Endangered Species
USS Maine

USS Maine SSBN-741

Somewhere in the Northern Pacific

Day six of my midshipman cruise and the monotony of a Boomer patrol was setting in.

It was mid-afternoon by the clock on the wall of Main Control. I was standing next to Ensign Terry McGuire, my Diving Officer qualification card in my back pocket. We were going over the handling characteristic of the Ohio-class Ballistic Missile Submarine.

It wasn’t nimble. At almost nineteen-thousand tons submerged and nearly the length of two football fields, it didn’t change speed or direction easily. You had to plan your maneuvers and anticipate how long things would take to start, then steady out. Put the rudder left, and it would take a few seconds to see the heading change. Once it got going, you had to reverse the rudder to stop the turn. The ship handled like a barge, not a speedboat. Angles and Dangles yesterday kicked my ass. It’s a drill where the submarine rapidly changes depths and headings on command. We overshot our target depth by thirty feet, and you’d think the world had ended by how Captain Grimes responded.

The mission of the USS Maine was silent deterrence. On patrol, we were a hole in the ocean carrying twenty-four Trident II missiles, each with a dozen nuclear warheads that could reach anywhere in China or Russia in minutes. If the Russians couldn’t replace us, they couldn’t prevent a missile launch. It was that threat of survivable retaliation which had kept the nuclear powers from using them since 1945.

Ensign McGuire was patient and thorough as we discussed the items on my qual-card. I knew him from our time at the Naval Academy, two years ahead of me in my company. No one could date a Plebe, so he waited until my Youngster year to ask me out. I’d turned him down, not wanting the drama of dating a senior. He was still interested in me, but now he was a commissioned officer, and I was a senior Midshipman, and he was my direct supervisor. I was off-limits again.

That didn’t stop him from checking out my ass and tits under my poopy-suit, the blue overalls that were the underway uniform for officers. I’d grown to five-ten, and Varsity Soccer kept my body firm and strong. My dirty-blonde hair was in a ponytail hanging out the back of my ship’s ballcap.

“Conn, Radio, flash traffic emergency action message. Recommend Alert One.”

Lieutenant Bond was the Officer of the Deck and was in charge of the control room; he picked up a microphone and answered. “Incoming EAL, recommend alert one.” He switched to the 1MC, speaking to the whole ship. “Alert One, Incoming Emergency Action Message.”

“What’s going on now?” I wasn’t in the control room for the last drill.

“Captain in Control,” the Chief of the Watch announced.

The Captain wasn’t expecting this. I could tell by his look. “Man Battle Stations Missile, spin up all missiles for strategic launch,” he ordered.

“Battle Stations Missile, set Condition 1SQ for Strategic Missile Launch,” the Lieutenant spoke over the 1MC.

“Dive, make depth one-five-zero feet.”

“Make depth one-five-zero feet, dive aye,” I responded. I was under instruction, so I had the job unless Ensign McGuire took over. “Ten-degree rise on the fairwater planes, going to 150 feet.”

The planesman acknowledged the order and pulled back on his control. “Helm, three-degree up-bubble.”

“Three-degree up-bubble, aye.” He pulled back slightly on his control, causing the planes in the stern to raise slightly. He watched as the angle bubble indicator moved up, bringing the planes back to neutral at a three-degree angle.

“Passing 400 feet, going to 150 feet,” I announced.

Control was filling with people as the ship manned battle stations. Ensign McGuire was assigned here anyway, and I went with him, so we stayed in place as other officers arrived and took over. I sneaked a look back; two officers were next to the Captain. “Sir, we have a properly formatted Emergency Action Message.”

“I concur with a properly formatted Emergency Action Message,” the second officer added.

“Authenticate the message.”

The XO went to a small safe along with the two officers. “What is going on,” I whispered.

“No one will do anything with the message until properly authenticated. The code changes daily. We keep it in the safe.”

I nodded, still watching the depth indicator. “Passing 300 feet, going to 150 feet.”

“Control, Weapons, Condition 1SQ set, missiles one through twenty-four spun up for strategic launch.”

Shit was getting real.

“Whiskey, Xray, Alpha, Delta, Charlie, Tango, Tango,” the first officer read.

“Whiskey, Xray, Alpha, Delta, Charlie, Tango, Tango,” the second officer replied. “Captain, the message is authentic.”

“I concur, Captain.”

