D. M. Ulmer 01 - Silent Battleground (15 page)

Vasiliy felt deflated.  He wished to explain his planned evasion tactics devised by him and implemented throughout the Pacific flotilla.

Captain Sherensky gave the young officer an understanding wink and Vasiliy sat down.

The captain concluded the briefing.  “Comrades, we come to the end of our refit and prepare to sail again.  The days ashore have been good ones and the honors given to us for past successes taken with gratitude and humility.  Past victories have meaning only
in history books.  Let us be mindful of Japan’s failure in the Great Patriotic War.

“We must prevent the wounded warriors from rising again and taking victory from us.  You have done your work well and our ship has been expertly
serviced.  We are ready for combat, Comrades, so I now enjoin you to pass these final days in happiness with family
and friends.”

Sherensky thought,
I must defuse this growing hostility between Vasiliy and our learned zampolit.  But how?  Both are so obstinate.

Quartermaster Henri looked at Brent, his hand already on the collision alarm switch.  Brent’s nod gave the needed order and the alarm wailed its warning throughout the ship.

Taking the 1MC mike Brent ordered, “All compartments report your condition, forward-aft.  Flooding reports immediately
on the nearest intercom.”

Henri picked up the sound-powered handset to receive reports.

Brent ordered, “Ahead standard, make your depth one-three-zero feet,” then demanded over the 21MC, “Sonar, Conn, what’ve you got?”

Gary Hansen replied, “Nothing, sir … nothing before the bang. Reverberations from the explosion blocking out everything. ”

Turning to the quartermaster, Brent asked, “How we doing, Henri?”

“Good so far.  All compartments reporting normal.  No flooding.”  At that instant lights flickered throughout the ship.  “Only
Maneuvering to go and the noise definitely
came from forward.”

Brent said, “We hit a mine.  We’d have heard the inbound noise of a torpedo.  Sonar, Conn, reversing course to starboard.  Conduct active, repeat, active search of sector east of north south, max range five thousand.  Report all contacts immediately.”

The captain shouted over the 21MC, “Belay that order!  Sonar, do not … repeat … do not go active.  Brent, I’m on the way to the Attack Center.”

“Aye, sir,” replied Brent.

Captain Bostwick arrived and demanded, “Report the situation.”

Brent’s gut flipped over.  “Everything inside the hull is normal, sir.  I think we hit a mine.  A small one.  Maybe an MZ-26.  They’re ship laid with a case depth near thirty-four meters, just about where we are.  Likely
activated by our electric field.”

He did not want Bostwick to read this as a smart-ass
I told you so
but feared it came across that way.  The current that created this field was by design.  Hull mounted sacrificial zincs disintegrate to insure good electrical connectivity between them and the propeller they protect.

Brent had urged the captain to install a shaft grounding wire, a copper braid that rode over the top of the shaft just forward of the seal to prevent the electric field.  He reckoned protecting
Denver
took precedence over the propeller shaft.  In the same conversation, Brent also suggested eliminating the weekly
steam generator blow-downs as a noise reduction measure.  Bostwick rejected both recommendations.

Continuing, Brent said, “They’re only
one point three kilograms of explosive, Captain, but enough to puncture the outer hull and make us noisy.”

Bostwick demanded, “Sonar contacts?”

“None, sir.”

“Why did you order us to go active?  Do you want to alert the whole damn Red Navy?”

“No sir.  But if someone’s in the area, they heard the explosion and know we’re here.  Active doesn’t show ’em anything they don’t already know.  If we find somebody, it gives us a leg up.  We got a bearing and a range while he only
has a bearing.”

The captain snapped back, “Stuff the goddamn tactics bullshit, Brent.  I have the Conn.  All ahead full, right full rudder, steady course east.  We’re getting the hell out of here.”

The helmsman replied, “Ahead full, right full, steady east, aye, Captain.”

Brent advised, “Sir, I recommend increasing depth ahead of the cavitation curve.”

Bostwick snarled, “Damn it Brent, I have the Conn,” then followed the recommendation with an order to the proper depth and rate of descent. 

Denver
picked up speed and a loud howl grew from the region of the ship’s starboard side.  By then, Jack Olsen had reached the Attack Center. 

