D. M. Ulmer 01 - Silent Battleground (28 page)

“Damn it, Jack!  Knock off the bullshit?  You know Maddock hates my guts and nothing would make him happier than to see me go under.”

“I know nothing of the kind, Captain, but that’s not the issue here.  We’ve got to decide about the land attack.”

“What the hell option do I have?  If I don’t go along, I’m stuck with the threats you’ve laid on me about what happens when we get back.”

“Put it in any terms you like, sir.
 
Anything I’d say back home is invalid if you’ve got sound logic behind your position.
 
I’m the one at risk if you do.”

“Okay, you bastard let me see the damn attack plan.  But remember and you pass this along to that arrogant running mate of yours.  The Navy lasts a long time and if we survive this, I’ll be well positioned enough to make you both damn sorry.”

The last of the new anchors hit the sandy bottom, this time arranged to hold things in place against the next Sou’wester.  Eric Danis had assembled Dave Zane, Phil Reynolds, Dutch Meyer, Darby Cameron and several
Newport
engineer officers for a final run through of the
Newport’s
reduction gear repair plan.  Gerry Carter and Jim Buchanan, Danis’s advisors-at-large, rounded out the group.

Commodore Danis began, “Gentlemen, your time is too valuable to be wasted in meetings just to keep me informed so we’ll make this brief.  However, I want to take the opportunity to express how pleased and impressed I am with Gerry’s inventive and decisive action during the big blow.  It saved our bacon or at least prevented a disastrous set back of six months or more. 

“Congratulations, Gerry.  I want you to hold school on these guys to see if you can load them up with that kind of initiative.”

All laughed.

Jim Buchanan said, “You’ve got your work cut out for you, Gerry.  Submariners fit into the spectrum somewhere between Louis XIV and Attila the Hun.  Some pretty hard heads to crack.”

The men laughed again.

Danis added, “And while we’re giving out kudos, the ‘Meyer-Buchanan one-two punch’ is a show stopper.  I want a tight report to pass off to the other refit sites. 
Make it crisp, hard and no windows for some damn vested agency to poke
a
stick through.”

Jim smiled at his boss and said, “Yes, sir.”

Turning to his weapons officer, Danis asked, “Dutch.  How are the Sealance reloads coming?”

“Four more rounds on station and eight ready as soon as the crew gets back with them.”

“I don’t want to know how he did it but Dave Zane got
Newport’s
new reduction gear.”

Dave replied, “Commodore, are you saying I’m devious?”

Not fully
recovered from the bad feeling brought on by his error on the initial anchoring plan Dave had self-medicated with humor.

Danis asked, “How else could we have gotten this place set up?” signaling no intention to wallow in what might have happened.  He went on, “Mr. Cameron has the experience needed to fix
Newport’
s main bearings.  You’ve all met him so let’s drop formalities and get on with it.  Darby?”

Standing before the very men that Brent Maddock once declared would not permit him ever again to work on submarines, Darby Cameron set up a homemade easel with briefing sheets attached.  War has a way of neutralizing such pronouncements.  He opened with a plan view of the
Pitstop
with marked locations for positioning
Newport
, the crane and the bearings. 

A little nervous at first, Darby quickly
settled down.  “Here’s the materials flow.  The locations are spotted within the crane’s reach,
Newport
and the repair parts.” 

He covered a myriad of details including moving parts from the dock to the ship, installing them, the procedures for meeting stringent precision requirements, testing the work and the closing up process then finished with, “Our watchword when in doubt will be STOP.  It’s gotta be right the first time through because we won’t get a second chance.”  He added the customary, “Questions, gentlemen?”

Danis asked, “None?  Very well then, let’s get on with it.  Dave, stick around will you?”

All the others rose and left.

After pouring each a cup of coffee Danis said, “With all the hustle and bustle of getting this thing up and going, Dave, it occurs to me I–” Eric grasped for the right expression, “I just don’t show you enough appreciation.  I depend on you for everything.  This whole damn operation couldn’t be pulled off without you.  Two other facilities on this coast are at least two months behind us and started before we did.  None of these would even dream of attempting this repair.

