D. M. Ulmer 01 - Silent Battleground (7 page)

Snorting like an angry bull, Woody delivered the first of two-planned solid left jabs to his opponent’s face.  Like lightning, snap, the sound of knuckles against skin.  No need for a second blow.  The man’s knees folded inward and he collapsed like a tall building felled by a well-placed demolition charge.

Unknown to Woody, the young inspector, culpable, but not exposed by Darby Cameron, had received a measure of punishment at the hands of Ensign Parnell.

Bea
dropped Dan, Woody and Brent off at
Denver’s
pier where a mass of humanity stirred about like ants making the submarine ready for sea.

Brent shared a kiss with Bea to whistles and howls from sailors and other passersby. The unmistakable voice of Gary Hansen shouted, “Way to go, Mr. Maddock.”

Bea admonished Brent, “Don’t do anything stupid out there.”

“Make book on it, but it’s you I’m worried about.  I’m a lot safer at sea if this Soviet thing blows up.  You listen to what Dave says.  He’ll know what to do.  I care a lot about you, Bea.”

She took a final look at him, “I will, Brent.  You come back to me.  Hear?”

“Make book on that too!”

They released each other and Brent disappeared into the mayhem on the dock.

Captain Bostwick sat in his stateroom and fumed as he read the transcript of Brent’s testimony.  He ignored the issue that confronted young Maddock, the need to state all pertinent facts to assure the defendant got a fair hearing.  The Civil Service Board report cast a shadow over Bostwick, so he would not pass it along to SUBPAC.  Bostwick hoped the findings would set the stage for a career ending, adverse fitness report on young Maddock, but they did not.  Brent’s testimony to the Civil Service Board averted a fatal blow from the captain.

Bostwick muttered, “So the sneaky bastard wants to play games.  Well I’ll damn well show him he’s playing in the big leagues.”

Chapter 4

To the east, a red dawn brightened the ridges of Whidbey Island as
Denver
sped north through Puget Sound en route to the open sea.
 
Brent
thought,
Red sky in the morning, sailor takes warning
and anticipated seas would kick up as the day wore on.
 
He stood the morning watch, 0400-0800 as officer of the deck on the open bridge, his favorite assignment.
 
Here, the blackness of night yields to the morning glow.

Brent developed a theory that his sense of elation, inherited from ancestors, dated back to the dawn of civilization.
 
Early inhabitants of earth hoped
each darkness
would surely end, but nonetheless felt relief at the actual occurrence.

To the west, Olympic Mountain peaks caught the first rays of the rising sun and brightening skies diminished a scattering of man-made lights on the land below.  The sea bore few marks of man’s presence on the planet, but on occasion, even the land view presented unspoiled perspectives.  For an instant, Brent beheld Peter Puget’s view of this virgin land as he arrived here over two hundred years ago. 

Its beauty inspired Brent to think,
God, I love this land!

Brent recalled an evening with Bea and dinner at a restaurant on Lake Union in Seattle.  Patterned after a Pacific Northwest Indian Longhouse, it featured Native-American artifacts.  Its owner dedicated much effort to perpetuate traditions of the people who lived in harmony with the land since the dawn of time.  Native American photographs taken close to the turn of the century adorned the walls.  These depicted early tribesmen who passed their lives here feasting upon endless natural abundance.

Another time, they visited the Hiram Chittenden canal locks, built for passage of shipping between Lake Washington and the lower level waters of Puget Sound.  A fish ladder bypassed the locks and facilitated annual salmon migrations to the many headwaters that fed the lake.  A ladder featured windows to view these magnificent fish, overcoming all odds while heading to the waters of their birth.  There, they spawned and then swam further upstream to die so their prodigy could survive by eating fragments of the decaying carcasses that washed downstream.

He decided he would live out his declining years in these robust surroundings.

Denver
left Bremerton too early
for lingering good-byes to friends and family and would remain at sea two weeks conducting independent exercises during the way to their homeport in San Diego.  There, an extended repair period alongside a submarine tender to clean up post-overhaul material discrepancies would afford time for the crew to re-establish home and social lives before
Denver
put to sea for her next deployment.  The captain explained this to his crew on the eve of her departure, but made no mention of the war scare laid upon them by Commodore Danis.

