D. M. Ulmer 01 - Silent Battleground

by D. M. Ulmer

  The desire for a drink and a place to get warm persuaded Darby’s better judgment so he said, “Okay, let’s go.”

  Both men gathered up their tool bags and left, Darby in anticipation of breaking his body chill with a nice stiff drink while the younger man hoped the new secretary from the shipyard commander’s office would drop by Helmsman’s on her way home.

  ***

  Months later as spring and winter battled back and forth for control over the Pacific Northwest, the nuclear submarine USS Denver plowed westward through huge swells from the north Pacific while in the Strait of Juan de Fuca approach to Puget Sound. Reaching the ocean, the crew began conducting sea trials to validate the work performed during her overhaul at Bremerton. As usual, far too many tests were jammed into an overly ambitious work schedule, leaving no slack time to correct inevitable problems.

  Success-oriented people, despite their repeated experience to the contrary, scheduled no time for emergencies or other inherent problems while conducting a sea trial. Time needed to deal with emergencies or to correct other problems came at the expense of off duty time for both the crew and the civilian yard workers embarked for the trials. The yard workers rode in submarines during trial cruises to assist with repairs as needed, thus providing a psychological insurance against shoddy workmanship.

  If a disaster occurred causing the loss of life, the civilians would be on the casualty list, as in April 1963 when the nuclear submarine USS Thresher sank during deep-sea trials in the North Atlantic. Seventeen civilians lost their lives along with all Naval personnel aboard, 16 officers and 96 enlisted men.

  Preliminary tests for hull leaks and proper operation of retractable masts, antennae and periscopes on the USS Denver were conducted in shallow water. In the unlikely event of a major problem, personnel aboard had a better chance of being rescued. So far on this sea trial some minor problems had occurred, but none with the potential to extend Denver’s stay at Bremerton.

  Aboard a submarine, the conning officer coordinates all trials from the submarine’s Attack Center. This assignment went to Lieutenant Brent Maddock because he had the longest tenure among Denver’s junior officers. He also got the job because he stood well above his peers in command presence. Navy lean, Brent had bright blue eyes, stood five-eleven with a medium build at one hundred seventy pounds.

  At the termination of a shallow dive, Brent reported over the 21MC tactical intercom. “Wardroom, Conn. Pass to the captain, shallow dive completed, en route the deep dive area, ahead standard on course two-seven-five at two hundred feet.”

  Captain Hal Bostwick answered, “Captain, aye, Conn. Everything go okay?”

  “Perfect, Captain.”

  “Very well, Brent, let me know when you have an ETA worked out,” said Captain Bostwick, referring to the estimated time of arrival.

  “Aye, sir,” said Brent. Next, on the 21MC again, he called the engineering officer of the watch in control of the ship’s propulsion. “Maneuvering, Conn. All shallow depth tests completed satisfactorily. We’re moving out for the big one.”

  “Maneuvering, aye,” the EOOW responded.

  Brent ordered the helmsman, “Right full rudder. Come to new course two-seven-five, belay the headings.”

  “Right full rudder to two-seven-five, belay the headings. Aye, Mr. Maddock.”

  To the planesman, Brent announced, “Make your depth two-zero-zero feet, no more than five degrees down bubble.”

  An oil filled clear circular tube with a bubble inside indicated the longitudinal angle of the submarine’s hull.

  “Two-zero-zero, no more than five down. Aye, sir.”

  “Ahead standard,” Brent ordered.

  He enjoyed having 3,640 tons of the world’s most advanced undersea technology obey him. Denver’s heading fell off to the right and she pitched downward in response to Brent’s directions. He barely heard the chum, chum, chum as the huge propeller bit into the seawater and increased Denver’s velocity through the ocean depths.

  Denver quickly restored herself internally to cruise status. The odor of clean hydraulic oil now masked the stench of burned metal created by many arc-welding jobs completed during the overhaul on land. The rattle-bang of the yard left far behind, background sounds consisted only of muffled conversations among the crew and yard workers going about testing Denver’s seaworthiness to the constant hum of rotating machinery.

