D. M. Ulmer 01 - Silent Battleground (3 page)

      Denver
proceeded to maximum depth, maintaining coolant pumps in
slow
for greater reliability and lower noise levels.  For precise depth control, Patrick ordered speed above eight knots then ordered watch standers stationed at hydraulic controls for major hull openings to cope with possible flooding casualties. 

      Lessons learned from the loss of
Thresher
remained fresh. 

      Initiating the torpedo tube test firings at maximum depth, Brent ordered, “Starboard bank first, Dan.”

      Brent stood behind the Attack Control Console and the ACC Operator as tubes one and three operated successfully.  “Port bank now.  Tube two ready.”

      “Fire two!” ordered Dan.

      WHOOSH.

      “Tube two away.” 
What the hell was that?
 
Was that a slightly different sound during the eject pulse?
 “Hold it, Dan … I’m going forward to check with the torpedo room watch.”

      Dan asked, “Why for chrissakes?  These shots are going off like a Swiss watch and you want to hold us up?”

      Brent replied, “Just a hunch.  Let me check with the room watch to see if he noticed anything.”

      Annoyed, Dan said, “Damn it, Brent.  You call the old man and report this.  Otherwise, pop off four and let’s get the hell out of here.”

      Brent hesitated. 

      A rift had grown between Captain Bostwick and Brent because his combat readiness interests appeared to conflict with the captain’s agenda.  Captain Bostwick bucked hard for promotion to admiral and had reached a critical point in his career.  He did not regard tactical excellence a significant stepping-stone and he expected
Denver
officers to support his personal program, hence Brent frequently stood at odds with him.  It would not be a good time for Brent to cry wolf and although he knew it would be wrong, he caved in to Dan’s request.

      Brent ordered, “Torpedo room; make ready a water slug in tube four.”

      After the firing key, the normal shudder followed throughout the submarine as the twenty-five foot long, twenty-one inch diameter launcher expelled its contents of green water into the sea.

      Dan admonished his friend.  “See. I told you. Nothing to worry about.”

      An instant later came the sound most dreaded by submariners … a deafening roar along with a screaming voice sounding an alarm over the 2lMC.  “Flooding in the torpedo room!”

      The shout erupted from the middle level operations compartment.

      Dan yelled out, “Ahead full!  Twenty degrees up bubble!  Torpedo room, commence compartment pressurization.”

      At
Denver’s
maximum depth, the order had minimal effect on the flooding rate.  Brent hurried toward the torpedo room as
Denver
 began to pitch down by the bow.  He seemed oblivious to the terrified men lining his tortuous route.

      Next, Dan ordered emergency blow of all main ballast and shifted engines to
back full
when the hull transitioned from an up to a down angle.

      Brent had accurately diagnosed the casualty and knew that only stopping the leak would save the ship.  The port torpedo tube ejection pump shaft had broken, leaving a three-and-a-half inch opening directly to sea and the entering column of water blasted into the ship as though fired from a cannon.  Only securing the barn-door valve to seal off the inrushing seawater could stop it. 

      Petty Officer Gary Hansen had already initiated the operation at a rear hydraulic control valve inside the compartment.

      Normally, this involved resetting an anti-refire valve (ARV) when the ram returned to battery.  But, the ram-shaft lay broken on the torpedo room deck and could not be repositioned.

      Brent would have to reset the ARV manually, a near impossible task because of its close proximity to the roaring stream.  With time running out, he struggled forward, passing terrified crewmen and yard workers along the way.

      He reached the torpedo room and ordered, “Hansen!  Hold the control valve shut.  I’ll reset the ARV by hand.”

      Brent’s lungs and eyes filled with the acrid mist created by the bombarding saltwater and he couldn’t see.  The shrill noise threatened to burst his eardrums and the force from the incoming water stream could easily shear off an arm or leg.

      Thoughts raced through Brent’s mind. 
Concentrate, gotta try to remember where the valve is … find it and reset it.  Feels like the bow’s down a few more degrees.  Gotta watch out for the heavy stuff breaking loose, but I can’t worry about that now.

