D. M. Ulmer 01 - Silent Battleground (10 page)

Bostwick looked up from the text
.
  “I’m sure COB will be happy to hold his old shipmates’ hands while we tiptoe them through the tulips.”

Somber moods among the officers prevented the expected laugh.  They understood the importance of training for war; but thoughts of war and the separation from family and friends overwhelmed them.  Each dealt with it in their own way.

The captain asked, “Questions?” then hearing none he said, “Very well.  Dan, would you join me in the Sonar Shack, please?”

Lieutenant Vasiliy Baknov’s hatred of all things American made
Zhukov’s
victory over
Savo Island
much sweeter for him
.
  This anger began early against his father, a famous ballet dancer who defected to the United States shortly after Vasiliy’s birth.

Yuri Baknov toured America with the Kirov Ballet Company and while there, asked for political asylum, ultimately granted by the U.S. Government.
 News of this shocked his wife, Ekaterina, still recovering from Vasiliy’s childbirth.  She and her son subsequently paid dearly for Yuri’s actions.  The Soviet state, embarrassed and humiliated by Yuri’s defection, took retribution against his family.  It barred Ekaterina, also a dancer, from the Kirov and she never performed publicly
again.

For Vasiliy, the legacy left by his father made the young man’s life miserable and bitter from the onset.  Being the son of a defector, his schoolmates regarded him with scorn.  Security considerations nearly prevented him from entering naval service, but fortunately, Ekaterina took a state official as her lover.  His influence overcame this problem.

Vasiliy divided his hatred between his father and the country giving him asylum.  He resolved to inflict great harm on both, if the opportunity developed and beamed with pride over his part in the attack against
Savo Island
and her escorts.  He planned someday, as captain of his own submarine, he’d direct even greater attacks to concurrently
satisfy his anger and hurt the enemies of the Motherland.  Vasiliy had yet to formulate a plan for revenge against his father, but the topic preoccupied him often.

Commodore Eric Danis and Commander Dutch Meyer adjusted to the shock of their new surroundings then asked, “Damn it, Dutch who in hell ever executed command-at-sea from a desert?”

COMSUBRON 3 set up their temporary headquarters at the Naval Weapons Center, China Lake, just above the Mojave Desert region of California because the initial Soviet attack destroyed all San Diego based Naval facilities.  Years would pass before any of the base would be tenable.  Ninety percent of the civilian population believed killed outright, leaving the balance to expire from radiation sickness in a matter of weeks.

Most of the commodore’s staff comprised of replacements from what submariners could be scraped up along with a handful of naval aviators off sunken aircraft carriers.  They wanted vengeance and U.S. submarine forces offered the best opportunity; so the aviators accepted their assignments with enthusiasm.  They would add their
right stuff
to the mix and eventually impress the skeptical submariners. 

Dutch Meyer looked around their new headquarters and thought,
A far cry from the hustle, bustle and the comfort of a submarine tender
then said, “Well, Commodore, at least we got a place to hang our hat.”

“Maybe so, Dutch, but I hope you brought along a hammer and some nails just in case.  Look, give me half an hour to settle in … then I want to meet with the staff.”

“Aye, sir.”  Dutch then set out on his most important task, find a coffee pot. 

Thirty minutes later, Danis addressed his makeshift staff in a hot and stuffy workshop turned conference room.  An air-conditioner sat silent.  The short supply
of electric power precluded such peacetime luxuries. 

“Gentlemen, I’m Eric Danis.  I just told Dutch Meyer this is a hell of a place from which to run a submarine squadron.  But at least we have a place, which is more than other less fortunate commands can say.  I’m pleased to note we have some aviators aboard.  Commander Carter is the number two man in seniority and as such will perform the duties of chief staff officer.  We make history, gentlemen.  No naval aviator has ever held this post in a U.S. submarine squadron before.  Welcome and congratulations, Commander.”

Commander Carter acknowledged with a nod and smile. 

Danis went on, “West coast port facilities for submarines are no longer available for reasons you all know.  They’ve all been hit with ground bursts and left too hot for anything for at least five years.  It’s part of the Soviet strategy.  Isolate us from our allies and finish off with a blockade.  To break this, we must regain access to the sea.  Our job is to replace the lost seaports. 