The Captain took the message and read it, then handed it to the XO. He read it and handed it back.

“Passing 200 feet, heading to 150 feet,” I announced. “Helm, zero the bubble.”

“Zero the bubble, aye, ma’am.”

He pushed forward on his control, and the ship slowly leveled out before we hit 170 feet. The fairwater planes were still up, so we continued to rise as the helmsman held the submarine level. I anticipated the sluggish response this time, and we stopped at 152 feet before easing to depth. “Officer of the Deck, at 150 feet.”

“150 feet aye,” he responded.

“Nice job,” Terry said quietly.

“This is the Captain,” he said over the 1MC to the ship. “The National Command Authority has raised the readiness condition to DEFCON FOUR due to a major solar storm event. The storm may disrupt communications and result in a loss of power over large areas. Stand down from Battle Stations Missile and set Condition 2SQ.” Captain Grimes looked over to Lieutenant Bond. “Officer of the Deck, practice hovering at launch depth, then continue our patrol.” He grabbed the XO and walked out.

“Captain has left Control,” the Chief of the Boat announced.

“Diving Officer, hover at 150 feet.”

“Hover at 150 feet, aye,” I replied. “Helm, all stop.”

“All stop, aye.”

It would take a few minutes for the submarine to slow to a stop. Without movement through the water, the rudder and planes were useless. You had to move water between tanks fore and aft, or pump water in and out of those tanks, to maintain depth and angle. We’d talked about it, and I’d watched it once, but now it was my job. I knew how much water we’d added to the ballast tanks during the dive, so I started by having the Chief of the Watch remove that much. It would get me in the ballpark before we came to a halt.

We spent thirty minutes at hover before returning to depth and speed. I felt good as we were relieved at the end of our watch. I’d gotten more things signed off on my qualification card, and I had a few hours tonight to study.

I used the head, then headed to the wardroom for dinner. An Ohio-class submarine had a lot of space compared to my Dad’s Los Angeles-class submarine, which he told me was far more than the Sturgeon-class submarines he’d been on early in his career. Not an inch of space was wasted, though. A deterrent patrol was 92 days long, and there were no port calls or resupplies. The hatches closed last week and wouldn’t open again until we were returning to our homeport of Bangor, Washington.

The cruise would take the entire summer of my senior year. I even had to take some finals early to fly out in time. I’d arrived with my seabag and Midshipman Third Class Mike Newman. While I was learning to be a junior officer, he would be working with the enlisted crew on board. Both of us selected this cruise so we’d have enough time to earn silver Dolphins, the award for qualifying Submarines in the enlisted ranks. The XO warned us we’d have to work our asses off to get them in a single patrol. Regardless, we’d be awarded a pin for completing a deterrent patrol, a replica of a Ballistic Missile Submarine. We’d be able to wear both pins on our uniforms after that.

I went to take a seat near the end of the table, far from where the Captain and XO sat. No such luck. Captain Grimes waved to me, pointing at an empty seat. I sat down between the Chief Engineer and the Weapons Officer. “How are your qualifications coming, Summers?”

“Good, Captain. I should be ready for my Diving Officer board in two days.” Watchstation qualifications required a final board, usually chaired by the CO or XO.

“I’ll set up a board,” the XO, Commander Melanie Potter, said as she wrote a note in the spiral notebook all officers had stuck in their back pockets. The XO had pulled me aside early on; she’d been one of the first female officers to qualify in submarines after women were allowed to serve on ballistic missile submarines in 2010. There weren’t many women around, and we were still under a microscope. “You have to be smarter, work harder, and prove yourself to the men around you,” she’d told me. “You WILL get your dolphins, or my bootprints on your ass will still be showing when you return to Annapolis. If you need help, you ask.” I hadn’t forgotten that. So far, the crew has stayed professional. I’m sure Potter put the fear of God into them before we arrived.

“When did you figure out it wasn’t a drill,” the Captain asked?

“I saw your face when you came in,” I replied.

“We drill to be perfect in the real world. The EAM could be anything, so we must be ready for anything. Our country depends on us doing our job right. Millions of lives hang in the balance.”

I nodded; it was the conundrum of the nuclear forces. If you ever had to launch, you’ve failed in your mission. The Captain wasn’t kidding about millions of lives. We carried enough firepower to wipe out every major city in Russia.

I prayed to God that we’d never get one with a launch order because that would mean the end of the world was upon us.