Complete venus equilater.., p.15
Boomer, page 15
“Cody, my friend, you offered me a target. I couldn’t resist. As a way of apologizing for teasing you like that, I’ll use my authority right now and appoint you head bartender for our barbecue. How’s that?”
“All right,” Cody exclaimed enthusiastically, taking care that his eyes never left the dials in front of him, “You just hired the best bartender on Florida, Captain.”
“I’ve been watching that depth gauge since I wandered in here, and I don’t think it’s varied a millimeter, Cody. I wouldn’t be surprised if maybe you’re one of the best planesmen, too.”
The helmsman, who also controlled the stern planes, had remained silent until then. “Hey, Captain, Cody’s got the easy job now. Those bow planes hardly do a thing at this speed.” He never looked away from his dials either. “I’ll give him a run for his money any day.”
“I don’t doubt that, Smitty. I guess it’d be unfair to pick out anyone in this watch section or any of the others.” Nelson turned toward his OOD, who was standing relaxed with his arms folded behind the diving officer’s station. “I’ll bet it feels good to have men like this standing watch with you, Jeff. I’m going back to try to get a little paperwork out of the way, so why don’t you run them through some drills. A man can get stale as hell out here.”
“Sure enough, Captain. I was planning on giving you a buzz to get your permission anyway.”
The captain removed his rimless glasses carefully with his right hand at the same time he was pulling a handkerchief from his back pocket with the other. He held each lens to his mouth and breathed on it before systematically polishing each glass. Then he placed them neatly back in position on his head with both hands. “And I want everyone here to remember that barbecue. Mr. Sones has been appointed head chef and Cody’s the bartender.” With that, he left the control room.
Buck Nelson experienced a feeling of self-satisfaction when he settled in the single chair in his stateroom and turned the handle to pull down the desktop. There was no doubt about it. Life could be boring as hell aboard a boomer on patrol. Maybe he’d promote a couple more chefs and bartenders from the other watch sections in the next few days. Florida definitely needed something to look forward to.
“I suppose I have to talk to him.…” The grin on Admiral Larsen’s face at the start of that sentence was meant to express his lack of enthusiasm for the President, but it faded just as quickly. “Don’t I?” he concluded, realizing that he, in fact, was overwhelmingly sympathetic to the man at that very moment. “Put him through on the secure line,” the CNO requested.
There was no response from the others. They understood why Ray Larsen had begun that way and why he acknowledged his relationship with the President just as quickly. The man in Washington had not been kind to Larsen the past two years, not when it came to budgets. He said that the Navy was pretty well-heeled from previous administrations and it was his job to make sure the other services got a fair shake. While Larsen could admit privately that possibly his commander-in-chief might have a valid argument from the taxpayer’s point of view, publicly the two men remained in opposition to each other. Unlike a politician, Ray Larsen also possessed an inherent respect for the office and its responsibilities, regardless of its inhabitant.
“This is Admiral Larsen, sir. This line is secure.”
Bennett, Arrow, and Newman quietly studied the change of expressions on Ray Larsen’s face as he talked with the President. There was no speaker phone; a secure line would automatically cut out the feedback. Listening to a one-way conversation is much like eavesdropping, though there is no guilt since only one individual is under direct observation.
“Our conclusion could as easily be based on our combined experience. But to reinforce that, it appears statistically almost impossible that two of our boomers could be lost as the result of an engineering casualty in this manner.”
Eyebrows raised in frustration.
“I fully agree that anything’s possible, sir. However, the number of reasons one would disappear without our having some prior knowledge of a problem, either through an analysts of earlier engineering casualty reports or an unanticipated emergency, is almost zero. It would almost have to be human error. But two of them like this—no chance, in our opinion.”
A nod as his explanation was acknowledged.
“Yes, sir. Admiral Bennett, OP-02; Admiral Arrow, Pacific Submarine Force Commander, and Admiral Newman, Director of Naval Nuclear Propulsion.
A slight smile.
