Off The Grid

By Mark Lemke

The USS Batfish, the meanest nuclear fast attack submarine ever built, sits on the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean, deserted, but still operational—20 years after her decommissioning. The President sends Nick Connor, ex-Green Beret, to find and board the ghost ship and retrieve information that could explain it’s existence, while helping expose a powerful Washington cartel, trying to keep it secret.

On March 17, 1978, somewhere above the Arctic Circle, the USS Batfish, outfitted with the highly proprietary Baffle Quieting Sonar, which was coupled with the submarine's incredibly powerful nuclear core, showed up to intercept and track a Soviet submarine—which it did for fifty days, undetected. Code-named Operation Evening Star, the Soviets didn’t know that the Batfish had followed them for so long, and then simply disappeared, until US Navy Chief Warrant Officer John Anthony Walker sold the information to the Russians.

Over thirty years later, a large object took shape right alongside of Nick as he floated in the Sea of Japan, having just completed a covert mission in North Korea. It had no headway but came straight up out of the depths like a leviathan. Even though Nick's eyes were accustomed to the dark, he still couldn’t see her, but he knew she was there. There was no wake. The USS Batfish rose silently out of the black depths below him like death incarnate.

Off The Grid, rich with details of submarines, will take you over the edge on a thought-provoking adventure.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark Lemke
• Release date: Mar 28, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310378195

Mark Lemke

Mark is the author of three fictional thrillers set against the backdrop of nuclear power; Red North!, Off The Grid, and his newest, The Elephant's Foot. Drawing on a degree in Nuclear Technology, thirty-five years of experience working in the nuclear power industry, and six years aboard a nuclear submarine, Mark is uniquely qualified to write these realistic and gripping stories.Mark lives with his wife on a ranch in California, and is a third degree black belt in Shotokan karate.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

OPERATION EVENING STAR

Conn, Sonar!  Sonar contact bearing zero-six-two.  Classified possible Soviet submarine! 

STS-3 Moore, a third class petty officer from Sandpoint, Idaho, was excited when he heard the contact.  Despite the fact that he was trained to listen for just such an event, the young sonar man couldn’t help letting his excitement show through.  This was his third patrol on the USS Batfish, and he was wearing the coveted silver ‘dolphins’ of the enlisted men over the left breast pocket of his blue overalls, called poopy suits, having qualified ‘subs’ on his last patrol.  But the mission they were on was his first highly classified mission, and this was the first Soviet submarine he had detected in real time outside of the classroom.

At the height of the Cold War, with tensions running high between the Soviet and US navies, STS-3 Moore had just picked up the distinctive sounds of a Soviet Navy Navaga-class—NATO reporting name YANKEE I class—ballistic missile submarine on a course toward the East Coast of the United States. 

The date was February 6, 1978. The place: 70 degrees north latitude, 4 degrees east longitude; about 200 miles above the Arctic Circle in the frigid waters of the Norwegian Sea. Just to the south was the Greenland-Iceland-United Kingdom (GIUK) Gap, a natural funnel through which any Soviet submarine had to pass after leaving her home waters in the Barents Sea.  US and Soviet submarines had made the North Atlantic a potential nuclear battlefield, and the GIUK Gap was the gateway to it.  On the seafloor of the Norwegian Sea was a vast secret network of listening devices, termed the SOSUS net, or sound surveillance system network, established by the US Navy to track Soviet submarines as they departed for their patrol areas. 

Batfish, towing a 1,100-foot sonar array, had been sent out from Norfolk specifically to intercept the SSBN. US intelligence had been alerted to her probable departure from the Kola Peninsula by the CIA-sponsored Norwegian Intelligence Activities and US spy satellites. These sources, in turn, cued the Norway-based SOSUS array as the Soviet missile submarine sailed around Norway’s North Cape.

Besides STS-3 Moore, another young man, nineteen-year-old Seaman Hatch, was sitting in the sonar shack, still in training and not yet sub qualified.  He came from St. Petersburg, Florida, and had stars in his eyes when he'd enlisted and was told he could get duty on a submarine. 

