D. M. Ulmer 01 - Silent Battleground (8 page)

Danis gave an admiring glance to the wily
old
mustang
, Navy slang for an officer who has come up through the ranks.  He knew he could count on the full weight of Dutch’s beefy shoulders to be put to the wheel.  Together they’d pull off the impossible. 

Danis said, “I called the Bremerton SUBPAC representative and told him it’s a drill ordered by his boss.  Told them SUBPAC will give him more if he needs to know.”

“He buy it?”

“Like a low mileage used car, but he complained about interrupting overhauls.”

“No surprise.  Reps are engineers, not operational types.”

“Listen, Dutch.  Round up a navigator, a communicator and an operations officer from three boats that can best spare them.  They’ll report to me for temporary staff duty.  Better get a couple of yeomen too.  We need to crank out a practice emergency dispersal plan.”

“Aye, aye, sir.  I’ll do that.  How about the Commander, Naval Base, Seattle?  Has he been cut in?”

“Hell of a way to run a Navy.  I don’t know, Dutch, and I’m not saying anything without direction from SUBPAC.”

“Shall we advise him of the drill, sir?  If the newspapers pick up on this, they’re sure to contact him.  If he claims not to know, that alone might throw the fat in the fire.”

Danis considered the keen mind that functioned behind Dutch’s unobtrusive countenance.  “Real good point.  I’ll tell him the damn submariners are up to another Chinese fire drill.  Hopefully, he won’t suspect anything.”

Relieving his chair of its load Dutch left.  Though ordered in soft tones, he knew this to be the most complex and important assignment of his career.  He also recognized omissions of specific instructions by Danis to be a vote of confidence.  Another tough task lay ahead.  It made no sense to pull half repaired submarines from the yard without the right people to finish the job.  He’d personally pick key individuals to survive and spare his commodore this weighty chore.

The old mustang pulled a notepad from his pocket and began a list of yard workers.

SHOP     #    NEEDED SKILL

X11        3    Shipfitters

X26        5    Welders

X38        3    Outside Machinists

X51        2    Electricians

X56        2    Pipe Fitters

X67        2    Electronics

X72        4    Riggers

Dutch would ask the shipyard commander for his best men.  And he’d requisition the team that had successfully
installed an auxiliary saltwater pump at the remote ballistic missile submarine base at Guam.  Their recent experience conducting repair operations in the field would round out Dutch’s ragtag repair crew.  He’d order ships in dry dock to have plates welded over nonessential underwater openings.  There’d be time for only
one welding pass, violating the rules, but better than nothing.  These would hold out seawater but only
at shallow depths.  Non-propulsive ships would be towed to shallow water in the Sound, submerged to sit on the bottom till whatever might happen blows over.

A myriad of things required attention.  Provide Danis with a copy of local ferry schedules so the sortie could be completed before they started running.  Passengers might notice the abrupt flurry of Naval activity and become suspicious.

Commodore Danis picked up the phone and dialed after Dutch left the room.  It rang only once at the other end.

“Dave Zane speaking.”

The commodore greeted his old friend, “Should’ve known you’d be in the cockpit.  Damn, I’m looking forward to retirement.”

Dave Zane kept his instruments, the phone, TV and VCR remotes within easy reach of his lazy boy recliner, hence the term cockpit.

Dave replied, “Depending whether you get two or just one term as Chief of Naval Operations, I’d say you’ll be retired in eight years minimum.”

“I’d retire today if you could fix me up as commodore of the local yacht club.  That’d be a lot more exciting.”

“We’ll talk about it over the weekend, old Buddy.  Why don’t you ride home with Bea after work tomorrow?  We’ll drive to the peninsula together in my car.  Don’t show up in that damn Navy vehicle.  The neighbors worry about their taxes when they see that thing in the driveway.”

“Sorry, Dave, but I gotta beg off.  Navy’s gone all to hell since you left it.  Us old guys are supposed to sit around and drink coffee and watch the youngsters.  We’re not supposed to work, but that’s what they’re making me do.  Better get you back on active duty to straighten things out.”

“You’re kidding.  We can put it off a day and leave Saturday.”

“No, Dave, I’m afraid not this time.  I’ll be at sea.”  Danis offered no further explanation and Dave pressed for none.

“You and Bea will go ahead without me, won’t you?  I don’t want to be a total wet blanket.”  Danis resisted the urge to warn Dave to leave the area.