“Ships on patrol can’t stay out there indefinitely.  They gotta come home to lick their wounds and get back out there to kick more Soviet ass.  This won’t be easy and we have no experience with such a task so ingenuity is a hot commodity.  The new additions from the aviation community are famous for this and I expect they’ll give us submariners a run for our money.”

He made it clear he would not tolerate inter-group animosity and concluded with, “And now, I’d like to go around and hook up some faces with the names I’ve seen on the staff register.  After that, I want Commander Carter to conduct interviews and find the best fits for staff jobs that need filling.”

Brent Maddock handed a steaming cup of coffee to the conning officer, Dan Patrick.  “Here, shipmate.  Don’t say I never gave you anything.  How long ago did we enter Tango Four?”

“About an hour … and let me tell you the pucker factor has been right up there.”

“No surprise.  First shooting war for all of us.  How are things going?”

“I’d have to say good.  Never realized we could get the ship this quiet.  We’re bombing along at fifteen knots without a flicker on the self noise monitor.”

“Fear is a hell of an incentive.  What’s the search plan?”

Irritation apparent in his voice, Dan went on, “Nothing formal so far.  The old man’s seat-of-the-pantsing it.  He wears himself out bouncing between Sonar and the chart table.  And he’s burning out our best ears with the double watch bit.  A week at this pace and we won’t be able to hear a jack hammer in the Sonar Shack.”

Taking Dan by the arm, Brent guided him out of earshot of the enlisted watch standers.  “Back off on the captain, Dan.”

“You’re a fine one to talk, Brent.  You bait him every chance you get.”

“No, Dan, I don’t.  I just do my job and sometimes it gets in the way.  I don’t try to prove him wrong just to make him look bad.”

Dan said with a sarcastic tone, “Sometimes it just happens that way.  Right?”

“That’s not my point, Dan.  If we survive this mission, it’ll be as a team.  Most important, don’t let the troops suspect there’s dissension.  That would blow their confidence, which equates to low morale.”

“Yeah, Brent.  But the skipper scares the hell out of me for that very reason.  I don’t think he really
knows what to do.”

“None of us do, Dan.  We’ve got to bring out the best each of us has to offer and throw it on the table.  It’ll get damn tough around here if the captain suspects we’re not
behind him.  He won’t take our advice then, even when it’s sound, but I promise you, it won’t always be.”

“What are you suggesting, Brent?”

“We make the old man look good.  He’s running with the ball too hard on his own.  Maybe not for what we consider the best of reasons, but we need to show he can depend on us.”

Dan frowned.  “Let me think on it.”

“Good.  And while you are, I’ll work up a search plan.”

Brent disappeared behind the plotting room curtains and emerged an hour later. “Here’s how it looks to me, Dan.  Tango Four’s too big for a complete sweep before
Utah
gets here, so let’s focus our efforts on her projected track.  We’ll do this below the layer.  Ivan’s no fool and he knows that’s where the Tridents like to hang out.  We’ll search passive-narrowband at low frequencies.  This is our best chance to find him.  But, if he’s lying still and waiting, even that will be pretty damn hard.  We’ll search wide at the seaward end and converge to the rendezvous point.  This will give us the most coverage for the time allowed.  We’ve got to be careful about our own radiated noise levels; and Dan, fifteen knots is too fast.  I don’t care what the monitors say.  At this speed, we concede first detection to an
Akula
laying to, dead in the water.”

Dan interrupted.  “Where’n hell do you come up with all this stuff, Brent?”

Brent grinned at his friend.  “I’m the weapons officer and I read all that paperwork your department sends me.  Listen, we must not make that rendezvous.”

“For chrissake, Brent, why not?  SUBPAC told us to rendez —”

Brent broke in, “I know, but don’t forget, nobody on the Soviet side has any combat experience, either.  We shouldn’t hook up with
Utah
for two reasons.  First, if an
Akula
’s out there and he finds us, he’ll know what we’re up to.  He’ll simply follow us to the real prize,
Utah.”

“And, the other reason?”

“What can we do for
Utah
after the rendezvous?  Consider the options.  If we go ahead of her, anybody waiting on the track will let us pass and shoot the big guy.  If we follow, anything we do will be too late.  So why not take our chances and lead Ivan to where
Utah
ain’t?”

