D. M. Ulmer 01 - Silent Battleground

by D. M. Ulmer

  “I always thought we’d only settle near the ocean in retirement. Now I’m not so sure,” he said.

  Retirement? Eve had not heard the word mentioned before now. “Is this an announcement?”

  He replied, “Announcement? Oh, no, but then maybe so. Every now and then, my brain pops out things that I’m not sure I’m ready to say. This job is up in three months and there are plenty of young bucks who’d like to push me off this springboard.”

  Eve felt a surge of pity for her husband. The road to this point in his career had been a long and hard one with seventeen years at sea, running the gauntlet of junior officer assignments, executive officer and then command. He had served six years in the latter capacity, four as captain of a 688 class SSN and two in a Trident. Sixty percent of his years found Eric at sea and away from his family.

  She asked, “Why don’t we talk about it?”

  “Ya know, Eve, it’ll be the hardest decision of my life. No one knows better than you how hard I worked to make flag, but if it’s not meant to be, it won’t happen.”

  “You’ve got plenty of good company. A lot of good men don’t make it, simply because there’re not enough promotions for all who deserve one.”

  “You’re right, Eve. And a lot of guys deserve it more than I do. It won’t be easy to quit, especially in the middle of a war. This gives me another option. Maybe obligation is a more appropriate term.”

  “Obligation, Eric?”

  “Step down and take a lesser assignment. One that’s really not a challenge but in need of being done. It’ll take some crow eating for an anointed squadron commander to fall back into the trenches, but I can do that.”

  Eve asked sympathetically, “Is that what you believe you should do?”

  “Yes, I really do. After thirty years at the trough, I owe the Navy. In peacetime, the best favor I could pay them would be to get out and make way for the next guy. Go home and write articles for the Naval Institute on how things should really be done. Go to Submarine League Symposiums and make small talk with the good old boys. God, I’d love it, Eve, but can I really do that? Guess I’m scared that if I stay, everyone will think I’m a die-hard and want to hang around just to see if lightning strikes later.”

  Reaching over, Eve took her husband’s hand. “Eric, you’ve got no worries. Everyone who knows you is in your corner, and that includes all the best submariners. They will know what you’re doing, and the rest can damn well go to hell,” Eve said with an uncharacteristic show of candor.

  Eric smiled. “You sure have a way of cutting to the issue, Eve. I’ll think on it of course, but I’ll likely take the reassignment. Couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t.” Then changing the subject, he asked, “How do you feel about packing up and driving off to Washington State?”

  “Actually, not too good,” she replied. “I know why I like the desert so much. I see you every evening at five o’clock sharp. Think about it. We’ve not had that throughout your entire career. I’m used to it now and I know what happens when you get submarines to play with.”

  Eric dodged her with a subject change. “These flyboys are very good, Eve. They stay on top of things and keep me informed. Hate to admit it, but Gerry Carter’s the best Chief Staff Officer I’ve ever had. He’s got me calibrated and starts jobs before I even assign them. He’s already in Washington State and will likely get me home early up there just as he does here. You know Carter’s the real thing if he can impress Dave Zane, and Dave can’t say enough good things about him.”

  Eve said, “Seeing Dave would be compensation for heading up that way. And Bea, too. I haven’t seen them since Dale’s funeral. Do you know how Bea’s doing?”

  “That dumpy little girl has grown into a beautiful young woman. Dave says she’s interested in young Maddock on Denver.”

  She teased her husband. “I thought she’d be smart enough not to go after a submariner.”

  “Well now, you didn’t do too bad. Lucky for you they built Conn College across the river from the submarine base,” he said referring to Eve’s Alma Mater in New London, Connecticut where he met her while in Officers’ Basic Submarine school.

  “Just the other way around, dear man. Lucky for you they built the Sub Base across the river from Conn College. We were there first.”

  He thought for a moment. “Maybe we’re both lucky.”

  They exchanged a smile and Eric continued, “Do you have any regrets, Eve? I know it’s been a tough road for you … nursing a bunch of young wives while I played at sea. And maybe seeing even less of me during my shore duty while in Washington. The damn Pentagon’s a treadmill. Where else can a man spend so much time on the job and get so little done?”

