Poseidon's Arrow dp-22 Read online

  “What are these permanent magnet motors?”

  “They’re an evolutionary, if not revolutionary, advance in the electric motor, made possible by recent breakthroughs in material sciences. A mix of rare mineral elements is synthesized to create extremely powerful magnets, which are then wound into high-performance, direct-current motors. We’ve invested a great deal of research in perfecting these motors—and believe they will revolutionize the way our future warships are powered.”

  The President peered through a baffle on one of the pods and saw light shine through from above.

  “It looks empty inside.”

  “We haven’t actually received and installed the motors yet. The first is due in next week from the Navy’s research lab in Chesapeake, Maryland.”

  “You sure they’re going to work?”

  “While we haven’t fielded motors of this size, we are confident from our lab tests that they will provide the predicted levels of performance.”

  The President ducked beneath one of the extended stabilizers, then glanced up at a pair of barrel-shaped protrusions fore and aft of the conning tower.

  Eberson followed in his steps, narrating as he walked.

  “The wing-shaped extensions are retractable stabilizers for high-speed operations. They automatically withdraw into the hull when speeds drop below ten knots. The tube-shaped box is a torpedo canister, capable of holding four fish on each stabilizer. The canisters can be reloaded quickly when the stabilizer is retracted into the hull.”

  Eberson pointed to the two barrel-shaped objects above them. “Those are subsurface Gatling guns. They’re similar to those used on surface ships, which shoot depleted uranium pellets at rapid fire for last-ditch missile protection. Ours have been developed to fire underwater, using compressed air, for last-ditch torpedo suppression. Of course, we’re banking that most enemy torpedoes will never come near us.”

  He followed the President as he stepped toward the hull.

  “The conning tower, you’ll note, is of a slipstream design to accommodate high speed.”

  “Doesn’t look like she’ll allow for much of a periscope.”

  “The Sea Arrow doesn’t actually have a periscope, at least not in the traditional sense,” Eberson said. “She utilizes an ROV-type video camera that is deployed on a tethered fiber-optic cable. It can be released from a depth of eight hundred feet to give the crew a high-definition picture of what’s going on on the surface.”

  The President continued on to the tapered bow and reached up to stroke one of the small tubes that jutted forward like a thin lance. “And this?”

  “That’s the key link that will really make her go,” Eberson said. “It’s a secondary upgrade we hope to implement, based on a technological breakthrough from one of our contractors in California—”

  Admiral Winters cut him off. “Mr. President, why don’t we take a quick tour aboard, then we have a short presentation to show you that should answer all your questions.”

  “Very well, Admiral. Though I’m still waiting for my drink.”

  The admiral hustled the group through a quick tour of the interior, where they found a streamlined interior that contrasted with the North Dakota in its sleek modernity and scale of automated systems. The Commander in Chief remained silent as he viewed the high-tech command center, the small number of plush crew’s quarters, and the odd assortment of padded seats with full safety harnesses that were positioned about the vessel.

  After the tour, the President was led to a secure conference room, where he was finally given a cold drink. His normally jovial demeanor had turned hard, echoed by his aide Cerny.

  “All right, gentlemen,” the President bellowed. “What exactly is going on here? I see much more than some test platform for new technologies. That’s a seaworthy vessel on the verge of launch.”

  “Sir,” the admiral said, clearing his throat. “What we possess with the Sea Arrow is a complete game changer. As you know, there has been a recent surge in the threat to our naval forces. The Iranians have acquired a host of new subsea technologies from the Russians and are working feverishly to add to their fleet of Kilo class subs. The Russians themselves have dramatically kicked up their shipbuilding efforts, with the help of oil revenues, to replace their aging fleet. And, of course, we have the Chinese. While they continue to claim their military expansion is strictly for defensive purposes, it’s no secret that they’ve been rapidly expanding their blue-water fleet. Sources expect their Type 097 nuclear sub to go operational any day. That all makes for growing threats in the Pacific, the Atlantic, and the Persian Gulf.”

