Show of Force (12 page)

“Tell Frank to request them to surface again. They've had time to think about those grenades now,” Carter nodded to David. The whitecaps had now grown into waves that were large enough to make the many course changes uncomfortable. One advantage, David knew, that a submarine had was the smooth weather underneath, but he decided he'd rather be on the surface at this point.

There was no answer to the grenades, nor to any of the repeated requests to surface. The night drew on and the men grew tired. They had been at their stations since before 1800, and it was now almost midnight. Six hours . . . any response would have raised their spirits, but it is difficult to perform consistently when there is no evidence that your efforts are having any effect.

“It's tough for them down there now,” Carter began to nobody in particular. “It stinks in that sub, a lot worse than in CIC or main control. The air has been breathed by too many people too often, and it doesn't taste good at all. And I understand from submariners I've known that you get a headache after a while, a throbbing one that doesn't go away.” He knew everything he was saying would be relayed by the various talkers on the bridge to the other stations. “And can you imagine what it's like when those grenades go off? Which reminds me, David. Have them drop five more this time. Same precautions as usual.” After he was satisfied that his orders were being carried out, he continued, "I don't mind telling you ... the noise those things make when you're inside one of those boats. . . . No, sir, friends have told me when they came back to Pearl from a mission that half the stink in the boat was the shit in their skivvies." He went on and what he was saying passed through the ship, and he knew that shortly the men on the
Bagley
would stop worrying about themselves. They would respect their enemy's position.

The men on the other ships were just as itchy. Carter noted that the signalmen were talking more often with their lights. Once or twice, the other CO's mentioned the possibility of using stronger methods to convince the sub to surface. The captain of
Bartlett
had even suggested that he would be happy to roll one or two depth charges. He hastened to add that, of course, he would ensure that the depth and location would be far enough away so that there was no danger of damaging the enemy. Carter thought to himself how easy it was for the hunter to always consider a weapon larger than he needed.

Frank Welles had picked up an occasional screeching sound on his sonar, which he finally identified as submarine machinery rather than playful porpoises. The other ships heard it, too, and all agreed that their quarry was experiencing some mechanical problems. He'll try a few more tricks and then surface, Carter thought. He won't do anything rash unless he's provoked.

“Pinwheel Leader, Pinwheel Leader.” The voice was urgent over the primary frequency. “This is Backfire. Unidentified device in the water bearing two eight five my position.” It was
Harriett
again. “Initial identification . . . torpedo,” the voice bellowed. "Taking evasive action."

Before Carter could question sonar, the speaker over his head, the one that was used only for contact reports, answered, “We copied that transmission, Captain. It may be a noisemaker.” Carter ordered a turn toward the object.

After another fifteen seconds, Welles's voice came again, “Recommend emergency . . . negative! Forget that. . . . We've got a noisemaker definitely, repeat definite noisemaker. . . . He's just turned again, and he's picking up speed. That's his decoy.” There was a pause for a moment while Welles kept the key down on the speaker. “And what a wail in his machinery, Captain. He's got problems.” After another moment's hesitation he added, “Oh, sorry, Captain. I forgot the speaker was right over your head.” A click, then silence.

But
Bartlett
was not satisfied. “Pinwheel, this is Backfire. Contact precipitated action first. I am preparing for a torpedo attack. We have a firing solution based on their new course and speed after torpedo release.”

“That stupid son of a bitch!” Carter grabbed for the mike himself. “This is Pinwheel Leader. Break off all attacks. I repeat . . . break off all attacks. Device is identified as a noisemaker. Acknowledge, over.”

“Like hell it is,”
Bartlett's
CO came back. “We know what a goddamn torpedo sounds like. We're no sitting ducks.”

“This is Pinwheel Leader. I say again, break off attack. I am running down the bearing of the device in the water now. I will pass over it in ten seconds. It is not a torpedo . . . repeat, not a torpedo. All ships prepare to reform pinwheel. Contact has just broken through our circle.”

