D. M. Ulmer 01 - Silent Battleground (27 page)

“Why do you think that?”

 “Not a lot to go on but what little we have shows our torpedoes continue beyond where we think the target is but don’t attack anything.”

Jack asked, “Something wrong with our torpedoes, maybe?”

“Possible, but contradicted by the
Tango
success.”

Dan suggested, “He was coming toward us.  The rest were
going away.  Could that be it?”

“I
don’t think so, Dan,” said Brent.  “The only
difference is the Doppler.  The weapon shouldn’t care whether it’s up or down just as long as it’s there.  But right now, we gotta consider everything.  That answer leaves us trouble.  Shooting only
bowshots oversimplifies his counterattack problems.  Our second attack, you remember, the
Akula
came closer to cooking our bacon than I like to think.  If we were
on his bow when he shot, there’s no doubt we’d be history.  We do know he makes initial detection on the noise from our torpedo.”

Olsen exclaimed, “Damn it!  We make the quietest submarine and the noisiest torpedoes.”

“Next time we’re in town, mention that to Den Mother’s dad, Dave Zane.  He oughta be good for two hours on the subject.”

“Okay, wizards,” said Olsen.  “Keep the big think on it.  We’ll meet again in the morning.”

The two left and Jack braced himself for the next meeting with Bostwick.  Subject: Move up the Vladivostok strike.

Eric Danis and Dave Zane covered the final mile of their abruptly
initiated journey on foot through a newly
carved trail built to facilitate bringing power lines to the
Pitstop
.

Dave berated himself.  “How could I be so dumb?  Worst storms are out of the southwest and I missed the anchor points completely.”

Strong southwest wind pressured the chains one at a time, depriving them of collective holding power.  However, sufficiently
stout all together, one alone couldn’t carry the entire load, therefore the anchor chains broke one by one like pulling open a zipper.

Eric took everything in his customary matter-of-fact stride.  He knew Dave had done a great job just getting the project moving.  He also knew omissions would reveal themselves and be corrected as they emerged.  Irony here, the first storm threatened to destroy the entire operation.  This would seriously, if not fatally, delay turning around submarines desperately
needed for the war effort.  Eric had learned over the years that frustration did not help, hence wasted no time on it.  But this obstacle challenged his emotional control to a new high.

Upon reaching the beach, they discovered the pounding surf had severed telephone lines and communications with the
Pitstop
.  The heavy seas also prevented reaching the facility by small boat.

“Damn!”  Eric cursed and for the first time seeming to vent wrath upon his old friend, “Didn’t anyone consider a simple walkie-talkie backup radio?”

Dave made no reply.

Eric continued, “I’ve got a wounded birdman in charge out there who’s never commanded anything bigger than a ten-foot rowboat … and I can’t even talk to him.”

“He’s got seamen out there with him, Eric.  Gerry knows how to get the right advice.  Count on him.”

“What other choice do I have?”

Despite the breakwater, waves broke over the barges and soaked Navy men and civilians working side by side, in what appeared a losing fight to save the
Pitstop
.  Both reserve anchors had been dropped at the anticipated pressure points.  But they’d see no strain until the next anchor chain parted so the domino effect continued.  The problem could be delayed but not resolved. 

One of the two available tugboats had a towrope wrapped about its propeller and couldn’t move.  Even both tugs working in tandem would not provide sufficient power to hold the barges in place.

Gerry Carter asked of Jim Buchanan, Phil Reynolds and Dutch Meyer, “Okay experts, what the hell do we do now?”

The inventive Jim Buchanan had no suggestions.  “We shoulda used the tug to drag the anchors out till the chains strained before we dropped them.”

With growing impatience in his voice, Gerry said, “Shouldas don’t help.  Where does this leave us?”

Nothing came forth from the three submariners.

Time was running out so Gerry scrambled for a solution. “Phil,” he asked, “that … what did you call that thing on
Newport
…
the outboard?”

“Secondary propulsion system.”

Gerry’s irritation began to show.  “Yeah.  Well whatever the hell it is, can it move your ship against this wind?”

Phil answered, “Yes, sir, it can.  But it can’t hold something the size of this base against the storm.”

