Complete venus equilater.., p.7
Boomer, page 7
“Say you do the test. How does that work? We’re not supposed to be transmitting. No matter what frequency we copy, we don’t squawk word one. You know, radio silence and all that.”
“It’s pretty simple. It’s designed for an emergency. Just a simple series of letters and numbers that we send so quick no one could ever fix a position on the sending station, or no more than maybe one in a million.” His arms were folded across the top of the chair again and he leaned forward. “Then they answer us with a preplanned series of letters and numbers. It’s a burst transmission, so there’s no problem with interception. If their answer is correct, then I’m wrong. If not, well, then I don’t know what to do next. But it would mean that something’s not kosher and the captain better pay attention to the problem double quick.”
Makin studied the young officer closely. “You don’t like what we’re doing, Wally?” he inquired curiously.
“Hell, sir, I don’t think anyone likes sinking another submarine when it appears to be one of your own. Imagine if those two we hit really were ours.” He cocked his head and stared back at the XO as if he were daring the man to disagree. “I’m not scared, if that’s what you were getting at.” A self-righteous frown knit his brow and his voice grew more assertive. “I really do think we ought to test our gear at this stage. We have no idea what’s happening out there.”
“Okay, Wally. I’ll talk to the captain about it when I have an opportunity. But I don’t want you bothering him about it now. He’s got enough on his mind without worrying about communications tests.” A good XO protected his captain from unnecessary items, especially when things were tight, and Makin considered himself a superb executive officer. “It may be a while, but I’ll take a shot at it. Okay?” He had a habit of raising his eyebrows, which often coerced the other person into assenting.
Snyder stood up. “Thanks, XO. I appreciate it. I know it makes you look bad if I’m wrong.” He hoped sincerely that the XO wouldn’t put it off before they encountered another target that sounded exactly like an unsuspecting American boomer.
Dick Makin was more concerned than he’d let on to Wally. Perhaps it was a sixth sense with him too. Whatever, it was a nagging, bothersome something that had gotten to him even as he slept fitfully. But he wasn’t about to burden Newell. The captain had said he would do everything in his power to get Makin a submarine of his own, and it wasn’t so long ago that he’d shown Dick a copy of his letter of recommendation. Dick was loyal to his captain in the Navy tradition, more so to Wayne Newell for keeping his promises. He was a superb commanding officer.
USS Manchester was at battle stations. While this was a normal evolution at sea, each man knew this particular instance would be anything but normal. They waited with a heightened sense of anticipation for their captain to speak to them on the IMC. It had begun when they were assigned to pick up the Navy SEAL who had parachuted into the Pacific. Now it was only too obvious that his specific mission was to deliver a message directly to their captain, one so sensitive that no communications system was secure enough. Since that initial moment when the SEAL was first spotted blinking at them, each rumor that spread through their tiny cylindrical home increased the level of tension.
“This is the captain speaking.” From the instant they heard the familiar background drone of the IMC, each man knew intuitively that Ben Steel would involve them completely. “I know you’ve been anxious to learn what’s going on. I can assure you that, as usual, I will withhold nothing from you. It just seemed like a good idea to make sure that everyone was fed before we went to battle stations, since we’ll start work right after this little speech.” His tone remained soft and well-modulated, an example of the calm approach he expected from each of his men.
“As you all know, there are no secrets on a submarine, only rumors. And it is the captain’s responsibility to come clean with his crew as quickly as possible before someone takes one of those rumors seriously.
“Our latest crew member, Lieutenant Commander Burch, the SEAL we fished out of the ocean more than an hour ago, is quite comfortable aboard submarines. As a matter of fact, he claims to have locked out of them more times than a lot of our younger sailors have ever crossed the quarterdeck.” In an aside intended for everyone to overhear, Steel added. “Perhaps Commander Burch will learn to stand his own turn at watch in the next couple weeks, since he doesn’t get home until we do.”
