Complete venus equilater.., p.2
Boomer, page 2
“And there’s no pattern to it,” the XO added. “I’ve been through these things before on other boats. After a while you get to anticipate what comes next. Not this time,” he concluded grimly. “Plus the first message, the one before they shifted us to another broadcast, was directed to every military addressee in the Pacific Fleet. It wasn’t something designed to test just Pasadena.”
Each American attack submarine on patrol rose close enough to the surface at least twice every twenty-four hours to stream a floating wire just below the surface or raise an antenna in order to copy any messages directed to them and take a satellite fix. Soon after that first directive establishing an increased readiness condition for all American military units, Pasadena was requested to shift to another broadcast for operational purposes. From that moment on she appeared chosen to become a vital cog in an American plan to avoid a nuclear confrontation. On the fourth day, in the presence of his executive officer and department heads, Wayne Newell sliced open a packet he’d carried aboard just moments before Pasadena departed Pearl Harbor. They were informed that Pasadena’s operating area was in the vicinity of known Soviet SSBN patrol boxes. Her mission would be to intercept and destroy them if the order was given.
Wayne Newell and his officers were familiar with the objective. It had been established years before with the Navy’s Maritime Strategy. Seize the initiative: wage war aggressively against the enemy’s undersea capability—sink their ballistic-missile submarines to limit their desire to escalate to a nuclear exchange. And it was all based on the theory that Moscow would not employ nuclear weapons if there was a distinct possibility that the Soviet Union might trigger the nuclear devastation of their own homeland as a consequence.
“In any situation where the future of mankind is at stake, there are inevitably a chosen few. They essentially save the world.” Newell had used this same message over the ship’s P.A. a couple of times before to explain why he expected each member of the crew to do his duty, even if that meant sacrificing themselves and their ship. “Pasadena has been selected, I’m sure, because we have brought a new meaning to the term excellence”—and he seemed to give an almost religious symbolism to the word—“in every phase of our operations.” Pasadena had won the E for excellence in each segment of competition for the coveted award. She was the top attack submarine in the Pacific Fleet.
“What the captain and I are assuming is that Pasadena deserves this mission.” Dick Makin was as fond of his commanding officer as any man in the fleet. It was a privilege to serve under a man like Newell. If Makin never received another billet, if the Navy chose to overlook his potential for command, he was secure in the fact that he had served with the best. The XO still looked like the football player he’d been fifteen years earlier, broad-shouldered and thick-necked. But his face remained youthful even with a premature lack of hair. He was popular with the junior officers who kidded him about leather helmets and single-wing football. His dark eyes generally twinkled good-naturedly, and there was always an even smile, as long as things were going his way.
“It’s possible one or more additional boats were switched to another broadcast also,” Makin continued. “We could go back and copy one of the other circuits again, but the captain and I decided not to because of the danger that the enemy could compromise that frequency and broadcast conflicting orders,” It was true. Newell was able to explain the critical nature of communications so that a child would appreciate the situation. Makin’s eyes settled on the engineer. “You can imagine what a disaster that could be, Kirk. Believe me, the captain has involved me in every single decision. We’ve considered every possibility. This isn’t a drill.” He glanced at Newell for confirmation. “We are an integral part of Washington’s strategy.”
“Which brings me to the purpose of this little cocktail party.” Newell grinned. “This is the toughest pill of all to swallow, and I’m going to give it to Wally to read.” He removed a sheet of paper from his breast pocket and handed it to the communications officer. “You broke the message, Wally, so you win the dubious honor of reading it to the boys around the bar.”
Lieutenant Junior Grade Snyder was one of those standing. He had to reach over the XO’s shoulder for the piece of paper. The color drained from his face as he glanced down at the words he’d typed out so neatly after breaking the coded message for the captain. “All the messages on this broadcast are designated for Pasadena,” he began haltingly. “It’s our very own … ah, broadcast, as a matter of fact. It’s from COMSUBPAC.” Snyder looked over to Newell for support.