“I’d have to agree with you. If they can’t figure it out, then no one can,” he added for their benefit.
Knit eyebrows—a question he hadn’t expected.
“Beyond the Russians, only the French and British have that sort of capability, and I can’t imagine a scenario that would cause them to do it. They have nothing to gain, sir, nothing I could possibly imagine in my wildest dreams. On the other hand, the Soviet Union has a thousand and one ways to benefit.”
Larsen shook his head.
“Well, sir, you are privy to much more intelligence, but my personal knowledge of their naval leaders would still negate even that. Sort of like cutting their own throats, you might say. And I think the fact that they have no SSNs anywhere in that vicinity or even close enough to have an impact should knock them off the list.”
Ray Larsen was jabbing his finger at a point well to the left of Robbie Newman, as if the President were actually in the room. Bennett found Larsen’s habit even more disconcerting when he was gesticulating into blank space.
“That’s right, sir. To be absolutely honest, Admiral Arrow’s people have been using their computers to project possibilities based on last known position and possible tracks … and they’ve come up with nothing yet. I wish I could offer some hard facts, anything other than my personal suspicions. It’s just that I’ve been in this business for—”
The CNO wasn’t used to being interrupted, and there was a surprised look on his face.
“Thank you, sir. I realize we’ve had our differences and I appreciate your confidence.”
Larsen listened and stroked his chin thoughtfully, occasionally glancing across his desk at the others. Then he shook his head forcefully.
“Damn. I can’t believe it. No indication whatsoever. That was going to be my next question, sir. I thought sure our intelligence people would come up with some hint.”
He leaned forward, cocking his head slightly to one side.
“Yes, sir, I’m sure of that. If there’s anything at all, you can be certain I’ll be in touch immediately.”
When he replaced the receiver, Ray Larsen chewed on his upper lip before he spoke. “Can you believe there’s no sign at all in Moscow that anything’s up? Not a whisper.” He exhaled slowly. “Our commander-in-chief expressed the desire that we come up with something plausible pretty quickly. He said that when there’s no light at the end of the tunnel, then you go to the next tunnel. We’ll set the Russian theory aside if we don’t come up with something damn soon.”
“Where else would we look?” Robbie Newman inquired calmly. “Every single engineering report since Nevada and Alaska began construction has been sifted through our computers. I couldn’t put my finger on anything unless I found the wreckage.”
“He doesn’t understand that,” Larsen responded irritably. “You see, he understands that there are hundreds of Alaska and Nevada survivors out there who have no idea their men are gone. Each hour we wait makes it all that much uglier … for him … for all of us.…”
Mark Bennett tried to imagine how Judy would have reacted if old Stonewall had gone down, especially if the information had been withheld from her. In those days, the kids were still around home. The loss would have been blown out of proportion. But that was years ago. Now they were on their own and Judy—well … he wasn’t sure how she’d handle it. He knew damn well how he’d feel if be were in her shoes and it was Judy who was lost at sea.… That was it. Now he knew.
“We’ve got to go to the families soon,” Bennett said. “They deserve it. I think we’ve got to make plans to have someone knocking at each door, and I think we’ll have to isolate Bangor for as long as possible. You know what I’m thinking about here—the-Navy-takes-care-of-its-own approach, so the media doesn’t get wind of it right away. Maybe by the time they do, we’ll have something to go on.”
Neil Arrow didn’t like the idea. On the other hand, he had to admit that eventually there’d be no other choice. “Okay.”
Markov grasped the arms of his captain’s chair as SSV-516 slid down the side of a huge swell and heeled heavily to port. A screaming wind tore the foam from the tips of waves as high as the bridge and swirled it in a gray mist that enveloped them. The ship hung for an instant, the inclinometer passing thirty-five degrees before beginning the long swing over in the other direction. This was a better course for the safety of the vessel, because they were keeping the sea on the starboard bow rather than burying the ship’s nose deep into each immense wave. It was easier on SSV-516, harder on her crew. Sleep had become just about impossible. Eating was for a select few.