Senior Chief Masterson stood just inside the room and provided supervision, as did chiefs throughout the Navy.  The chief was holding the usual cup of coffee in the white china cup with a blue line around the top, found on all submarines.  A sonar chief didn’t have hard duty like those assigned to engineering, whether in the A-Gang or with the nucs back aft.  There just wasn’t that much to do in sonar division.  As a result, he got a lot of rack time in his bunk in the Goat Locker—the small berthing area for chiefs only.  But he was well qualified, took his job seriously, and took up station in the room monitoring his young staff to make sure they got this right.  The briefing he and the other chiefs had received prior to putting to sea included the importance of this mission and the need to get it right. 

The mission of the Batfish was in part to approach by stealth, come in behind Soviet submarines, and establish and maintain tactical control.  Simply put, that meant they were to get close enough to hear and categorize noises made by the machinery and propeller of the Soviet subs.

Take us in behind him, the captain told the navigator.

Aye, Captain.  Helm, course two-five-zero.  Increase speed to two-thirds.

Captain Henning was an engineer by trade, as most skippers were, having come up through the engineering departments before being assigned his own boat.  He knew the nuclear reactor and engineering power plant backwards and forwards, which was generally considered a good thing onboard a vessel that required mechanical equipment to keep them alive several hundred feet below the surface.  Captain Henning stood a shade over six feet two inches tall with a shock of light brown hair, which he kept closely trimmed, and eyes the color of the steel used to make his boat.  On his right hand was a US Naval Academy ring, though his left ring finger was empty.  His official rank was commander, though anyone in charge of a submarine is referred to as ‘Captain.’ 

The helmsman moved the telegraph device in front of him to the two-thirds position to alert the throttleman in maneuvering, the nerve center of the nuclear propulsion part of the submarine, of the change in speed.  The throttleman responded in kind on his device, letting the Conn know that he'd received the order.

Answer’s ahead two-thirds!

Very well, said Nav.

For the next fifty days, the Batfish shadowed the Russian sub, tracking her maneuvers, documenting her sound signatures, and profiling her capabilities—something no other US sub had been able to do.  The information they obtained was vital to the US Navy mission, and many thought it would hasten the end of the Cold War.  The captain and crew were understandably proud of what they were able to accomplish.  They were currently on transit under the polar ice cap, possibly on a run from Spitsbergen and Greenland to Point Barrow, Alaska.  A stiff northerly wind had pushed the ice pack farther south than anticipated, requiring submerged operations longer than expected.  The Russian was running close to the North Pole, with the minimum number of turns, speed changes, depth changes, and angle changes, possibly to facilitate a speed run to the other side. 

Then on the 1200-1800 watch on March 28, the Russian made an unexpected course change. 

Conn, Sonar.  Aspect ratio to contact Yankee I is changing.

Sonar, give me rate of overtake of the contact said the captain over a sound-powered phone, knowing they were so close they could easily run up on him from behind.

Wait one . . . said STS-3 Moore.  Shit!  He took his phones off immediately and cried out in pain.  Senior Chief Masterson could hear the high-pitched squeal from where he stood.  He did not need to put on the headphones to hear it.

Receiving a proximity warning, Captain! Seaman Hatch said somewhat tentatively, looking over at Moore who was clearly hurting for some reason.

Say again? asked the captain, aware of the young man’s tone.

Hatch looked at the Senior Chief for guidance.  The Senior Chief scanned the sonar trace in front of him, grabbed the sound powered phone from Moore and said, Captain, this is Masterson.  He's clearing his baffles!

All stop! ordered the captain.  The order was immediately relayed to Maneuvering.  Range to contact?

Uh, sir, they look to be 1,200 yards, and we’re closing fast! stammered Hatch, mortified that he might be making a mistake.

Back one-third! ordered the captain.  He knew this would give them away.  Ordering up a back bell would make them cavitate, making noise in the impeller.  Though, that couldn’t be helped.  They were coming up on them too fast.

600 yards and still closing! said Hatch thinking that the captain would want to know.

Son of a bitch . . . muttered the Captain, more to himself than for the benefit of anyone else.  Russians often cleared their baffles by slowing and turning to one side so they could listen behind them to see if anyone was following.  He’d brought the Batfish up close, maybe too close. 

All back full! said the captain.  In for a penny, in for a pound.  He’d already given away his position. 

Sonar? the captain asked, not needing to fill in the rest of his question.