  The admiral looked the President in the eye and gave him a grim smile. “On our side of the ledger, we have a continually shrinking fleet as the cost of each new deployed vessel skyrockets. At a cost of over two billion dollars each, we all know there’s just a limited number of Virginia class subs that can be squeezed out of an ever-tightening budget.”

  “The national debt is still out of control,” the President said, “so the Navy will have to take its medicine, just like everybody else.”

  “Precisely, sir. Which brings us to the Sea Arrow. Eliminating the lengthy research-to-production cycle and piggybacking on some economies of scale with the Virginia program allowed us to construct her at a fraction of the North Dakota’s cost. As you can see, she has been built in utmost secrecy. We intentionally built her alongside the Dakota to divert attention and allow for delivery of components without suspicion. We hope to secretly launch her for sea trials when the North Dakota is publicly commissioned.”

  The President frowned. “You’ve done a splendid job of keeping her under wraps so far.”

  “Thank you, sir. As Dr. Eberson mentioned, what we have before you is the most technically advanced submarine ever built. The shaftless propulsion drive, the external torpedo tubes, and the torpedo suppression system are all state-of-the-art technologies. But there’s an additional element to her design that truly sets her apart.”

  Eberson had already loaded a disk into a projection player.

  On a whiteboard, video footage appeared of the open stern of a small boat bobbing about a mountain lake. Two men lifted a bright yellow torpedo-shaped device from the deck and placed it over the side. The President could see by its winged appendages that it was a mock-up of the Sea Arrow, operated by remote control.

  “That is a scale model,” Eberson said. “She was built to the exact configuration and uses the same type of propulsion system.”

  As the model was launched, the image switched to an onboard camera view. A row of tracking meters superimposed at the bottom of the screen indicated the model’s speed, depth, pitch, and roll.

  The model submerged a short depth into sage green waters and began accelerating. A flurry of lake sediments rushed past the camera as the tiny submersible gained speed. Suddenly, a surge of small bubbles filled the screen, obscuring the image. The video remained a snowy blur as the model continued to accelerate. The President’s mouth dropped as he watched the speed gauge roll into triple digits. Eventually the model slowed and returned to the surface, where it was retrieved before the video clip ended.

  Silence filled the room for a moment before the President spoke in a low voice. “Am I to understand that this model attained an underwater speed of one hundred and fifty miles per hour?”

  “No, sir,” Eberson replied with a smile. “She attained a speed of one hundred and fifty knots, which would be on the order of one hundred and seventy-two miles per hour.”

  “That’s impossible. I’ve been told naval propulsion technologies can’t get past seventy or eighty knots. Even the North Dakota only manages thirty-five.”

  “Didn’t the Russians develop some kind of torpedo that can run over a hundred knots?” Cerny asked.

  “Yes, they have the Shkval,” Eberson said, “which is a high-speed, rocket-powered torpedo. A similar principle is in play with the Sea Arrow. It’s not the propulsion that allows the high rate of speed but r
ather supercavitation.”

  “Forgive my lack of engineering know-how,” the President said, “but doesn’t supercavitation have to do with disturbances in the water?”

  “Yes. In the case here, it involves creating a gas bubble around the object traveling underwater. The bubble frees up the water’s drag, allowing for much higher speeds. The array of tubes on the Sea Arrow’s prow will be part of the supercavitation system we hope to deploy. Combined with the high-power magnetic motors, we fully expect to match those kinds of speeds—without the range limitations the Russians have with their rocket torpedoes.”

  “Perhaps,” Cerny said, “but there’s a substantial difference between a torpedo and a two-hundred-foot submarine.”

  “The differences mostly come in the way of control at high speeds,” Eberson said. “The Sea Arrow’s Jurassic wings, as the President described them, will aid in providing stability. The supercavitation system itself will more directly affect control by manipulating the size and shape of the gas bubble. It’s an untested theory on a vessel this size, but our supplier of the system is confident in its capability. I will actually be monitoring a final sea trial of their model next week.”

  The President sat, rubbing his chin. Finally, he looked at the admiral with a knowing gaze. “Admiral, if she works as advertised, what exactly does it mean?”