The phone on the bulkhead buzzed. Markov’s grip on the chair tightened with one hand as he grabbed the instrument with the other. “Captain here,” he growled.
“The American aircraft is closing, sir. Now on a direct course.”
“When did it turn?”
“As soon as the last signal to the American submarine.”
“Range?”
“About seventy kilometers.”
“Call me if there is any change in the American’s direction.”
Captain Markov hesitated. There was no way that aircraft could get a visual on them in this dismal weather. But, he eventually reasoned, it was all a matter of electronics these days, so seeing your enemy no longer had meaning. He pushed the button for his warrant-missile specialist. “Our target is closing now. If he reaches forty kilometers, I want you prepared to launch on my direction. Is your kill range limited that much in this weather?”
“Negative, Captain. They’re heat seeking.”
“Then there’s no warning signal to the aircraft once they’re launched?”
“They have to know our radar’s on them and they’re being tracked, but they can’t tell exactly when we launch. Of course, they could pick them up on radar. But that’s highly unlikely in this mess.”
“I want you to fire all four missiles in the launcher. I don’t want them to have an opportunity to report any attack.”
Chapter Eight
Peter Simonds, Manchester’s executive officer, had never in his life—not once, not even in his single days when he partied every night with the other bachelors—considered becoming a SEAL. As an ensign there had been early signs of the stomach that now hid his belt buckle. He was a fancier or fine women and food and drink and had grown accustomed to that belly to the point that it was a comfortable friend. While it created an annual problem at the time of his Navy physical, his talents outweighed the spirit of the regulations. Peter’s good intentions expanded each year, enough to escape each doctor after a halfhearted warning. The result was that he continued to avoid anything vigorous that would take time from his favorite habits ashore.
There was a time when Peter considered settling down. It was the one memorable point of his single tour on a missile boat, Lewis and Clark, and at the same time the lowest point in his life before he’d grown to understand his good fortune. The incident occurred far enough in the past that he had finally been successful in moving it to the rear of his mental filing system.
He met her the first time they pulled into Holy Loch for a refit period with the tender Simon Lake. Any of the older officers in the wardroom could have warned him against falling in love with a girl he met in a bar, but it was something everyone had to learn. As unfortunate as it was to learn the hard way, Peter would no more have interfered today with one of his junior officers than his XO did with him at the time—”the school of hard knocks,” his captain said later on in a consoling voice, and “better than knocked up.”
Her name was Mary, simply Mary, none of those lilting Scottish names for her. She was pretty and talked with a pleasant, rich accent and she drank much too much of the local whiskey. But for a young, single officer in a foreign country for the first time, that was exciting. The fact that she didn’t take him to her flat until the second night convinced Peter that she’d decided he was special. When she told him she loved him, he sincerely believed his dashing charm had simply bowled her over. Not once did it occur to him that he was a ticket out of the life she had succumbed to in the past years. Not an officer in Holy Loch, whether stationed there or just passing through, had the heart to tell him who and what she really was.
When Lewis and Clark got under way for the next patrol, Mary possessed his undying love and the ring that had been given to him by his grandmother.
When Lewis and Clark returned to Holy Loch, he went directly to her flat, racing up the stairs and through the door like the lovesick puppy that he was. The man in bed with Mary claimed that he’d paid for the entire night but had no interest in a fight. He had no objection if Peter wanted his ring back, so he calmly pulled on his skivvies and headed down the hall for a hot tub.
Each year that passed dimmed memories of pretty, sweet Mary and her lovely accent, until there were months that he never thought about her. Nor did he ever interfere with the painful love lives of his junior officers. His grandmother’s ring remained buried deeply in his jewelry box. Peter remained a contented bachelor.
Yet there was also a contrariness surrounding the XO. At sea he was considered an exceptional submariner, an action-oriented officer who would relish contact with an enemy boat. He especially enjoyed the SEALs who came aboard his submarines, although their stays were short. They were rarely aboard longer than it took to transport them to their lockout point near an unfriendly coast, but he found them more interesting to him personally. Their attitudes were the same as his.