Not going to make it Captain! Senior Chief Masterson shouted down the hall to the conn, not bothering to use the sound-powered phone.

The captain immediately got on the 1MC and made a ship-wide announcement.  Rig for collision!  To the chief of the watch he said, Sound the collision alarm!

The chief of the watch was already moving to it.  He activated it at the same time the captain finished his order.  The klaxon sounded throughout the ship, striking fear into the newer sailors on board, and causing concern in the qualified submariners.  Nobody took anything for granted when 600 feet underwater. 

Captain Henning stood stoically in the middle of the Conn.  He knew his men were watching him, and he didn’t want to give them any more cause for concern than they already had.  He needed to project confidence and control— despite how he felt inside.  He debated trying to take an evasive course, but his sub would be slow to respond, especially while trying to slow down.  Besides that, a glancing blow might cause his ship more damage than a frontal impact.  It might take out the sailplanes or damage his scope and antennas. 

He turned to his XO with a knowing look.  XO, activate the BQS-4, he said as he took a chain with a key on it off from around his neck and handed it to the XO. Let's see how this works.

Activate the BQS-4, aye! came the immediate reply.

The XO inserted the captain’s key into a slot on the Baffle Quieting Sonar device in front of him.  He took his own key and inserted it as well.  He turned both keys and pressed the activate button.  A shudder ran through the boat, and his vision blurred momentarily.

BQS-4 activated, Captain!

Very well, came the even reply.  Captain Henning then called sonar, Status of contact Yankee I.

Not hearing an immediate response, he repeated the order.  When that too was not acknowledged, he immediately walked the few feet to the sonar shack and looked inside.  He saw Moore on the floor, eyes open but not seeing, blood coming from his ears, and mouth open as if to speak but nothing was coming out.  He looked like he was in shock, or worse.  Seaman Hatch was pressing his hands to his earphones and looking at the blank sonar display in front of him.

What’s the status in here, Senior Chief? he asked irritably, going to the senior man in the room.

Senior Chief Masterson looked at the captain and simply said, They’re not there anymore, sir.

What do you mean, they aren’t there?  I just felt the boat shake.  I assume we just rammed a fucking Soviet submarine in the ass.  Did we sink her?  Did they surface?  They sure as hell didn’t run away!

Captain Henning could see the Senior Chief’s face was ashen.  He put a hand on the man’s shoulder to steady him.

Captain, Yankee I is simply not registering on any of our gear, the Senior Chief said while continuing to look at all the gear in front of him.

Captain Henning had to ask the obvious question.  Does the gear check out?  Is it damaged?

The sonar domes in the front end might be out if we hit her, but the rest of the gear and the towed array are working fine.  They simply aren’t out there.  Not on the bottom, not on the surface.  No mechanical sounds whatsoever.

The captain looked down at Moore, wondering what he'd heard that left him like that.  Keep me apprised, Senior Chief.  And find that damn boat!  They didn’t just disappear!  He turned and walked quickly back to the control room. 

The captain turned to the navigator.  Nav, see if you can find some thin ice, take us to periscope depth, and raise the mast.  We need to call this in to COMSUBLANT.

Aye, Captain, the navigator said as he then went about the business of bringing the boat to sixty feet and extending an antenna so they could communicate with Navy command headquarters for submarines in the Atlantic Region.  It took an hour to find some open water, and raise the mast.

Several minutes later the navigator, his face drained of color now reported, Captain, we’ve just made contact.

Captain Henning turned to look at the navigator and was going to question what was going on when he noticed the look on his face was one of consternation.  He was talking quickly and quietly with the XO and a radioman.

Nav, do you mind telling me what’s going on? the captain said with growing frustration.  He wasn’t used to people ignoring him.

The XO spoke up while looking at the ship’s internal navigation system.  Sir, SINS is giving us some strange readings.  And it appears we’ve been re-tasked, he said, looking at the message he held in his hands.

Re-tasked?  New orders?  By whose authority?  When did that happen?  What the hell is going on? he said irritably.

Sir, I think we should talk about this in your stateroom.