As officer of the deck, Brent guided
Denver
over the course laid down by the navigator and carried out the ship’s routine as specified in the captain’s night order book.  Quiet prevailed below decks as the crew,
exhausted from the trying final days at the yard; lay in their bunks for a much-needed rest.  Only watch standers remained up and about.

Denver
reached the Strait of Juan de Fuca and turned west then submerged for the final leg of her seaward transit.

Later, a stewardsman knocked on the junior officers’ stateroom door then opened it
.
“Mister Maddock.  Wake up.  The captain wants a meeting in the wardroom in fifteen minutes.”

“Thank you,” Brent replied.  He looked at his watch … 0930.  He’d slept less than an hour. 
The morning watch doesn’t get a fair share of sack time, but what else is new?

Shortly, the officers assembled and Olsen summoned the captain.

Bostwick opened with an uncharacteristic jovial voice.
 
“Damn, it’s sure good to be out of the yard.”

General nods of agreement followed.

“Now we get back to the real Navy.  No need to say how important it is for us to make the most of the next fourteen days.  Before long, we’re back in the squadron and our work’s cut out if we expect to keep that red
E
hanging on the fairwater.”

Bostwick referred to SUBPAC’s award for engineering excellence won by
Denver
the previous year.

The captain continued, “Additionally, we can expect an ORSE (Operational Reactor Safeguard Examination) soon after our return.  We must be ready.”  Bostwick paused and scanned each officer’s face. “Zero tolerance for screw-ups, but you all know that so give the executive officer your training requirements.  You know where we need attention.  The exec and I will set priorities as we see them.”

Looking at Olsen, who nodded his assent, the captain continued with, “The ORSE is first then we concentrate efforts to insure records are updated.  With the yard workload, I know much of that is on hold, but we’ve got to get crackin’. We’ve come out of the yard in great shape.  No one will know this unless it’s documented.”

Brent thought,
Who needs to know besides us?

Continuing the lecture Bostwick said, “Advancement in rate is next.  We led the squadron last year and now I want to lead the force.  Promote ’em and retain ’em is the best re-enlistment policy I know.  Does anyone have a better idea?”

Astonished that Bostwick did not address the war readiness counsel given by Commodore Danis in his speech, Brent asked, “What about combat training?”

Dan Patrick frowned.  He recognized the precursor to yet another Bostwick-Maddock donnybrook. 
Uh-oh! Here it comes.

Bostwick said in a tone forced to sound steady, “There’s much to be done to restore pre-overhaul readiness levels.  I look to you, Brent, to take the lead.  However, I expect you’ll not permit these measures to interfere with projects of higher priority.”

Brent replied, “Understand, Captain.”
Here we go again
.
Another situation where just doing my job gets me deeper into hot water. 
“Captain?”

“Yes?” 

His voice tone caused nervous glances to be exchanged among the other officers.

“We have a full load-out of weapons for the first time since I’ve been aboard.  Two of them are new and we don’t have any experience with deploying them.  If the commodore’s instructions are to be followed, I need to conduct a full-court press to be combat ready.  But on the other hand, Captain, if you have reason to believe there’s no danger, I recommend you share it with us and the crew.  The troops are worried about family
and friends and a word from you would relieve them immensely.”

Brent had just told the captain to either put up or shut up.  The officers slumped in their seats to relieve tension.

Captain Bostwick took Brent’s comment in stride.  “I appreciate your point of view, Brent, and you must appreciate mine.  We are not robots.  I’ve been given the commodore’s perception on the state of international affairs.  The final decision on how we factor this into ship priorities remains with me.  I make decisions based on how I see the situation.  Do I make myself clear?”

“Very clear, Captain.  I’ll not interfere with your agenda, but plan to work my department round the clock till we know how to use the new bullets.”

“As you wish, Lieutenant,” Bostwick replied, disregarding the submarine tradition of calling a junior officer by his first name, thus signaling displeasure over Brent’s tenacity to the subject.

The exchange made Jack Olsen’s gut churn.  Concerned
over growing open hostility between Brent and the captain, he also fretted over Bostwick not having shared the results of his call to SUBPAC on Danis’s war warning.  Bostwick liked to gloat when higher authority confirmed his assertions and he had not done this.

