USS Stonewall Jackson BoxSet

by Stephen Makk

“Aye aye, Sir down ten, seventy meters.” The deck inclined forwards slightly as the boat dived. The few seagulls who followed all vessels flew confused circles as the sail slid further down and finally disappeared below the waves. Her wake was visible for a short time and finally there was nothing, just a sunny breezy day in the English Channel.

  “Depth seventy Sir,” the Planesman pulled back on the yoke to level the boat. The navigation officer Lt Commander Daniel Cartwright looked over to Luke. “Sir I’ve plotted a course to take us around The lizard and Dingle, current bearing to put us on track would be two thirty degrees.” His accent still bore the slight rural lilt of his Suffolk roots.

  “Thanks, Mr Cartwright. Scrap it. We’re not going up north again. I want a new route across the Bay of Biscay and around the north-west tip of Spain, keep well clear of Brest and Ferrol, we don’t want the French and Spanish navies to know about us. We’re going around the Cape of Good Hope. It’s a fast dash, pick a good line, no standing offshore.” The navigation officer gave him a puzzled frown and turned to start work.

  “Yes, Sir.” After a short time, Cartwright turned, “Two two five Sir.”

  “Thank you. Planesman, bring her to two two five, speed six knots.”

  “Aye aye Sir, two two five at six.”

  “Exec, Take her through the Angles and dangles drill.”

  “Sir.”

  Angles and Dangles is a series of random sharp turns, figure eights, and random depth changes. It’s intended to eliminate any unintended self-noise which could occur during extreme manoeuvres. It’s carried out at the start of a patrol, in order to determine if loose items aboard the submarine are properly rigged for sea. Loose items can fall or shift position during the sudden manoeuvres of undersea combat, making noises that could be detected by an enemy submarine. After a series of deck tilting extreme manoeuvres, the XO reported.

  “Angles and Dangles clear Sir.”

  “Thank you, Mr Davis. Planesman, proceed on two two five. Speed twenty six knots.”

  “Two two five at twenty six aye Sir.”

  The Ghost slid quietly through the dark waters of the western approaches, unseen, unheard.

  THE MID ATLANTIC.

  FIVE HUNDRED KILOMETRES south of The Ivory Coast. Depth one hundred meters.

  SAVITA SLEPT SOUNDLY in her warm cosy bunk, her breathing soft and peaceful. Sleep glorious sleep, she had hours of it to go. The curtain was rudely ripped aside, two ratings roughly pushed her in the chest.

  “Are you, Savita Kapoor?”

  “What’s this? Yes.”

  “Then you are accused of the following.

  Disregard for the traditions of the sea.

  Of only posing as a sailor, and actually being a Pollywog.

  Of not paying proper homage to King Neptune the true God of all the seas.” She knew what this was. She’d not crossed the equator before and it was an old naval tradition that you undergo the crossing of the line ceremony, and appear before King Neptune himself. You’d be judged and inevitably found guilty. One of the ratings read from a sheet he held up. “I Davy Jones subpoena you to appear before the King and his court of Shellbacks. Get up.” She reached for her blue naval coverall. “That won’t be necessary Pollywog, bra and knickers only.” She groaned, retrieved her bra and put it on then climbed out of her bunk. She was led to the mess where Leading seaman Hyder was also under restraint and stood in his boxer shorts. Davy Jones pointed to two plates on a table. “The Pollywogs will sit and eat their breakfast.” They sat and picked up the knives and forks. Savita looked at the mess, she’d no idea what it was and knew only that it looked disgusting. She tasted it, and it was every bit as foul as it looked. It seemed to be cold porridge mixed with various sauces and curry powder. She took a few spoonfuls then pushed it away. “You will eat your food and be grateful for it.” Hyder was struggling too, he was holding back spasmodically from being sick. This didn’t help Savita at all. She struggled and could only just resist doing it herself. After a few minutes, Davy Jones said, “That’s enough, the Pollywogs will now stand in judgement before the King. They were taken forward to the torpedo room. It had been transformed into a courthouse. A Petty officer was dressed as King Neptune. Two leading seamen sat at his side, one dressed as a woman and one who was particularly fat was bare chested. There were more than a dozen grinning onlookers perched wherever they could.