CHAPTER 2

SEVERAL MONTHS AGO

Whether it was because of exhaustion or the complete and utter isolation he felt at the moment, the President of the United States couldn’t help but see the darkness that surrounded his airplane as a metaphor for his legacy.  As the huge plane landed softly on the secure runway at Edwards Air Force base, he looked at his watch in an absentminded way, as most travelers tend to do when they arrive at a destination.  As he did so, he realized the late hour would be significant when noted later in his memoirs.  However, he knew this particular memoir would be sealed from the public for fifty years, as the encounter he so painstakingly and personally set up was so enigmatic that National Security rules would be invoked. 

All he knew for sure was that he would be remembered for the outcome of the meeting and the success—or failure—of the individual he was meeting with.  The irony was that if he was successful, it was likely no one would even know it had happened. 

The president had arranged to meet with someone whose identity he was determined to keep concealed from his staff, the Secret Service, and any prying eyes.  He had to go outside the government for help.  Someone inside the government had been corrupted, and the president was unable to trust even his immediate staff and advisors.  He'd come into office two years ago hoping to run an ethical government.  He’d been in office long enough to know that there were always going to be people who didn’t agree with his politics.  That was the nature of the two-party system.  He had no problem with that.  But when people used their positions of power for personal gain, it was simply unacceptable to him. 

Information came to him in bits and pieces but he was an astute man and when he put it all together, the information was hard to refute.  He didn’t want to believe it but the evidence was overwhelming.  Someone from his administration was helping a consortium of wealthy ‘businessmen’ manipulate key businesses to the detriment of his and other nations.  It was simply unacceptable, but extremely hard to prove.  One thing he knew, though, was that the ‘businessmen’ involved were ruthless.  Money was power to them, and they had amassed a great deal of both.  To bring them down would require risks to be taken, and above all, someone he could trust.  He knew most of them; he’d had dinners and lunches with them; had shaken their hands at fundraisers for his re-election campaign.  But the conspirator inside his own house was still unknown and a far greater risk because of it.  He had his suspicions, but he needed proof.  He needed something done to expose this cretin.  It would have to be done delicately, as politics are about governing and scandals create weaknesses, which his opposition would surely exploit if given the opportunity. 

He needed a way to find out who was betraying him and decided to put his trust in one man who did not work for the government. He knew of this man, a decorated veteran, who was now working in the private sector.  It was risky, but he felt it was his best option.

The visitor was escorted to the tarmac in a bulletproof Humvee with blacked-out windows—something the Secret Service did not approve of.  They had no time to screen this individual and, in fact, did not even know who it was.  The head of the president’s detail strongly suggested that they be given time to make sure the process was conducted properly and securely.  The president dismissed the idea with a gruff wave of his hand—an unusual gesture from a man who was well liked by his staff for his usual genial and kind behavior. 

With a phalanx of troops and support personnel in constant attendance, Air Force One sets down only when it is cleared to do so.  There are at least 100 people on the plane, on the ground, and in Washington D.C., who must oversee and clear the landing of the president’s plane.  Their job was not to question the president’s decision to land, only to make sure it was safe to do so.  So when the chief executive announced he wanted to land at Edwards for an hour on their way from Los Angeles to Washington D.C., following a global summit with the European Space Agency on commercial exploitation of space, it literally caught everyone by surprise and sparked a chain of events throughout the US government. 

As the plane taxied to a stop, the head of his detail asked, Mr. President, should we escort the visitor aboard to your private study? hoping the president would heed his suggestion knowing that security on Air Force One was already in place, unlike the waiting Humvee.

No, I’ll take the meeting in the car.

The man in the suit and tie stood there shocked, but determined.  Sir, I must insist that you allow me to do my job.  I cannot let you get in that car without clearing it first.  I’m sorry Mr. President, that’s just not going to happen.

The president stood up to his full height of 6’2", buttoning up his suit coat as he turned to address the head of his Secret Service detail.  His face conveyed the countenance of a weary man, though his eyes were steel grey and resolute.  His hair, like so many of his predecessors, was significantly greyer than it had been when he'd taken office.

John, I’m only going to say this once.  I’m going to go down and get in that car, he said matter-of-factly, and without raising his voice.  "I will be no longer than thirty minutes at which time I will get back on the plane and we will take off again.  No one will get off the plane except for your detail.  No one will approach the vehicle or make any attempt to enter it.  No attempt will be made to ascertain the identity of the person inside.  If my instructions aren’t followed to the letter, I will have you arrested.  It’s important that you understand this.  Are we clear?"