Steel continued, “The commander is also willing to speak to any one of you to assure you that everything is still all right back home. If you have any doubts about who he is, you’ll recognize him as the one in the XO’s khakis … with a couple of extra notches taken in the belt.
“Lieutenant Burch obviously risked his life to bring us new orders of vital importance, and that’s what I want to explain in detail so you will understand why I’m asking for 110 percent from each of you as long as this mission lasts.
“There are two boomers missing—Alaska and Nevada. One disappearing is possible; two, a long shot too impossible to consider. COMSUBPAC has to assume the worst unless some trace of either of them is located. He also has to assume they may have been sunk intentionally and that all our boomers are now at risk. The immediate solution is to provide protection until we learn exactly what has happened. We have been asked to assist Florida. In the old days, we would be called a hired gun. In this modem era of nuclear power, I’d like to think of us as”—Steel paused just long enough before concluding—“a hired gun.”
“We don’t know if there are any bad guys out there or, if there are, who they are. We can always figure that the Russians are behind this, but there are no certainties, no assurance of what we’re looking for or how many are out there.
“We are proceeding to Florida’s sector at flank speed. We are at battle stations now because I want to conduct damage-control drills until I’m convinced we can save this boat from almost anything. After that, we will return to normal watches until we are three hours from the outer limits of Florida’s patrol area. So get as much sleep as you can beforehand.
“Once in the vicinity, we will attempt to contact Florida so she doesn’t take a potshot at us. There is a way to do that, and Commander Burch has provided me with the appropriate signal. After that, we’ll set up a screening plan of some kind, although covering 360 degrees around a boomer sounds as ambitious to me as it probably does to you.
“Now I guess you know as much as I do. The XO and I will be making the rounds of the boat in the next few hours, and we welcome any questions”—again Steel paused for effect—“and any ideas you care to offer, since none of us are experts in this type of mission.”
With a metallic click, the background drone of the P.A. disappeared. An ominous silence settled through Manchester’s compartments, which left each man to his own thoughts. But there was one paramount in each mind: Just how close could you get to war?
As developments in electronics miniaturized both the hardware and the earth itself, the U.S. Navy acknowledged the increased pressure on its senior officers in this instant world. The result was a provision for added privacy when they were off duty. In places like Hawaii, they constructed decks and pools enclosed by fencing behind many of the grand old homes that once housed what was the social whirl in pre-World War II Pearl Harbor. Many of the old guard looked upon such luxuries with disdain. Others accepted such privileges with grace, especially when these became the only places they could escape prying eyes while conducting their business.
When the Chief of Naval Operations, his DCNO for Undersea Warfare, the Director of Naval Nuclear Propulsion, and the Commander of Submarines, Pacific, were together, they desperately needed as much privacy as possible. To be seen together unexpectedly in Pearl Harbor would have been no different than placing a sign in Red Square—trouble. There were few places these four officers could gather on the entire island without attracting attention, other than Neil Arrow’s backyard. It was a retreat.
The afternoon sun was warm and a soft breeze rattled the palm fronds together with a lazy sandpaper sound. The pool was inviting, but not one of them would have considered putting on a bathing suit and going for a swim until after working hours. Disciplined work habits had been ingrained in them for too many years. But they did enjoy a lunch served on a shaded deck, and each man appreciated the change in scenery without mentioning it to any of the others.
Ray Larsen, always more silent by habit, was bothered when Robbie Newman maintained his customary long periods of silence. “You know you drive me crazy when you stare off into nothing like that.”
Newman had a thick shock of unruly gray hair and often was quite happy to listen to others, even though he gave the appearance of being asleep with his eyes open. Newman’s large, dark eyes slowly came around to the CNO. He said nothing.
“I used to think you were drunk years ago, Robbie. Now I know you’re thinking.” Larsen’s blue eyes flashed and he grinned at the others. “A penny for your thoughts,” he persisted.