Dan shook his head.  “You’ll never sell this to the Old Man.”

“I know I won’t, Dan.  You will.”

“What do you mean, I will?  Damn it, Brent.”

“Look, Dan.  I’m not asking you to do anything you don’t believe is right.  You agree with my approach, don’t you?”

“Yes, but —”

“You know I’m a burr under the captain’s saddle.  He gets pissed off if I tell him what time it is.  This is medicine he must take … and it can’t be from me.  Besides, Dan, you’re the operations officer and it’s your job to make these up anyway.”

Dan smarted under the allegation.  The two glared at each other a moment.

After a short pause, Dan said, “Okay.  I’ll give it my best shot, but no promises.”

“No promises.” 

Brent left the Attack Center.

An hour later Dan explained to Brent the outcome of his meeting with the captain.  “The son of a bitch is dangerous, Brent.”

“Cool it, Dan.  That kind of talk can kill us.  We won’t achieve a damn thing with open hostility.”

“Okay, okay.”

“Exactly what did he say?”

“He said the plan contradicts his orders.  SUBPAC said to sanitize Tango Four and that means all of it.  When he says rendezvous with
Utah
, that doesn’t mean go someplace else.  He asked me what would headquarters’ reaction be if our patrol report states we disobeyed orders.”

Brent suspected the captain had said more.  “Is that all?”

Dan hesitated.  “No.”

“What else?”

“He said he’d expect that kind of advice from an officer like you but surprised to hear it from me.”

Brent nodded, took a breath to speak, but remained silent. 

Later he relieved Dan as conning officer before reaching
Denver’s
rendezvous point three hours early.  Bostwick, determined to be on time, ordered the high speeds needed to sanitize the entire area.

Exactly on time, the faint whir, whir, whir of
Utah’s
propellers marked the mighty ship’s passage overhead.

Denver
initiated the rendezvous signal with three short pings on her secure depth sounder. 
Utah
received the signals reflected off the ocean floor and replied with three of her own. 
Denver
fell into trail five miles astern of the Trident submarine; an excellent peacetime tactic to detect an adversary lying in wait with intentions to trail
Utah
to her northern Pacific patrol area, but not a good one if an attack is in the cards.

Reluctantly Brent complied with the captain’s orders.  “Ahead one-third,” he directed the helmsman and to the chief of the watch, “Chief, ease us down to three-fifty.”

Chief Cunningham answered, “Ahead one-third, ease to three-fifty.”

Brent said, “Left full rudder, steady two-eight-zero, belay the headings.” 

Helmsmen, while executing turns, usually announce the ship’s heading every ten degrees unless ordered to belay them.

“Left full to two-eight-zero, belay headings, aye, Mr. Maddock.”

“Sonar, Conn.  Here we go, Hansen.  Give me a report on anything that remotely
sounds like a target.”

“Good move, Brent.”  Captain Bostwick provided the young officer with a rare, but sincere vote of confidence, though to be short-lived.

“Conn, Sonar!  Torpedo in the water bearing two-eight-five!”

Brent ordered, “Collision alarm!”  A shrill signal made its piercing whoeee, whoeee throughout the ship.  Henri, the quartermaster of the watch correctly
anticipated the order and its follow-on.  He initiated the gong, gong, gong of the general alarm and announced over the 21MC, “Man battle stations!”

Brent ordered, “Torpedo Room, Conn.  Make tubes one and two ready in all respects.”

Instantly, Brent knew he had made a mistake.  The sound of water blown from WRT tank to the launchers deafened the sonar at the most critical moment.  The background noise masked the torpedo’s running sounds.  For what seemed an eternity the torpedo tube blow subsided forty seconds later.

“Bearing to torpedo, Sonar!”

“Two-eight-four, drawing left.”

Brent surmised correctly,
They’re shooting at
Utah.

Wanting to acquire a bearing and range to the attacking Soviet with a pulse from the ship’s sonar, Brent turned to Bostwick, and requested, “Permission to go active, Captain.”

Silence ensued.

Brent demanded, “Captain!”

Bostwick made a stern and well calculated reply, “Not granted.”

The sound of two distant explosions rattled
Denver’s
hull.