“We’ll go.  Some stuff we have to take care of up there.  We’ll miss you, though.  Next time I won’t take no for an answer … understand?”

“Understand.  I’ll come by and see you before I leave for Dago, and you can tell me about all the fun I missed.  See ya, Dave.”

“See ya, Eric.  Don’t get seasick out there.” 

After hanging up, Danis felt a great sense of relief that his friend planned to be away from Bremerton for the near term.  He did not buy CNO’s view that the impending war would be limited to non-nuclear weapons.

An eerie red glow bathed
Denver’s
Attack Center to protect the conning officer’s night vision; essential in case a periscope observation is needed.  Rig for red is enforced between sunset and sunrise and gives the crew a sense of conditions in the world above the waves.  Brent enjoyed the quiet time. 

Miracle of miracles, he and the captain saw eye to eye on reverting to the traditional four-hour watches. The previous six-hour watches brought on fatigue, boredom and a loss of touch with ship’s operations.

The captain’s training schedule took five full days.  Brent’s day began at 0330 when called for the morning watch then came a full day of drills, followed by watch again from 1600-2000.  Brent kept his word and squeezed three hours of new weapons training into each day.  Land Attack Tomahawk Missiles,
TLAMs,
loaded in vertical outside the pressure hull, got the most attention.  Operation and maintenance had to be conducted from within the ship.  The Tomahawk Ship Attack Missiles, TSAMs, stowed in the torpedo room, were accessible, but limited because of being encapsulated.

Brent nursed a cup of hot coffee, not so much for enjoyment but for the wakening effect of the caffeine.  At 0530, he executed sunrise and the Attack Center returned to normal lighting.

Denver
cruised three hundred miles off Oregon’s coast, submerging deep enough to avoid motion imparted by large swells on the surface as she made her way south toward San Diego and home.

A voice crackled over the 21MC, “Conn, Sonar.  Can you come in here a second, Mr. Maddock?”

Brent called back, “On the way,” and then said to Senior Chief Cunningham, “COB, you got it for a few minutes.”

“Aye, sir,” Cunningham replied.

Brent entered the sonar shack to find a pair of operators monitoring a maze of green lines on the sonar video displays,  “What’ve you got?”

A sonarman replied, “Don’t really know, sir.  I’ve never heard it before.  It sort of rumbles at frequencies too low to get a good bearing.  They come generally
from the east, though.  Look, sir, there goes one now.”

“Run that back on the LOFAR.”  Then he and two sonarmen reviewed the Low Frequency Analyzer Recorder (LOFAR) trace but could make no sense of it.

“An earthquake?  Or maybe Mount St. Helens erupting again?”

The sonarman disagreed, “Don’t think so, sir.  I’ve heard a few quakes and volcanoes and they don’t sound anything like this.  I’ve got some tapes if you want me to run them, Mr. Maddock.”

“That won’t be necessary.  Keep track and log everything.  We’ll want trace-recorder sheets from LOFAR annotated with times.  Advise me of any changes.” 

An ominous feeling built in the pit of Brent’s stomach.

“Aye, Mr. Maddock.  Will do.”

Brent went back to the Attack Center and advised Cunningham of his return then he picked up the telephone and dialed the captain’s stateroom.

Bostwick’s sleepy voice mumbled, “Captain.”

“Conning officer, Captain.  We’re picking up strange sounds on sonar, sir.  Low frequency, very powerful, a long way off to the east.  I recommend you come up and listen, sir.”

A slight pause then Bostwick said, “No, but let me know if there are any changes.  Pacific Ocean can make weird noises when it wants to.”

“I don’t think these fit that format, Captain.  Request permission to proceed to periscope depth and hoist an antenna.  Maybe we can pick up some traffic on what’s happening.”

“Alright, Brent, I’m coming up.  You and your damn war scares.”

Brent bit his lip.  “Hope it’s nothing, Captain, but we ought to be sure.”

“You’re right, it’s nothing.”

Brent accompanied Bostwick to the sonar shack.  The captain listened and again classified the sounds as natural. 

He said to Brent, “As long as you got me out of bed, let’s go to periscope depth.  Should be pretty bright now.  At least we’ll get a weather observation outta this.”

“Aye, sir,” and then pressing the 21MC button said, “Sonar, search around, report all contacts.”

