D. M. Ulmer 01 - Silent Battleground (37 page)

Jim grinned at his boss.  “I’ll do that, Commodore.  And may I extend my congratulations, sir, to the first victorious commander in a major naval engagement in more than forty-seven years?”

The commodore’s eyebrows arched.  “Thank you, Jim.  By God, you’re right.  The thought never occurred to me.”

“Didn’t it, sir?  Welcome to Macedonia.”

Darrel Manning frowned.  The importance of this meeting caused him to be on time, not his norm for visits to the White House.  With irritation building, he waited in the anteroom.  He glanced at his watch and looked up to see the President dismissing the CNO and other high-ranking officers from the Oval Office.

President Andrew Dempsey said his good-byes then invited the senator to come in.  “Please forgive me, Darrel.  The situation briefing went long this morning.  I apologize for making you wait.”

Manning managed a half smile.  “They look like a casting call for a Gilbert and Sullivan Opera, Mr. President.  I didn’t know you were
auditioning this morning.  No more secret code games with the Soviets, I trust?”

Another man waited in the anteroom but Manning made no move to invite him into the Oval Office.  The President gave a wink to Mrs. Bonner and closed the door behind them.

The senator talked down to the President.  “Sir, I trust you’ve given our last discussion some serious thought.  The situation deteriorates hourly and you have no solution.  I urge you to accept the futility of our circumstances.  For God’s sake, find the courage and do the right thing.  It’s the only alternative you have.”

“And what is that, Darrel?”

Shrugging off the President’s glib attitude, Manning believed the President attempted to buy more time. 
Damn it!  This time I’ll hold the jackass’s feet to the fire. 
“Contact the Soviet Premier and ask what are his conditions for ending this madness.”

“And if I’m not quite ready to do that?”

“Then you leave me no alternative, Mr. President.  I have the means to force your hand and will do so if you don’t have the good sense to do it yourself.  A growing congressional majority stands behind me.  And other national factions in the private sector—very powerful ones, I might add—share my views.”

“Your brain trusts, Darrel?  Your circle of so called intellectuals who never dirty their hands making a living in the real world but earn their keep by telling the rest of us how we should?”

President Dempsey finally got his back up with the senator.  How good it felt.

“Mr. President, I didn’t come here to discuss the credentials of my advisors and supporters.  They’re firmly established and well respected in their fields, enlightened people who know how to separate emotion from substance.  Now, may I have an answer, sir?  Will you give me your position in this matter?”

The President recalled the man sitting in the anteroom and suspected the connection.  “Do you know how I might contact Premier Rostov?”

Manning’s face spread into a half smirk, half smile and sensing he’d won, he fell back into his respectful mode.  “I took the liberty, sir, of inviting Senor Miguel Pinta, Cuban Ambassador to the UN.  He’s agreed to carry a message to the Soviet Premier for you.  And he’ll do this verbally if you like.  I urge you, sir, at least establish contact.  This act alone will result in the saving of countless lives.”

President Dempsey furrowed his brow.  “Very well, show Mr. Pinta in please.”

“You have a message for Premier Rostov then, sir?”

“Yes, I do.”

Miguel Pinta entered the Oval Office and introductions exchanged.  Following introductions, Senator Manning stood to his full six feet three inches, his gray pinstriped three-piece suit hanging perfectly
over his handsome frame, the picture of a man in control of the situation.

“Senor Pinta, I believe the President has a message he wishes you to deliver to the Soviet Premier.”

While smiling the Cuban nodded in anticipation.

The President calmly said, “Please advise Premier Rostov that if he hasn’t already done so, he should count his submarines.  I suspect he’ll come up about sixty-three short.  Tell him also we will run up that number a lot higher if he doesn’t withdraw them from the world’s oceans and damn quick.  Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I’ve got a war to win.”

Not a vindictive man, however, President Dempsey did enjoy inflicting an occasional barb.  “Darrel,” he said as the senator began to walk out.

Senator Manning turned back and replied, “Yes, Mr. President?”

“If your party is stupid enough to nominate you again next year, I’m gonna whip your ass big time.”

Chapter 19

Dave Zane, Bea, Gerry Carter and Eve Danis raised their glasses to the American success in the Bering Sea.  Sketchy but conclusive news of the events at sea dominated the media.  Izvestia, principal Soviet newspaper, did not address American claims of submarines destroyed but alleged great numbers of unsubstantiated kills by their own forces.