  “No harder for me than for you, though I didn’t like sea duty a bit,” Eve confessed. “There seemed to be such a finality about it when the ships deployed. We had no contact. At the Pentagon, you were done in when you came home, but at least we got to say hi to each other. Not so with sea duty. And Sean liked having you around.”

  “Well he sure kept it a secret from me … our son the poet. If only he could write poetry.”

  “Don’t be so cynical, Eric. He’s so much like you it’s frightening. Maybe that’s why I hated sea duty the most. I could do many things for him, but I couldn’t be you.”

  “I’m proud of Sean. He stands his ground. He’s likely matured beyond the points of view that got him into his current situation. But he’s burned too many bridges and doesn’t know how to get out.”

  “I wish you and Sean would resume talking to each other.”

  “He has that option and I don’t want to push it. He’s only nineteen. I remember how I could get my back up at that age. Maybe he’ll come to Mark Twain’s conclusion. At fourteen, he considered his father so ignorant he could hardly stand to be near him, but when Twain reached twenty-one, his dad astonished him with how much he had learned in seven years. Maybe I’ll be that lucky.”

  “Still, I’d be happy if you’d try harder.”

  “I will, Eve. I promise.” Eric bent over and kissed his wife. He found her lips softer than their usual peck. He kissed her again, this time harder. “What do you say we turn in early and make it an unprecedented two times in the same week?”

  “With that kind of romantic talk, how can a girl resist,” she replied. Holding hands, they walked into the house.

  Captain Bostwick yanked his head from beneath the periscope yoke and snapped the handles to the stowed position, the signal for his assistant to lower the scope.

  Quartermaster Henri announced, “Number one coming down.” He rotated the control actuator, and the huge shaft hissed into its well.

  Brent said, “Too dark to get much on the peri-viz monitor, Captain. What’s it like up there?”

  The captain had not followed through with the threatened action to remove him from the watch bill and Brent continued to stand his watch.

  Bostwick replied, “Bleak, but good. No evidence of anyone on the island, but to make sure we’re not spotted, we’ll wait till after dark before surfacing. Take a single ping sounding, Henri.”

  Henri said, “Single ping, aye, Captain,” and then operated the Fathometer. “Hundred and twenty feet under the keel, Captain. That’s a charted sounding of l88, sir.”

  Adding the recorded sounding to the submarine’s keel depth, Henri compared it to what the navigation chart showed for their position. The young black took every opportunity to insure everyone knew nothing slipped by him.

  Bostwick, resenting Henri’s unneeded detailed explanation, took a breath to respond but let it pass. “Okay, Brent, do race tracks here for thirty minutes. Mix up the sounding intervals, but average three per minute. If they fall below a hundred, head east immediately and call me.”

  The captain turned to Henri, “That’s below the keel, Petty Officer Henri,” making his point after all.

  Brent believed he would never understand the captain’s attitudes. He had a habit of disapproving plans and recommenda
tions, but once having bought in, he would reverse his attitude completely. Brent considered the captain performed a masterful job of directing his ship to an anchorage in uncertain waters.

  He reckoned Bostwick’s self-confidence grew as a function of time. The more we’re successful, the more effective he is. Unfortunately, reversal makes his self confidence crash.

  Effective commanding officers innovate in the face of disaster. Bostwick possessed the fundamentals but lacked the ability to pull it all together on his own.

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

  The young black responded, “Two coming up.”

  Placing his face against the eyepiece when the upper window broke the water, Brent led Henri in a wild circular dance as they swung the scope around completely within five seconds.

  “Dip scope,” and the shaft lowered about six feet and stopped.

  Henri said, “Mark your depth, Chief.” He double-checked to be sure the scope upper optics remained beneath the surface.

  Cunningham replied, “Six-eight feet and steady.”

  Three pay-grades senior to Henri, COB carried out the order without hesitation. Submariners do not stand on ceremony.