“Go ahead, Wally. Your boys copied it. You broke it. You checked it twice to make sure there were no mistakes. You have the honors.”
“Intelligence reports confirm existence of Soviet submarine masking device. Equipment imitates exactly American SSBN signature. Repeat, American SSBN signature. No means exist to break through device. Coordinates of Pasadena targets will therefore be designated by this command only. Regardless of apparent target identity, coordinates issued to Pasadena will be Soviet SSBN only. You are ordered to open envelope Bravo Delta Two Zero. Orders to follow Zero Nine Zero Zero Zulu.”
Lieutenant Snyder’s face mirrored the inherent doubt that existed in his mind. He would follow Wayne Newell to the gates of Hell, but he maintained a healthy suspicion for any wisdom emanating from Washington.
“Gentlemen, if you’re ready for another round, you may serve yourselves.” The captain waved in the direction of the coffeepot. “I’ll wait until you’re comfortable, since the rules of the game have just been altered drastically.”
No one moved. The import of COMSUBPAC’s message was simple enough. It was quite possible they would actually be ordered to sink one or more targets. War—so swift and sudden in its impact—was evidently at hand. It was possible that their entire attack could be conducted against one or more targets that gave every indication of being sister ships— fight up until the moment they were sunk! But what if….
Their silence was ominous. No matter how long a man made a profession out of preparing himself for the possibility of war, the reality of the situation was still a shock. “Your message is received, gentlemen, and understood. The XO and I have been doing a bit of soul searching ourselves on this one.” There was no effort at humor. Newell understood how each of them were reacting. You learned pretty quickly on a submarine how your people responded. That was an essential of command.
The executive officer was the first to react. “The captain has expressed his reservations to me already. That was shortly after he asked me to read that Bravo Delta Two Zero. I agreed with him that each of you should have your say because we could be ordered at any moment to sink a boat that sounds just like one of our own Tridents. I, for one … I might have a hard time giving the order. So I know how the captain feels at this point.” Dick Makin was as assertive as an XO could be, and he’d been the one to insist Newell open the discussion to his officers.
The navigator was the first to speak. “Captain, if you have no objections, I’d like to ask for confirmation the next time we go to periscope depth. I know it’s remote, but don’t you think there’s a chance that our crypto could have been compromised? Or maybe it was just a freak of nature, a weird something in the atmosphere that allowed them to interfere with that broadcast for just a short time.” He shrugged. “I don’t know, sir, maybe I’m shooting in the dark. But … but if we ever made a mistake, none of us could live with ourselves.” He was the first since Pasadena got under way to exhibit signs of a new mustache, and he was habitually smoothing it with his fingers.
“That was my first idea, Andy. But we all know we’re not supposed to be transmitting at all. If we’re already involved in even a limited war on top, someone could intercept that signal of ours and have our position in no time.”
Andy McKown was persistent. “We don’t have to send a long one, sir, just a burst transmission, an interrogative referencing COMSUBPAC’s message. You’re talking seconds then. What are the odds of someone getting our position in that time? A million to one? A thousand to one? Even with a hundred to one, I’d much rather take that chance than sink one of our own.”
“You’re right, you know.” Newell nodded in agreement. “We could never go back to Pearl again if we’d done something like that.” He looked around the wardroom. “It’s almost impossible that anyone’d ever pinpoint us. But I want to make sure there’re no other arguments.” By the expression on his face, they knew Newell had already made up his mind, but each of them also knew he enjoyed opening the discussion to them.
“Okay, Wally, go ahead and draft that message now. Put ‘C.O. PASADENA REQUESTS CONFIRM YOUR’ … whatever the date/time/group was, I want them to know it comes directly from me.”