A beaming Dave Zane added, “And to Eric Danis, hero of the Bering.”

All chorused, “Hear!  Hear!”

Eve acknowledged the toast to her husband then quickly
changed the subject.  “Well, Dave, when do we meet her?”

Forcing a puzzled expression, Dave asked, “Who?”

“Cat’s out of the bag, Dad.  Eve knows about Carolyn joining us this evening.”

Dave wore a baffled expression, followed quickly by one that signaled he understood.  “Oh, Carolyn Ladd.  Almost anytime now.”

Gerry Carter gave an exaggerated imitation of Dave twisting his head to look up the path toward the mailbox.  “And all along I thought you had a stiff neck, Dave.”

Bea attempted to bring her father back to reality.  “C’mon, Dad, you don’t have to be so cool.  She’s lovely
and I hope to see a lot of her.”  Bea had already told Dave her mom would be pleased he had found someone to brighten his life.

With a whining tone in his voice, Dave said, “Well now, there you guys go.  Invite someone over who’s been good enough to pick up the mail for me and everybody starts drawing conclusions.”

Eve smiled at her old friend.  “Dave Zane … I don’t believe this.  You’re actually blushing.  I thought we finished with that years ago.”

Dave threw up his arms.  “See, Gerry?  Don’t try to understand what these females get in their bonnets.  Only the
two of us here got any sense.  Let’s go out on the deck and enjoy what’s left of the sunshine.”

Gerry took his shot at Dave.  “Gonna fire up the hot tub for Carolyn?”

Dave complained, “Three against one.  It’s a damn conspiracy!”

The two seated themselves on the deck.

“What’ll happen to you, Gerry?  I mean, where’ll you go after this?”

“Too busy to give it much thought, Dave.  I guess as long as Danis is happy with me, this is a pretty good spot.”

“Old Eric likes you alright but he’s due to move on, you know.  Next Squad Dog might want his own boy.”

“You’re right, Dave.  I shouldn’t get too comfortable.  Unless the surface Navy makes major breakthroughs in antisubmarine warfare, carriers of the future will have a pretty small role.  And that’s what I do.  Fly off carriers.”

“Don’t write the bird farms off just yet, Gerry.  There’s gonna be wars after this one.  You can bet on it.  Nuclear weapons make big fights too dangerous for both sides, so we’ll likely
shift to small ones.  And we’re gonna need some way to get your planes to the action.  Actually, in little wars, it’ll be the submariners who’ll shop for new missions.”

Changing the subject, Gerry asked, “How come you never got into the Nuclear Power Program?  The commodore tells me you’re likely the hottest submariner he ever knew.”

Dave chose his words carefully, “First, don’t believe everything Eric says.  Second, you keyed on a sore subject.  I applied for the program as a Lieutenant, qualified submariner and qualified for command.  Thought I was on the fast track, till my application bounced.”

“Bounced?  With all you had going for you?  How come?”

“I didn’t stand high enough in my class at Annapolis.”

Gerry shook his head in disbelief.  “What’s that got to do with anything?  Some of our hottest pilots graduated by the skin of their teeth.  Performance on the job has nothing to do with class standing.  Our certification processes are rigorous as you’ll find anywhere and it’s based solely on how well you fly the plane.  How do the Nukes justify this academic thing?”

Dave replied, “They don’t have to.  However, word floated around that low class standing is tantamount to lack of ambition.”

“That’s unrealistic.  If we applied that policy, we’d never have enough pilots to fly our planes.  Why did the top submariners put up with this?”

“Good question.”

Gerry believed Dave’s explanations but could not understand them.  “Edmund Burke was right.  The only thing needed for an operation to fall flat on its face is for ‘enough good men to do nothing.’  If anyone tried to inflict this on the Naval Aviation community, all hell would break loose.  Remember the admiral’s revolt of ’49?  Most of the guys who fell on their swords were Naval Aviators.”

“We’re the silent service, Gerry.  We take our lumps and don’t whine.  Somebody might look on it as sour grapes.”

“So you’re not pissed over this?”

“I didn’t say that.  But the rejection dead-ended my submarine career.  Turned out I liked it but becoming an EDO was initially a salvage job.”

From inside the house, Bea interrupted their conversation, “Dad, Carolyn’s here.”

