Silent running the hunte.., p.1
Silent Running (The Hunter Killer Series Book 7), page 1
SILENT RUNNING
GEORGE WALLACE
DON KEITH
SILENT RUNNING
Copyright © 2022 by George Wallace and Don Keith.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Severn River Publishing
www.SevernRiverPublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-64875-214-8 (Paperback)
ISBN: 978-1-64875-215-5 (Hardcover)
CONTENTS
Also by Wallace and Keith
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Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Epilogue
Next in Series
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Thanks for Reading
Read Snapshot
Acknowledgments
About the Authors
ALSO BY WALLACE AND KEITH
The Hunter Killer Series
Final Bearing
Dangerous Grounds
Cuban Deep
Fast Attack
Arabian Storm
Warshot
Silent Running
Snapshot
Hunter Killer
By George Wallace
Operation Golden Dawn
By Don Keith
In the Course of Duty
Final Patrol
War Beneath the Waves
Undersea Warrior
The Ship that Wouldn't Die
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PROLOGUE
George Washington Jackson—“Zipper” to his friends and rather sizeable family—sat back and enjoyed the smooth ride as the Yellow Line train he piloted burst out of the underground darkness and into the brilliant, late-afternoon sunshine. He was tired, but there was still another three hours on his extended shift, then an hour commute before he could fire up his new Big Green Egg smoker grill and relax with the grandkids.
In the capital city of the USA, the Fourth of July holiday was by far the busiest day of the year. And by this time on the holiday, the National Mall was teeming with humanity. Shuttling hundreds of thousands of tourists to and from the Mall kept the Metro at capacity, even with every train running on a rush-hour schedule since before dawn. Hordes of tourists and plenty of locals hurried to claim the best spot to watch the massive evening fireworks and to take in the huge annual concert. Finally, with pandemic restrictions completely lifted, everyone wanted to be there live and in person.
Zipper merely smiled and enjoyed the view. After more than twenty years operating Metro trains, most of them driving the Yellow Line between Huntington and Greenbelt, he still appreciated these particular few seconds of the ride between the Pentagon and L’Enfant Plaza. The train sat high up on the bridge while the Potomac River’s greenish-brown water flowed sluggishly beneath the rails. Washington, DC’s iconic monuments popped into view in his broad windshield. Thomas Jefferson, almost dead ahead, peered at him from between those tall columns. The Washington Monument pointed to heaven from its base to Zipper’s left. And his favorite, the calm face of Dr. Martin Luther King, looked at him through the trees, assuring him things were peaceful. Not perfect but hopefully getting better.
Much too quickly, though, the tracks plunged back down into the tunnel, aiming for the next stop on the line. A stop that would doubtless be even more chaotic than typical on this special day.
L’Enfant Plaza Station was less than a mile ahead. Out of long-developed habit, Zipper reached over to begin throttling back for entry into the station. But he pulled his hand away. That was no longer part of his job. In fact, his supervisor had reprimanded him at the end of his previous shift for overriding Metro’s brand-new and cutting-edge computer-controlled Automatic Train Operating System. It was especially difficult for Zipper to overcome the urge to slow the train himself, to rely on some computer chip somewhere to do his job for him. He had been a young train operator, just starting out, on that tragic day in June 2009 when a Red Line train, using the old ATO system, slammed into the rear of a stopped train up at the Ft. Totten Station. Eight people died that day. Everyone lost faith in the automatic system. For a long time, nobody fussed when Zipper and the other operators insisted on driving manually.
Now, though, all these years later, the Metro Board of Supervisors had again decided that computers were smarter, better, and more reliable train operators than people would ever be. Zipper knew better. He also knew the ATO would soon spell an end to human operators entirely. No problem. He would finally retire and spend more time with his grandkids, watching the Nationals play ball while enjoying the big grill to which he had treated himself. Meanwhile, he would just do what his super told him to do. The in-cabin video camera above his left shoulder did not allow him any leeway anyhow. His every move was on record.
Get by two more months, three days, and two hours. Then the only computer he would have to worry about was the one where he followed every bit of news about the Nationals and posted pictures of those grandkids on Facebook.
The underground Y where the Green Line tracks merged with those of the Yellow Line shot past. That was when Zipper realized something did not feel right. The train should be starting its smooth deceleration before entering L’Enfant Plaza. Instinctively, his hand shot to the throttle control even as the S sign, indicating a thousand feet to the station, flashed past. That meant L’Enfant’s crowded platform was coming up quickly. The train should be automatically slowing to a crawl by now.