  “Getting pretty dark up there,” Brent noted. “I need a final look at the tangents,” referring to the bearings of both extremities of the island. “Up scope.” Again, the hissing as the scope rose and the metallic clack of the yoke butting against the upper stops. “Put me on Henri, left tangent first.”

  With his hands over Brent’s on the periscope handles, Henri rotated counterclockwise. “Should be right about here, sir.”

  Brent cried out, “See it!” He then shifted to high power and trained the scope one degree to the right. “Bearing, mark.”

  Henri recorded the bearing and did so again when Brent marked the right tangent. The sounding checked with Denver’s plotted position. “Everything perfect here, Mr. Maddock.”

  “Pretty good set of charts you swiped for us, Henri,” then ordered, “Have the engineer assemble his repair party in the Attack Center.”

  The six-man patch party included the auxiliary officer and five enlisted men, all warmly dressed. Each man carried a piece of the equipment needed to make the repair. They had gas cutting torches, an arc welding kit, several tool bags and a deck plate from the machinery compartment to make the patch.

  Brent reported over the 2l MC, “Repair party assembled in the Attack Center, Captain. All preparations completed for surfacing.”

  Bostwick replied, “Okay, Brent, I’m on the way.”

  Reaching the Attack Center the captain raised number one scope for a final look. A dark moonless night, coupled with a low heavy overcast that obscured the stars, made Denver difficult to spot with the human eye.

  With a calm voice, Bostwick said, “Soon as we’re up, we’ll proceed directly to the anchorage. Get as close to the island as we can but no less than ten feet below the keel. We’ll drop at ten feet. Too dark for tangents so we’ll wing it. Henri, you been keeping a tight DR?”

  The captain referred to a dead reckoning track, which employed times, course and speed changes, computed to the ship’s position and recorded on the chart.

  Henri responded, “The tightest, Captain.”

  The two exchanged a grin.

  Bostwick addressed the auxiliary officer, “Bill, when the bridge reports hatch clear, I want you to go out on deck with the Chief and get back with a quick report of the damage, got that?”

  “Got it, Captain.”

  “Raise the ESM mast and do a complete electronic countermeasure search.”

  An ECM antenna sat atop the ESM mast. A short time later the operator reported, “No contacts except for distant aircraft radars.”

  The captain said, “We’ll have those continuously,” then ordered, “Leave the mast up and search for anything significant. Keep me informed.”

  Brent replied, “Aye, sir, we’ll do it.”

  Bostwick took a deep breath then turned to his conning officer and said, “Okay, Brent, let’s go.”

  Inwardly, it infuriated him to converse with young Maddock, but Bostwick put his money on the best officer he had for the operation.

  Henri announced throughout the ship on the 1MC, “Surface, surface, surface.”

  The sound of high-pressure air rushing into the ballast tanks briefly masked Denver’s sonar. The submarine shuddered to the surface and held.

  After initiating a low-pressure blow to remove remaining ballast, Brent climbed onto the bridge and at once inhaled the smell of marine growth that had accumulated in Denver’s superstructure over the past four weeks beneath the Pacific. It reminded him of the prophecy in the opening chapter of Herman Melville’s Moby Dick, “One day you will smell land where there is no land.” The prophet alluded to the scent of marine growth that had accumulated on the great white whale—the same odor as from a landfall.

  Looking around, Brent saw nothing. A shaft of light burst from the deck hatch as the two engineers came up to assess the damage. Damn, he thought, shouldn’t have done that. Flashlight beams moved ahead of the two men and he could hear metallic sounds from their belt guides as they dragged along the safety track.

  Brent shouted into the 21MC Box, “Bridge testing.”

  Henri’s voice called back, “Loud and clear, Bridge.”

  “Heading and distance to the anchorage?”

  Very much on top of the situation, Henri reported, “Two-eight-two and we’re steady on it. Estimate four thousand yards to drop, sir.”

  “Good, have the anchor party stand by in the torpedo room.”

  Ahead of the game again, Henri said, “They’re standing by with phones manned.”

  “Very well. All ahead one third, give a mark every five hundred yards till a thousand and then every hundred.”

