D. M. Ulmer 01 - Silent Battleground

by D. M. Ulmer

  Brent said, “We conducted the test in compliance with established directions and there were no cockpit errors.”

  The chairman replied, “We’re aware of that, Lieutenant. When we interrogated Denver’s weapons department personnel, we found them knowledgeable and well trained. This reflects credit upon you and our findings will so state.”

  Brent nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

  Invited to make a closing statement, Brent said, “Gentlemen, I have only six years experience at sea. In that time, I’ve learned the ocean is unforgiving and relentless. If there is any way for it to get into a submarine, it will. Mistakes by people are a concern and corrective action must follow immediately. Deliberate omissions on the other hand are intolerable. Those found responsible forfeit their right to be part of submarine service.”

  Darby Cameron buried his face in his hands.

  Continuing his commentary, Brent said, “Whatever your findings, Mr. Cameron has burned his bridge with submariners. We are a small lot and already know his name. I recommend that he be barred from ever working on submarines again.”

  Pausing for a moment as if making up his mind about something Brent went on, “There’s another side to this coin, however. Six months before the overhaul, we very nearly made Mr. Cameron’s mistake for him.”

  Darby Cameron raised his eyes.

  Interested expressions accompanied the repositioning of board members’ bodies around the table.

  Brent knew this would put him deeper into hot water with the captain, but his sense of justice required he speak out. “The overhaul work package had the usual problems. Too much needed to be done, not enough time and never enough money. The eject pump inspections fell initially among the cuts, but reinstated in exchange for having my troops pick up other items approved earlier. The inspections, dropped a second time as salve for an engineering problem, got back into the work package as a result of arguments by Lieutenant Commander Meyer, Squadron Three weapons officer.

  “In fairness to Mr. Cameron, this must be considered. Experienced submariners shared his view on the low priority attributed to eject pump inspections; however, I stand firm in my recommendation he never again be permitted to work on submarines.”

  Brent responded to a barrage of questions on his statements with answers that presented Captain Bostwick in an unfavorable light.

  “Thank you for your testimony, Lieutenant. You are dismissed from these proceedings.”

  Brent recognized he had blown the whistle on his captain and understood the consequences. He abhorred being disloyal but believed his testimony essential for a fair judgment of Darby Cameron.

  After deliberations, the Chairman of the Board read the findings and recommendations to Darby. “As to the charge, ‘falsification of an inspection record incident to the overhaul work on USS Denver,’ the verdict is guilty. We have reached a unanimous recommendation that you be discharged from the Civil Service, effective this date. We further recommend that rights and benefits accumulated by you shall remain in force.”

  The chairman added, “Testimony from Denver officers had a great bearing on the latter recommendation. The findings of this board will be forwarded to the shipyard commander for his final disposition.”

  When invited to comment, Darby Cameron shook his head. “No. I expected it would be a lot worse. I’m grateful to the Denver officers.”

  The chairman adjourned the inquiry.

  Returning to the waterfront, Brent found Woody had the weapons load-out well in hand. The number five Tomahawk Land Attack Missile (TLAM), out of the dozen delivered, made its way into the vertical launcher in the Denver’s forward deck. Chief Cunningham’s presence reassured Brent despite growing confidence in his young first lieutenant. The COB had amassed enough experience to supervise the job on his own, but had an unwritten assignment to prop up any new junior officer’s self-confidence. Woody believed he ran the show, but Cunningham hovered about to protect the young officer from rookie mistakes.

  Navy yard weapons load-out deviated from the normal procedure of conducting this at an ammunition facility because Commodore Danis rearranged the process to expedite Denver’s departure. Weapons, barged from the Naval Weapons Station Seal Beach, Detachment Port Hadlock, Washington in upper Puget Sound, made their way into Denver’s vertical launchers at the Bremerton facility.

  Brent dropped by the Denver wardroom for a short break and discovered Bea had called.

  He dialed her number. “Hi, Den Mother. How’s life among the clerical types of Shipyard Planning?”

