Chapter 69: The Predator Being Sent

Approximately two hundred nautical miles north of the heavily fortified United States Island, the ocean surface was broken by the monolithic silhouettes of Carrier Strike Group 12.

At the center of the formation churned the USS Gerald R. Ford, its nuclear reactors driving over a hundred thousand tons of steel effortlessly through the deep swells. Flanked by an escort of two Arleigh Burke-class Flight III destroyers and a Ticonderoga-class guided-missile cruiser, the strike group moved like an impenetrable floating fortress, radiating power and silent technological supremacy across a world still reliant on canvas and wood.

Inside the Ford’s Combat Direction Center, the ambient hum of electronics and low chatter filled the cavernous, blue-lit space. Radar consoles displayed hundreds of miles of air and surface corridors with absolute precision.

Rear Admiral Donovan stood beside the primary tactical plot as a high-priority, encrypted flash message from Eagle Actual beamed into the ship’s secure network via satellite link.

"Admiral," the tactical action officer said, looking up from his station with a headset resting against one ear. "Directive directly from Eagle Actual. Global Hawk ISR has picked up two hostile surface contacts leaving the eastern imperial harbor on a direct western heading. Orders are to shadow and gather intelligence. Do not engage unless authorized."

Admiral Donovan leaned over the digital display, his gaze settling on the blue icon cruising deep beneath the outer defensive perimeter.

"Relay the tasking down to our sub," Donovan ordered calmly. "Order Gallagher to break formation, push ahead, and acquire acoustic lock. Passive surveillance only. If those wooden hulls alter vector or deploy airborne assets, I want to know about it immediately."

"Aye, sir. Transmitting to USS Montana."

Hundreds of feet beneath the surface, submerged in pitch-black, frigid water, the Virginia-class Block V nuclear fast-attack submarine sliced through the ocean depths with barely a whisper of cavitation.

Inside the sub’s control room, bathed in low tactical red, the communications console chimed. The communications officer quickly decoded the low-frequency acoustic burst before handing the dispatch over.

"Captain," the officer reported, "Flash traffic from the Flagship. Target telemetry uploaded. Two non-metallic surface vessels, bearing two-eight-zero, accelerating west via anomalous atmospheric drive. Admiral Donovan wants us to intercept, trail, and maintain passive acoustic track."

Commander Gallagher glanced at the tactical display, adjusting his cap with a faint smirk.

"Very well," Gallagher said, turning to the helm. "Officer of the Deck, set course zero-nine-zero. Cavitation threshold speed, take us down to four hundred feet under the thermal layer. Let’s go see what the Solarians are sending our way."

"Set course zero-nine-zero, dive planes to four hundred feet, aye Captain," the helmsman echoed.

The heavy hull gave a low, barely perceptible shudder as the USS Montana angled its bow downward, plunging into the crushing blackness of the abyss.

"Passing three hundred feet, passing the thermocline," the diving officer reported, his voice crisp and deadpan over the hum of the air handlers. "Trimming out at four-zero-zero. Leveling off."

"Very well," Gallagher said, planting his boots on the rubber deck matting behind the two helmsmen. "Chief of the Boat, rig ship for ultra-quiet. Secure the galley, secure all maintenance, soft shoes throughout the decks. I want this boat dead in the water to anything listening."

"Rigging for ultra-quiet, aye Skipper," the COB answered, reaching for the 1MC mic and clicking it twice to issue the silent order through the deck speakers.

Gallagher stepped down the center aisle toward the sonar shack, the glass partition sliding back with a soft hiss. Inside, four operators sat shoulder-to-shoulder, bulky Bose headsets clamped over their ears, eyes locked onto the glowing blue waterfall displays cascading down their monitors.

"Talk to me, Seaman," Gallagher said, resting a hand on the back of Sonar Technician First Class Miller’s chair. "What’s the ocean doing today?"

"Thermal layer is giving us great baffle coverage down here at four hundred, Captain," Miller murmured, not taking his eyes off the frequency traces. "Ambient noise is low—just light biologicals, some shrimp clicks off the shelf. But we’ve got something weird scratching on the spherical array up top."

Miller dragged a trackball, isolating a thin, jagged white line vibrating across the broadband waterfall. He adjusted a filter on his mixing board and tapped the auxiliary headphones.

"Take a listen, sir."

Gallagher picked up the headset hanging from the console and pressed one ear cup against his head.

There was no mechanical hum. No diesel clatter. No rhythmic thrum of multi-bladed brass screws chewing through seawater. Instead, through the hydrophones mounted in the submarine’s bulbous bow, came a distinct, unnatural tearing sound—like pressurized gas violently rupturing against the surface swells, followed by the deep, heavy creak of stressed timber.

Hissss—shhhk-shhk-shhk.

"No screw cavitation," Miller muttered, fine-tuning the frequency bands. "Bearing zero-eight-five. Speed is high, Skipper. She’s clipping along at twenty-eight knots. Wood hulls shouldn’t move that fast without snapping their masts. It sounds like an atmospheric vortex is physically dragging them through the water."

"That’s the anomalous propulsion the Global Hawk flagged," Gallagher said, pulling off the headset with a thin smirk. "Two contacts?"

"Affirmative, sir. Contact Sierra-One and Sierra-Two. Moving in a tight line-abreast formation. Distance roughly forty-five nautical miles out, closing fast along the transit corridor. They’re deaf, dumb, and blind to what’s down here."

The Tactical Action Officer, Lieutenant Commander Brooks, stepped into the sonar bay, holding a glowing digital clipboard.

"Flash message from Flagship Ford, Captain. Donovan relayed the intercept order. RoE is strictly non-kinetic. Eagle Actual wants a full electronic and acoustic profile on these targets before they breach the western perimeter. We maintain trail, stay beneath their keel, and paint their sensor blind spots."

"They don’t have sensors, Brooks," Gallagher replied dryly, stepping back into the command space. "They have lookouts in crow’s nests with spyglasses looking for sails on the horizon. They’re hunting ghosts on the surface while we’re parked directly beneath them."

Gallagher turned his gaze to the main tactical plot, watching the green vector of the Montana steadily converge toward the two hostile red blips.

"Officer of the Deck," Gallagher commanded, his voice dropping into the cool, measured cadence of a hunter. "Bring us to bearing zero-eight-two. Match depth and speed beneath the boundary layer. Keep us twenty nautical miles ahead, let them run right over us, and tuck us neatly into their baffles."

"Bearing zero-eight-two, aye Captain," the OOD replied, relaying the orders to the helm.