“I’m imagining how ridiculously easy it might be to take out a boomer if you’re willing to do a little constructive thinking.” Newman’s eyes were fixed on a palm tree beyond the pool as he spoke. “You see, we’ve covered every angle so well from our own point of view that we’ve overlooked how the other guy thinks. I’ve been trying to put myself in his place and sink a couple of submarines.” He shrugged good-naturedly. “Is that worth a penny?”
“It’s worth a hell of a lot more if you come up with anything,” Larsen muttered. He rubbed a hand unconsciously through his crew cut, waiting expectantly to see what Newman had to say.
“Well, after considerable thought—which may have been all of twenty seconds—I decided that the only navy that really could take out our boomers would be Soviet. It doesn’t really make sense for anyone else. But, we can’t really track every single Russian submarine, can we?” Newman wasn’t expecting an answer, and continued, “The diesel boats stay in their own op areas close to home, so I can discount those. That leaves the nuclear fleet, and there’s no more than a hundred of those we have to worry about,” he mused, “if we figure how many are up for repair at any given time. So we try to keep track of them and spend our next couple of days putting everything and everyone we’ve got into figuring out where they are and which ones may be the bad guys.”
“You’re making it difficult,” Mark Bennett said. “That’s not really your point, is it?”
“No,” Newman answered. “But I’m not quite sure what my point is. I’m assuming since neither Alaska nor Nevada acknowledged that communications test, they’re lost. My considerable experience says it’s impossible for them to both be lost as a result of equipment casualties. My considerable experience also says that any Russian submarine that tried to come close enough for a shot at them would have blown his cover before he was anywhere within torpedo range. It’s our old standby theory about equipment casualties, raised yet again—once, maybe yes, but definitely not twice. The Soviet boats are still easier to hear than one of our own. Remember, our boomers stream the towed array for the specific purpose of avoiding any such surprises.” The towed array was a series of highly sophisticated listening devices implanted in a long rubber tube and towed well behind the Trident submarines to provide long-range warning of approaching danger. “I can’t imagine either Alaska or Nevada possibly remaining unaware of any—and I mean any—type of Soviet submarine approaching within firing range.”
Admiral Larsen stroked his chin thoughtfully with one hand. “That’s worth a lot more than a penny.” Newman had stated what they already agreed on—in his own terms. Glancing at Bennett, he asked, “How does that balance with your technical data?”
The Navy invested billions of dollars each year in an attempt to keep a reasonable accounting of Soviet submarine movements. Such intelligence would be invaluable in time of war. The initial step, and the least expensive method, involved spies who were supposed to report all ship movements. But that was only good until the ships were out of sight. Then there was an extensive underwater hydrophone network covering a large part of the ocean floor. It was linked to a computer system that attempted to follow each submarine’s track as long as a contact remained within range. Beyond that, ships specifically designed to tow deep-running passive listening devices relayed every sound they detected via satellite to shore-based computers which analyzed and filtered out everything but the submarine. And there were air, surface, and subsurface antisubmarine groups that attempted to chase any unknown contacts until they were identified. The effort was magnificent, but the end result was sometimes disheartening to the educated observer. There were too many holes in the ocean. And the odds could not be overlooked. Submarines grew increasingly stealthy and dangerous. Submariners became increasingly skillful and cunning. But Newman was right. No Soviet boat should be able to sneak within torpedo range. They all knew that.
Bennett smiled wanly. “There are probably thirty of their submarines I couldn’t even begin to locate. But we can tell you roughly how many may have been in or near those sectors in the past month, and I emphasize the ‘may have been.’ The tough part is that most of them are unlikely candidates to sneak up on any boomer.”
“Could the same one hit both Alaska and Nevada?”
“You asked that before.” Bennett was amazed how he and three other grown men could play word games like this, hoping that a new idea might suddenly be generated from the tired ones they kept repeating.
“You didn’t have all the data you have now, Mark.”
