Complete venus equilater.., p.18
Boomer, page 18
“You mean I let you sleep too long, Captain?” He had a hand extended so that one of the sonarmen would hand him a set of headphones.
“No, Chief, you timed it perfectly. I was just about in dreamland when that goddamn phone buzzed. Mr. Sones tells me you’ve found something from outer space.”
Delaney smiled at his own humor. “Might as well be, Captain. The way it’s playing with my watch section, you’d think so.” A headset was placed in his hands and he hung it around his neck like a towel. “One of the men picked it up about half an hour ago. It’s about as faint as it can get without being nothing. I suppose since there’s nothing else out here, that’s why he picked it up. Just something barely audible on broad band.”
“You’re sure it’s manmade?”
“Listened to it myself.” He shrugged. “Then fed the recording through the computer.”
“Could be a surface ship.”
“No … no, I don’t think so. We probably would have picked up some screw noises or surface effect with it if it was.” Delaney turned away and placed the headphones over his ears as one of the sonarmen waved a hand at him. “Just a second, Captain. I think we’ve got something again.”
Nelson glanced over at Dan Mundy, who was staring vacantly at the deck while he concentrated on the sound coming through his own headphones. He began to nod to himself as if the space were empty. Then he flipped the recording switch on the panel behind him before beckoning to Nelson. “Here, Captain, try these,” he said, lifting the headset off and offering it in his direction. “Something there again.”
Nelson pulled the headphones over his ears and listened. He heard the rush of nothingness, the sound of the living Pacific Ocean, indistinct yet existing beyond their hull. But there was nothing else other than Florida’s own minimal noise signature as it slipped through the water, not even when Chief Delaney wagged an index finger at him and then pointed at one of his ears with his eyebrows raised. There was something there—Nelson was willing to acknowledge their abilities to discern what was nonexistent to the normal ear—but, no, nothing he could identify. He handed the headphones back to Mundy.
“See what I mean, Captain.” The XO nodded. “They’re all crazy.”
“Look at Delaney. He acts like he’s listening to the Boston Pops.”
Cross nodded sagely. “Like the sound of one hand clapping. What would we do without them?” It was easy to joke about it, even easier to dismiss if each of them didn’t realize that this indistinct, unidentifiable sound that had just traveled through untold miles of saltwater could be an enemy. There was no reason for it to exist in this section of the Pacific. And Delaney was sure it was another submarine!
The chief spoke to Nelson without looking in his direction. “Captain, we’re going to clarify that and amplify it before feeding it into the computer and then … oh, shit!” He lifted the headset off and draped it around his neck again. “There it goes. But I think we got enough.”
Nelson noted that his sonar officer was still listening, a troubled expression on his face. “Chief,” Nelson said, “the XO and I are going to wake up with a cup of coffee in the wardroom. Why don’t you and Mr. Mundy come on up there when you’ve decided why no one wants us to sleep.” As they left the sonar room, he added over his shoulder, “If you come up with something we can have fun with, you might even get a doughnut out of the deal.”
“Give us fifteen or twenty minutes, sir.”
Less than fifteen minutes later Dan Mundy came into the wardroom with the chief. “Delaney was right the first time, Captain,” he said as he poured two mugs of coffee. “Manmade … and subsurface.”
Each man looked at the other silently, seemingly embarrassed that there was nothing definitive any of them could say.
“Whose?” Nelson inquired softly.
Delaney looked apologetic as he reached for a doughnut. “Can’t tell yet. Too far away, I’d say. We’ve been experiencing some odd temperature gradients out there for one thing, and I don’t think our contact is burning up the ocean either. That’s why whatever we pick up keeps drifting in and out. We’ve got to have a steadier sound for a while before we can analyze it properly. Or we’ve got to find some spot out here where water temperatures are constant and he lights up for us like a neon sign.”
“I suppose we’re going to have to wait to get any target-motion analysis.” Jimmy Cross spread his hands on the table, palms up.
“All we can be sure of is that it’s off the port bow now,” Mundy responded. “Could be doing anything.”