“You came up with the materials and know-how to put
Newport
back together.  How you did it will always be a mystery to me.  You’ve got her within two weeks of being able to deploy.  Maybe I expect you to just sense my appreciation.  That’s wrong and I want to set the record straight.”

Dave turned and looked out to sea through a porthole in Eric’s palatial accommodations.  He blinked hard and absorbed a tear that threatened to fill his eye.

“Eric,” he said, “between you and me, I think we’re going to win this damn war.”

Captain Bostwick, back in his Jekyll role, took absolute charge of the situation.  It amazed Jack Olsen how the morale of his troops rose and fell with the skipper’s moods.  If he lived to be a hundred, Olsen believed he’d never fully
comprehend the psychology of leadership.

He stood before a 1MC microphone and addressed his crew, “This is the Captain speaking.  I’m proud of how you’ve prepared
Denver
to deliver this first American strike against the enemy.  We’ll hit the Vladivostok Naval Facility, home of the submarines that have hurt our cause the most.  We attack and then return home to rearm for more and greater strikes.  I expect all to give their usual outstanding performance.  God bless, good luck and man your battle stations.”

A cheer erupted from the troops as they proceeded to their posts.

Brent took his position behind the Attack Control Console.  He had reprogrammed the combat system to load target coordinates into the twelve land attack Tomahawk missiles in the vertical launchers.

Captain Bostwick said with confidence, “Okay, we’ll shoot above the layer then duck below to evade counterattack.”

This wasn’t Brent’s choice of tactic.  He thought,
It’s exactly
what the opposition expects. 
He’d have remained above the layer believing aircraft dropped torpedoes would be likely set to run below it.  Brent deduced in any case, the best Soviet air dropped device fell well below the 688-performance envelope.  He wisely chose not to reveal this and detract from the captain’s moment.

The captain ordered, “Make your depth six-two feet, smartly,” and then, “Make ready twelve TLAMs.  Flood and open the muzzle doors.”

“Six-two smartly,” Chief Cunningham responded followed by Brent’s acknowledgement of the TLAM orders.

After raising the number two periscope the captain took a look around.  The closeness of the landmass unnerved him.  He observed darkened ridges on the horizon and discerned a clear light pattern that outlined the port.  At 0300 Vladivostok time human activity would be at its lowest, a big factor in both hammering the enemy and making good an escape.

He commanded, “Report when TLAMs fully
ready.”

Brent responded, “Aye, sir.  Eight preset and matched.  Expect the rest in four minutes, Captain.”

 Bostwick ordered number one periscope raised to conduct an electronics countermeasure search.

The ECM console operator reported, “Many shore-based and surface ship radars, Captain.  No ASW aircraft.”

What jackasses
, Bostwick thought
.  With all our recent local exchanges, you’d think someone on the staff would know we’re in the area.  They must know we’ve got land attack missiles.  Are they truly
that arrogant or just plain stupid?

With a crisp tone, Brent replied, “Twelve birds ready, Captain,” showing a lack of any emotion, accumulated from the long and arduous training sessions he had conducted. 

Captain Bostwick’s voice also betrayed no emotion.  “Fire missiles in sequence, one through twelve.”

Denver
rumbled and shuddered as missiles departed her vertical launchers.  In short order, the last bird had departed and the launchers secured.

Brent reported, “Twelve away, Captain.  Recommend we haul buns, sir.”

Bostwick wasted no time.  “Right full rudder, all ahead full.” 

The helmsman acknowledged.

“COB, take us all the way down.”

Cunningham replied, “All the way, aye, Captain,” and then to the helmsman,  “Fifteen down on the angle.” 

Denver
 responded eagerly
to her first directions to embark on the initial leg of the homeward bound trek.  The crew sensed this and their spirits soared.

How anti-climatic
, Brent thought
. 
The attack began and ended quickly and left no sense of having engaged the enemy. 
Denver
crewmen saw or heard nothing.  Weeks would pass before they’d know how well the attack succeeded, if at all.  Maybe a satellite scan would provide a quick look.

Brent knew twelve conventional warheads would do only minor damage to Vladivostok’s extensive Naval facility.  However, its effect on Soviet national morale could be substantial.  During WWII, the Doolittle raid inflicted only
minor damage to Tokyo but seriously impacted morale of the Japanese populace.