Dave’s face brightened and he hurried into the living room.

“Hi Carolyn, meet my friends Eve Danis and Gerry Carter.  We just toasted our boss’s big win in the Bering Sea.”

Dave filled a wine glass for Carolyn as Bea, Eve and Gerry greeted her.  Slight of build, mid-fifties with wavy light-brown hair that showed a trace of gray, Carolyn vindicated Dave’s enthusiasm.  Faded blue eyes twinkled from a face that retained much of its earlier beauty.

Carolyn said, “Thank you, Dave,” taking the glass from him, “and congratulations to all of you.  Such wonderful news just when we really needed it.  My fourth graders were so excited when they heard I’d be seeing people from the Sub Base this evening.”

“Well that’s good,” said Gerry, and then gesturing toward Dave, “Are they as excited as
our
fourth grader?”

Dave complained, “See, there you go again.  Been a hard afternoon around here, Carolyn.  Maybe you can establish some good order and class discipline.”

Zhukov
prepared for its strike against the new submarine base on the Washington Coast.  They slipped quietly toward the
Pitstop
to enhance stealth and increase success probability.

Vasiliy said, “Comrade Captain, there is no good reason for why we should not approach to within visual distance.  It ensures better accuracy for our missiles and could permit us to see and verify explosions in the target area.”

Sherensky replied, “We must not be too eager, Vasiliy. If we venture too close, we fall within range of ASW aircraft.  Our missile contrails point directly
to our position, an excellent aim point for aircraft torpedo drops.”

“The ancient MK-46 torpedoes, Comrade Captain.  Even the Americans have no confidence in them.  They made twenty thousand for use against the four hundred submarines we had at the time.”

“We can’t afford to be cocky, Vasiliy.  There are disturbing messages in the recent radio traffic.  We’ve changed our code for some unknown reason.  By now our submarine numbers in the Pacific should be increased by more than a hundred, yet radio traffic is lighter.”

Vasiliy rationalized, “Perhaps we’ve become more skilled and less guidance is needed from ashore.  But, yes, Comrade Captain, what you say is cause for concern.  But caution must not deter us from our hard won initiative against the Americans.”

Commander Gerry Carter picked up the phone in his office aboard the commodore’s yacht.

“Got a live one, Commander,” cried the excited voice of the watch officer at the Blockhouse.

“What’ve we got, Todd?”

“This guy’s an
Akula
.  Wrong kind of lines for one of ours and didn’t perform the ID maneuver.  Permission to let him have one.”

Gerry thought,
Damn it!
 
Where in hell are the submariners when you need them?

The Blockhouse watch officer pressured Gerry for an immediate decision.  Gerry pondered,
Was
this an Akula closing to attack the Pitstop or an errant home comer, who either forgot the identification maneuver or never received it?
  And Gerry’s advice came from a hotshot fighter pilot with only fifteen hours training.

Considering the facts, Gerry reasoned,
Can’t be one of ours.  They’re all coming back from the Bering and at least a week out.
 

“Shoot!” he said, grinding his teeth in a futile effort to release stress then added, “And scramble the birds.”

The watch officer replied, “Will do.”  He unlatched and closed the firing key.  The missile had been spun up and initialized with target coordinates.  He picked up the phone and called Navy Air Hoquiam.

“This is Bottom.  Scramble two!  Coordinates to follow for live serpent when airborne.”

The array operator checked flashing numbers on the digital timer. “Should see the fish about now, sir … yep, there it is.”

With no speakers, the running torpedo showed up on a computer driven cathode ray display.

Lieutenant Vasiliy Baknov had the Attack Center watch when an excited michman, reported, “Torpedo astern, closing fast!” terror clear in the man’s voice.

Vasiliy ordered, “Ahead full!”

Zhukov’s
huge seven bladed propeller bit into the sea and accelerated the giant hull toward its maximum speed of more than forty-two knots.

“Which quarter?”

The michman exclaimed, “Starboard!”

Calmly, Vasiliy ordered, “Left full rudder to course zero-seven-zero, fifteen degrees up, to depth—” 

A sharp explosion at the rear of the ship interrupted the order and threw everyone to the deck.  The ship’s lighting lost, the crew groped about in darkness.  A deafening squeal shattered the customary soft hum of the rotating propeller shaft, telling Vasiliy they had been hit close to the main seal.