  Submariners survive through their knowledge of sounds made by their ship. Quick detection of any abnormalities, a flat bearing, lack of lubrication, or unexplained changes in a rotation rate often prevented extensive repairs and on occasion, disaster itself.

  Quartermaster Second Class Jacques Henri, a handsome young black man, carefully wrote Brent’s flurry of instructions into the log, an official record of each event that took place aboard Denver. The log began at Denver’s commissioning ceremony and would continue until her retirement, scheduled some twenty-five years in the future.

  Henri believed the sole difference between him and the officers he served was three hundred years of injustice inflicted by whites that mistakenly considered themselves superior. Henri made this point through excellent performance and spurned what he considered liberal bleeding heart programs to correct past indiscretions.

  His uniforms always appeared impeccable and while the others capitalized on the informality of sea trials and dressed for comfort, Jacques maintained his dungarees in accordance with regulations and fresh from the laundry. Well-shined shoes rounded out his meticulous appearance.

  Henri made it his business to know the details of the Attack Center watch better than any of the ship’s officers. He felt it beneath his dignity to do just better than an average officer; he had to excel. As the quartermaster gang’s leading petty officer, he made the Attack Center quartermaster-of-the-watch assignments. By his own choice, he put himself on watch with Lieutenant Maddock, who he regarded to be the sharpest officer on board and a worthy challenge.

  With a deep basso tone Henri announced, “Personnel not on watch in the Attack Center clear the area,” a presumptuous order for him to initiate because the prerogative of command belonged to the conning officer.

  Brent took it in stride and let it slip, perhaps because of the relaxed atmosphere aboard during sea trials. Brent, unlike the other conning officers, admired Henri. The others resented being upstaged by the young outspoken enlisted man, especially in the presence of Captain Bostwick, however, Brent’s self-confidence permitted him to see the value of being backed up by a competent subordinate.

  The helmsman reported, “Steady, two-seven-five.”

  Denver headed for the next sea trial in the best possible hands.

  Until now, deep dive results exceeded all that could be hoped for and a rigorous test program maintained its schedule. The few minor discrepancies encountered would not delay the final departure from the yard and there would be ample time for farewell visits to Helmsman’s Tavern prior to leaving for San Diego.

  The crew felt exhausted when Denver prepared for her final deep dive event, firing seawater slugs at maximum depth to test the torpedo tubes with full launch pressure. Captain Bostwick anticipated a routine test and left Lieutenant Daniel Patrick in charge.

  Denver proceeded to maximum depth, maintaining coolant pumps in slow for greater reliability and lower noise levels. For precise depth control, Patrick ordered speed above eight knots then ordered watch standers stationed at hydraulic controls for major hull openings to cope with possible flooding casualties.

  Lessons learned from the loss of Thresher remained fresh.

  Initiating the torpedo tube test firings at maximum depth, Brent ordered, “Starboard bank first, Dan.”

  Brent stood behind the Attack Control Console and the ACC Operator as tubes one and three operated successfully. “Port bank now. Tube two ready.”

  “Fire two!” ordered Dan.

  WHOOSH.

  “Tube two away.” What the hell was that? Was that a slightly different sound d
uring the eject pulse? “Hold it, Dan … I’m going forward to check with the torpedo room watch.”

  Dan asked, “Why for chrissakes? These shots are going off like a Swiss watch and you want to hold us up?”

  Brent replied, “Just a hunch. Let me check with the room watch to see if he noticed anything.”

  Annoyed, Dan said, “Damn it, Brent. You call the old man and report this. Otherwise, pop off four and let’s get the hell out of here.”

  Brent hesitated.

  A rift had grown between Captain Bostwick and Brent because his combat readiness interests appeared to conflict with the captain’s agenda. Captain Bostwick bucked hard for promotion to admiral and had reached a critical point in his career. He did not regard tactical excellence a significant stepping-stone and he expected Denver officers to support his personal program, hence Brent frequently stood at odds with him. It would not be a good time for Brent to cry wolf and although he knew it would be wrong, he caved in to Dan’s request.

  Brent ordered, “Torpedo room; make ready a water slug in tube four.”