Nelson ran the back of his hand across the stubble on his chin. “And we’ve got nothing of ours operating nearby?” he asked the XO again.
“Not unless there’s been some drastic changes in op areas that they didn’t give us before we got under way,” Cross answered.
“Then it’s Soviet.” Buck Nelson shrugged and spread his hands. “No one else is running submarines out here.”
There was no response from any of the others.
“So, my friend,” Nelson said to Mundy. “No more sleep for you, I’m afraid.” He grinned at Delaney. “You see, there are ways of getting even, Chief. Until we know better, your contact is assumed to be unfriendly. I want you to do everything you possibly can—and then some—to identify it and track it. We’ll keep the rest of the crew on regular watch until we have something. We’re going to turn to a southerly leg shortly, and that’ll bring your contact to the starboard bow, maybe close it a bit.”
“Suggestion,” Cross said.
“Shoot.”
“I’d like to have the OODs exaggerate their base course maneuvering, try some more radical depth and course changes. If sound conditions are as difficult as the chief claims, we might as well cover ourselves as much as possible … make it equally difficult if they’re looking for us.”
“Go ahead, Mr. Sones has been looking forward to something to kill the boredom. That ought to make him happy.”
No more than a couple of weeks had been necessary for COMSUBPAC’s flag lieutenant to become comfortable around admirals. His job required that he work closely with one daily, and he had lost track of the number he had met since he was ordered to Neil Arrow. At first, totaling up the number of stars he came in contact with had been a game—one for a fresh-caught flag officer, two for a rear admiral, three for a vice admiral, and four for a full admiral. But he lost track when he passed one hundred thirty, so he decided to break off his count at the end of each week. He was also getting tired of all those stars. Admirals had become a dime a dozen.
It was quite different, though, when the CNO and the three most senior submariners in the Navy gathered in one room. The stars totaled fourteen, although it came to eighteen whenever PACFLEET joined them. That was the very highest end of the scale, if his averages included stars in a single room at one time. And not only were they an imposing group, these men were also family—on a first-name basis and well aware of each other’s strengths and weaknesses. One man’s thoughts could easily be verbalized by another.
“Right there,” Neil Arrow tapped the spot on the northern Pacific with a pointer. “Last-known position. They were closing on that Soviet intelligence vessel.”
“I thought they were scheduled for refueling,” said Admiral Larsen.
Arrow nodded. “They already had rendezvous instructions. The pilot rogered them—so he had to have received them properly—then he continued with something else that was garbled. Weather stinks up there. Must be three or four fronts trying to pass through all at the same time. Communications were limited at best.”
“But they’d found something out, your flag lieutenant said?” Larsen inquired.
“I’m not sure what. That’s the message, or whatever we could put together from it.” He nodded at the flag lieutenant. “Give Admiral Larsen a copy of that, please. You see, Ray,” he continued, “it just came to me about fifteen minutes ago, and it was so nebulous I couldn’t see dragging you out of the head to read it, since you were going to be in here in a few minutes anyway. All we can figure is that the pilot was closing that Soviet intelligence ship because he apparently thought he had something. He probably figured the weather was screwing everything up and it was worth a shot to come in on top of them.”
Mark Bennett’s eyes had never left the spot where the pointer had been. Christ, what a godforsaken place! South of the Aleutians—where elephants went to die. There wouldn’t be a trace of that plane by the time the weather cleared, and sometimes it was like that for weeks on end. “What a hell of a way to go. I hope they were dead before they hit the water.” He was aware of some of the grisly sights rescue craft found after men had struggled to survive in those waters. “They deserved better than they got.”
“We don’t know for certain—” Newman began.
“No, we don’t, Robbie. I guess that’s the least of our concerns, isn’t it? No backup for them?”
“Weather closed in worse than when we sent them out,” Arrow answered. “We were advised to wait a couple of hours to see if it would lighten up. It’s not going to.”
Bennett stared at the aircraft’s last position. “When they do send a new crew out, tell that pilot to stay away from that Russian ship.”