  “Who stands before me awaiting judgement?” She was pushed in the back “Savita Kapoor.”

  “Paul Hyder.”

  “This is my wife,” said the King and pointed to the man dressed as a woman, “and this is the Royal baby.” He indicated the fat bare chested man.

  “You have been read the charges?” She knew there was no escaping.

  “I have.”

  “I have.”

  “Then how do you plead?”

  “Not guilty.”

  “Not guilty.”

  “You may plead your case.” He pointed to Hyder. He made up a weak case, pointing out his young age.

  “You.” He pointed at Savita.

  “I’ve never needed to cross the line before, can’t I be excused your majesty?”

  “No. I pronounce you both guilty, my Shellbacks will administer the punishment. But first kneel, then you may kiss the baby’s belly.” The two of them took it in turns to kneel and kiss the man’s stomach.

  A large tray had been purloined from the engine room and filled with oil, something resembling the muck they’d had for breakfast and dirty washing up water. First, Leading seaman Hyder was taken by the hands and feet, then dipped and rolled in the mess until he was filthy with it. Then it was her turn. She was rolled in it until most of her was covered.

  “Boobs too,” said a rating, a plastic cup was used to pour it over her chest.

  “You will visit the whole of the boat, so the rest of my Shellbacks may greet you,” said the King. Savita crawled on her hands and knees towards the aft of the boat followed by Hyder. The companionways were lined with men and a few women including the new Medical officer Pearl Turner. They poured all manner of filth on the pair, oil, both black and cooking, dirty water mixed with last night’s food remains. There were jeers and insults aplenty. Most laughed at them. Savita started to grin, she’d got into the spirit of the event. Finally, it was over. Hyder led the way to the shower.

  “After you, Sir.”

  “No, you go first. I can stand a few more minutes.” She stood outside the shower and waited. She stood there in her underwear and caught out a few of them looking her up and down, they tried to be discrete. She could see how bizarre it was, here she was in her underwear, in a submarine with men passing by. She knew she had a good body, Savita couldn’t blame them for looking.

  “Oh God,” she thought. It’s Luke, and I’m a mess, she could feel herself starting to colour up. He walked up to her grinning, she thought he looked gorgeous with his eyes and cheeky smile. “Hi, well it’s over now. You’re a Shellback too Savita. He’d used her first name, she’d never heard him call her that. He noticed her surprise. “I can call you by your real name”, he looked down at her body, “you’re not exactly in uniform are you?” Did he linger longer than he should? She wondered.

  “I feel filthy Sir.” He looked, smiled and raised an eyebrow.

  “Do you now?” Was he flirting? “You were a good sport. They’ll like that.” The shower door opened and Hyder stepped out. “Hello, Sir.”

  “Hi.” He turned aft and walked back to his bunkroom. Luke made way for a couple of passing seamen and now stood closer to her. He didn’t move back when they’d gone by. “What was the worst of it Savita?” She caught her breath. Did he know what he did to her, standing this close? “The tray in the torpedo room.” They talked for more than a minute, she found herself raising her arms to toss up her hair. Then stopped herself. You flirt Savita. She found her embarrassment had faded, in spite of herself, she quite enjoyed being here half-naked, talking with him. She saw him flick a couple of gl
ances down at her body. He certainly didn’t seem in any rush to leave. She knew she’d have to go in there soon. “Well Sir, I’ll need to go in,” she said tilting her head towards the shower, “I need a good scrubbing down.” He gave her that drop dead sexy smile.

  “You do Savita. But space is limited in there.”

  Savita gave him her best sultry smile and what she hoped was a dirty laugh. She stepped inside, turned the water on, stripped off and let the warm jets play over her. She grinned. He had been flirting. There I was in my underwear showing myself off, inches away from him. “You hussy Savita.” Did she really have a chance? Was he interested? She knew it couldn’t really happen, there’s no privacy in a submarine. It would be all around the boat in hours.