Above the surface, twelve missiles roared into the sky with a great show of smoke and flame.  This fireworks-like display ended abruptly.
 
Rocket boosters burned out as air breathing missile sustainers took over and drove the weapons below the radar horizon to cruise altitude.  Here they spread out and raced toward various landfalls where radar altimeters would plot ground contours and match it to profiles stored in the missiles’ Tercom computers.  Most went in the direction of the submarine refit facility, two sped toward ammunition bunkers, one to the suspected location of the Flotilla Headquarters and the last missile headed toward a Navy antenna farm on the far side of the city.

A Soviet radar operator detected the initial launch but quickly
lost contact when the missiles dropped to cruise altitude for short and quick deliveries of their payloads onto their designated targets. 
Denver
had been well positioned for the attack.  Close to shore, the shortened runs deprived Soviets of reaction time needed to mount adequate defenses.

Ironically, the first warhead struck Flotilla Headquarters, taking the life of the intelligence briefer who had failed to properly
identify and assess the threat posed by
Denver. 
He misread the intelligence data and numbered her among the 688s not equipped with vertical launchers.  Consequently, he did not anticipate a land attack.  One hundred fifty officers and men died in the Flotilla Headquarters.

The surprise attack raised havoc on the waterfront where personnel comprised the major casualties.  An
Alfa
and three
Tango
submarines fell victim to the assault.  Two Tomahawk warheads detonated among the ammunition bunkers. They failed to penetrate any walls; thus, no sympathetic explosions among the stored explosives.

Damage inflicted upon the facilities would be quickly repaired.

Ekaterina Baknov slept in her modest condominium.  Since the conversation with her son on the eve of
Zhukov’s
departure, she thought often of the joyous days with her husband in the months following Vasiliy’s birth.  She recalled the last time they danced Adam Adolphe’s
Giselle
at the Kirov. 
How high he had lifted her and how much love they felt. 
These happy thoughts accompanied her as she drifted off to sleep three hours before the attack.

The high-rise apartment, erected just weeks after the missile tracks had been laid out from landfall to the antenna farm, had not been taken into account.  If the building had been five feet shorter, the Tomahawk missile would have over flown it.  It wasn’t.  The hastily constructed structure collapsed when the missile struck it dead on and snuffed out the life of Ekaterina Baknov and the other occupants.

Chapter 15

Eric Danis had been there and done that enough times to make it harder to explain to Captain Tim Hopper, the
Pitstop
wasn’t prepared yet to fill his requests, repairs beyond the means of ship’s force, clothing, mail, and most importantly, salad, the first commodity to expire after leaving port.  Last salad served to Hopper’s crew had been sixty days ago.

Danis said, “I wish I had better news, Captain.”

Captain Hopper, the Commanding Officer of the Trident submarine USS
Idaho
, The latest arrival at the
Pitstop
after eighty days submerged in the emptiness of the Pacific Ocean, said, “Thank you, Commodore.  We’ve had time to accept the probability that most of our families did not survive the attack on Bangor.  But still, it’s overwhelming.  Getting back brings it all up again but we’ll deal with it, sir.”

Almost at a loss for words, Danis forced a smile, nodded and said, “Captain, I don’t envy you your job right now.”

Hopper attempted to put Danis at ease.  “I guess it’s not the best time to ask for groceries but we are a little low.  Right now, anything but dry stores would be like Thanksgiving for us.”

“That we can handle.  The food supply
around here is great.  I’ll have Commander Carter get right on it.”

“What are chances of getting my troops ashore, sir?  I know this operation is anchored out and your hands are full.  But my guys have been a long time at sea.”

“Of course we can.  Forgive me for not thinking of that.”  For an instant, Eric’s many happy homecomings flashed through his mind and he knew the
Idaho
crew could not find what they hoped for, however, Danis thought even a little change of atmosphere might help.  “We’ve got eight to ten boats a day running between here and Hoquiam.  I wouldn’t exactly
call it the big apple of the West Coast but I think your troops will find it lively
enough.”