Boomer, p.22
Boomer, page 22
Ben Steel was experiencing an increasingly uneasy feeling that it had been a mistake to undertake his search by starting out on the perimeter of Florida’s patrol area. He remembered that Mark Bennett’s method of covering a sector was no method at all. A boomer on station was boring enough without sacrificing imagination completely. Bennett had a policy of offering a day’s maneuvering to individual OODs—they could choose their own courses, speeds, and depths within reason. Drills were also conducted by the same individual, and the captain always made sure that each of his OODs covered the entire spectrum during a patrol. It was a method of training and a means of keeping his men sharp.
So now, tell me, why are you undertaking your search by the book? Steel asked himself after the radio messenger had awakened him to explain there were no messages. When you’ve been taught by the best, why not follow his example? Only the standard functions of a submarine need to follow the book. The hunt is limited only by your imagination.
The unusual lack of messages at this time—especially with their unique assignment—meant that Pearl Harbor was probably being jammed. Of course, it could also be that they simply had no interest in singling Manchester out as an addressee. Even if a secure code was employed, any traffic analyst would recognize that she was involved in something special. Whatever the reason, no submariner ever waited to be force-fed information.
Steel’s first question when he entered the control room was, “Where’s our favorite SEAL today?”
“Most likely the torpedo room, Captain. He seems happiest down there, according to Mr. Simonds.”
“Well, call down and ask him to please join me in control. Tell him he’s going to learn how this boat really operates,” Steel added, heading to the navigation table at the rear of the control room. The quartermaster had superimposed Florida’s sector on the chart to provide Manchester’s location within that area.
There was nothing imaginative about that line—that straight, black line that indicated their track. They had reached the lower boundary after a full-power run from the south. Steel’s reasoning had been based primarily on the hope that Florida was anywhere but the opposite end of the sector. She should be picked up by sonar, he’d decided, on a sweep covering first the lower limits and then moving in a circular counterclockwise manner.
But it wasn’t just Florida he was looking for. Those boomers were exceedingly quiet and she would be tough to locate. There must be another boat somewhere out there, an enemy submarine. What other reason could there be for two missing Tridents? It would be even better if they could isolate that one first. Only … what flavor? Russian? On the assumption it had to be Soviet, that other boat would be louder than Florida. His mission was to protect the boomer, to place Manchester between them if possible. He had been given the designated sector that was Florida’s home for the duration of her patrol, but he had no idea which direction the other sub might approach from.
Lieutenant Commander Burch appeared comfortable in his borrowed uniform when he arrived in the control room. “I understand you’re looking for an expert boat driver, Captain.”
“Well, maybe drive isn’t quite the word I’d begin with. I wasn’t about to replace any of my OODs. But I need someone who’s unfamiliar with our normal tactics to help us out. Take a look at this for a minute.” He beckoned Burch to follow him over to the chart. “You see, we’re right here now, approaching the lower right-hand corner of Florida’s sector. She’s got to be in here somewhere, and it would be nice if we found her before the other guy did.” His hand covered most of the area. “The submarine we assume is after her can be coming from anywhere—big ocean.” He swept his hand in a circle around the sector that now appeared tiny.
“Harder to locate,” Burch remarked. “How far away can you pick up the bad guys?”
“If you were aboard a little longer, you might say it would be mostly luck to pick up either of them. Russian subs are noisier but still tough to detect. It’ll be almost impossible to find Florida. Those boomers are about the quietest things afloat, and they don’t do anything to make it any easier to hear them.”
“What if they hear us?”
“If they identify our sound signature, they’ll leave us alone and hope we don’t hear them. No one, not even Manchester, is supposed to know about these patrol areas. If they don’t figure out who we are, they’ll do whatever is necessary to disappear without being heard—go completely quiet, turn away, whatever needs to be done. The idea is that only those who need to know have any idea where a boomer is hiding.”
“I suppose they can get mad, too,” Burch said.
“That’s why there’s a signal to identify a friendly. If they’re in a corner, they’re just like a dog—they bite.”
“But in our case.…”
“I have no idea what’s happened with them. I know as much as you do. It’s possible somehow they’ve gotten the word. That would make them very nervous.”
Lieutenant Commander Burch was as curious as he was perplexed. There were rarely any ifs in his world. A SEAL on a mission normally only ran into bad guys, and they were quickly dispatched. “It’s beyond me what you think I can possibly do, Captain.”
“You can find either Florida or the other submarine just as well as any of us, maybe better. Or at least you can provide us with the means. I had a captain one time who spoke about the value of imagination in a situation like this. I know how I’d probably run my search, and that could be exactly the way I’d locate my targets. I might also miss them completely by being so damn precise and acting just like a submariner, particularly if one of them hears me first. It’s easy to see what we have to do, and all I want you to try is to place us where it seems we have the best chance of finding our quarry.”