“It would have had to travel flank speed from Alaska’s sector to nail Nevada. Russian boats are faster than ours. The ones that could have covered that distance make a lot of noise. I don’t know of any in that region of the Pacific.”
“How about SURTASS?” That was the towed listening device that relayed acoustic data to shore via satellite.
“We’re rerunning all the tapes,” Neil Arrow said. “The first time through there was no Russian sub or subs that seemed to be in a position to take out one boomer, much less two. But how many times before have they surprised us?” he concluded. The answer—too many—was obvious.
Admiral Larsen turned back to Newman. “You know how to build them, Robbie. Could the Russians have something new out there … something quieter than the Sierra or Oscar or Victor Three … or even the Akula?” Were the latest classes of Soviet attack boats possibly as quiet as their American counterparts? Had some new, unknown feature been installed to mask their inherent sound?
“Negative.” Newman knew more about the Soviet submarine research program than any non-Soviet alive. “Maybe their next generation of boats, but nothing in the water now.”
Larsen drummed his fingers on the table. Then he looked at the other three men. A fresh breeze lifted the fronds on a palm that had been casting shade over them and the sun caught him directly in the face. Larsen looked back down at his fingers and flattened his freckled hand on the table irritably. “Do any of you feel that either Alaska or Nevada, is coming back?”
He was met with silence. Bennett and Newman eventually shook their heads. Arrow murmured, “Never.”
“I concur.” Two of Larsen’s fingers began to beat a tattoo again. He glanced at the offending hand as if that would control the motion. Then he folded his hands in his lap. “Perhaps it isn’t the Russians … or at least not operating under Kremlin orders.” Any wild idea was worth throwing on the table now.
The others glanced uneasily at him but said nothing. They knew Ray Larsen well enough to know he had more to say.
“Perhaps we’ve got a maverick submarine out there … anybody’s … out of control … one with a crew that doesn’t know what it’s doing … or somehow the equipment’s gone haywire.…” He was searching for something he couldn’t put into words. “I don’t know how to explain it … just something we can’t understand.”
Neil Arrow was the only one to respond. “With more than a hundred men aboard … it’s impossible.” He shuddered at what Ben Steel and Manchester might be facing if Larsen could even be close.
“You mean that a hundred men wouldn’t be crazy enough to do something like this?” Larsen was leaning forward now, his arms folded on the table. Those menacing blue eyes shifted continually from one man to the next. “Maybe you’re right,” he added softly. “I hope I’m wrong. Maybe it could even be.…” But he shook his head before uttering the word sabotage. Maybe that could happen on one boomer, though even that was pretty farfetched, considering how intricately the Personnel Reliability Program worked. No, never on two boomers. “But there doesn’t seem to be anything else we can come up with here. Now you find out how it could happen.”
Chapter Four
Working hours aboard a Trident ballistic-missile submarine on patrol are composed of regular maintenance, watch standing, studying for promotion, and performing exercises for missile or torpedo firing and damage control until most could be accomplished automatically. The remaining time is spent eating, sleeping, watching movies or reading, and looking for new ways to avoid the boredom that can be part of life aboard a boomer—thus the reason for two crews for each boat. Seventy days at sea spent navigating the restricted boundaries of an assigned sector in the middle of a vast ocean is considered the maximum a crew could take in peacetime without losing their fighting edge.
This particular day was one for exercising the crew of USS Florida in preparing to fire one of their immense Trident missiles. The encoded exercise message was broken by two people using independent sources from locked safes. Then Captain Buckley Nelson received the exercise message in his stateroom and forced himself through the painstaking details of once again opening his special safe to remove the launch instructions. At the same time, his executive officer then opened his own packet to confirm the coded authority in the orders. Only then could Nelson confirm his objective on the target-assignment list in his safe. Then Florida’s crew was called to battle stations missile. The countdown was initiated. Now they must function with metronomic efficiency.