  She replied in a mock annoyed tone, “Administrative assistant, you macho, male egotist.”

  “Guilty on the two adjectives, but I’m too humble to have an ego.”

  “And I’m too beautiful to be stuck in a shipyard, but here we are. Now tell me. The whole place is buzzing about Commodore Danis’s speech. What’s going on?”

  “Sorry, Bea, but one thing is not going on. Our weekend on the peninsula is history. We’re like a convention of one-legged men at an ass-kicking contest.”

  “Oh, damn. You’re kidding?”

  “Wish I were. Things we need to do to get out of here on Monday have all but quadrupled.”

  Bea asked, “Lunch maybe?”

  “It’s a madhouse here, Bea. I’ll see you tonight, okay?”

  “Okay, give me a call when things settle down, either here or at home.”

  “Sorry, Babe. See ya soon,” Brent said then hung up the phone and went topside to check on Woody’s loading operations.

  The Zane family loved retreating to the modest but cozy house on the Olympic Peninsula Pacific Coast. It was also a favorite escape for Bea and Brent. Dave Zane often joined them, but knew when to turn his daughter a blind eye.

  They all planned to spend Denver’s final weekend at Bremerton by staying at the Digs, as Dave termed his favorite haunt. Though Dave had not mentioned it, he also invited Eric Danis to join them.

  Day wore into night before Woody and the COB Cunningham completed the load-out, but not too late for a farewell drink at the Helmsman with Brent, Dan and Bea Zane.

  At the Helmsman, loud blaring disco music made it impossible to communicate below a shout. Woody spotted the young secretary he met at the shipyard commander’s office that morning. He excused himself and made his way to her across the tavern. A short time later, a commotion erupted. Another young man had staked an earlier claim on the target of Woody’s interest.

  Brent picked up on the dialogue as he approached the scene.

  Denver’s baby-faced ensign said, “She looks old enough to decide by herself whether she wants to dance.”

  The man snapped “What the hell? You goddamn Navy guys come in here like you own the place. Hit the road you bastard, or I’m gonna pulverize that dumb face of yours.”

  Woody softly cautioned, “You don’t want to fight with me.”

  “Wrong, you yellow bastard. It’s you that doesn’t wanna fight with me. You got no choice, buster.”

  The young man made a wild swing at Woody’s head.

  While a midshipman at the Naval Academy, Ensign Elwood Parnell learned to fight by instinct and his automatic reactions helped him to become a four-time middleweight boxing champion. His feet skimmed skillfully, right foot back on toe, left forward, flat in line ninety degrees to his opponent. His jaw took cover behind a raised left shoulder, while the attempted blow whizzed overhead. Woody waited for the expected left to follow and avoided it with ease. He straightened, anticipating the forward movement the attacker’s effort would give to his head.

  Snorting like an angry bull, Woody delivered the first of two-planned solid left jabs to his opponent’s face. Like lightning, snap, the sound of knuckles against skin. No need for a second blow. The man’s knees folded inward and he collapsed like a tall building felled by a well-placed demolition charge.

  Unknown to Woody, the young inspector, culpable, but not exposed by Darby Cameron, had received a measure of punishment at the hands of E
nsign Parnell.

  Bea dropped Dan, Woody and Brent off at Denver’s pier where a mass of humanity stirred about like ants making the submarine ready for sea.

  Brent shared a kiss with Bea to whistles and howls from sailors and other passersby. The unmistakable voice of Gary Hansen shouted, “Way to go, Mr. Maddock.”

  Bea admonished Brent, “Don’t do anything stupid out there.”

  “Make book on it, but it’s you I’m worried about. I’m a lot safer at sea if this Soviet thing blows up. You listen to what Dave says. He’ll know what to do. I care a lot about you, Bea.”

  She took a final look at him, “I will, Brent. You come back to me. Hear?”

  “Make book on that too!”

  They released each other and Brent disappeared into the mayhem on the dock.