  THE GHOST RACED ON south towards Cape Town. They’d slowed up briefly and floated a satellite communications buoy. The Kilos had left Yagelnaya Bay several hours earlier. After his watch, Luke bedded down for a sleep in his cabin. He lay there and ran his mind back to when he was talking with Savita outside the shower. That body of hers and her looks. Wow, she was a stunner. She seemed to have an interest in him, but he could be wrong. He was the Captain, she might just be doing what she thought she had to do.

  “Be careful MacArthur, you could make a fool of yourself.” Or it could be worse than that. She was a junior officer under his command, he could be accused of harassment. Luke knew he was on thin ice and realised for the first time how very lonely command could be. In the darkness, he put his hands up over his face. “Oh Savita, I wish you were here.”

  HMS HOLY GHOST WAS one hundred kilometres off the coast of Somalia. Luke looked around his control room and all were at their stations, screens glowed green. Sonar had his scope painting a scan of the area, Luke looked over his shoulder at the scope. They’d done a fast dash around the cape and were nearing their destination. Luke looked to Mark Davis his Exec and nodded. Davis loaded a tape into the console by his side and pressed the start button.

  On sonar was Ratty. Ratty was Petty officer Peter Southworth’s nickname, it was said that Southworth had ears like a shit house rat. Luke knew that the expression normally applied to the eyes. But the crew had picked it, so who was he to differ? He announced loudly.

  “Conn sonar. Contact bearing nine five degrees, range nine kilometres, depth one thirty, refining.” Officers and ratings in the control room looked to Ratty expectantly, brows furrowed. All fell deathly silent.

  “Initial analysis,” said Ratty, “is suspected Oscar class boat.”

  That wasn’t good. Oscar class was a large Soviet SSN.

  “As soon as you can, Ratty.” Luke picked up the handheld microphone and pressed the red button next to his conn station twice. Whoop, Whoop. “Action stations, action stations. Submarine warning red.” Whoop, Whoop. “Action stations, action stations. Submarine warning red.” All around the boat, men and women dashed to their action stations, donning white anti-flash hoods. Hatches were all quickly closed and sealed.

  “Weps, warshot status?”

  “Tubes one and two, Spearfish. Three and four, Harpoon. Five and six are clear Sir.” Savita replied.

  “Come to nine five degrees.”

  “Nine five aye Sir.” The boat leant over to the right, the crew held onto whatever they could to stay upright.

  “Flood tubes one and two.”

  “Sir, Sonar, contact screw count and audio profile match Oscar class,” Ratty felt a flush of fear course through him mixed with adrenalin, “Warsaw pact library indicates that it’s the Murmansk. She’s flooding one tube. Opening outer doors.”

  “Mark contact as Tango one. Weps open outer doors.”

  “Outer doors open, tube one and two.” said Savita, “I have a firing solution on Tango one.”

  “Range to target? Ratty.”

  “Eight kilometres.”

  “Warshot red, tube one launch, stand by.” Savita looked at him briefly with a wide-eyed look of surprise. Then looked back at her screen.

  “Range Ratty?”

  “Seven point six kilometres Sir.”

  “Warshot red. Warshot red. Launch tube one, launch tube one.” Savita closed her eyes for a second and pressed the launch button.

  “Fish is running and hungry,” she said in disbelief. “Fish has acquired the target, time to impact, four minutes three seconds.” She’d actually fired on the enemy.

  “Conn sonar, Tango one has a fish in the water. Confirmed, fish is type fifty three.” Impact in three minutes forty seconds.” Savita and Cartwright looked nervously around. Ratty Southworth crossed himself.

  Chapter 3

  LUKE TURNED TO HIS Exec and nodded. He switched off the tape. Ratty and Savita looked at their now normal screens in surprise. Luke picked up the microphone.

  “End of the drill. This has been a drill. Stand down, boats company stand down. Well done everyone, if this had been real, you’d have done the Ghost proud.”

  “Come to depth forty, deploy a communications buoy. Let’s get the news from Northwood.”

  Several minutes later the communications officer Daniel Cartwright handed him a printout.

  Home FLT Holy Ghost. ID 8337fj5c3

  RN FLT Command Northwood. Commander Task force 311. ID 795y6d43

  14.07 Zulu. MSG START:

  Kilo class boats Nahang and Siyah Bambak, on surface, Mediterranean, North of Port Said. Fifteen kilometres from Suez entrance. Heading south. Good hunting.