Wayne Newell was more than willing to acquiesce to that request, for he already knew what the response would be. He’d also anticipated each of the messages Pasadena had received since the crisis began. Newell was familiar with their contents beforehand because he knew they had not originated from COMSUBPAC. It had taken years to devise this plan, and its basis was exquisite. Code-named Boomer—since American SSBNs were the objective—patience became a way of life for those involved. The key to its eventual success was based on two critical points: Wayne Newell’s promotion to command of a nuclear-attack submarine, and that vessel being assigned to the correct patrol area at the correct time.
The message from Pasadena, the one Andy McKown had pressed for, had gone out as an emergency and it came back at the same speed. It confirmed COMSUBPAC’s warning. It also added a not-so-subtle admonition to her skipper: CRITICAL YOU CEASE TRANSMISSION PER GUIDELINES CONDITION ONE. It meant, in so many words, that Pasadena was to follow orders and await target assignment without further questioning.
Twenty-four hours later, what each man feared came as the ultimate message: PROCEED ZONE LIMA ECHO TWO SIX TO PROSECUTE CONFIRMED TARGET PER MY … and COMSUBPAC proceeded to list earlier messages, including the confirmation that the target was imitating an American boomer. But the most ominous part of the message was that the world situation had escalated to a conventional shooting war with employment of nuclear arms anticipated.
Wayne Newell was in the control room when the sonar officer’s initial report concerning their first contact echoed through the speaker. It was Steve Thompson’s voice: “We’ve got machinery noises filtering through all that crap out there.”
The change in the atmosphere was immediate, electric. Each man in control knew that sonar had been analyzing sounds radiating from the assigned sector, but until that moment there had been nothing manmade in the curious natural roar of the Pacific. If a war was indeed in progress on the surface, Pasadena remained blessed with ignorance—neither a hunter nor the hunted.
Quite suddenly that had all changed. According to their captain’s op order, there were no other American submarines in that area. It was their sector to hunt and theirs alone. Any manmade contact would most certainly be the enemy.
“Very well. How soon can you give me a bearing?” Newell’s slightly bored expression while the hours of search progressed had changed to sudden animation. The waiting was over.
“Still mushy, Captain. Port bow to port beam … need to close the contact to confirm.”
Newell turned to his executive officer, “Station the section-tracking party, Dick, Slow to ten knots. We’ll ease our way in. I’m going to put in some sonar time.”
Pasadena had been on a northerly course, “Left ten degrees rudder, steady course three two five.” Andy McKown was the OOD. “Ahead two thirds,” He glanced over his shoulder at the XO, “Any special reason we’re making a slow approach, sir? If we’re so far away we don’t even know what the contact is yet, the Russians don’t have any sonar that can pick us out.”
“Caution, I suppose, Andy. We can’t assume any SSBN out in the middle of the Pacific is by itself any more than the ones they’ve got up under the ice. Those have guard dogs around them because that’s where they figure we’ll attack.” He shrugged. “Only Washington knows. Maybe the logical solution was to stick some of their big boys out here away from the hassle.”
“I guess that makes sense, XO. And I suppose he could have some attack boats protecting him out here in the middle of nowhere.”
“That’s why the captain’s closing in this manner. Their ears get better every day. He said he planned to maneuver once we had a confirmation on the contact. Let him cross our bow and make a pretty target.”
Ten knots was generally a limit for 688s. That was close to their ambient limited speed, which occurred when their own ship’s noise was approximately the same as that of the ocean. The submarine didn’t become any quieter by going slower at that point, and it became more difficult to maneuver at lower speeds.
Pasadena continued to close slowly, silence being close to godliness.
The watch changed. Those who were relieved carried the latest details back to their compartments: machinery noises first … then classified possible submarine … captain maneuvered in an attempt to enhance the sound … contact was still too weak for accurate target-motion analysis … still too much background noise….
Newell ordered course changes, searching cautiously with the towed array—listening for any sound that might indicate their contact was accompanied.
Nothing.
If a watch dog was near the boomer, it should make a noise sooner or later. Dick Makin suggested that if there really were an attack boat protecting this boomer, the logical idea in that vast empty ocean would be to circle the boomer you were guarding. She could, after all be attacked from three hundred sixty separate directions.