Burch glanced curiously at Steel. He was uneasy with the idea. “I don’t think I could offer any more than any of your own men. It seems pretty obvious.…”
“I couldn’t agree with you more. That’s the only reason I called you up here. The obvious could be our biggest mistake. It’s the luck I’m looking for, that extra something that we might overlook. Go ahead. The quartermaster will put an overlay on the chart so you can play with it without messing up his pretty picture. I already know what I’m going to do. I’m going to bring us around to head toward the middle of the sector right now. We’re pretty sure we know where they aren’t. That’s where we’ve already been. So why don’t you come up with a couple of ideas for me to find out where they are. When I’m sure you’re pissing up a rope, you’ll be the first to know. What could be more fun?”
After a short lesson on the capabilities of the various sonars on board, from the sphere in the bow to the hull-mounted hydrophones to the array towed aft, Lieutenant Commander Burch experimented with possibilities until the chart overlay looked like a madman’s scratch pad. There were diagonals, star-shaped tracks, geometric designs, and spirals. The final determination was simply that if they had been following Florida without success and were now turning away from her, they would have to sweep back. The other OODs each took a turn at analyzing the problem as soon as they realized Ben Steel was looking for the optimum possibilities for locating the needle in the proverbial haystack.
Burch learned as he watched. It was Steel who let him decide that it was better to search the area they had been moving away from and then sweep back in a long spiral to catch their prey if they had indeed been following it. After turning more to a west-northwest course, Steel was satisfied that they had incorporated not only the most logical approach, but also the one that allowed a bit of luck to ride with them.
“I want to be ready for a snapshot,” he told Peter Simonds. “Our intruder could be just sitting by himself waiting for a target to show up. I can imagine that we might be on top of each other before we know it. I hope so.” If the enemy submarine was able to remain as quiet as Florida, it could be just like an ambush. The first one to shoot would be the likely winner. The only difference was that the loser who went to the bottom after a single shot would take more than a hundred men with it.
Chapter Twelve
Pasadena had come close to periscope depth momentarily to copy her broadcast before returning to depth to continue her search pattern. As she came to a zero bubble at three hundred feet, the ominous click of the IMC system echoed through each compartment. There was a time aboard Pasadena when an announcement had been something for the crew to look forward to. But at this stage of their existence, that had become ancient history. It had been only a matter of days—was that all?—yet to most even this small pleasure had disappeared in the sands of time. The announcements had become tedious, overbearing lectures.
Tension was thick in the air. It was beyond the scope of even a genius to invent a scrubber capable of purifying that. Every man could smell it! Feel it! It was transferred from one watch section to the next. It came from the man next to you, oozing slowly across the deck, up the bulkheads, along the overhead, and it gradually covered each of them. They were at war … with the Russians? Or was it with themselves? With each other? With their captain? They didn’t know, not really, and when the 1MC clicked on there was an increase in the tension, a silent electric discharge creating a human aroma of ozone.
“This is the captain.” Who else could it be? Newell was the only one who had used the system in the past two days. “Once again, Pasadena is approaching a moment in our mission that may influence American history beyond anything you can imagine. In the past few days, each one of you has faced tremendous odds and reacted in a manner that has brought honor to yourselves and your families. You have shown the world that one hundred thirty distinctly different individuals can be molded into a crew capable of preserving the ideals upon which our nation was founded.”
That was what they had expected, what they feared most—another pep talk, a morale builder. It was the opposite of what they wanted. News was what they cared most about. But Pasadena seemed cut off from the world—except for orders from SUBPAC. What was happening at home, if there was still a home? Was this the end of the world? Was it…? Anything but this.
Newell’s voice sounded deeper than usual and seemed to catch when he uttered some of the pat phrases he’d selected. Pasadena’s captain was a true believer in motivation, and he was a student of human behavior. He’d observed the attitudes of his men the past few hours and the results were patently obvious. Every word he had ever read about men in war, battle fatigue, personality conflict in time of stress, was displayed on each face he’d encountered. The men had expressed their concerns—yet not one of them was afraid for himself. Their only fears were for the war on the surface and the danger to their families. That was something he couldn’t help them with. Those who controlled Pasadena’s communications had chosen to isolate her. This type of problem had been overlooked. If he could have come up with something, anything, it might have helped—just this once—but he remembered nothing in his background that could fashion an answer to what they were looking for.
The information that had come to Pasadena was in the form of succinct naval messages. That was a format that contradicted the imagination. Of necessity, it was vague, businesslike. Their orders, their mission—that was all that the Navy was concerned with at this stage. That only encouraged each one of them to interpret for himself exactly what was happening on the surface.
Yet there was an ominous note to those few, short messages, a hint that the civilian population of the United States must be in peril, perhaps already under attack. That was what lurked in each man’s mind.
Wayne Newell would be the first to acknowledge that sonar’s initial identification of the two submarines they had sunk had magnified his problems. But what was certainly weighing on their minds even more, the fate of their families, should be of even greater concern. He would make it so. Was there a home they were still fighting for? Or would they find scorched cities if they ever returned? He wanted them to have something more to worry about than the masking device that made Soviet boomers sound American.