  “The Sea Arrow will put us twenty years ahead of our nearest adversary. The Chinese, Russian, and Iranian buildup will be effectively neutralized. We’ll have a weapon at our disposal that is nearly invulnerable. And with just a handful of Sea Arrows, we’ll be able to defend every corner of the globe on almost immediate notice. What it really means, sir, is that we won’t have to worry about the safety of the seas for the balance of our lifetimes.”

  The President nodded. The heat and humidity seemed to disappear from the room, and, for the first time all day, he smiled.

  3

  THE CUSTOMARY SOUTHERN CALIFORNIAN EARLY-MORNING gloom hung over the marina, the air damp with a misty drizzle. Joe Eberson hoisted himself from behind the wheel of a rental car and eyed the parking lot, then moved to the trunk, retrieving a tackle box and fishing rod. Both had been purchased the night before, shortly after his flight from the East Coast landed at San Diego’s Lindbergh Field. Flipping on a battered bucket hat, he ambled into the sprawling marina at Shelter Island.

  Eberson ignored the buzz of an E-2 Hawkeye surveillance plane taking off from the Coronado Naval Air Station across the harbor as he made his way past dozens of small sailboats and powerboats. The playthings of weekend hobbyists, Eberson rightly suspected, most of these pleasure boats seldom left their slips. Spotting a forty-foot cabin cruiser with a large open rear deck, he stepped alongside. The boat was pushing its fifth decade, but its gleaming white hull and polished brightwork revealed an owner who had long provided it loving care. A gurgle from the stern indicated the engine was already warming at idle.

  “Joe, there you are,” said a man who stepped from the cabin. “We were almost ready to leave without you.”

  With his slight build, thick glasses, and white hair worn in a flattop, Dr. Carl Heiland looked every bit the electrical engineer. His eyes danced and he grinned easily, exhibiting a near-constant state of high energy even at six in the morning.

  Short on sleep and exhausted from his cross-country flight, Eberson oozed the opposite sentiment. He gingerly climbed aboard and shook hands.

  “Sorry I’m late, doctor,” Eberson said, suppressing a yawn. “I took a wrong turn out of the hotel and didn’t realize it until I pulled up to SeaWorld. I think even Shamu was still asleep.”

  “It gave me time to get everything aboard.” Heiland nodded toward a mixed box of crates strapped to the bulwarks. “Here, let’s stow your tackle next to our gear.” He reached for Eberson’s fishing rod, then caught a glimpse of his hat. He burst out laughing.

  “You angling for brook trout today?”

  Eberson pulled off his hat and examined the worn crown. A scattered band of brightly colored freshwater fishing flies encircled it. “You did say fishing attire.”

  “I doubt anybody else noticed,” Heiland snorted, then called into the cabin, “Manny, go ahead and take us out.”

  A dark-skinned man in cutoffs appeared and untied the deck lines. Moments later, he was behind the wheel, piloting the boat into horseshoe-shaped San Diego Harbor. They dodged an incoming Navy amphibious ship before clearing the channel and entering the Pacific. Manny kicked up the throttle and set a course to the southwest, rolling through a light swell stirred by an onshore breeze. Soon Eberson begin to feel queasy, and he ducked past Manny to grab a seat in the main cabin.

  Heiland poured him a mug of coffee and joined him at the galley table. “So tell me, Joe, how are things back in Arlington?”

  “As you know, we just spilled the beans to the President. Nevertheless, we’re under the usual squeeze of trying to accomplish more with fewer resources. We’ll be lucky to avoid a big budget reduction next year, I’m afraid.”

  “I figured it was only a matter of time before the ax fell in our direction. Glad I’ve got five years’ worth of work under contract.”

  “You needn’t worry, Carl. Your firm’s work is of utmost importance. As a matter of fact, I’ve got approval to proceed with the Block Two retroactive upgrade—if you can prove operational ability. I assume that’s why you called me out here on short notice?”

  Heiland gave him a cagey look. “That’s some riverboat gambling on your part. You haven’t even field-tested the Block One system yet.”

