The Bin Laden Plot

“That’s the scenario we’re looking at,” Verbeck replied. “Your mission is to locate and destroy it before it does more harm.”

“Assuming it actually sank Stethem. That’s still conjecture at this point, correct?”

“It is. But we’re not taking any chances. We’d rather destroy a good UUV than let a bad one roam the Gulf.”

“Are there any other UUVs in the Gulf?”

“There are, but none in your assigned operating area.” She turned to Hoskins, who delved into the details.

“In addition to your orders, there’s an appendix in your folder containing the UUV’s characteristics: operating speeds, depths, and acoustic frequencies for your sonar search plan, and its armament.”

Wilson perused the appendix, then looked up. “Two torpedoes per UUV. I assume it still carries the second; only one was fired at Stethem?”

“ONI is still in the preliminary stage of the investigation, but initial reports indicate a single-torpedo attack.”

“What type of torpedo?”

Verbeck’s eyes met Hoskins’s briefly, then she looked back toward Wilson. Michigan’s Captain had homed in on the first and potentially fatal flaw in their UUV-may-have-sunk-Stethem ruse. Once a detailed examination of Stethem, resting on the ocean floor, was conducted, it would become apparent that it had not been sunk by the UUV, which carried lightweight torpedoes, incapable of inflicting the extent of damage Stethem had sustained. By then, however, if Wilson moved quickly enough, the UUV would be a mangled wreck on the bottom of the ocean.

Hoskins answered truthfully, “MK 54 MOD 1 lightweight torpedoes.”

Wilson seemed pleased that the UUV carried a lightweight and not a MK 48 heavyweight torpedo, and moved on to his next question. “I see the UUV is battery powered. How does it recharge?”

The second problematic issue.

This time, Hoskins lied. “It has solar panels on top, which it uses to recharge its battery. It surfaces during the day when required.”

“How often does it recharge its battery, and how long does it take?”

“The charging interval and time are variable. The interval is dependent on its operating parameters, and the charging time is determined primarily by how depleted its battery is when commencing the recharge.”

Wilson examined the appendix a while longer, then looked up, seemingly satisfied with the information provided.

Verbeck added, “One important detail not included in your orders is that you’ll be communicating directly with my office — either myself or Captain Hoskins — on this matter. There’s a sheet in the folder with the applicable communication details for message traffic or videocons. I understand Michigan has the latest Radio Room updates, so data bandwidth shouldn’t be an issue.”

Wilson nodded. “Videocons won’t be a problem.”

“That’s all I have for you,” Verbeck said. “Any other questions?”

“Not at the moment.”

Verbeck stood, as did Wilson, and she shook his hand. “Good luck, Captain. But I believe a more appropriate phrase in the Submarine Force is — Good hunting!”

Wilson smiled. “Indeed, it is.”

* * *

Wilson escorted them topside, then saluted as they departed.

As Verbeck and her aide walked off the brow toward their awaiting sedan, Hoskins asked quietly, “Do you think he believed everything we told him?”

Verbeck replied, “The only thing that matters is that he destroys the UUV before it mates for a recharge.”

Hoskins cast a concerned look her way. “If it mates, we’re done. We’ll have to come clean.”

“Of course,” Verbeck replied. “That would force our hand.”

This time, it was Verbeck who lied. This was what she had been worried about. Hoskins didn’t have the stomach to see this issue to the end. Fortunately, in a few days, she wouldn’t have to worry about him.

8 WASHINGTON, D.C.

It was almost midnight when a group of weary passengers emerged from the Mount Vernon Square metro station. After a short ride on the Yellow Line from the Pentagon, Navy Chief Cryptologic Technician Jason Johnson stepped off the rising escalator. He turned right onto a nearby street, leaving behind the brightly lit exterior of the Walter E. Washington Convention Center, headed toward a sleepy row of townhomes in a dimly lit portion of the city a few blocks away.

Johnson had just finished his evening shift at the Pentagon, monitoring intelligence data from a black program of UUVs in the Persian Gulf. It was late, but he was hungry, and he contemplated a stop at Full Yum Carryout, a few blocks from his home. As he passed the 7th and N Streets Park on his right, he paid little attention to a man wearing a dirty gray sweatshirt slouched on a bench beneath the trees, sipping from a bottle inside a crumpled brown paper bag.

* * *