D. M. Ulmer 01 - Silent Battleground

by D. M. Ulmer

  Bostwick ordered, “Up number two for a look around.”

  Immediately after attack scope’s slender shaft broke the surface the captain swung it around in less than five seconds, too fast to see anything at long-range, but enabling him to spot a target close aboard that might have slipped by sonar. Larger ships pointing directly toward the listening hydrophones often masked propulsion sounds with their huge hulls. The quartermaster on watch assisted from the other side of the scope, his left hand locked over the captain’s right to ensure optics rolled to low power to provide the widest field of view.

  “Dip scope.”

  The quartermaster lowered the periscope enough to submerge the upper optics and left it suspended in the well.

  Bostwick demanded, “Bearing to contact?”

  Dan replied, “Three-two-eight from Sonar, sir. Still drawing right.”

  Nodding his response, Bostwick said, “Observation. Up scope.”

  Again, the huge shaft lunged from the periscope well.

  “Quartermaster, put me on the bearing.”

  The ACC Operator reported, “Three-three-three relative, sir.”

  After the scope aligned, Bostwick studied the contact for three seconds.

  “Bearing, mark!” The captain signaled for the scope lowered by lifting handles to the stowed position. It dropped completely into the well this time.

  The quartermaster responded as he read the numbers from the bearing and range repeater, “Three-two-nine, Captain.”

  “Angle on the bow, starboard forty. Estimate range at twenty thousand plus. All I can see are her sticks.”

  The ship was hull-down, meaning only her masts could be seen above the horizon.

  Bostwick asked Dan, “Distance to the track with a forty degree lead?”

  Dan ran some quick calculations. Using target range and angle on the bow, he determined distance to the target’s projected track ahead. “Fourteen thousand, sir.”

  “Good. Give me the forty lead. We’ll close at twelve knots. Plan to pass ahead by two thousand yards and adjust speed to stay a few decibels below him. With all the noise he’s making, we oughta be able to go pretty fast without alerting anyone. Be sure you’re well clear ahead, Dan. We didn’t come all the way out here to get tangled in some damn fishnet.”

  “Aye, sir,” then Dan ordered Denver to a depth that eliminated propeller cavitation from higher speeds. “Play our cards right and this gambit will buy us sixty or so free miles, Captain.”

  “That’s how we’ll play ’em,” said the captain then changed the subject, “the nerve of that guy. Fishing away like he doesn’t know there’s a full-blown war on. Guess he’s still gotta make a living.”

  The captain left the Attack Center.

  Wonder of wonders, thought Dan, … can this be the same man who a few short weeks ago drove us all to exhaustion?

  Brent appeared in the control room to relieve the watch.

  Acknowledging Brent’s presence, Dan said, “Good to see you.”

  “Can’t say I’m glad to be here.”

  “C’mon, Brent. You love this. What better watch to breach the Kurils than Mad Maddock’s?”

  Dan referred to the chain of islands that separated the Sea of Okhotsk from the Pacific Ocean, a natural focal point for Soviet defense, but thus far, none encountered.

  Brent thought, They probably don’t think we’re capable of offensive missions. He asked, “What’ve we got, Dan?”

  “Among other things, the first real contact of the whole damn patrol,” then went on to tell him of the captain’s plan to use high-radiated noise from the contact to mask Denver’s high-speed transit.

  Listening intently, Brent had conditioned himself to be suspicious because disaster had a habit of showing up along with peak optimism. He learned playing football at Annapolis to not sit on a big lead with a full quarter left to play. Brent caught a side-glance of Quartermaster Henri who badgered his predecessor for every crumb of detail, a reassuring sight for any watch officer.

  Later, Brent reckoned the range to the fisherman had opened sufficiently and its noise reduced to the point that Denver could no longer hide in its shadow so he reported this to the captain. “We’ve resumed stealth tactics, Captain,” then continued, “I’ll shorten the legs. This breach track is too restrictive for north-south run options if we encounter trouble. Costs us time, but if somebody’s out there, this’ll improve chances of detecting him before he reaches attack range.”