Brent looked first at Jack through a pleading expression then said in the calmest voice he could muster, “Captain, we’ve got to slow down.  If this mine field’s patrolled, we’re playing right into their hands.”

The captain glared at Brent with a look of fury beyond rationality.  The howl became deafening as
Denver
approached full speed.

Moments passed.  Finally, the captain ordered, “Ahead one third.  Mr. Olsen, you have the Conn.  Mr. Maddock, report to my stateroom immediately.”

Half a minute later, the showdown began.  The captain took his place behind a small table but did not invite Brent to sit. 

Agitated, Bostwick opened with, “Mr. Maddock, I’ve put up with all the bullshit I’m going to take from you.  Do you understand?”

“No, sir, I don’t understand.  I’m not fighting you, sir, I’m—”

“You’ve been second-guessing me in front of the crew with your goddamn cutesy tactics show.  You bitch at me for wanting to run back where we know it’s safe because you think it’ll make too much noise.  Yet, you want to bang away with active sonar.  Now what the hell?”

“I needed a quick look, Captain.  Something might have been lying in wait and
close aboard.  A few pings would have spotted him.  Now noise from the damaged hull sends a beacon to anyone who wants to take us.  The enemy will know we’re running east at full speed when they hear the noise.  That knowledge gives him tremendous tactical advantage.”

“Enemy, you say.  What enemy?  No one’s
out there or he’d have gotten us on the way in.”

“Our tactics, sir.  Not much chance he could find us before we found him.  Your own plan of using the fisherman to screen us likely
prevented our being detected.”

“Like I said, Maddock, I’m tired of your half-assed theories.  There’s nothing where we came from except that damn fishing boat.  Consider yourself off the watch bill until further notice.  I’m not putting you in
hack
because it’s unfair to the others to pick up your workload.”

An officer in
hack
is confined to his quarters.

Brent saw the futility of attempting to reason with the Captain. 
Denver
’
s
new look abruptly
became a memory.  Crisis had plunged the captain back into his black mood.

“If that’s all, Captain?”

“That’s all.  Now get the hell out of here.”

An urgent call from the Attack Center on the 21MC interrupted Brent’s departure.  “Captain to the Conn!  Sonar holds contact on a probable submarine bearing zero-eight-zero, closing rapidly!”

Dave Zane surveyed the activity that accompanied establishing his new submarine base.  Scarcely
three weeks into the project, Dave had already assembled a cluster of barges for living and working areas and had them moored in place.  Makeshift shelters, in some cases tents, housed the base facilities.

“This sure does beat all,” Dave said to Dutch Meyer.  “Takes a war to get us off our asses and out from under the bureaucracy.  The damn environmental impact study for this alone would take two years.”

Dutch had joined Dave Zane at the makeshift refit site.  He added, “Every time I bust a rule to get something done on schedule … makes me feel good all over.”

“Know what you mean, Dutch.”

They ate lunch prepared in the open eating area under a canvas fly covered field kitchen procured from nearby Fort Lewis Army Base.   They looked out to sea via the harbor entrance where sunken barges formed the first line of an improvised breakwater and savored a long, bright day in May that signaled the approach of summer.

“Make damn sure you don’t tell your California buddies about this, Dutch.  We don’t want them coming up and crowding out us natives.”

Grinning, Dutch said, “Nothing but rain, rain, rain.  Can’t see how we stand it up here.  That’s my message.”

“You got it, Dutch.”  Then Dave continued with, “Gotta give Danis’s aviators credit.  They sure
know how to get things moving.”

“The commodore can get blood from a stone,” Dutch added.  “But these guys are good.  Did you see how fast they converted that empty field in Astoria to a full-fledged Navy supply
depot?”

“Yeah … and they did a helluva job getting stuff staged so it could be here when we need it.  That Carter guy moves well.  I heard he flew off
Savo Island
when she got it and had to eject and dump his F-l4 in the drink near a destroyer to get picked up.  Lucky for us he made it.  Likely
he figures he’s got some payback to do.”

“You’re right, Dave.”  Then turning his attention to the shoreline east of the base, Dutch continued, “that break in the woods must be the power coming in.  How do you figure to get it out here from shore?”