For the first time in his career with the Secret Service, the man sworn to take a bullet—if necessary to protect his charge—faced a president who backed him down.  He didn’t think that was possible or even legal.  But when he looked at the man standing in front of him, he saw only resolve and complete and utter authority.  He knew with absolute certainty that the president meant what he said.

Yes, sir! was all he could say.

He didn’t agree to help the president out of fear or because his job was on the line.  He realized the best way to protect him was to find a way to help him achieve his goal as safely as possible and not fight him in doing so.  He brought his left wrist up to his mouth and spoke quickly and quietly into the mic on his sleeve.  As the plane drew to a stop, the door was opened, and several men in suits and ties cleared the way for the president to descend the stairs and walk to the waiting Humvee.  Two men took station at the top of the stairs to make sure no one left the plane while four more encircled the Humvee, creating a cordon around it.  The president descended the steps quickly, walked the forty feet to the waiting vehicle, opened the back door, and disappeared inside—closing the door behind him.

Twenty-nine minutes later, the president exited the vehicle; walked back up the stairs and inside the plane, followed immediately by the agents outside; and told John to close the hatch.  He stepped over to a phone, selected the cockpit, and told the captain to take off immediately.  The highly customized Boeing 747-200B series aircraft was rolling before the president made it to his study to sit down.

Once ensconced inside his study, he slumped into his leather chair and looked at his phone, which was blinking with both messages and people on hold. No doubt one of them was his chief of staff wondering what the hell was going on.  He was not inclined to answer anyone’s questions. 

As he looked out the window and watched Edwards fall away, as the huge plane lifted off into the night sky, he wondered how this could ever have happened?  Where were the checks and balances?  It started long before he took office; so, he wasn’t directly responsible for the actions that led up to today–though that offered scant comfort to him right now.  He picked up his phone and called the communications center on the upper level. With its 4,000 square feet of floor space on three levels, the plane was a flying fortress.

Hold all my calls.

Yes sir.

He had just set things in motion that he knew would have a profound impact on future events.  But on what, he couldn’t say for certain.  His shoulders slumped and he felt the full weight of the office he held.  Not only did 'the buck stop' with him, he couldn’t share his decision with anyone.  This was one he must make by himself—and keep to himself.  God help him if he was wrong. 

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the small recording device he used to document the conversation he just had.  He stared at it, allowing himself a moment of reflection, and then placed the recorder in a Zip Lock bag he'd taken from the kitchen.  On a piece of notepaper he scrawled:

‘Conversation with Nick Connor’

He including the date and time, put it in the bag, and sealed it. 

CHAPTER 3

THE SEA OF JAPAN

Nick Connor’s world was as black and devoid of color as the nuclear fast attack submarine he was waiting for.  Off in the distance, angry bolts of lightning arced through the roiling clouds, like strobe lights behind a shear curtain.  But with no moon and clouds moving in, obliterating the night sky and any stars in it, Nick couldn’t see where the sky left off and the sea—in which he was immersed—began.

Nick wasn’t well out in the Sea of Japan by chance or due to some mechanical failure of a boat, but rather by choice. Or put another way, by assignment, having just completed an intelligence-gathering mission in North Korea.  This wasn’t a typical mission for a Green Beret; Navy SEALs would be more suitable for assignments involving the sea.  But the United States Special Operations Command assigned him the operation, despite the fact that he was no longer on active duty.  Nick had gone into the private sector and formed his own company called NeXus, doing security work for domestic nuclear power plants.  However, he still did work for the government from time to time.  Perhaps more accurately, he did work for the White House on occasion. 

Here in the dark, exhausted from the long swim and with his meager ration of food and water used up, he rolled onto his back and kicked his legs in an easy rhythm to see if he could loosen up his muscles.  He found it decidedly unnerving to be out at sea alone, in the dead of night, with only scuba gear on.  Having remained in one spot for hours, without any visual cues, and with a couple of thousand feet of water beneath him, Nick was disoriented.  The absence of light and noise, coupled with the near weightless condition caused by his buoyancy control vest and floating in seawater, left him with a mild sense of vertigo. 