  “Do it, Brent,” replied Bostwick over the 21MC.

  As Brent and Henri huddled over the plotting table to layout new projected tracks, an ear-shattering explosion rocked the ship. The force of the blast knocked both men to the deck and the compartment plunged first into darkness and then silence.

  Chapter 8

  Captain Igor Sherensky congratulated the young communications officer on the thoroughness of his pre-sail briefing. Zhukov officers had been bombarded with volumes of intelligence information and the time had now come to put it into action.

  Following the Zhukov commander, the navigation officer began his presentation. He taped a large chart of the Western Pacific onto a bulkhead in Zhukov’s wardroom. A tracking line began at Vladivostok winding its way seaward through the Kurils and then via the southwest Pacific to the approaches at Fremantle, Australia.

  The navigation officer began his briefing with, “Visual aids to shipping navigation end at Vladivostok. Thereafter, shallow water presents a problem only at the Kurils.”

  Lieutenant Vasiliy Baknov asked, “Why not proceed via the South China Sea? The shorter run will give us more time on station.”

  Captain Sherensky answered the question. “We have lost track of three American SSNs in the Western Pacific. Best guess by our intelligence people places them in the South China Sea area. Better we go around them.”

  Vasiliy added, “If they are 688 class, Comrades, we’ll not find them. We go deeper and faster, but they are much quieter. To find them, we must be able to hear them and that is unlikely.”

  Zampolit Poplavich, leapt upon every occasion to remind Zhukov’s officers and crew that he would tolerate no faultfinding with any segment of the Communist System. “We must have confidence in our Comrades of the intelligence division. Their information thus far has led us to victory.”

  Sherensky replied, “And we have confidence, Comrade Zampolit.”

  Problems enough with day-to-day management of a warship left the Captain with no desire to agitate Poplavich. Sherensky considered the zampolit system a detriment at any time, but particularly in time of war. Placating the zampolit was the best hope of silencing him.

  Sherensky said to the navigation officer, “Please continue.”

  Directing his comments mainly at Vasiliy, the navigation officer proceeded, “For most of the track, we’re free to operate at maximum speed, but not while we’re in the South China Sea. It’s too shallow to accommodate the depths we need to suppress propeller cavitation at high speed.”

  Being a step ahead of the dynamic Baknov pleased the navigation officer as he continued with, “Once on station, runs between merchant ship attacks will lengthen as we systematically destroy them and shut down the flow of materials to the Americans. This obviously changes if the allies cooperate and put their ships in convoys. In this case, we’ll finish them off quickly and get home early.”

  Laughter erupted among the Zhukov officers, confident after their victory over Savo Island.

  The navigation officer asked, “Questions? None then? If you please, I yield the floor to our distinguished weapons officer,” he said, making a mock bow and removing his chart.

  Vasiliy gave his mates a rare smile. “It is good to see Zhukov louts give the respect due to the best among them,” he quipped.

  Others laughed and hissed their protest.

  Normally deadpan, the junior Russian’s bright mood surprised all, but the levity dissolved as he refocused attention on business at hand. “Our principal weapon against
merchantmen is the missile. America made a major investment in missile defense for aircraft carriers so we used torpedoes. Merchant ships will be spread out and difficult to defend. The long range of our SS-N 21s shortens the distance we must run between targets.”

  Next, he explained Zhukov’s defense against U.S. submarines. “An escorting 688 comprises our greatest obstacle in attacking a widely dispersed convoy. They have sonar sensitivity and stealth needed to breach our track as we preoccupy ourselves with targets. An ADCAP Torpedo could bring our mission to an abrupt end.”

  Again, the zampolit interrupted, “Comrade Baknov, apparently you attach no significance to the findings of our comrades in intelligence.”

  “I do, Comrade Zampolit. I want only to be certain we have a plan if—”

  The zampolit became irate and interrupted. “There are no ifs. The probability we will encounter a 688 is inconsequential and unworthy of our attention. I would thank you to not waste our time preparing for action that will not occur.”