The recent communications received by Pasadena had been calculated to enhance the importance of her mission. The continued existence of a Soviet ballistic-missile threat at sea was vital to Pasadena’s maintaining a high degree of readiness. Their morale, their sense of mission, their unselfish efforts, might just save their families. This he believed with all his heart.
“I want to share a message just received,” Newell continued. “It says: ‘Imperative Pasadena locate and destroy enemy SSBN in assigned sector. Mission critical to survival of land targets and strategic negotiations.’ While that is open to interpretation, I believe that there is a definite probability that our families may still be safe. I was informed before our departure that Soviet targeting included many of our cities, so I can only assume our efforts may be vital to their survival. And if there are actually negotiations under way, that could mean that our success on this mission could strengthen U.S. terms,” An audible sigh escaped over the speaker in each compartment, “I can only repeat that I believe Pasadena is in the right place at the right time. We have been chosen to defend our nation in a strange and unanticipated way … and I just wanted one more opportunity to express my deep pleasure in serving with each one of you. I’m not repeating a speech we’ve all heard in the movies. That comes from the bottom of my heart. The next few hours in our lives will mean so much to those we love.”
That was what they wanted to hear—what he wanted them to hear.
When Newell replaced the microphone, Dick Makin saw droplets of sweat coursing down his cheeks. From the manner in which the captain had spoken, they could just as well have been tears. His final words had been spoken with his eyes tightly shut, as if he were in prayer. The executive officer of a ship was closer to the captain than any other man, and Makin understood Newell better than anyone aboard Pasadena. He had seen more emotion from the man in the past six hours than since they’d first met. Newell was as dedicated as any commanding officer in the fleet. Yet his personality also appeared to be changing radically as the pressure increased with this new target. Wayne Newell had never been an emotional individual before. He had been cold, calculating, efficient. Now there was a new, almost human, element. The change was rewarding in a way, yet also … frightening.
“Well, what do you think, Dick? Any doubt in your mind after that that we’re all in this together?”
“None at all, Captain.” He watched as the handkerchief came out of Newell’s back pocket. It seemed to wipe away his emotions at the same time the perspiration that was now staining his collar disappeared. It was an eerie sensation to watch the cocky smile of confidence blink on like a light bulb. “I hadn’t had a chance to see the messages yet. I’m surprised we’re getting detail like that in this situation.”
“Me, too.” He gave Makin a friendly poke on the arm and added softly, “I must admit I found it necessary to add a little something extra—for the troops, you know.” Then in a louder voice, “But I guess that shows SUBPAC’s confidence in us. I’m only sorry we couldn’t respond so they’d know for sure we already took out two of those bastards. This submarine deserves to be the pride of the fleet.”
An unexpected warning chill surprised Makin. He was watching Newell’s eyes move about the control room. The man wanted to make sure he was being heard. His words were for everybody on Pasadena, not the executive officer he’d been speaking with. The captain seemed to be addressing his destiny. And that chill was more pronounced….
“Captain!” The voice that interrupted them was from the sonar officer. Only his head was visible from the entrance to sonar.
“A steady contact, Steve?” Newell was beaming as he covered the short distance to the other compartment.
“Yes, sir.” He held up a cautioning hand. “But Dixon thinks he may have something different this time. It’s nothing clear, but the computer seems to indicate it’s not the same thing.”
Newell saw that Steve Thompson was bent over the shoulder of one of his men. He tapped him on the shoulder. “Still out there on the port bow, Dixon?”
Dixon shook his head without looking up.
“Maybe we ought to be ready for a snapshot, Dick,” Newell called excitedly toward the control room. “Inform the torpedo room.” Then in an even louder voice than he’d expected himself, “Is it solid, Dixon, close enough to track?”
Again the sonarman shook his head.
“Well, for Christ sake, what the hell is it?”
Dixon glanced quickly over his shoulder at the sonar officer. There was a pleading look in his eyes.
Steve Thompson edged over beside the captain and whispered diplomatically, “Please, Captain, they’re trying as hard as they can to classify it. And it’s still too far away to be sure of anything. I think it’s manmade.” He remained conscious of the recent confrontation with Dick Makin. “When I called you from the control room, I just wanted you to know we had something.”
Newell’s brow furled in frustration. “But you said it was different.”
“That’s right, Captain. It doesn’t appear to be the same one we picked up earlier. I didn’t mean to—”
“Mr. Thompson, Dixon’s got the original one again,” another sonarman interrupted. “Still faint….”
“Get a comparison.”
Even Newell remained quiet while they waited.
It was less than a minute before Dixon said softly, “Two definite … manmade. One off the port bow. One to starboard. No definite bearing yet, no target motion. I’m pretty sure they’re both far enough off so there’s no immediate danger, Captain. The one to port is still very faint, so he’s either awfully damn quiet or a good distance away.”
“Target motion,” Newell barked. “I need target motion.”