Dave’s face brightened in one of his trademark squinty grins.  “Lay the cables on the bottom.  Don’t believe I’ll call the county electrical inspector.  Chalk that project up as another success by the flyboys.  I don’t know where they got the people and power lines to do that job.”

“You probably
don’t wanna know.”

Dave asked, “What’s happening with the Torpedo Range stuff?” referring to a torpedo proofing facility based to the north of them on the Washington Coast normally used to test anti-submarine torpedoes.

Dutch reasoned the sudden abundance of Soviet targets provided
a much better
test
bed
so he converted the network of range hydrophones to serve as a submarine warning system for the new base.  “Going real well … already using the stuff from the range seabed.  This, plus all their spares makes a pretty good network out to about a hundred miles.”

“That oughta give us plenty of warning.”

“Yeah, but that’s only
part of the problem.  Once we spot ’em, there’s nothing we can do.  We don’t have the resources to keep an airplane on station full time and the flyboys say we’re talking at least forty minutes from a cold start ashore.  That’s too long.”

Dave asked, “No way of getting a weapon on the target?”

“You got it, but at least it’ll give us early
warning.  As soon as the breakwater goes in, we’ve got some Vulcan-Phalanx anti-missile guns to sit atop of it.”

“You figure the Soviets will attack with sub-launched land attack missiles?”

“Wouldn’t we?  We’ve learned the hard way they’re not as dumb as we figured.  They took great pains to knock out our sub-bases in the first strike.  It’s logical they’ll come after any temporaries we set up.  Cable will be our biggest problem.”

“Turn Eric’s flyboys loose.  If there’s any cable available, they’ll find it and get it here.”

“Good idea, Dave.  But we’ve dumped on ’em so much, I hesitate to add to the burden.”

“It appears to me like they thrive on it.  Put it to ’em this way.  Right now they’re agonizing over how they’re gonna run electric lines on the bottom between the shore and here.  And you need a hundred miles of cable for that damn array of yours.  Tell ’em if they get your cable, you’ll lay their power lines.”

Dutch smiled.  He had already begun to convert an aging tugboat into a cable layer.

Changing the subject, Dave continued.  “Ya know, Dutch, we’re really
putting together a helluva base for that half-assed boss of yours.  When do you figure his nibs will put in an appearance?”

“As soon as you make him a place to sleep and install a telephone.”

Dave’s grin broadened.  He nodded toward the breakwater.  “Here it is.  Would you look at what’s poking its nose around the point?”

“Where the hell did you come up with that … and I don’t want to know how much it cost.”

One hundred and thirty-two feet of the most palatial yacht either of them had ever seen slipped easily
into the harbor and proceeded to the barge cluster.  COMSUBRON 3 floating headquarters had arrived.

Quartermaster Henri calmly activated five clicks on the 1MC and called the crew to battle stations.  He had practiced this enough so the real
thing went off smoothly. 

Brent followed his captain to the Attack Center. 

Bostwick demanded, “What’ve we got, Jack?”

“Diesel boat making high speed on the battery.  No bearing change, getting louder.”

Brent considered his predicament for only an instant then jumped in anyway.  “Sonar, Conn, we need an ident.” 

The captain glared at Brent and Jack Olsen glared back at the captain.  The young officer had proven Bostwick wrong, but the situation appeared perilous so he yielded to Brent’s actions. 

Gary Hansen’s voice crackled over the 21MC, “Got a make, Conn.
Tango
.”  Hansen used the NATO designation for the Soviet Navy’s top diesel-electric submarine. 

Brent exclaimed, “He’s close then!  Damn close!  No time for a range, Captain, recommend an ADCAP right down the bearing line.”

Bostwick ordered, “Get it ready!”

Taking his station behind the ACC, Brent ordered over the sound powered phones “Make ready tubes one and two in all respects.  Quickly!”

The ACC operator repeated the order, followed by “Aye, sir,” and then fumbled with a switch. 

“Steady, just like we always practiced.” 

Brent figured a junior officer commanded the
Tango
on minefield patrol.  He showed inexperience by racing in for the kill.  Destruction of an American submarine would likely net him an Order of Lenin and command of a newer ship, a
Victor III
, an
Alfa
or if lucky, an
Akula
. 

Calling for computer-generated torpedo presets on the MK 81 console, Brent read the display, made two adjustments and ordered them entered.