“Yes, Commodore?” Lieutenant Commander Karl ‘Dutch’ Meyer responded to Commodore Danis’s summons to the temporary office.

“Hi Dutch.  Grab us a cup of mud and sit down.  There’s stuff we need to go over.”

Dutch responded with a grin, “These okay, Commodore?” 

He held a pair of china mugs pirated from a submarine enlisted mess, each filled to the rim with black and bitter coffee, the preference of both officers.  The mugs, more practical than the standard wardroom china’s dainty pieces, held more coffee and had handles big enough for Dutch to stuff his sausage-like fingers through.

Danis said, “Should’ve known you wouldn’t come in here empty handed.  Forgive me for not noticing.”

A wooden chair protested as Dutch rested his bulk upon it.  “No problem, sir.  What’s up?”

“I just got back from SUBGROUP 9 Headquarters at the Trident Base.  Pucker factor runs pretty high up there.  Keep all this stuff under your hat, Dutch.  It’s dynamite.”

“Count on me, sir.”

“The Chief of Naval Operations has passed to all operational commanders that a Soviet invasion of Iran is imminent and expected within the next seventy-two hours.”

Dutch whistled softly.  “Dynamite ain’t the word for it.  What orders are being given?”

“The general belief is conventional war between us and the Soviets, likely
limited to the Middle East.  If the Reds make this move, they know we’ll try to kick their asses out.  They must believe we can’t or they wouldn’t be taking the chance.”

Dutch exclaimed, “We’re in bomber range here like a bunch of sitting ducks!”

“I know,” Danis agreed, “and we’ve got to get our submarines away from here.  Hitch is, we can’t alarm everybody.  The public gets a strong enough whiff and concludes
nuclear
war
.  Panic will hurt us a helluva lot more than a few Soviet bombs.”

Dutch addressed his boss through a puzzled look, “Move every damn warship outta here and don’t make anybody suspicious?  How we gonna do that?”

Danis replied, “SUBGROUP 9’s already buttoning up Tridents in refit to leave today.”

Dutch shook his head in disbelief.  “Good for them, but they got less problems than us … security for example.  The waterfront’s an exclusive Navy show.  No civilians.  Tridents can be out in a day with no one ashore any the wiser.  We’re in downtown Bremerton and can’t loosen a mooring line without involving fifty civilians.  People will want answers when we start moving that much hardware.”

“I thought about that, Dutch.  Here’s what just might work.”

“With all due respect, Commodore, it better be good.”

“Good or bad, it’s gonna be our only chance.  I’ll tell the shipyard commander we’re conducting a surprise drill, an emergency evacuation of all SUBPAC units in overhaul.  COMSUBPAC ordered this and already passed the word to affected squad dogs.  Expect some skippers to bitch over having their overhauls interrupted for a drill.  The bright ones will see the light and cooperate fully.  It’s lousy to keep so many good officers in the dark, but we got to keep the train on the tracks.  So far, Admiral Parker at SUBGROUP 9, you and me are all who know the right story so keep it under your bonnet.”

Dutch whistled softly.  “I will, sir.  When do we start?”

“Immediately.”

“Okay.  I’ll identify the
boats that are seaworthy and—”

Danis wore a serious expression as he interrupted Dutch.  “All of them just like Operation Agile Player,” referring to a Navy drill that got every submarine out in forty-eight hours and loaded out for a ninety-day deployment.

“At least we’re not plowing new ground.”

“We are, Dutch.  We did only the operational boats in
Player
.  We got to do the same with boats in overhaul.  My gut says we’ll need ’em all, and soon.”

Dutch shook his head.  “Some of ’em got access holes in the hull less than three feet above the waterline.  They won’t survive a storm on the Sound, much less at sea.”

“I don’t give a damn.  They might not survive the Sound, but they sure as hell won’t survive a Soviet air raid.  Let’s not forget Pearl Harbor, Dutch.  No Navy ought to get caught with its head up its ass twice in the same century.”

Dutch received his boss’s message and got behind it.  “We got ships with down propulsion systems.  I’ll order tugs for them.”