Operation ivy bells, p.9
Operation Ivy Bells, page 9
Buck rotated the Basketball upward toward Whitey just in time to see a dark shadow sweep past the divers.
“Dive Control, Green Diver. Can you take us down about another fifty feet or so? We nearly got snagged by another trawl net.”
The XO looked to me, and I nodded emphatically. “Make your depth two-hundred fifty feet – take her down slow and easy,” he ordered.
“Two-hundred fifty feet slow and easy, Aye,” Chris said, as Gunty adjusted his flow valves.
“We’re going to two-fifty, Ham. Track her down,” I ordered through my boom mike.
“Dive Control, Aye.”
The sub began a slow, level descent. I kept an eye on the Can depth gauge visible on the monitor, while I watched the effect on the split screen as Buck kept pace with his Basketball. That guy was really good. While we were descending, he went back to the screws for a closer look.
“That was close, Dive Control,” Whitey said. “The net actually slid across the sub’s sail.”
“Dive Control, Red Diver. Can you have Engineering jack the starboard shaft a bit in reverse to loosen up the cable?”
“Hold on that, Red Diver.” Then Ham made a formal request. “Conn, Dive Control. Can you jack the starboard shaft back a couple of turns?”
The Skipper nodded and picked up his handset.
“Roger that, Dive Control. Stand by.”
The Skipper explained to Dirk what he needed. Dirk had already anticipated the need to do this, and was ready on both shafts. Buck moved in for a closer look, and we could see the shaft rotate to the left in short jerks. Within two minutes we heard a squeaky whoop.
“Hold the starboard shaft…that’s great!” Jimmy said. Buck pulled back to give them room, and we watched them struggling with the cable, working the bitter end up and over the shaft once, and then again. We heard a lot of squeaky huffing and puffing. And then the cable disappeared from view. “OK – that did it. The starboard shaft’s free. The cable is hanging from the port screw, but it’s way too heavy for us to get it off.”
Buck moved farther away to get a larger view, but it was dark and difficult to make out.
“Roger, Red Diver.” I was sure Ham really wanted a good view of what was happening out there.
“OK, Dive Control.” Jimmy sounded a bit winded. “Now we need you to jack the port shaft in reverse – slowly. With a bit of luck, the cable will pull free and snake to the bottom.”
Once again, Buck moved in from the stern, behind the screw, which gave us a great view of the action.
“Roger that, Red Diver.”
The Skipper started talking on his handset again. He kept it to his ear. The screw started turning very slowly.
“That’s it!” squeaked Jimmy. “Slowly…slowly…” And then, “Stop! Stop!”
Even on the monitor we could see that the cable had crossed itself.
The Skipper said something to the handset.
“The cable crossed,” Jimmy told us. “Jack forward about a quarter turn.”
The Skipper passed it on.
“OK – Stop!” Heavy breathing. On the monitor the cable snapped free from its constraining hold on the other wrap. “Now back slowly…” More heavy breathing, from both divers. “Slow…slow…SLOWER!”
The Skipper stayed with him. And suddenly, the cable started slipping through the screw blades.
“Bingo! That’s it! We did it!” Squeak or no, he definitely was excited. “Let’s get the fuck outa here!”
Buck stayed with them until they reached the bottom of the Can. Then he headed back for the Aquarium.
Ten minutes later we could see Jimmy and Whitey emerging into the outer lock through the lower hatch. Bill had wrapped their umbilicals on the bulkhead hooks as they swam to the hatch, and now he pulled them into the lock. He unhooked the hatch and swung it closed. Whitey stooped to spin the locking wheel.
“Dive Control, Outer Lock, hatch secured.”
“Dive Control, Aye.”
“Conn, ROV Ops, we’re secured and the hatch is shut.” And that was it.
I gave the Skipper a thumbs-up, and he ordered the XO to secure the hover and get the ship underway. I headed back to the dive locker. The guys had been out for about an hour at a maximum depth of 250 feet on standard heliox. Ham or Jack would have already worked out the decompression schedule. I needed to check it, and then we could start bringing the guys back to the “surface.”
