!

We’re at 1,500 feet, Captain!

Bogey at 350 meters!

Prepare countermeasures, full spread.

Countermeasures ready, Captain!

Have they opened their doors?

No, ma’am!

IT’S GOING TO RAM US! shouted Evans.

Calm down, Miss Evans, calmed Frost. I need your focus now. She looked at Lesher and nodded her head.

Sound collision alarm. Lesher hit the button, sending the Claxton staccato through the sub’s speakers again. The sound further unnerved the crew who hadn’t heard both alarms together since their initial training days.

Increase speed to flank.

OH MY GOD!

Shut up, Rita! Lesher snapped harshly at Evans. He pulled the mike to his mouth, still glaring at the young ensign on her first cruise.

Increase speed to flank! he resumed. No one could tell, but Lesher’s professional calm was beginning to unhinge itself with every frightened utterance of the crew. He looked nervously at Frost. Her expression was as placid and concentrative as if she were playing chess. She studied the several screens adjacent to the IMAX from her captain’s chair, calculating their information with her rapidly-moving blue eyes. While everyone’s voice rose, shook or gasped, she showed no desperation in hers. Her orders and comments were voiced as quietly and confidently as if she were giving marriage counseling. This was something Lesher had always loved about her.

Mister Bingham, arm your torpedoes manually. We may have to shoot at pointblank range.

Arming torpedoes, Captain! Bingham’s fingers tapped the weapons control keyboard desperately.

How’s your message going, Mister Avila?

I’m good, ma’am! Just need a couple more hundred feet before I send her.

What’s our depth?

We’re at 1,200, Captain!

Very well.

All four torpedoes armed and ready to shoot, ma’am.

Very well.

As if sensing his nervousness, Frost turned to Lesher and gave him an encouraging nod with the slightest hint of a smile. This brought him back, fueling his adrenaline with a renewed sense of courage. He nodded and mouthed Thank you.

Bogey now at 250 meters!

Lesher leaned back to Frost.

It’s going to be close, Sandy, he whispered.

I know, Roy.

LOOK AT THE SCREEN! shrieked Petty Officer Lowe, sitting at another sonar position. Lesher nimbly jumped next to Evans and covered her mouth with his hand to prevent her scream. It was he who spoke, and he spoke loud enough to cause everyone to momentarily freeze.

Oh my God, Sandy! What is that!?

All heads turned up to the IMAX. The view of the ocean was still dark, but less murky as they catapulted towards the surface. The water was now a lighter shade of green and schools of fish and individual species were discernable. But in that clarity was another image in the distance.

The nose of the other submarine emerged out of the deep blue just 150 meters away, coming towards them from a 35-degree angle on the starboard side. Its nose was not conical or traditionally bulbous, but tapered down to an opened-mouthed scoop like the maw of a gargantuan sea bass. The mouth was hinged, able to swing down. The lips of the mouth were of reinforced steel, thick and hideously scarred as if used as a battering ram.

Within the cavernous scoop was a massive, pointed object with riffling blades like a gigantic drill bit. Rising up from the roof of the long snout, and arcing back over the spine of the vessel were four rows of dorsal arches that flared out in increasing degrees. The tips of the arches were separated by at least five feet and gradually expanded over the surface of the sub. The tops of these solid arches were serrated with iron teeth. Each arch looked like a giant table saw blade; the thickness of each saw tooth was at least six-inches. Each blade tapered down from the teeth to base which was at least two-feet thick. The peak of the blades were at least 30 feet before the arched down aft and unseen. Between the two innermost blades was a space or groove about four feet wide and opened to the sea, that ran the length and contour of the sub for some unseen distance.

The entire forward section of the vessel was covered with armored plating that looked more like iron scales, giving the vessel a menacing reptilian look. After 50 feet of the pronounced armor, the rest of the body seemed of normal submarine plating. There didn’t appear to be a traditional center sail or conning tower. Only as the sub drew closer did anyone see a tower, equally menacing in design, in the distance.

Can you hear that? someone asked. Is that us? The question went unanswered for it was instantly obvious that it was not them. It was the sound of a thunderous, mechanical churning by some gigantic undersea turbine. The cacophony definitely had a rhythm, a timing. The staccato sounded rotary-like, cyclic and grinding. It penetrated the hull and reverberated throughout the ship. Like a gigantic washing machine, the repetitive grind grew louder as the sub drew closer.

That is definitely not us, answered Frost. What’s our depth?

One thousand feet! yelled Christian through the din.

We don’t have time now. Roy, tell Mister Avila to send the message. Lesher turned to the COMMS position.

Send the message! he yelled. Avila gave a thumbs up and turned to his console. He knew that a thousand feet was still too deep for his equipment to send a strong signal; nevertheless, he pressed the SEND button and his pre-typed signal was transmitted. Just as a precaution, he hit the SEND button several times to insure that the signal transmitted as they continued to climb; hopefully, one would get through if, for obvious reasons, they stopped their ascent.

Frost reached for Lesher and pulled him near.

Are we still taking pictures of this thing?

Yes. The mast is set on object-search mode. Whatever it does, wherever it goes, the cameras are on it.

"Roy, if something happens, jettison the camera mast. It’s designed to float