The sonarman responded, “No contacts, sir.
 
Just the rumbling.”

Brent ordered the helmsman, “Ahead two-thirds,” and then to Cunningham, “Chief, make your depth one-five-zero feet smartly.”

He turned to the quartermaster of the watch and said, “Henri, based on the last look, give me a good heading away from the troughs.”  This measure minimized obscuring the periscope upper optics from wave action.

“Recommend come left to zero-seven-five,” came Henri’s crisp reply.  This heading also assured best possible depth control near the surface.

“Level one-five-zero, sir,” reported Cunningham.

“Sonar, Conn, coming left to zero-seven-five.  Check the baffles,”

Denver’s
main sonar, the spherical array of the AN/BQQ-5 baffles, being mounted forward created a blind spot by the submarine hull.  Turning the ship permitted sonarmen to detect possible contacts being masked by the baffles.

Sonar responded, “Baffles.  Conn, Sonar, aye,” and a minute later, “Baffles clear.”

Double clicking the 21MC, Brent signaled he heard and understood the report.  “Six-three feet smartly, Chief,” Brent ordered.

“Six-three smartly, aye, sir.”

“Very well, Chief, mark at seventy and every two thereafter.”

“Seventy, and the twos, aye.”

Brent ordered, “Up two for a look around.”

Henri reported, “Two coming up, sir.”  As the periscope cleared the well, he flipped the handles to the down position, rotated the optics to low power with the right handle and elevated the optics to full high with the left.

Brent fastened his eye to the scope and at once saw florescent plankton speed by the periscope head window.  He rotated the scope rapidly for visual contact with the bottom of possible undetected surface ships that might be close aboard.

Cunningham called out, “Seven-two feet, seven-zero, six-eight.”

Brent shouted, “Scope clear,” as the optics broke the ocean surface.  “Swinging around in low power.  Nothing close.  Raise the BRA 34.”  Training the scope aft, Brent observed the large antenna break the surface and extend to full length.  “Henri, tell Radio the 34 is clear.  Monitor all VLF and HF band signals.”

Radio responded to the order relayed by Henri, “Radio, aye.  Our ears are on.”

A minute slipped by and the 21MC crackled again.  “No joy in Radio, Conn.”

“Well, Brent, looks like no war today,” the captain smirked.  “I’m going below and get some—”

The 21MC prevented Bostwick from finishing his sentence.

A
shrill and panicked voice cried out, “Captain to Radio on the double!” 

No one ordered the captain anywhere and never on the double.  As he hurried
to the radio shack, he snarled, “This better be damned important.”

A short while later, Bostwick returned to the Attack Center, his face ashen.  “Men, we’re about to change our spots from peacetime sailor to full-time warrior.  We’ve been attacked by the Soviets.  Good luck to us all.  We’re going to need it.”

Brent wondered if the other men had detected Bostwick’s lack of conviction.  He was not eager to follow this captain into combat.

Chapter 5

Dave Zane and Bea loved their rustic family
retreat that sat on a cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean from Washington’s magnificent Olympic Peninsula.  The simple, functional, cozy structure included a kitchen and dining-family
room combination with a large ocean view window.  A nearby cliff looked down fifty feet onto a stretch of sandy beach strewn with large boulders deposited there during the ice age.  A rugged switchback trail provided access to the beach for the stout of heart.

Dave built most of the house himself, but his wife Dale drew the line and brought in professionals for the finishing work.  Fieldstone collected from the site made up a large fireplace on the family room north wall.  A divan and several large chairs formed a semicircle facing the hearth.  Two baths, a loft bunkroom, a master bedroom and two other bedrooms rounded out the spread. 

Eric Danis had to bow out at the last minute. Dave regretted his friend canceled his visit, but he didn’t let it dampen the good spirits that accompanied each of his visits to what Dale had dubbed the
Digs.

Bea wondered if the presence of Eric Danis and her dad might put a damper on her weekend with Brent.  But, she had been raised among submariners and knew of their tendency for taking life in stride, so concluded it would have been a fun time.

Dave ate far too much baked salmon, the traditional opening meal established by his late wife.  After several games of cribbage with Bea, he turned in then fell into a deep and restful sleep.

Hours later, Bea stood beside her father’s bed wearing one of his old bathrobes.  “Dad … Dad!  Wake up!  Something is very wrong.”