The confidence in Gerry’s voice did not reflect his true feelings.  “It won’t have to.  That sewer pipe of yours is gonna perform its most important job since they built it.  It’s about to become a thirty-six hundred ton anchor.”

Puzzled, Phil asked, “What are you talking about?”

“This.  Make up all the bitter ends of the broken anchor chains to the
Newport
.  Fire up your outboard and haul them into the wind till they’re as taut as you can get them.  Then submerge and sit on the bottom.”

The idea struck Reynolds like a kick in the solar plexus.  Less than two weeks ago, he had ended a miserable six-week stint on the bottom of Puget Sound and had no wish to enact another similar demand upon his crew.

Phil snapped back, “I want to discuss this with the commodore first.”

“You just did,” Gerry said.  “Captain Danis is not here and that makes me the commodore.  Get moving or in another thirty minutes this base and that goddamn derelict of yours is gonna be scrap iron on those rocks over there.”

Grateful that darkness hid the grin on his face, Jim thought,
Damn!
 
These aviators are made of the right stuff
.  He placed a hand on the shoulder of the stammering submarine commander.  “Come on, Phil.  Let’s get moving.”

Making up the anchor chains to
Newport
sapped the remaining stamina of the men struggling to save the
Pitstop
.  The job finished, Commander Reynolds ordered the mooring lines slipped to save time when normally, they would have been taken in and stowed. 
Newport
moved slowly
into the teeth of the storm.  The nest of barges, a scant hundred and fifty yards from the rocks and bearing down on them, the final anchor chain snapped, quickly finishing the job of tightening the anchor chains to
Newport
.  Buchanan and Reynolds stood on
Newport’s
bridge and immediately recognized the situation.

Buchanan shouted above the storm, “Okay, Phil, let’s do it!”

Reynolds pulled the diving alarm and the two dropped below decks and secured the bridge access hatch.  Popping ballast tank vents roared above the wind and
Newport
settled to the bottom.  Momentary banging and grinding rumbled through the hull as the monstrous submarine rolled ten degrees in the direction of the storm then held. 

Ordering the number one periscope raised, Reynolds scanned the
Pitstop
then yelled out, “Yahoo!  She’s holding.”

Back on the
Pitstop
, Dutch Meyer took Gerry Carter’s hand and gave it a hearty shake.  “Congratulations, Gerry.  We got an even strain on all the chains.  We’re home free.”

The fatigued aviator turned submarine squadron Chief Staff Officer gasped, “Damn!  You guys really do earn your submarine pay.  But seriously, Dutch, what the hell will I tell Danis when he gets back and finds
Newport
on the bottom?”

Dutch had a witty comeback for everything.  “All you need to say is ‘Good morning, sir.  How do you like having the most expensive anchor ever built?’  Danis will like that.  Being first is important to him.”

Dutch Meyer and Jim Buchanan had earlier discussed a test plan to demonstrate their new concept: detect an intruder with the sonar array, attack it with a Sealance missile launched from the seabed and finish the job by vectoring S3A aircraft over the damaged target to drop MK 46 Torpedoes.  They would move quickly, but carefully, one step at a time and today focused on getting a missile onto a simulated target noise source.

Meyer would take one of his improvised cable layers to sea and suspend a noise source in the vicinity of the hydrophones planted to monitor the sea approaches to the
Pitstop
.  He’d then record his position using the Loran-C.

Jim Buchanan remained ashore to monitor hydrophones from the blockhouse, a hastily
constructed cover for the acoustic recorders and weapon control panels.

He exclaimed to the hydrophone operator, a sonarman borrowed from
Newport
.  “There it is!”

The operator said, “Got it, sir.”  The youngster read off target coordinates and Jim recorded them.

As the numbers appeared at the precise position where Dutch had been dispatched, Jim thought,
Good
.  He then had the operator double-check the reading.  “Doesn’t look right, sailor,” he fibbed, “Try it again.  Reset the display.”

The second reading identical to the first one assured Jim the array could pinpoint a noise source.  Now they had to demonstrate a Sealance payload could be dropped on the target vicinity.

Jim activated one of the four missiles atop the sunken barge many miles at sea.  The guidance system responded.  He then set in the target coordinates and had a fire control technician; also commandeered from
Newport
, verify them.