“I figure that’s what got ’em, too,” Larsen agreed, “but we’ll probably never know.” He pointed a finger at Mark Bennett and waved it in a circle. “You were going to locate that attack sub of yours … Pasadena,” he recalled.
“Nothing. No response during normal communications periods. We’ve had some aircraft in her operations area the past few hours searching, planting sonobuoys … everything. Not a sound. My boats don’t operate that way—” Bennett stopped in midsentence and stared back at the CNO, then waggled a finger back at him. “Now, damn it, Ray, stop pointing that thing at me. You really piss me off sometimes. I’ve got enough to think about without having to convince myself not to take a swipe at the Chief of Naval Operations—and believe me, I’ve thought about it the past twenty-four hours. So.…” He couldn’t think of another thing to say.
Larsen’s face expanded into a huge grin. His normally penetrating blue eyes twinkled. He turned the finger that was still pointing in Bennett’s direction around and stared at it. “Looks like a regular, run-of-the-mill index finger to me.” He raised his eyebrows. “Never shot anyone with it yet.” Then he uttered a short, sharp sound that was intended to be a laugh. “So I was intimidating you with it.” He looked at the anger. “I often wondered if it was working that well, but I never had the guts to ask anyone.” He glanced over at Neil Arrow. “Does it piss you off, too?”
“You’re damn right it does, Ray. We’re not a bunch of telephone commanders trying to act important, it irritates the hell out of me.” There, he’d made his own point.
“Well, all you’ve got to do is say something,” Larsen said, pleased with himself. “It’s just a bad habit, I guess.” But just as quickly he wheeled around and pointed it at Arrow’s flag lieutenant, whose mouth had dropped slightly at the shift in conversation. “If I ever hear a story about this conversation, I’ll know exactly where it came from, young man.”
“My lips are sealed, Admiral.” Once again the young officer was the picture of perfect naval decorum.
“Back to Pasadena,” Larsen said. “You think the same thing happened to her that got your boomers?”
“We haven’t got the vaguest idea what happened to Nevada and Alaska, plus you’re talking about two different classes of submarines. No one’s reported any unidentified contacts that might be her. And the op areas were too far apart.” He pointed out the last locations of the three submarines. “Look at that distance. No one’s going to break their orders and go chasing all over the Pacific.”
“Engineering casualties?” Larsen glanced over at Robbie Newman, aware that the question had already been dismissed with the boomers.
“Doubtful again. More likely human error, if she really is gone. Pasadena was in beautiful shape. I had my boys in Washington comb her files. Nothing.”
Larsen’s eyes fell on Mark Bennett. He held his right index finger in his left hand as if it might escape. “I’ve got it under control now. See?” He held the trapped finger up for all to see. “How about the crew?”
“Wayne Newell is one of the best. He was one of my officers when I had Stonewall Jackson. Dick Makin, his XO, is a superior officer, too. There could have been an accident, but….” He finished the sentence by shaking his head.
“There’s no choice, then.” Larsen’s eyes were narrowed now into their familiar slits to display his unhappiness. “I haven’t got any proof, but I’ve got to tell the President that it appears our problems are due to enemy action—and the only enemy that I can imagine out there is Soviet … even if we haven’t located any of their submarines. He has to make a decision.”
“Captain, really … believe me, if I so much as hear a peep that sounds the least bit odd, you’ll be the first to know.” Moroney had been chief sonarman aboard Manchester for eighteen months, even before Ben Steel had assumed command. Up until now the captain had been what the men considered “cool.” Never flustered. Not a sign of anger unless it was obviously called for. He handled himself well in any situation. But now there were signs that he was anxious, an omnipresent figure lurking behind the sonarmen on watch, asking them questions every few minutes, borrowing headphones to make sure they were functioning properly. Moroney could see signs of irritation from his men.
“Am I that obvious, Chief?”
“Like your fly was wide open and the flag was dying, Captain. You know … when you’re looking for a contact, it takes twice as long to find it than if you just wait for it to show up. I’ve been in this business all my life, and I guarantee that if you’re not looking too hard, they just come to you.”