  MSG END:

  “They’re about to enter the canal Mark. It’ll be a slow transit, depending on the shipping traffic. But they’ll probably be through tonight some time or more likely early tomorrow. We’ll not make it to the exit from the canal in time to meet them. But I didn’t favour that option anyway. We’ll wait for them here.” He pointed to the chart and the straits at the southern end of the Red Sea. “The Gate of Grief.” What a bloody name thought Luke.

  “Planesman, come to four zero degrees, speed twelve knots.”

  “Down angle fifteen, make your depth one twenty.” The deck tilted forward and all in the control room leant backwards to maintain their balance. The Ghost slid deeper into the blackness of the Indian Ocean, to her rendezvous with dark fate.

  BANDAR-E ABBAS. IRAN.

  “HERE ARE YOUR ORDERS Captain,” Admiral Sayyari handed over the papers, “do us proud.”

  “Yes Sir,” Captain Hijazi saluted, turned and left the office. He walked to the front entrance, down the steps and into the bright sunlight. A warm breeze rustled through the trees and the Persian Gulf shimmered. He walked down the road off to the quay, a few sailors saluted as he passed by. At the quayside, he turned left and walked by a Corvette, sailors carried stores up the ramp. He reached the stern of his ship the Frigate Arvand, the gold curved crest on the blue naval jack flew from her stern. Captain Hijazi walked past her stern mounted three-barrel Limbo ASW mortar and twin three-hundred and twenty four millimetre torpedo tubes, he headed amidships to the ramp. As he walked up the ramp two sailors came to attention and piped him aboard.

  “Tell Mister Paria I’d like to see him on the bridge.”

  “Sir.”

  He took his place on the bridge and soon his second officer joined him.

  “Is all well with the ship Commander Paria?”

  “Yes Sir, all stores are now loaded.”

  “I take it the Sahand is at sea?”

  “Yes Sir, she’s off Hormuz Island waiting.”

  “Very well, I have our orders. Cast off Commander, let’s join her.” He gave his second officer a smirk, “we’ve a job to do.”

  Arvand slipped her birth and set out to sea, she headed for the channel between Qeshm and Hormuz Islands.

  “Commander, make to Sahand. We have our orders and an important task to carry out. Take up line astern and follow. Captain out.”

  He looked out at the shimmering sea and wondered. It must go well out there, his navy depended on it.

  THE GATE OF GRIEF.

  “WE’RE STEADY AT PERI
SCOPE depth Sir.”

  “Thank you,” Luke replied. He raised the periscope, it rose above the waves, he did a turn through three hundred and sixty degrees. Dusk was falling in the southern Red Sea. He took in the view around the horizon. To the northeast, sandy red in the sunset was the island of Perim, peppered by the lights of Yemeni settlements and facilities. To the west was a single light from the Djibouti village and Mosque of Moulhoule. There was a ship approaching from the north, Luke zoomed in and it was clearly a cargo ship showing its running lights. The screen displayed a target range of nine point three kilometres. He lowered the scope.

  “Anything from Northwood Exec?”

  “Yes. They left the canal at 16.10 yesterday and submerged.” Luke calculated the estimated speed and checked the chart to get the distance.

  “Then I’d say they should be here in a few hours.”

  “Sir, do you want tubes five and six loaded with Spearfish?” asked Savita.

  “Yes, do that, it’ll give us four fish to feed them. That should be enough for the greedy bastards.”

  “Mr Cartwright, plot our position.” He walked over to the navigation officer’s screen.

  “Here Sir, we’re five point one kilometres south-west of Perim island.”

  “Give me the channel width, Mr Cartwright.”

  “This channel is twenty five kilometres wide, max depth three hundred and ten meters. To the east of the island, the channel is three kilometres wide, max depth thirty meters.

  “Very good. Planesman, come to two four five degrees, speed seven knots.” The boat heeled over slightly to the left as it turned to the south-west.

  “Flood forward one and two, down angle fifteen, make your depth one eighty.” The deck tilted forward and all in the control room leant backwards to maintain their balance. The Ghost slid deeper into the black straits.