  Vasiliy felt deflated. He wished to explain his planned evasion tactics devised by him and implemented throughout the Pacific flotilla.

  Captain Sherensky gave the young officer an understanding wink and Vasiliy sat down.

  The captain concluded the briefing. “Comrades, we come to the end of our refit and prepare to sail again. The days ashore have been good ones and the honors given to us for past successes taken with gratitude and humility. Past victories have meaning only in history books. Let us be mindful of Japan’s failure in the Great Patriotic War.

  “We must prevent the wounded warriors from rising again and taking victory from us. You have done your work well and our ship has been expertly serviced. We are ready for combat, Comrades, so I now enjoin you to pass these final days in happiness with family and friends.”

  Sherensky thought, I must defuse this growing hostility between Vasiliy and our learned zampolit. But how? Both are so obstinate.

  Quartermaster Henri looked at Brent, his hand already on the collision alarm switch. Brent’s nod gave the needed order and the alarm wailed its warning throughout the ship.

  Taking the 1MC mike Brent ordered, “All compartments report your condition, forward-aft. Flooding reports immediately on the nearest intercom.”

  Henri picked up the sound-powered handset to receive reports.

  Brent ordered, “Ahead standard, make your depth one-three-zero feet,” then demanded over the 21MC, “Sonar, Conn, what’ve you got?”

  Gary Hansen replied, “Nothing, sir … nothing before the bang. Reverberations from the explosion blocking out everything. ”

  Turning to the quartermaster, Brent asked, “How we doing, Henri?”

  “Good so far. All compartments reporting normal. No flooding.” At that instant lights flickered throughout the ship. “Only Maneuvering to go and the noise definitely came from forward.”

  Brent said, “We hit a mine. We’d have heard the inbound noise of a torpedo. Sonar, Conn, reversing course to starboard. Conduct active, repeat, active search of sector east of north south, max range five thousand. Report all contacts immediately.”

  The captain shouted over the 21MC, “Belay that order! Sonar, do not … repeat … do not go active. Brent, I’m on the way to the Attack Center.”

  “Aye, sir,” replied Brent.

  Captain Bostwick arrived and demanded, “Report the situation.”

  Brent’s gut flipped over. “Everything inside the hull is normal, sir. I think we hit a mine. A small one. Maybe an MZ-26. They’re ship laid with a case depth near thirty-four meters, just about where we are. Likely activated by our electric field.”

  He did not want Bostwick to read this as a smart-ass I told you so but feared it came across that way. The current that created this field was by design. Hull mounted sacrificial zincs disintegrate to insure good electrical connectivity between them and the propeller they protect.

  Brent had urged the captain to install a shaft grounding wire, a copper braid that rode over the top of the shaft just forward of the seal to prevent the electric field. He reckoned protecting Denver took precedence over the propeller shaft. In the same conversation, Brent also suggested eliminating the weekly steam generator blow-downs as a noise reduction measure. Bostwick rejected both recommendations.

  Continuing, Brent said, “They’re only one point three kilograms of explosive, Captain, but enough to puncture the outer hull and make us noisy.”

  Bostwick demanded, “Sonar contacts?”

  “None, sir.”

  “Why did you order us to go active? Do you want to alert the whole damn Red Navy?”

  “No sir. But if someone’s in the area, they heard the explosion and know we’re here. Active doesn’t show ’em anything they don’t already know. If we find somebody, it gives us a leg up. We got a bearing and a range while he only has a bearing.”

  The captain snapped back, “Stuff the goddamn tactics bullshit, Brent. I have the Conn. All ahead full, right full rudder, steady course east. We’re getting the hell out of here.”

  The helmsman replied, “Ahead full, right full, steady east, aye, Captain.”

  Brent advised, “Sir, I recommend increasing depth ahead of the cavitation curve.”

  Bostwick snarled, “Damn it Brent, I have the Conn,” then followed the recommendation with an order to the proper depth and rate of descent.

  Denver picked up speed and a loud howl grew from the region of the ship’s starboard side. By then, Jack Olsen had reached the Attack Center.