  Captain Bostwick sat in his stateroom and fumed as he read the transcript of Brent’s testimony. He ignored the issue that confronted young Maddock, the need to state all pertinent facts to assure the defendant got a fair hearing. The Civil Service Board report cast a shadow over Bostwick, so he would not pass it along to SUBPAC. Bostwick hoped the findings would set the stage for a career ending, adverse fitness report on young Maddock, but they did not. Brent’s testimony to the Civil Service Board averted a fatal blow from the captain.

  Bostwick muttered, “So the sneaky bastard wants to play games. Well I’ll damn well show him he’s playing in the big leagues.”

  Chapter 4

  To the east, a red dawn brightened the ridges of Whidbey Island as Denver sped north through Puget Sound en route to the open sea. Brent thought, Red sky in the morning, sailor takes warning and anticipated seas would kick up as the day wore on. He stood the morning watch, 0400-0800 as officer of the deck on the open bridge, his favorite assignment. Here, the blackness of night yields to the morning glow.

  Brent developed a theory that his sense of elation, inherited from ancestors, dated back to the dawn of civilization. Early inhabitants of earth hoped each darkness would surely end, but nonetheless felt relief at the actual occurrence.

  To the west, Olympic Mountain peaks caught the first rays of the rising sun and brightening skies diminished a scattering of man-made lights on the land below. The sea bore few marks of man’s presence on the planet, but on occasion, even the land view presented unspoiled perspectives. For an instant, Brent beheld Peter Puget’s view of this virgin land as he arrived here over two hundred years ago.

  Its beauty inspired Brent to think, God, I love this land!

  Brent recalled an evening with Bea and dinner at a restaurant on Lake Union in Seattle. Patterned after a Pacific Northwest Indian Longhouse, it featured Native-American artifacts. Its owner dedicated much effort to perpetuate traditions of the people who lived in harmony with the land since the dawn of time. Native American photographs taken close to the turn of the century adorned the walls. These depicted early tribesmen who passed their lives here feasting upon endless natural abundance.

  Another time, they visited the Hiram Chittenden canal locks, built for passage of shipping between Lake Washington and the lower level waters of Puget Sound. A fish ladder bypassed the locks and facilitated annual salmon migrations to the many headwaters that fed the lake. A ladder featured windows to view these magnificent fish, overcoming all odds while heading to the waters of their birth. There, they spawned and then swam further upstream to die so their prodigy could survive by eating fragments of the decaying carcasses that washed downstream.

  He decided he would live out his declining years in these robust surroundings.

  Denver left Bremerton too early for lingering good-byes to friends and family and would remain at sea two weeks conducting independent exercises during the way to their homeport in San Diego. There, an extended repair period alongside a submarine tender to clean up post-overhaul material discrepancies would afford time for the crew to re-establish home and social lives before Denver put to sea for her next deployment. The captain explained this to his crew on the eve of her departure, but made no mention of the war scare laid upon them by Commodore Danis.

  As officer of the deck, Brent guided Denver over the course laid down by the navigator and carried out the ship’s routine as specified in the captain’s night order book. Quiet prevailed below decks as the crew, exhausted from the trying final days at the yard; lay in their bunks for a much-needed rest. Only watch standers remained up and about.

  Denver reached the Strait of Juan de Fuca and turned west then submerged for the final leg of her seaward transit.

  Later, a stewardsman knocked on the junior officers’ stateroom door then opened it. “Mister Maddock. Wake up. The captain wants a meeting in the wardroom in fifteen minutes.”

  “Thank you,” Brent replied. He looked at his watch … 0930. He’d slept less than an hour. The morning watch doesn’t get a fair share of sack time, but what else is new?

  Shortly, the officers assembled and Olsen summoned the captain.

  Bostwick opened with an uncharacteristic jovial voice. “Damn, it’s sure good to be out of the yard.”

  General nods of agreement followed.

  “Now we get back to the real Navy. No need to say how important it is for us to make the most of the next fourteen days. Before long, we’re back in the squadron and our work’s cut out if we expect to keep that red E hanging on the fairwater.”

  Bostwick referred to SUBPAC’s award for engineering excellence won by Denver the previous year.