He almost had to laugh because depriving a person of all sensory stimuli was actually a good interrogation technique.  He could see how it could be uniquely effective.  He’d been alone before—isolated and tortured during Survival-Evasion-Resistance-Escape (SERE) training at Camp MacKall in the woods of North Carolina.  It was there, during training on how to survive as a POW, that he learned how to deal with the feelings of loneliness, deprivation, and a sense of helplessness, which comes unbidden during long periods of isolation.  Everyone has weaknesses, and the cadre—in charge of making SERE training realistic—finds them.  He had his weaknesses, but like most men in Special Forces, he'd learned how not to let them get the better of him.  But that didn’t stop the cadre from wearing the men down and exploiting what they knew were chinks in their armor. 

But no matter how bad SERE training was, in a corner of his mind he'd known it was just training and sooner or later it would end.  Here, drifting like so much flotsam and jetsam, he was a prisoner of his own, very real surroundings, alone and exhausted.  This wasn’t training, and this would last as long as it would last.  So would he. 

The rush he got from his mission had worn off hours ago.  Fatigue was setting in, rendering him susceptible to uncertainties in his mind.  Nick wasn’t generally introspective—he couldn’t afford to be in his line of work—and was not inclined to evaluate how he ended up where he was.  Nick lived in a shadowy underworld where secrets are kept and where men such as he are asked to pay a heavy price for inclusion in clandestine organizations.  His personal life and relationships with people close to him were often the first casualty of the furtive life he lived.  He developed layers that insulated him from emotional harm, which often accompanied brutal confrontation.  Whether by choice or design, these layers bound him tightly, providing him with an impenetrable shield.  The down side was that goodness and kindness couldn’t penetrate them either.

Nick hadn’t aspired to become a professional soldier as a kid.  He was well liked but quiet in school, preferring not to stand out.  Nobody would have written in his yearbook ‘most likely to become a member of the killer elite.’  He didn’t seek war or to harm other human beings, but found he loved the rush of combat and testing himself against other men.  It was a primitive trait that all men had, but only a few honed to a fine edge.  Nick honed his skills through the use of guns, for which he'd developed a skill unmatched by others. 

Like most of the men he'd served with over the years, he had become an adrenaline junky and was sure there was no other occupation in the world that could compete with what he did.  When the mission served a higher purpose, he was almost unstoppable.  But he was older now, already in his early thirties, and with age, maturity, and mileage, he thought more about his chosen profession.  He didn’t question it, only thought about it more.  He wasn’t in it for the money, but for the pride of accomplishment at doing something few other people could or would ever be able to do.  He had an unshakable belief that he was on the right side of things, which made the, sometimes, unpleasant aspects of his job more tolerable. 

He shook his head to clear it.  His muscles were sore from the long swim, and he was getting cold.  The water temperature in the Sea of Japan was warm for seawater—about eighty-one degrees—and ideal for an afternoon of scuba diving, but this wasn’t a recreational dive.  Being immersed in the sea for a long time had dropped his core body temperature to something less than the ninety-eight degrees it was supposed to be, and his body sought equilibrium with his surroundings.  Even with a wetsuit on, the cold was sapping his strength. 

He didn’t know if he’d swum out far enough, but he was out as far as he was going to go.  Despite being a strong swimmer, Nick was given a device developed by the Pentagon’s research wing, DARPA, that lets combat divers swim faster and with less effort.  Similar to the way a dolphin or tortoise pumps its fins, this motion generates both lift and thrust, allowing the device’s lead foil—or propulsor foil—to sweep through the water just outside the wake created by Nick’s fins.  This allowed him to cover distances up to 150 percent faster than with fins alone, while using the same amount of energy.  Using this new device, Nick swam out as far as possible during the day in order to be where he needed to be by nightfall.  He couldn’t risk being seen or heard, so the use of a Zodiac boat was out of the question.  Besides, he didn’t have one.  He had to swim far enough away from shore to allow the submarine to surface undetected and pick him up.  Submarine captains don’t like to run on the surface for obvious reasons.  Being on the surface made them feel like targets, especially off the coast of—and quite likely inside—the international boundary waters of a sovereign and hostile foreign nation.  And they don’t like to run submerged in shallow water because of the