“That would require some speed,” Newell agreed, “and that would mean noise. We’d pick up one of their quietest boats, even an Akula or a Sierra, after a while…. ”His voice drifted off as he considered his approach. “Our contact could even be masking a watch dog now, on the other side, just like an eclipse, but sooner or later it’d have to show up.”
They waited. Ten knots meant they were closing the contact at ten nautical miles an hour—that’s if it were standing still. If it were on the same course and speed, there would be no approach, just the same distant unconfirmed sound depending on the condition of the water. On the other hand, if it came toward them, the sound intensity should increase. Sonar would analyze the target….
“Contact is improving … we have cavitation….” This time it was the voice of the chief.
“Any identification?”
“Classified probable submarine, Captain. I’m sure that’s no surface contact.”
“Thanks, Chief,” Tommy Lott, the chief sonarman, had been an instructor before he came aboard Pasadena. He’d taught the fine points of analyzing contacts to hundreds of younger men in the fleet. “Now can you tell me where he’s headed?”
“Give us a little more time, sir.”
Twenty minutes later the head of the section tracking party announced, “Got a generally northwest heading, Captain. Recommend we come back on a northerly course to close—maybe a little east—and I think it would help if we could add a couple of knots.”
“Go ahead, Dick, but not a sound aft. Tell engineering to ease that throttle,” Newell said to his XO. “And let’s man battle stations. If we’re able to classify a probable already, along with a course for that sound, eventually we’re going to be close enough to be heard.”
The process was a quiet one for Pasadena. Her crew was efficient. They’d anticipated being called away to battle stations and looked forward to the order when it came. Until that moment, Newell had sensed a feeling of emptiness among the men. But it wasn’t so much from their understanding that the world was on the edge of a nuclear precipice. Strangely enough, that had been accepted more easily than he anticipated. The past few days had demanded long hours of work from the crew as they prepared for what appeared to be a unique mission, and that was almost welcome.
What bothered them most, Newell learned, was their inability to share two of the most basic human reactions with their families—the fear of devastation and the hope for survival. For all they knew, the fear generated by a clash of the superpowers had become a reality on the surface. All the well-meaning efforts by so many leaders on both sides to diminish cold-war temperaments appeared to have collapsed. Conventional war on any number of battlefields could already be escalating toward a nuclear exchange. Until those orders arrived, they had been able to do nothing tangible, nothing that would justify Pasadena’s existence, nothing that would protect loved ones. Life beneath the surface of the ocean in a tiny tube called Pasadena had left them empty in crisis.
Now, according to their captain, they had an opportunity to become part of Washington’s grand strategy.
The fire-control coordinator, Dick Makin, had been unable to generate an accurate set of cross bearings on the contact. “Captain, request we alter course. I’d like to try to get a better feel for his motion.” Target-motion analysis was the process of obtaining a series of bearings on a sound, then changing course in order to obtain new bearings. The points where these second bearings crossed the first set would display the general direction the target was moving. Once they drew closer, these individual fixes could provide a fairly accurate course and speed for their target.
Ten minutes later, “Captain, I think our friend may have altered course. My old solution isn’t tracking.”
“Right. We’ll hold this course and generate some additional bearings. Then see what you can do, Dick.” Newell remembered the endless days of “the box” on a ballistic-missile submarine. SSBNs were assigned an operating area, exactly like this Lima Echo Two Six, and that was where they stayed. It was their station and theirs alone. In time of war the Pentagon knew that a particular submarine could be directed to fire if an action message was relayed to it via VLF from land or a TACAMO communications aircraft. The SSBN in that sector would fire its Trident missiles at preassigned targets from that specific point beneath the ocean’s surface. There was a purpose, if one understood missiles and computers and the necessity to saturate an enemy, especially if that enemy was in the process of blanketing U.S. cities with the same nuclear devastation.