It would take a while, but that’s what we got paid for.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
USS Halibut – Sea of Okhotsk
“Officers Call! All officers to the Wardroom.”
This is a rare occurrence on a submarine. In fact, I can’t remember ever hearing it before. I had my suspicions why – we were almost a month underway now, so we had to be close to our secretive destination. I mentioned Kamchatka Peninsula earlier – well, now we were going to learn all about it, mostly.
So I high-tailed it to the Wardroom. My guys and I were the stars of the show, so it wouldn’t do to be tardy. The junior officers were already present. Eng and Ops, Lieutenant Commander Dirk Philips and Lieutenant Commander Larry Jackson, were on their way. Special Operations Officer Lieutenant Commander Lonie Franken-Ester and Dr. Thomas Banks followed me into the crowded room. As I explained earlier, Lonie or “Batman” was in charge of the Bat Cave, the specially designed forward compartment that used to be the guided missile bay, and now was the control center for Special Operations. Regular crew needed permission to enter this space. The XO had the Deck and Conn, and Gunty had the Dive, so every ship’s officer except the XO was present.
As I sat down opposite the Skipper, he put fire to one of his stogies. As he puffed the cigar to life, we all waited. It was his show, after all. He puffed quietly, looking around the table. His characteristic grin was not present.
“Gentlemen,” the Skipper commenced, “in about two and a half hours we will enter the narrow strait between the southwestern tip of Kamchatka and the northern-most of the Kuril Islands, the small island of Shumshu. Shore to shore we’re talking about six miles, maybe a bit less. The passage is five miles, give or take, and beyond lies the Sea of Okhotsk. We know very little about this water beyond depth and major currents. We have no information on surface traffic or monitoring.” He paused for a puff. “Petropavlovsk Kamchatskiy is the largest Soviet naval facility in the Pacific, except for Vladivostok, and the home of their Pacific submarine fleet. We know the Soviets use an area in the northeastern part of Okhotsk as a test missile splash zone, the Gulf of Shelikhov.” He paused again for a couple of puffs, letting the information sink in.
“Earlier this year,” he continued, “three fast attacks entered the Gulf and attempted to track incoming cruise missiles. Their gear didn’t work, but one of them, the Swordfish, was mounted with the same sidescan sonar we installed earlier this year. She got two sweeps of the channel, one going in and one going out, and swept much of the waters off the western slope of Kamchatka.” He grinned for the first time. “So, we’re not totally blind.” The Skipper rolled a chart out on the Wardroom table.
“We’re here.” He pointed to a spot off the southeastern tip of Kamchatka, still well offshore of Petropavlovsk. Then he put his finger on the tip of the peninsula. “This is the channel.”
It looked pretty narrow. On the scale of the chart he was using, his finger completely covered the gap between Kamchatka and Shumshu.
The Skipper moved his finger past the gap and up along the western coast of Kamchatka to an outcropping about halfway up. Across Okhotsk was another outcropping – the two formed the entrance to Shelikhov. “Shelikhov starts here, and the splash zone is about here.” He stabbed the middle of the Gulf. “Water depth gets to about twelve-hundred feet in the middle,” he pointed to Shelikhov again, “and down to about thirteen-thousand feet here.” He pointed to the middle of Okhotsk. “This area,” he swept his fingers offshore along the western coast of Kamchatka, “averages three-fifty to four-hundred feet.” He looked around the table. “During the late spring and early summer, fishing fleets from around the world ply these waters. They come from as far away as Poland. This means we will have to keep a sharp lookout for ships with nets.” A chuckle passed around the table.
The Skipper stood up, but motioned the officers to remain seated. He leaned over the Wardroom table, his hands gripping the edges on either side. “This doesn’t leave this room.” He paused for a full five seconds. “Is that understood?”
“Yes Sir,” from around the table.
“We’re going to locate missile parts in this area,” he pointed to the north-middle of Shelikhov, “and bring them home with us.”
A murmur went around the table. The Skipper held up a hand. “Lonie will brief us on the details later. Following this meeting, I will announce this part of the operation to the crew. So far as they know, that is the extent of our operations here. We don’t say exactly where, and we don’t say what we got, but they need to understand something about what is going on.”