And at that moment, David was repeating the words as they came over his headset; “Combat reports submarine has broken toward the west. Sonar reports lost contact . . . he's in the baffles. Mr. Burchette is moving the helos into position now. Mr. Welles thinks he may have gone deeper, but says he has to be close to his maximum depth now.”

As the ships scurried back over the black, tossing water to reestablish their stations, Carter murmured, “He's smart. He knew he couldn't outrun us, so when his chances were down he used the trick he'd saved for last. Mitchum would have loved that.” He turned to David, “Ask if the helos are in position yet.”

“Captain,” asked Bob Collier, “Did you really feel that was a noisemaker when you gave that first order to the helm?”

“No, Bob, I really didn't know for sure. But put yourself in that sub's position. None of us want to start war, except maybe
Bartlett.
That boat down there is in serious trouble. If he was to attack, which we don't believe he's authorized to do, he knows he'd get sunk. It's likely his orders are just to keep from getting caught on our turf, and you know as well as I do that he was due to try anything to get away. He's tried every evasive maneuver he knows, but he didn't once try a noisemaker. I've been waiting all night for one, but he was smart enough to wait until we were all tired. What I really had to do was show
Bartlett
that we were sure it wasn't a torpedo. People will do crazy things and what I wasn't sure of is whether
Bartlett
might not just have fired that torpedo if we weren't in the way.”

“Helos have contact, sir,” David reported. “Combat says he's about twenty-six hundred yards off the starboard bow heading away from us at nine knots.”

“Okay, Bob, I think we'll have him in a while. Take us in there and calm down the pinwheel. It won't be long now.” Carter got down from his chair and stepped out onto the bridge wing nearby, staring into the dark waves, then up at the stars.

“David, have Mr. Welles tell the sub that we know he has an engineering casualty. Tell him we will make room for him to surface safely, that we don't intend to harm his boat in any way . . . tell him we stand ready to render any assistance he may require . . . and tell him to speak slowly and repeat it. I know someone down there has to understand English.”

There was no answer to Welles's carefully stated plea, but the elapsed time and the screeching sound that was occasionally picked up over the sonar told them that the sub's time was limited.

At 0122 on the morning of October 24 the first confirmation of human life below the surface was heard by the four ships. In barely discernible words, sometimes breaking off completely, they were told that the sub intended to come to the surface.

“Tell him we will stand away for safety,” replied Carter. “Request that he fire a flare to mark his location before surfacing, and we will then give him clearance to surface.”

The destroyers rapidly expanded their circle until there was no doubt that the boat would know there was room. A flare appeared toward the middle of their circle, flickered briefly in the wind, then rose straight up to mark the position of the sub.

“Tell him all clear,” Carter's voice rang out happily. “As soon as CIC has the first mark on him, I want an immediate course and speed. We'll adjust to where he wants to go.” As an afterthought, he added, “Make sure we have the fire-control radar locked on him. I'll want mount fifty-one to fire illumination.”

Frank Welles reported sounds of the sub surfacing at almost the same moment Combat reported radar contact.
Bagley
gradually moved in to take station five hundred yards on the port beam of the sub. It could not be seen clearly from the bridge. A black submarine on a dark night at sea is outlined only by the phosphorous from the waves breaking against its sail.

“Gunnery reports mount fifty-one loaded and ready for illumination.”

“Very well, David.” He turned to Collier, “Have the signalmen ask the sub if they require assistance. When they say no, have them explain in whatever international signal language there is that we're going to illuminate, that there are no shells in the guns. I don't want them pulling the plug!”

Signal lamps flashed back and forth for a moment. Then, after a brief period, flashing began again, followed by even more flashing.

“Captain, we don't seem to be able to explain about the illuminating shells.”

“Oh, for Christ's sake! David, ask if any of those aircraft have flares they can drop without scaring the pee out of that boat.” What a hell of a note, he thought. We've just spent seven and a half hours committing the power of the U.S. Atlantic Fleet to chasing that sub around the ocean, and we can't find a light!

“The trackers each have ten flares, sir ... forty-five seconds duration. They'll commence their own runs in one minute to try to keep everything lit up for the time being. If their timing happens to be off and the lights go out for a moment, their CO says he apologizes in advance, and it won't happen again. And he also sends his congratulations for a great job.”