Steel felt a smile beckoning at the corners of his mouth. Moroney was right. That old saying about the chiefs running the Navy was right, too. If you let them do their job, you were running your ship properly. “Okay, Chief, you win. I’ll stay out of your hair. I can’t will a contact no matter how bad I want it. I promise I’ll stay out of your hair for the time being. But you got to understand it’s not easy for an old sonar officer.”
“Now, sir, you don’t have to ask permission to visit. We wouldn’t know what to do if you didn’t stop around for a cup of coffee. It’s just that I think you’ll be more ready for an attack when the time comes if you take it easier.…” He was fumbling for the right words.
“Say no more, Chief. I understand. As usual, you’re right.”
Moroney could feel his face warming. “I didn’t mean—”
“You’re just like my mother, Chief. She was always right, too. It just took me a little longer to admit it. “I’m on my way to control to bother Mr. Simonds. Then maybe I’ll grab a little sack time while you’re all busting your asses. That’s the soft life of a captain.” Steel was tempted to clap Moroney on the shoulder, as he might do to encourage the younger officers, but it didn’t seem the proper thing to do. The chief already had the headphones back on his ears and was leaning over one of the sonarmen’s shoulders, pointing at something on his screen.
Steel took the few short steps that brought him into the control room and stopped, gently sliding the sonar door shut behind him. It was almost as quiet as sonar. Each man was immersed in his job. Only the diving officer was talking, softly explaining something to one of the planesmen from his position to their rear. From the raised platform behind them the OOD quietly noted the displays on the control panel, one hand gripping the brace hanging from the overhead. The duty quartermaster was at the rear of the control room punching buttons on the navigation computer which would provide him with an accurate ship’s position. Two others were working on the fire-control equipment on the starboard side of the space.
No one noticed Steel until a radioman appeared from his tiny space situated back near the entrance to engineering. The radioman headed through control toward the forward passageway and glanced at his watch before saying, “Good morning, Captain.”
“Good morning, Wirtz. Got anything for me?”
“Negative, sir. We don’t go up to copy our broadcast for another couple of hours. If you’re headed for the sack, sir, you’d better grab a few quick hours. I’ll be the one waking you up then.”
Steel nodded. “Fine. Maybe I will try a few hours’ snoozing.” He caught the OOD’s eye. “Is Mr. Simonds taking a nap?”
“No, sir. He headed back to engineering about twenty minutes ago, after Chief Moroney told him there was some sound from aft passing through the hull.”
“That’s right. I remember.” And he should have remembered. He’d been standing beside Moroney when the chief had picked up a sound he thought was a wrench coming from the aft section of the submarine. The call had gone to Peter Simonds, just as the captain’s orders had indicated, and the OOD had reported immediately that the XO was on his way aft. Maybe he should try to sleep.
“Want me to call him for you, Captain?” the OOD asked. “Or maybe you want to take a nap.”
Steel shook his head. “Don’t bother. I think I’ll chase him down myself.”
As he climbed through the hatch back by the navigational computers, Steel once again appreciated the different world in the rear half of Manchester. The well-lighted engineering spaces were a world totally separate from the darkened, red-lit forward control area. They housed the power plant that made the true submersible possible—the nuclear reactor. It was here that the controlled atomic reaction produced the heat that not only moved Manchester through the water at tremendous speed, but allowed her to remain below the surface as long as sustenance for the human body lasted.
It was clean and neat back here. The power plant literally ran itself. The engineers seemed merely there to monitor, to ensure that every piece of machinery operated as it had been designed to do. In addition to the watch officer, there was a reactor operator who controlled the rods, main cooling pumps, and the reactor’s instrumentation; the throttleman who turned the large wheel that released steam to the turbines to turn the shaft; and an electrician who regulated the distribution of electrical power. They watched dials intently, recorded data constantly, performed routine maintenance, kept their space clean enough to eat off the tile-covered decks, and responded to the maneuvering orders from control. The place even smelled different, more like a hospital, sanitary and neat, everything in its proper place—a world apart from the weapons systems and control room forward!