  “Five till a grand, then hundreds. We’ll monitor for ten below the keel,” he repeated.

  Brent felt as though he should commend Henri on the spot. Why waste my time telling that smart-ass what he already knows?

  “Captain up!” Bostwick announced as he climbed onto the bridge. He focused his binoculars and looked on the damage. “Doesn’t seem to be too bad, Brent. The hole’s about three feet in diameter with all the edges turned in so we won’t have to cut them off. The engineers are cutting and bending enough plating to cover the damage. They estimated they’d need about three hours.”

  “Plenty of night left for that, Captain.”

  “I’d feel a lot better about the night in a World War II scenario. Too damn much technology around now to help the Reds find us.”

  Hesitating Brent said, “It’s the hand that’s dealt us, Captain. We’ll play it best way we can.”

  Bostwick didn’t acknowledge Brent’s remark. “Going below,” he said and left the bridge.

  Brent warned the bridge watch to keep a sharp look out as Denver proceeded toward her anchorage. Henri had started on the hundreds when the captain’s voice interrupted him on the 21MC. “I’m going in to ten below the keel, Brent. Keep a sharp look out ahead. I don’t want to hit anything.”

  Denver stopped engines at fifteen feet and began backing. She had just a bit of sternway when the anchor let go. The current and a little bit of wind kept them off shore; a perfect situation. To get the hole fully above the waterline the ship had to be rolled slightly to port by partially counter-flooding the ballast tanks. The engineers already began welding the preformed plating to the upper side of the hole. Their makeshift blanket tent did an excellent job of screening light from the arc torches.

  An hour passed, two hours and then three.

  Brent thought, So much for the optimistic engineers.

  Quartermaster Henri broke the silence with his 21MC transmission. “Thirty minutes on the outside is the latest estimate on repairs, Bridge.”

  “Bridge, aye, conn,” Brent replied then asked, “Tracks laid out for getting back to deepwater?”

  Henri gave the expected reply. “Th
at’s affirmative, sir.”

  “Aye, pass the word on to the cap—”

  The topside port lookout interrupted, “Contact, sir! One-nine-five and closing.”

  Turning around, Brent spotted the running lights of a small ship. A simultaneous view of both sidelights meant the ship headed directly toward Denver.

  He ordered through a megaphone to the repair party, “Secure the work topside, all hands lay below on the double!” Then on the 21MC, “Captain to the bridge. Closing visual contact true bearing one-eight-zero, six thousand.”

  Henri replied, “Captain has the word, Bridge. We’re securing the deck hatch when the work party is below.”

  Bostwick called out, “Captain up,” the edge on his voice apparent. “What’ve we got, Brent?”

  Brent pointed aft. “Whatever he is, he just came around the point, sir. This close to the field, my guess is a mine layer.”

  The captain asked, “Can we get him with a torpedo?”

  “Too high risk of missing, Captain, and it would alert him to our presence. Shallow water and tight gyro angles. Even if we did hit him, he’d radio the whole damn Soviet Air Force and they’d be on our backs before we reached deepwater.”

  His voice betraying both anger and fear the captain snapped, “What do you recommend?”

  Brent calmly replied, “Sit tight, sir. He’s not looking for anything and doesn’t expect us to be here.”

  The captain said, “Why the hell did I ever let you jackasses talk me into this?”

  Once again, Bostwick proved not equal to the pressure.

  “Port sidelight beginning to mask, Captain. He’ll pass astern, but not very far.”

  The captain exclaimed, “Listen! The son of a bitch is so damn close we can hear him.”

  The rum, rum, rum of the ship’s single diesel engine could be heard clearly and the bearings abruptly drifted quickly left.

  “Shsssh,” Bostwick hissed.

  Tension levels mounted. Although no one aboard the unidentified ship could possibly hear voices from Denver’s bridge, its closeness made silence a psychological factor. The ship passed a scant half-mile astern then its propulsion sounds stopped. The vessel began to drift slowly away with the current. Next, the red glow of her port sidelight reappeared, followed quickly by the green starboard sidelight. She pointed directly toward them again.