  After the firing key, the normal shudder followed throughout the submarine as the twenty-five foot long, twenty-one inch diameter launcher expelled its contents of green water into the sea.

  Dan admonished his friend. “See. I told you. Nothing to worry about.”

  An instant later came the sound most dreaded by submariners … a deafening roar along with a screaming voice sounding an alarm over the 2lMC. “Flooding in the torpedo room!”

  The shout erupted from the middle level operations compartment.

  Dan yelled out, “Ahead full! Twenty degrees up bubble! Torpedo room, commence compartment pressurization.”

  At Denver’s maximum depth, the order had minimal effect on the flooding rate. Brent hurried toward the torpedo room as Denver began to pitch down by the bow. He seemed oblivious to the terrified men lining his tortuous route.

  Next, Dan ordered emergency blow of all main ballast and shifted engines to back full when the hull transitioned from an up to a down angle.

  Brent had accurately diagnosed the casualty and knew that only stopping the leak would save the ship. The port torpedo tube ejection pump shaft had broken, leaving a three-and-a-half inch opening directly to sea and the entering column of water blasted into the ship as though fired from a cannon. Only securing the barn-door valve to seal off the inrushing seawater could stop it.

  Petty Officer Gary Hansen had already initiated the operation at a rear hydraulic control valve inside the compartment.

  Normally, this involved resetting an anti-refire valve (ARV) when the ram returned to battery. But, the ram-shaft lay broken on the torpedo room deck and could not be repositioned.

  Brent would have to reset the ARV manually, a near impossible task because of its close proximity to the roaring stream. With time running out, he struggled forward, passing terrified crewmen and yard workers along the way.

  He reached the torpedo room and ordered, “Hansen! Hold the control valve shut. I’ll reset the ARV by hand.”

  Brent’s lungs and eyes filled with the acrid mist created by the bombarding saltwater and he couldn’t see. The shrill noise threatened to burst his eardrums and the force from the incoming water stream could easily shear off an arm or leg.

  Thoughts raced through Brent’s mind. Concentrate, gotta try to remember where the valve is … find it and reset it. Feels like the bow’s down a few more degrees. Gotta watch out for the heavy stuff breaking loose, but I can’t worry about that now.

  Concentrate…concentrate…three points down, fourth and long with less than a minute to play against Army. Here comes the ball. Why in hell did he have to lob it so damn high? Stretch out and give the converging linebackers a better shot. Concentrate…gotta concentrate. Beyond the first down marker, just grab the ball and hang on to it. Nothing else matters. I’ve got it … squeeze it. Crunch, gold and black helmets cave in exposed rib cage.

  CRASH.

  The barn door valve slammed shut and the inrushing water abruptly stopped. An eerie silence fell over the compartment. Hansen’s white-knuckled hands continued to hold the control valve in the shut position, his face ashen. As Brent looked at him, he felt a sudden surge of admiration for the man’s courage.

  With Denver down further by the bow, Brent had to climb back to the 2lMC station before he could activate the intercom. “Conn, secure the blow and vent the after group. It’s increasing the down angle. Somebody start thinking up there!”

  The emergency blow subsided. Denver maintained its sickening pitch angle for a moment and then began to slowly turn upward.

  Captain Bostwick’s stern voice boomed back over the 2lMC, “Torpedo room … report your condition.”

  Recalling his last reprimand, Brent muttered, “Oh crap, more trouble with the old man is all I need right now.”

  He made his way back to the Attack Center through the crew members lining the way with many of them in various states of near shock. For most of the men, the close brush with a death experience showed in their faces. Some stood frozen in silence or sobbed. Others provided what comfort they could while the veterans just went about their duties.

  Dan Patrick got the hull angle under control and used speed to drive Denver toward the surface.

  At the Attack Center, Captain Bostwick cautioned, “Not too fast, Dan. Let’s not pop out like a cork. Slow your rate of ascent. We’re okay now. Flooding problem resolved.”

  Captain Bostwick saw Brent in his peripheral vision, and without facing him demanded, “What happened up there, Brent?”