Heads nodded around the table.
The Skipper sat back down and continued. “As important as that is, it’s not the real reason for this mission.” He held up his hand again at the resulting murmurs. “The Soviets’ nearest launch facility is about twelve-hundred-fifty miles due west of here,” he stabbed the middle of Shelikhov again. Then he pointed off the chart to the west, “Right here in Yasniy, about two-hundred-fifty miles southwest of Yakutzk. We know they ran a comm Cable all the way to the town of Okhotsk,” he indicated a spot on the northwestern coast of Okhotsk, “where it links to another cable from Vladivostok, and from there to Moscow. From Okhotsk it goes to Magadan, here,” he pointed to another spot about 280 miles along the coast east of Okhotsk, “with its large port and shipyards, and then either directly into the water or else to somewhere along here,” he pointed to the double peninsula that forms the northern gate to Shelikhov, “and then into the water.” He moved his finger to the western coast of Kamchatka on the other side of the bay. “It exits the water somewhere along here, where it probably branches to Palana,” he pointed to the northern-most part of western Kamchatka, “but the main section goes to the naval base at Petropavlovsk,” he pointed to a spot near the southeastern tip of Kamchatka.
“We believe,” he continued, “that the Soviets also have established a cruise launch facility somewhere on the Kamchatka Peninsula, but because we cannot yet track these new bastards, we don’t know where the facility is. We also know that they launch them by air from around the region, but they are all aimed to splash down here.” He pointed to Shelikhov again.
The Skipper took two long puffs from his cigar. Then he put his elbows on the table, folded his hands with the cigar protruding from his fingers. “Our main mission is to find that cable,” he paused and looked around the table, “and place a tap on it.”
There was stunned silence in the Wardroom.
“We’re talking about all the traffic between the missile base to Petropavlovsk, and everything between Moscow and Vladivostok, and Petropavlovsk.” He paused to let this sink in.
“If we find it…if we can attach the tap…if it works…if we get anything…then we go get some missile parts…and then we pack up and head for Guam.” The Skipper smiled at his assembled officers. “It’s going to be a busy time, Gentlemen. Let’s get to work.”
I had known about this, of course, but it still took my breath away to hear the Skipper lay it out. This had to be the most bodacious thing anybody had ever attempted to do – with the possible exception of the recent Moon landings.
The Skipper wanted to transit the narrow strait during darkness, and as luck would have it, I had the next Deck Watch.
Navy tradition has an incoming watch-stander arrive at the watch station fifteen minutes prior to assuming the watch. Since the watch goes from the top of the hour to the top of the hour, the traditional relieving time has always been fifteen minutes before the hour. But over the years, the watch came to be viewed as starting fifteen minutes before the hour, which has come to mean that an incoming watch stander tries to report to the watch station by half-past the hour. In fact, if you don’t show up until quarter ‘till, a lot of guys will consider you late. They fully expect to be off watch by then.
I was a guest on Halibut, and this meant I needed to play the game as they played it. So I prepared to appear at half-past. Besides, we were about to enter the strait, and I wanted to be sure I had the complete picture.
We still were a half hour or so from our turn to the right. We were down at 200 feet, and running quietly. It wouldn’t do for the Soviet listening devices at Petropavlovsk to pick us up out here. The strait had a wide buoy-marked natural channel indicating the shallows on both sides. I intended to remain close to the center of the strait, but somewhat to the right, since Shumshu on the left was low and tapered off slowly into the strait. Shumshu lies just to the northeast of Paramushir, home to four active volcanoes and the second largest of the Kuril Islands. The remnants of a major World War II Japanese naval base spanned the mile-wide channel separating it from Shumshu. The small town of Kuroatovo sits near the northeast tip of low-lying Shumshu, marking the location of a well-camouflaged Soviet air base, complete with underground hangers. Six miles due east across the strait, the village of Cemenovka sits on the southern-most extension of Kamchatka. Cemenovka houses the traffic monitoring facilities headquartered up the coast at Petropavlovsk. The radar we knew about; but we had no intel on possible underwater monitoring.
I assumed the watch, and directed sonar to activate the sidescan. We were at 200 feet.