       Concentrate…concentrate…three points down, fourth and long with less than a minute to play against Army. Here comes the ball.  Why in hell did he have to lob it so damn high? Stretch out and give the converging linebackers a better shot. Concentrate…gotta concentrate. Beyond the first down marker, just grab the ball and hang on to it. Nothing else matters.  I’ve got it … squeeze it.  Crunch, gold and black helmets cave in exposed rib cage.

      CRASH.

      The barn door valve slammed shut and the inrushing water abruptly stopped.  An eerie silence fell over the compartment.  Hansen’s white-knuckled hands continued to hold the control valve in the shut position, his face ashen.  As Brent looked at him, he felt a sudden surge of admiration for the man’s courage.

      With
Denver
down further by the bow, Brent had to climb back to the 2lMC station before he could activate the intercom.  “Conn, secure the blow and vent the after group.  It’s increasing the down angle.  Somebody start thinking up there!”

      The emergency blow subsided. 
Denver
maintained its sickening pitch angle for a moment and then began to slowly turn upward.

      Captain Bostwick’s stern voice boomed back over the 2lMC, “Torpedo room … report your condition.”

      Recalling his last reprimand, Brent muttered, “Oh crap, more trouble with the old man is all I need right now.”

      He made his way back to the Attack Center through the crew members lining the way with many of them in various states of near shock.  For most of the men, the close brush with a death experience showed in their faces.  Some stood frozen in silence or sobbed.  Others provided what comfort they could while the veterans just went about their duties.

      Dan Patrick got the hull angle under control and used speed to drive
Denver
toward the surface.

      At the Attack Center, Captain Bostwick cautioned, “Not too fast, Dan.  Let’s not pop out like a cork.  Slow your rate of ascent. We’re okay now.   Flooding problem resolved.”

      Captain Bostwick saw Brent in his peripheral vision, and without facing him demanded, “What happened up there, Brent?”

      “The port eject pump ram failed, Captain.  It broke during the launch stroke.  The momentum caused it to knock over the air piston and leave a three-and-a-half inch hole to sea.  We reset the ARV manually so the barn door could be closed from the remote position.  Hansen did a hell of a job for us, sir.  Scared to death but he hung in there.”

      “Was the shaft inspected?”

      The captain knew the program schedule and had argued against inspecting the shaft before the overhaul, hoping to prune the Navy yard workload and to placate the bean counters at Commander Submarine Force, Pacific Fleet, COMSUBPAC.  Concerns grew over rising costs of overhaul programs and Captain Bostwick’s priorities reflected those set at COMSUBPAC.

      Weapons systems inspections did not rate a high priority among the scheduled overhaul programs, but strong arguments presented by Brent and the Squadron Three weapons officer, Lieutenant Commander Karl ‘Dutch’ Meyer, restored the inspections to the work package.

      Brent said, “It was, sir.”

      Bostwick asked, “Did you witness the inspection?”

      The captain knew full well he set the priorities in hindsight and delivered a cheap shot. 

      Brent’s huge work assignments exceeded his limited resources, so he distributed them by priority.  Earlier, Brent verbally advised the executive officer, Lieutenant Commander Jack Olsen the eject pump inspection did not require a ship’s force oversight and now wished he had put this in writing.

      Brent made no excuse.  “No, sir, I did not witness the inspection.”

      “Very well.  I want to review the paperwork when we hit port.  First order of business … understand?”

      “Understand, sir,” Brent said then left the Attack Center and turned in to his bunk for a much-needed rest.

      Sea trails and the near disaster had sapped his energy, yet he couldn’t set aside the events of the day and fall asleep.  He thought of Beatrice Zane and the last time he had seen her.  It was the best of all their evenings.  Thoughts of her relieved his tension and he finally slept as
Denver
sped toward Puget Sound.

      In another part of the ship, Darby Cameron, though dog tired, lay awake in the chief petty officers’ quarters.  He’d been selected to ride
Denver
for trials and overheard the captain’s intention to investigate the casualty.  Darby felt a terrible fear when the submarine headed for the bottom and now he feared he would pay a price twice more for his maintenance omission, dismissal from Civil Service and the forfeiture of all his benefits accrued for over thirty-two years of working at the shipyard.