  “The port eject pump ram failed, Captain. It broke during the launch stroke. The momentum caused it to knock over the air piston and leave a three-and-a-half inch hole to sea. We reset the ARV manually so the barn door could be closed from the remote position. Hansen did a hell of a job for us, sir. Scared to death but he hung in there.”

  “Was the shaft inspected?”

  The captain knew the program schedule and had argued against inspecting the shaft before the overhaul, hoping to prune the Navy yard workload and to placate the bean counters at Commander Submarine Force, Pacific Fleet, COMSUBPAC. Concerns grew over rising costs of overhaul programs and Captain Bostwick’s priorities reflected those set at COMSUBPAC.

  Weapons systems inspections did not rate a high priority among the scheduled overhaul programs, but strong arguments presented by Brent and the Squadron Three weapons officer, Lieutenant Commander Karl ‘Dutch’ Meyer, restored the inspections to the work package.

  Brent said, “It was, sir.”

  Bostwick asked, “Did you witness the inspection?”

  The captain knew full well he set the priorities in hindsight and delivered a cheap shot.

  Brent’s huge work assignments exceeded his limited resources, so he distributed them by priority. Earlier, Brent verbally advised the executive officer, Lieutenant Commander Jack Olsen the eject pump inspection did not require a ship’s force oversight and now wished he had put this in writing.

  Brent made no excuse. “No, sir, I did not witness the inspection.”

  “Very well. I want to review the paperwork when we hit port. First order of business … understand?”

  “Understand, sir,” Brent said then left the Attack Center and turned in to his bunk for a much-needed rest.

  Sea trails and the near disaster had sapped his energy, yet he couldn’t set aside the events of the day and fall asleep. He thought of Beatrice Zane and the last time he had seen her. It was the best of all their evenings. Thoughts of her relieved his tension and he finally slept as Denver sped toward Puget Sound.

  In another part of the ship, Darby Cameron, though dog tired, lay awake in the chief petty officers’ quarters. He’d been selected to ride Denver for trials and overheard the captain’s intention to investigate the casualty. Darby felt a terrible fear when the submarine headed for the bottom and now he feared he would pay a price twice more for his maintenance omission, dismissal from
Civil Service and the forfeiture of all his benefits accrued for over thirty-two years of working at the shipyard.

  Inspecting the fasteners on the eject pump would show they had not been removed recently and reveal he gun-decked the initial inspection report.

  He thought, The days ahead are truly gonna be grim ones.

  Chapter 2

  Captain Eric Danis, Commander of Submarine Squadron Three based at San Diego, sat in a huge chair behind a large mahogany desk at the Puget Sound Naval Shipyard Headquarters. His temporary office supplied with expensive furnishings made him uncomfortable, not being accustomed to such plush accommodations.

  He bore the title commodore, a verbal courtesy extended to officers who command a squadron of warships, regardless of their actual rank. The COMSUBRON 3 assignment had earned him the nickname Squad Dog, a jumping off spot for promotion to admiral, flag-rank, as it is known in the Navy. His prospects were good at the time of his posting, but two years without selection, a lightning strike in Navy jargon, brought him close to mandatory retirement.

  A tall slender man with premature gray hair, he had matching eyes that could bore right through a person, yet also show compassion.

  Captain Hal Bostwick sat opposite Commodore Danis. Officers in the rank of commander normally command submarines, but Bostwick had manipulated the system well and gained the higher rank of captain through an early selection process.

  Their meeting ran the usual agenda of congenialities incident to departure from a successful overhaul, but now they needed to address the near disaster. Responsibility had to be fixed. Despite the premium for limited space within a submarine, an unwritten rule: There’s room onboard for everything but a mistake. Mistakes and their perpetrators were culled out.

  Captain Bostwick’s voice tones and body language signaled a change to a more serious note. “Commodore, I’m afraid Denver must shoulder a good share of responsibility for the casualty,” electing to use the term Denver in lieu of the pronoun I used by commanding officers when blame is a factor. COs are responsible for all that happens aboard their ships whether triumph or failure and the skipper gets both barbs and cheers.