But no. He could feel it accelerating instead. Definitely accelerating. Felt like full throttle.
Zipper yanked back hard on the throttle lever. The train ignored him. If anything, it picked up even more speed.
By now, the ATP—the Automatic Train Protection System—should have kicked in. Barreling into a station crowded with several thousand holiday revelers could be a worst-case disaster. And if the northbound Green Line train was still there, delayed by off-loading so many people, it would be massive carnage. Far worse than the Ft. Totten incident.
Zipper had no choice. He slammed the emergency stop button, knowing the sudden screeching halt would send his passengers flying. But better a few bruises and broken bones than a massive pileup. At the same time, he screamed a warning into the microphone for the system’s spanking new “Astro Voice” comms system.
Then, straight ahead, he saw the flashing red lights at the back of the other train. The platform packed with people. The red-and-white bunting strung across the gallery above the tracks in celebration of democracy and Independence Day.
That was the last thing George Washington Jackson ever saw.
Zooming ahead at full throttle, his train plunged into the stopped Green Line train. The force of the collision caused the cars of both trains to derail and go whipping up and across the teeming platform. No one even had a chance to run. And they were so closely packed together, working toward the escalators, that escape was not possible. Swirling steel cars scythed through the crowds, spraying metal, bodies, and debris across the platform. Fire belched past the turnstiles and up escalators to the outside.
Just then, a southbound Yellow Line train packed with riders, running on the adjacent track and also racing out of control at full throttle, bolted into the station. Without slowing, it charged into the smoke, fire, and hurtling wreckage, adding to the chaos of flying rail cars.
Two blocks away, people emerging from the Air and Space Museum at the Smithsonian were knocked off their feet by the concussion. Beyond, on the Mall, those gathering for the best view of the concert wondered if the fireworks had started early for some reason.
Many of them clapped and cheered. Others, waving flags, began toasting the noisy salute with smuggled glasses of wine, singing “God Bless the USA.”
Ψ
Mie Ping stretched mightily before closing her laptop. She allowed herself the barest of satisfied smiles as she called out to her supervisor, three cubicles away. He did not respond.
She stood, walked over, and stuck her head into his tiny workstation. As usual, he was already deeply lost in some spreadsheet or another, the bane of any mid-level government employee, even in the deepest recesses o
“What? Sorry? Budget time, you know,” he finally responded.
“The operation. It all worked just as we predicted,” she told him.
“Oh, excellent. The minister will be well pleased with your work, Mie.”
“Our work. We have an excellent team. Breaking through that new Cloud Access Security system they are so proud of was child’s play. Particularly with the back doors we had in place already. And we made very sure to erase every trace that we had been there.”
“Very good. Very good.”
Mie Ping pointedly yawned and stretched again. She tried not to notice that her supervisor had suddenly turned his attention from the spreadsheet to her breasts.
“Now, if it is all right, I need to get some sleep,” she said as she backed away from the cubicle.
“Certainly. Your success...it may even help me here,” he said, waving at the spreadsheet on his display. His attention was already directed back there. “Budget time, you know.”
As Mie Ping stepped out the doorway of the huge but nondescript office building, she was surprised to see the sun was already up. That the busy Hangzhou traffic indicated a workday was beginning. She had lost track of time as she watched her digital worms do their work, the bits and bytes falling into place to accomplish her long-term mission half a planet away.
She needed a shower, a nap. She had lunch scheduled with her sister. They would celebrate her sister’s newly-confirmed pregnancy, now that having a third child had been approved by the Chinese government. Then Mie would enjoy a night on the town with the handsome new social media specialist six cubicles down and two to the right from her own.
The sun was warm on her face as she waited for the traffic signal to allow her to cross the busy street. The fact that the work she and her cyber-attack team had done had just resulted in the deaths of hundreds of Americans was of little concern to her. She had done as she had been told for the good of her country. To protect its sovereignty and allow it to once again assume its rightful place in the order of world powers. Something she had prepared for since, as a child, she sang the song “I Compare the Communist Party to My Mother” each morning six days a week to begin the school day. And since the day a teacher noticed her exceptional aptitude with numbers and computer algorithms.
Today, she had done her part. Now she needed a nap and a shower. No doubt her supervisor would have a new assignment for her tomorrow.