  Brent looked first at Jack through a pleading expression then said in the calmest voice he could muster, “Captain, we’ve got to slow down. If this mine field’s patrolled, we’re playing right into their hands.”

  The captain glared at Brent with a look of fury beyond rationality. The howl became deafening as Denver approached full speed.

  Moments passed. Finally, the captain ordered, “Ahead one third. Mr. Olsen, you have the Conn. Mr. Maddock, report to my stateroom immediately.”

  Half a minute later, the showdown began. The captain took his place behind a small table but did not invite Brent to sit.

  Agitated, Bostwick opened with, “Mr. Maddock, I’ve put up with all the bullshit I’m going to take from you. Do you understand?”

  “No, sir, I don’t understand. I’m not fighting you, sir, I’m—”

  “You’ve been second-guessing me in front of the crew with your goddamn cutesy tactics show. You bitch at me for wanting to run back where we know it’s safe because you think it’ll make too much noise. Yet, you want to bang away with active sonar. Now what the hell?”

  “I needed a quick look, Captain. Something might have been lying in wait and close aboard. A few pings would have spotted him. Now noise from the damaged hull sends a beacon to anyone who wants to take us. The enemy will know we’re running east at full speed when they hear the noise. That knowledge gives him tremendous tactical advantage.”

  “Enemy, you say. What enemy? No one’s out there or he’d have gotten us on the way in.”

  “Our tactics, sir. Not much chance he could find us before we found him. Your own plan of using the fisherman to screen us likely prevented our being detected.”

  “Like I said, Maddock, I’m tired of your half-assed theories. There’s nothing where we came from except that damn fishing boat. Consider yourself off the watch bill until further notice. I’m not putting you in hack because it’s unfair to the others to pick up your workload.”

  An officer in hack is confined to his quarters.

  Brent saw the futility of attempting to reason with the Captain. Denver’s new look abruptly became a memory. Crisis had plunged the captain back into his black mood.

  “If that’s all, Captain?”

  “That’s all. Now get the hell out of here.”

  An urgent call from the Attack Center on the 21MC interrupted Brent’s departure. “Captain to the Conn! Sonar holds contact on a probable submarine bearing zero-eight-zero, closing rap
idly!”

  Dave Zane surveyed the activity that accompanied establishing his new submarine base. Scarcely three weeks into the project, Dave had already assembled a cluster of barges for living and working areas and had them moored in place. Makeshift shelters, in some cases tents, housed the base facilities.

  “This sure does beat all,” Dave said to Dutch Meyer. “Takes a war to get us off our asses and out from under the bureaucracy. The damn environmental impact study for this alone would take two years.”

  Dutch had joined Dave Zane at the makeshift refit site. He added, “Every time I bust a rule to get something done on schedule … makes me feel good all over.”

  “Know what you mean, Dutch.”

  They ate lunch prepared in the open eating area under a canvas fly covered field kitchen procured from nearby Fort Lewis Army Base. They looked out to sea via the harbor entrance where sunken barges formed the first line of an improvised breakwater and savored a long, bright day in May that signaled the approach of summer.

  “Make damn sure you don’t tell your California buddies about this, Dutch. We don’t want them coming up and crowding out us natives.”

  Grinning, Dutch said, “Nothing but rain, rain, rain. Can’t see how we stand it up here. That’s my message.”

  “You got it, Dutch.” Then Dave continued with, “Gotta give Danis’s aviators credit. They sure know how to get things moving.”

  “The commodore can get blood from a stone,” Dutch added. “But these guys are good. Did you see how fast they converted that empty field in Astoria to a full-fledged Navy supply depot?”

  “Yeah … and they did a helluva job getting stuff staged so it could be here when we need it. That Carter guy moves well. I heard he flew off Savo Island when she got it and had to eject and dump his F-l4 in the drink near a destroyer to get picked up. Lucky for us he made it. Likely he figures he’s got some payback to do.”

  “You’re right, Dave.” Then turning his attention to the shoreline east of the base, Dutch continued, “that break in the woods must be the power coming in. How do you figure to get it out here from shore?”