“Have Jerry roger that and tell them we couldn't have done it without Navy air.” He stepped out on the wing to stare into the darkness where his prey was supposed to be.
Bagley
was rolling heavily on its present course, and he had to hold on to the railing. The lookout next to him was straining through his binoculars for a glimpse of the sub. “Don't think you'll see him for a few minutes, son. We've got to wait for the airdales to light him up.” He looked more closely at the sailor, who was probably no more than eighteen or nineteen years old. “How long have you been standing this watch?”

“I've been here since general quarters, Captain, except for being relieved from time to time.”

“Were you worried?,”

“No, sir. We all know that we're safe here. No one ever expected that you wouldn't get that sub, Captain.” Realizing that he had taken his glasses from his eyes, he quickly began scanning wherever the horizon might have been. “What are you going to do to him now, sir?”

“Nothing, son. It's already been done.” He turned to move back to his chair, then thought better of it. “You all did a good job, son ... a great job. You be sure to tell that to everybody on your circuit.” Then he moved back to his chair.

“Illumination in about thirty seconds,” David reported.

“Start to take her into about two hundred yards, Bob. I want to get a good look at our friend.”

The illumination began sporadically, with the flares going out a couple of times just as the bridge personnel were getting their eyes adjusted. As the light became steady, Collier brought
Bagley
close in. It did not look at all like they expected their elusive quarry to look. Instead, they saw a black hulk, indistinguishable from any other submarine they had seen tied alongside the piers in Norfolk. It wallowed in the heavy seas, as helpless as any other machine that has been built for the depths. Somehow, it didn't look like an enemy should have looked. It seemed neither dangerous nor frightening.

“Captain, the carrier is sending out aircraft to begin taking pictures for identification. They should be here in about twenty minutes.”

The ultimate humiliation, thought Carter. "David, come on over here. I want you to see something. Take a good long look at that submarine, then remember he may be your real enemy someday. He looks pathetic there with the waves breaking around his sail, doesn't he? After all he's been through, he's probably got men barfing their guts out in this heavy sea.

“We won today, so to speak, but don't ever forget that he's lost not only to us but back home, too. They'll probably send him to the salt mines, wherever they are, because now we can prove that Russian subs are patrolling the Caribbean to back up all those missiles in Cuba. But, even more important, they'll be punishing the wrong man. He did the best he could without his cow or a base to return to for repairs. He drove us six ways to Sunday and back again, and did more than I would have thought possible with that thing he's riding. And then, to top it all off, he had the audacity to try to escape when he should have given in . . . and he almost got away with it.” Carter looked over his shoulder to where the other ships were steaming nearby.

“He could have gotten sunk for his troubles if that nut on
Bartlett
hadn't been just a bit unsure of himself, enough so that he called me before he fired.” He pointed at the sub, where two figures could be seen guiding their craft as best they could. “David, you're going to be a fine officer someday, and I want you to remember this night. That captain set an example we should never forget. And I'll bet he's no more than eight or nine years older than you. They really didn't start building that class until a few years ago, and then they had to go out and train a new set of officers to drive them. I'll bet he's only a lieutenant, or whatever they call them in Russia, and I'll say he's not more than thirty. How old are you, David?”

“Twenty-three, Captain, almost twenty-four,” he grinned.

“See what I mean. Maybe he's only six or seven years older than you. He's accomplished a lot in his short life, and I sure hope they're not too rough on him.”

Soon the planes came from the carriers for the next step, picture-taking. The Navy was taking no chances on the sub diving before dawn to avoid photos. They dropped longer-lasting flares from higher altitudes, and when they came in low for their pictures, they used flashes that lit the air like daytime. As well as anyone could see from the
Bagley,
the two men on the sub's bridge never looked up once. General quarters was secured shortly after, and the Gold Team relieved to complete the watch. David Charles stopped for a moment on the main deck to look over at his enemy outlined against the artificial lights, and saw only a black, dented hull that still looked strangely like every other sub in Norfolk.