1
The night was tar-black dark. Chet Allison, the skipper of the submarine USS Boise (SSN-764), spun the periscope around to complete a full circle. They seemed to be all alone in this patch of the Pacific Ocean, but it was difficult to confirm visually. Thick clouds obscured even the stars. The only way he had to make sure that he was actually staring at the night sky, and not the equally black sea water, was the occasional reassuring wave slap on the periscope.
Meanwhile, the normal control room hum of quiet communications barely registered with Allison as he continued to comb the skies above them. Nothing. Nothing but darkness.
“Radio, Captain.” Allison spoke into the open mike above his head, working to keep the irritation from his voice. “We in comms yet by any chance?”
“Captain, Radio.” It was ETR-1(SS) Luke Hanson, Boise’s leading radioman, who answered. “Nothing, sir. He isn’t up on the circuit yet. We’ll keep trying.”
“Damn flyboys,” Allison muttered under his breath. “Probably still sitting in the O Club.” Then he raised his voice enough for the mike to pick it up. “Radio, Captain. Keep trying. Is the XO in Radio?”
“Yes, sir, I’m here.” Commander Henrietta Foster’s voice came over the 21MC speaker.
Allison pulled away from the periscope eyepiece. Boise’s control room was rigged for black, so other than a few dim red lights, the area looked very much like what he had been seeing outside. Pretty much nothing.
“XO, draft a message to CTF 74. Tell them no joy on rendezvousing with their P-8. Intend to go deep and proceed with our mission. Will attempt comms again in six hours.”
As he stepped back from the periscope, Allison felt a drizzle of ice-cold water down the back of his neck. Damn scope packing was leaking again!
The skipper looked hard at Chief Jeanette Walters, the diving officer. She was also the auxiliary division leading chief.
“Chief, get your guys up here and see if they can fix this damn leak. I’m tired of getting a cold shower every time I want to use the ’scope.”
Walters frowned, then reached out and smacked the back of the helmsman’s head. “Damn it, Kowblowski! Mind your planes. You’re a foot off ordered depth.” Then, without a pause, she responded to her captain. “Yes, sir. We’ve tightened the packing as much as we can. We’re at max torque on the gland nuts now. The best we can do is try greasing it again. That might slow the leakage some.”
“Well, at least rig some poly,” Allison grumbled. “Maybe you can direct some of that water to the bilge drains instead of down the back of my neck.” He well knew that the poly sheeting was, at best, a temporary and jury-rigged fix. They would have to live with the leaking packing gland until they could get back into port and properly repair the periscope. He also knew he was allowing the annoyance with the tardy aircraft to magnify his irritation with the pesky water leak.
“Captain,” the XO’s voice blasted from the 21MC speaker. “CTF 74 acknowledges. They say that the P-8 had to RTB with a mechanical. They just sent us new tasking. Suggest we go deep and digest what they want us to do now.”
Allison nodded, though his second-in-command could not see him, and called out, “Officer of the Deck, you heard the lady. Let’s go deep. Make your depth three hundred feet, come around to course two-six-five to conform to the navigator’s track. And speaking of the navigator, send your messenger to get him out of his nice warm bunky. Tell him to drop his teddy bear and come help us figure out what the boss wants us to do now.”
Allison reached up into the overhead and spun the big red ring to the left. The Type 18 periscope smoothly descended into the ’scope well.
Lieutenant Bob Bland, the on-watch OOD, answered crisply, “Yes, sir.” In a slightly louder voice, he ordered, “Diving Officer, make your depth three hundred feet. Helm, left five degrees rudder. Steer course two-six-five. Chief of the Watch, rig control for white, send your messenger to find Lieutenant Commander Chastain and inform him that the captain wants to see him in Control.”
As the lights blinked on in the compartment, Commander Allison stepped off the low periscope stand and headed forward. “Officer of the Deck, I’ll be in my stateroom changing to a dry poopie suit. And Chief, kindly make sure A gang gets that poly rigged.”
Ten minutes later, Commander Chet Allison—now in a clean, dry uniform—along with Commander Henrietta Foster and Lieutenant Commander Jeremy Chastain gathered around the electronic navigation display table, not-so-cleverly named by some obscure government engineer as the ECDIS, or Electronic Chart Display and Information System. Chastain had already entered the newly received operation order into the ECDIS. The projected ship’s track displayed as a bright green line arrowing down to the southwest.
“Well, XO,” Allison noted. “Looks like CTF 74 hasn’t forgiven us for denting the Boise-fish. I’m not suggesting that Admiral Jorgensson carries a grudge, but we’ve been playing nuclear rabbit for airedales ever since we got back from repairs in Pearl. And now this.”