  The captain continued, “Additionally, we can expect an ORSE (Operational Reactor Safeguard Examination) soon after our return. We must be ready.” Bostwick paused and scanned each officer’s face. “Zero tolerance for screw-ups, but you all know that so give the executive officer your training requirements. You know where we need attention. The exec and I will set priorities as we see them.”

  Looking at Olsen, who nodded his assent, the captain continued with, “The ORSE is first then we concentrate efforts to insure records are updated. With the yard workload, I know much of that is on hold, but we’ve got to get crackin’. We’ve come out of the yard in great shape. No one will know this unless it’s documented.”

  Brent thought, Who needs to know besides us?

  Continuing the lecture Bostwick said, “Advancement in rate is next. We led the squadron last year and now I want to lead the force. Promote ’em and retain ’em is the best re-enlistment policy I know. Does anyone have a better idea?”

  Astonished that Bostwick did not address the war readiness counsel given by Commodore Danis in his speech, Brent asked, “What about combat training?”

  Dan Patrick frowned. He recognized the precursor to yet another Bostwick-Maddock donnybrook. Uh-oh! Here it comes.

  Bostwick said in a tone forced to sound steady, “There’s much to be done to restore pre-overhaul readiness levels. I look to you, Brent, to take the lead. However, I expect you’ll not permit these measures to interfere with projects of higher priority.”

  Brent replied, “Understand, Captain.” Here we go again. Another situation where just doing my job gets me deeper into hot water. “Captain?”

  “Yes?”

  His voice tone caused nervous glances to be exchanged among the other officers.

  “We have a full load-out of weapons for the first time since I’ve been aboard. Two of them are new and we don’t have any experience with deploying them. If the commodore’s instructions are to be followed, I need to conduct a full-court press to be combat ready. But on the other hand, Captain, if you have reason to believe there’s no danger, I recommend you share it with us and the crew. The troops are worried about family and friends and a word from you would relieve them immensely.”

  Brent had just told the captain to either put up or shut up. The officers slumped in their seats to relieve tension.

  Captain Bostwick took Brent’s comment in stride. “I appreciate your point of view, Brent, and you must appreciate mine. We are not robots. I’ve been given the commodore’s percepti
on on the state of international affairs. The final decision on how we factor this into ship priorities remains with me. I make decisions based on how I see the situation. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Very clear, Captain. I’ll not interfere with your agenda, but plan to work my department round the clock till we know how to use the new bullets.”

  “As you wish, Lieutenant,” Bostwick replied, disregarding the submarine tradition of calling a junior officer by his first name, thus signaling displeasure over Brent’s tenacity to the subject.

  The exchange made Jack Olsen’s gut churn. Concerned over growing open hostility between Brent and the captain, he also fretted over Bostwick not having shared the results of his call to SUBPAC on Danis’s war warning. Bostwick liked to gloat when higher authority confirmed his assertions and he had not done this.

  “Yes, Commodore?” Lieutenant Commander Karl ‘Dutch’ Meyer responded to Commodore Danis’s summons to the temporary office.

  “Hi Dutch. Grab us a cup of mud and sit down. There’s stuff we need to go over.”

  Dutch responded with a grin, “These okay, Commodore?”

  He held a pair of china mugs pirated from a submarine enlisted mess, each filled to the rim with black and bitter coffee, the preference of both officers. The mugs, more practical than the standard wardroom china’s dainty pieces, held more coffee and had handles big enough for Dutch to stuff his sausage-like fingers through.

  Danis said, “Should’ve known you wouldn’t come in here empty handed. Forgive me for not noticing.”

  A wooden chair protested as Dutch rested his bulk upon it. “No problem, sir. What’s up?”

  “I just got back from SUBGROUP 9 Headquarters at the Trident Base. Pucker factor runs pretty high up there. Keep all this stuff under your hat, Dutch. It’s dynamite.”

  “Count on me, sir.”

  “The Chief of Naval Operations has passed to all operational commanders that a Soviet invasion of Iran is imminent and expected within the next seventy-two hours.”