  Eberson shook off a bout of nausea to return Heiland’s smile. “Carl, we both know it’s going to work.”

  “Did you source the propulsion components?”

  “Yes, though there are some material issues going forward.” He looked at Heiland with an expectant gaze. “But we’re more interested in the Block Two mods.”

  “We’ve had some similar materials issues, but I think we’ve made the breakthrough that we’ve been chasing after.”

  Eberson smiled broadly. “That’s why I jumped on the first plane from Washington. I know you like to keep things light and tight.”

  “Given the secure nature of the project, I don’t like to draw attention to our field tests. Seemed to work for Block One, so that’s why we’re just keeping it to a little fishing trip today.” He looked again at Eberson’s hat and smiled.

  “We’ve done our best to keep a lid on things at our end. Of course, you haven’t exactly given us much in the way of specs.”

  “The fewer eyes around, the better.”

  Eberson took a swallow of coffee, then leaned across the table.

  “Do you think we can really get to the theoretically predicted levels?”

  Heiland nodded, his eyes sparkling. “We’ll find out shortly.”

  A few minutes later, Manny cut the motor, signaling they had arrived at their test site. They had crossed into Mexican waters, almost twenty miles from shore and well off the path of the average San Diego day sailor. The water was too deep to anchor, so the boat drifted while Heiland went to work.

  Ignoring a long rectangular case strapped to the bulwarks, he opened several smaller cases that contained a pair of laptops, some cabling, and connectors. Setting the computers on a low bench, he knelt and began configuring them.

  Manny poked his head out from the wheelhouse. “Doc, there’s a freighter coming up on us.”

  Heiland glanced over his shoulder. “She’ll be well past us by the time we’re ready to go.” He returned his attention to the computers.

  Eberson took a seat on the large crate and watched the ship approach. A midsized freighter, it seemed of recent build, by its streamlined design and lack of rust. Dark gray in color, the ship almost had a Navy look about it. The bridge windows caught Eberson’s attention. Tinted black, they gave off an odd, almost menacing look.

  A few crewmen in coveralls on the main deck worked behind a large container. As the ship drew closer, he
could see they were adjusting a large dish-shaped object mounted on a platform amidships. The dish was painted a drab green and turned toward the sea, rising several feet into the air like a hardened sail. The men on deck soon disappeared, and Eberson noted the ship seemed to be slowing.

  “Carl, I’m not sure about this ship.” He rose uncomfortably to his feet.

  “We’ve got nothing for them to see,” Heiland said. “Why don’t you pick up a rod and make like you’re here to catch a tuna.”

  Eberson grabbed one of the boat’s rods from a rack and cast a weighted hook over the side, not bothering with any bait lest he actually have to fight a beast from the deep. As the freighter pulled alongside a short distance away, he tossed a friendly wave toward the blacked-out bridge.

  A burning pain shot through his hand, quickly tracking down his arm to his torso. He dropped his arm and shook it, but the sensation was already spreading across his body. In seconds, it felt like a thousand red ants were biting his flesh. The fire shot to his head, where his eyes seemed to boil in their sockets.

  “Carl—” he cried. The words came out in a raspy gurgle.

  Heiland felt the same burning sensation on his back. Spinning around, he processed two scenes at once. One was the dying Joe Eberson, still clutching the fishing rod as he fell to the deck, his skin glowing scarlet. The other was the freighter’s shield-like device, directed at him from a few dozen yards away.

  Ignoring the burning that seared through his body, he staggered to the cabin. Manny was already on the deck, gasping a last breath as blood dribbled from his nose and ears. Heiland stepped past his longtime friend as his own pain became amplified. His entire body felt inflamed. Somewhere in his consciousness, he wondered why his skin wasn’t falling off in chunks. A single urge drove him forward as he lurched to the pilot’s seat. His head felt like it was going to explode as he reached under the console, his burning fingers grasping a pair of hidden toggles. He tripped them both, then took his last breath.

  4

  ARE YOU GOING TO GET WET WITH ME?”