“Sonar, Conn, what do you have?”
“Nothing, Conn. Everyone’s home in bed.”
“Make your depth sixty feet,” I ordered. The Skipper’s Night Orders had specified transiting the strait at periscope depth, with the periscope manned. “Come right to course north.”
“Right to course zero-zero-zero, Aye.”
I made a mental note that “course north” was not a usual expression on Halibut. “Up scope!” I twisted the circular bar near the overhead around scope one.
“Passing one-hundred-fifty feet,” Diving Officer Gunty informed me, as the scope slid smoothly into position.
I draped my right arm over the handle, and put my right eye to the eyepiece. I commenced turning the scope to the left, assisted by the scope’s hydraulic system. I was just completing my first round when the scope broke surface.
“Holding at sixty feet.”
“Roger.” I continued turning the scope, looking for any telltale light or surface disturbance. “Clear,” I announced, and felt a tap on my shoulder. It was the Skipper, wanting a bit of periscope liberty. It was his boat – I yielded the scope.
I glanced at the fathometer. Two-hundred feet. “Sonar, Conn, put the sidescan on the monitor.” The monitor flickered and the strange double lines of a sidescan display appeared.
“Conn, Sonar, it looks deeper to starboard.”
“Come right to zero-zero-five.” I decided to ease into the deeper water. “Up scope,” I said as I raised number two. “Keep an eye on the depth, Sonar,” I said as I swept around. Something flashed as I turned the scope. “Mark this bearing,” I said as I centered on a faint flash.
Petty Officer Second Class Gary Parrish, Quartermaster of the Watch, had joined me when I raised scope two, ready to record any bearings. “Zero-four-nine,” he reported.
He stepped over to the navigation table to check the chart. “Looks like that’s the Cemenovka light,” he said.
“Conn, Sonar, looks like we’re center channel.”
“Come left to zero-zero-zero,” I ordered. Then I looked up at the monitor. “What’re those markings to the port and starboard?” I could see two distinct spots, one off the port bow and one nearly abeam to starboard. I thought I could see faint lines leading outward from the spots.
“We’re checking, Conn.”
“Could it be the buoys?” I asked.
“We think so, Conn. Most likely, they’re buoys.” The monitor flickered as Sonar adjusted the resolution. “Definitely, they’re buoys.”
I did another 360-degree sweep. As I passed the bow, something caught my eye. I swung back, flipped to a higher magnification, and…
“Make your depth one-hundred-fifty feet – fast!” I ordered. “Down scopes.” I slapped the overhead control bar as the Skipper lowered his scope. “Watch your depth – don’t go below one-hundred-fifty.”
I turned to the Skipper. “Did you see it, Skipper?” I asked, as the sub took a distinct down bubble.
“Ahead, about a mile,” the Skipper said. “Lights, bow-on aspect.”
“Yes sir. We’re in a transit lane.”
“Conn, Sonar, I have a contact bearing three-five-eight. Designate Bravo-one.” It was the first contact of the day.
“Conn, Aye. I saw it. What is it, Sonar?”
“Light fast screws, pair of them – could be a Soviet warship.”
“One-hundred-fifty feet,” Gunty announced.
“Make turns for three knots,” I ordered. “Secure the sidescan, Sonar.”
“Bravo-one bears three-one-one. Fast left bearing rate. He’s deaf at this speed.”
The unmistakable sound of screws began to penetrate the hull.
“Bravo-one two-nine-zero.”
“Two-seven-zero.”
“Two-six-zero…two-four-five…two-three-zero…”
“I got it, Sonar. Thank you.”
“What do you think, Skipper, night ops or are they headed for the barn?” My guess, they were headed for Petropavlovsk.
One ship, at this time. Probably going home.” The Skipper sounded thoughtful.
“Sonar, it’s the Captain. Why didn’t we hear this guy earlier?”
“Light fast screws masked by the sidescan, Cap’n.”
“What do you suggest, Mac?” The Skipper was well aware that I had spent a lot of time making sure my sub stayed undetected. But we needed the sidescan to find our way deep in waters that were, for us, virtually uncharted.