      Inspecting the fasteners on the eject pump would show they had not been removed recently and reveal he gun-decked the initial inspection report. 

      He thought,
The days ahead are truly gonna be grim ones.

Chapter 2

      Captain Eric Danis, Commander of Submarine Squadron Three based at San Diego, sat in a huge chair behind a large mahogany desk at the Puget Sound Naval Shipyard Headquarters.  His temporary office supplied with expensive furnishings made him uncomfortable, not being accustomed to such plush accommodations.

      He bore the title commodore
,
a verbal courtesy extended to officers who command a squadron of warships, regardless of their actual rank.  The COMSUBRON 3 assignment had earned him the nickname Squad Dog
,
a jumping off spot for promotion to admiral, flag-rank, as it is known in the Navy.  His prospects were good at the time of his posting, but two years without selection, a lightning strike in Navy jargon, brought him close to mandatory retirement. 

      A tall slender man with premature gray hair, he had matching eyes that could bore right through a person, yet also show compassion. 

      Captain Hal Bostwick sat opposite Commodore Danis.  Officers in the rank of commander normally command submarines, but Bostwick had manipulated the system well and gained the higher rank of captain through an early selection process.

      Their meeting ran the usual agenda of congenialities incident to departure from a successful overhaul, but now they needed to address the near disaster.  Responsibility had to be fixed.  Despite the premium for limited space within a submarine, an unwritten rule:
There’s room onboard for everything but a mistake. 
Mistakes and their perpetrators were culled out.

      Captain Bostwick’s voice tones and body language signaled a change to a more serious note.  “Commodore, I’m afraid
Denver
must shoulder a good share of responsibility for the casualty,” electing to use the term
Denver
in lieu of the pronoun
I
used by commanding officers when blame is a factor.  COs are responsible for all that happens aboard their ships whether triumph or failure and the skipper gets both barbs and cheers. 

      Bostwick continued, “I scheduled the eject pump to be inspected, but our weapons officer failed to ensure this was carried out.  Frankly, Lieutenant Maddock is not measuring up.  I realize the responsibility is ultimately mine, but this officer fails in setting priorities.”

      Commodore Danis expressed concern, “Oh? ... I’m surprised to hear that.  He’s got a solid reputation in previous assignments.  A maverick of sorts, but us old guys need prodding now and then.  Keeps us from our favorite ruts.”

      Believing he had no ruts, Bostwick pounced on the opening. “A maverick is a wild cow, Commodore, but it is still a cow; and they all end up at McDonald’s.  Lieutenant Maddock’s points of view, and believe me, sir, I’ve heard them all, are not suitable alternatives for the proper performance of duty.”

      Commodore Danis countered, “I’m told he was instrumental in securing the casualty during trials.”

      Bostwick’s frustration rose.  “There are slackers on every ship that resort to rationalization for not doing their jobs.  Maddock’s alleged rescue of
Denver
is over embellished by some of these.  I personally coerced his performance of what was a simple task.  His panic, and delay, turned routine procedure into a near casualty.”

      Danis tried to catch Bostwick’s eyes, but they avoided him.  The commodore took great pains to be acquainted with each officer in his squadron, therefore, he knew of Bostwick’s ambition and it irritated him, in particular his tendency to seek and establish a rapport with his boss’s boss.  Bostwick often implied SUBRON 3 policies thwarted his efforts to comply with SUBPAC directions. 

      Shifting in his chair, Bostwick looked at Danis and said, “Sir, I’m recommending Maddock for reassignment outside the submarine force.  You’ll have the correspondence today.”

      Contemplating Bostwick’s words for a moment, Danis stared him down.  “I appreciate your position, Captain,” using Bostwick’s rank instead of his first name signaled the commodore’s displeasure, “but I will return any such recommendation disapproved.”

      Danis’s statement angered Captain Bostwick, but he maintained his composure and said nothing.

      Danis continued, “Hal, I have grave news.  You must understand what I’m about to tell you is not be discussed outside this room.”