Too many of the younger officers were inordinately intense, no matter whether they were qualifying for their dolphins or competing to become a department head before their peers. It was always a race for them—yet it shouldn’t have been a race, not from Simonds’s view. Regardless of their abilities on paper, too many of this new breed never seemed to become an integral, functioning unit of the submarine, no matter how hard they worked. Peter Simonds wore a submarine like a second skin. He was a natural. And he also took the time to learn from people beyond the submarine navy—like the SEALs.
Simonds found Lieutenant Commander Burch, the SEAL they plucked from the ocean, where he expected he would— in the torpedo room. It was the last space the XO was checking for extraneous noise. He already knew it was secure and there would be no noise until the time came to reload tubes. And at that point such sounds would no longer matter. The torpedo room was also where Simonds knew he’d run into Burch because SEALs found any unfamiliar weapon a challenge.
“I suppose if there was an easy entrance to that missile launcher tucked way up in the bow, I’d have to crawl up there to find you.” There was almost always a happy lilt to Simonds’s hoarse voice. “Can you imagine someone my size crawling through that access trunk just to shoot the shit with you?” He laughed.
There was a single, small hatch leading from the torpedo room into the missile space located all the way forward on the lower level. There were twelve vertical tubes, each one containing a Tomahawk cruise missile, set between the pressure bull and the sonar sphere separating the torpedo room from the bow.
Burch had recognized the other “natural,” in addition to Manchester’s captain, within an hour after he’d come aboard. He understood intuitively why Ben Steel was so confident in leaving the control room to Simonds during the search phase. “I haven’t been shown the missiles, but I’ll take your word for it.” The chief torpedoman was nearby, arms draped comfortably over one of his weapons. “The chief’s been teaching me how to ride one of these devils.”
The torpedo room was the entire width of the submarine, and the area up to the tubes and the instrument panel was mostly for torpedo storage. The torpedoes, close to two feet in diameter and twenty feet long, were cradled on hydraulically operated racks that could be adjusted to shift the weapons from their original storage place to a position where they could be loaded into the tubes. The four tubes, two on each side, canted outward at an angle, surrounded by a mass of gauges, valves, and piping. Between the tubes were the torpedomen’s control stations. The actual firing was done from the control room, although it could be done by hand from the torpedo room in an emergency.
“Are you getting aboard one of those fish before or after it leaves the tubes?” Simonds wandered over and leaned casually against the same torpedo as the SEAL.
Burch was a stocky individual, all shoulders and chest and muscles. “You flatter me. The chief explained what it was like inside one of those tubes. A bit of a tight fit. Looks like I’d have to catch it on the way by.”
The XO pushed his glasses back on his nose. “It’s comfortable in here, isn’t it? Smells good, too. Other than preparing for a firing sequence, I’d prefer to be in here myself.” He took a deep breath and inhaled the intoxicating aroma of grease and metal. “You ought to be here when they’re reloading. Less than seven minutes from the time we fire until we’re ready again. Not quite as fast as being in a gun mount but a hell of a lot more exciting.”
“The chief tells me he can do it a hell of a lot faster.”
“That’s when we don’t have any observers aboard with their goddamn checklists. Seven minutes is what we tell the paper pushers in the commodore’s office. They like doctrine. When the chief’s not running by the book, then it’s really something. Oh, shit,” he exclaimed happily, “you ought to see them when we’re going through an attack sequence—setting up the target solution, firing, maneuvering to avoid counterfire. Christ. Ben Steel drives this thing like a race car, diving, high-speed turns, everything. Then he’s calling down here for the next firing run, never figuring that all these guys have had a chance to do is hold on for dear life. And the chief almost always tells him he’s got at least two tubes ready.” He slapped the side of one of the torpedoes and pushed his glasses back again. “You’d love it,” he said hoarsely.