After validating the numbers, both on a scratch pad where he had written them and on the array display itself, Jim said, “Checks.”  He then ordered the fire control technician, “Verify presets.”

The youngster replied, “Read-backs correct, sir.”

“Give me the numbers.  I want to be sure.”

The operator re-verified them.

Jim ordered, “Fire one!”

The operator depressed the firing key.  A
Missile Away
light came on in response to the preset wire being broken when the missile floated free from the barge and began its buoyant ascent toward the ocean surface.

Radio silence had been imposed, again for security reasons; hence, Jim would wait for Dutch to return with the full results.  The monitor would show the running torpedo sounds blended with the sound source if all went well.

Buchanan and Dutch had joked about the peacetime amenities for safety, once ironclad but now dispensed because of wartime urgency.  The Federal Aviation Administration would not be notified and the missile had no provisions for command destruction in the event it miscued and headed in the wrong direction.

Dutch complained, “Now, what will I do if it hits us, Jim?”

“Cheer,” said the ever-flippant Buchanan.  “If it does, we’ll have succeeded beyond our wildest dreams.”

“Look closely,” Dutch warned.  “It should be coming in any time now.” 

He would know within a few seconds when the Sealance MK-50 Torpedo payload impacted in his area.  He had six pairs of eyes in binoculars, each scanning sixty-degree segments of the horizon.

The men searched diligently then heard the most terrifying words to be spoken during a naval operation.  “Oh shit!”

Someone yelled from the flying bridge.  The entire crew hit the deck, each making his own separate thud but combining into a single loud one.  An explosive
CUSH
preceded the crew being doused with seawater as the Sealance payload knifed into the water a scant twenty-five yards astern.

Dutch thought,
Missed us but think I’ll cheer anyway.

He raced to the passive monitoring equipment, turned up the speaker and monitored the display.  The MK-50 ran into its search pattern.  Abruptly
the pitch increased as the torpedo made passive detection on the noise source and shifted to high speed to attack the target.

The weapon continued re-attacking until its endurance expended and then sank.  Later came the sound of an explosion as the weapon struck bottom and detonated.

Dutch quipped, “Even the warhead works.”

Ashore, cheers erupted in the blockhouse where positions of the exploding warhead blended perfectly with the noise source.

Next day, data sets collected afloat and ashore melded to show the ‘Meyer-Buchanan one-two punch’ would provide a lethal welcome to any submarine approaching the
Pitstop
with hostile intentions.

The time had come.  Jack Olsen took a deep breath and knocked on the captain’s stateroom door.

Bostwick grumbled, “C’min.”

Stepping inside, Olsen replied, “Afternoon, Captain.”

“Yeah, Jack.  What’s up?”

“Got the plan for the land strike, sir.  We need to move it up a few days.  We’re down to two ADCAPs and ought to get out of here before they’re used up.  There’s no reason for us to hang around.”

Bostwick spoke as though he’d give the matter some thought and already discussed it with his executive officer, but in reality, he hadn’t.  “Damn it!  Jack, I already told you we’re not doing this.”

A fragment of the captain’s ability to intimidate him remained so Jack set his jaw and stood firm.  “We have to, sir.”

“We have to die and pay taxes.  And frankly, I’m not sure about the latter.”

“Here’s the plan, sir.”

The captain snapped, “How much longer do you expect me to put up with this mutinous bullshit?”

“It’s not mutinous, Captain.  It’s our orders.  We have no cause for failing to carry them out.  And our country needs the good news.”

Bostwick resisted, “We won’t make it out of here to give it to ’em if we conduct that strike.”

“I disagree, Captain.  We’ve been shot at six times and always evaded.  Only
thing that can reach us quick enough after the launch is an aircraft.  Their air dropped CP-45s are useless against a 688.”

“You’ve been talking to Maddock.  That son of a bitch thinks he knows everything.  He’s got it in for me and he uses you to pull my chain.”

Jack’s voice remained steady and firm.  “He doesn’t, Captain.  He feels you’re a very capable officer.  He considers his recommendations to be the best expression of his loyalty.  He’s sorry you misconstrue—”