D. M. Ulmer 01 - Silent Battleground

by D. M. Ulmer

  Bostwick said, “Oh shit, they’ve found us.”

  “No, sir,” Brent replied, “I think we’re just too good at selecting an anchorage. We must be in her favorite spot.”

  At that instant, the sound of the ship’s anchor splash and the running of chain through her hawse pipe rang through the still night. Brent estimated the range to be a thousand yards astern and blocking Denver’s escape to sea. She’d likely run out fifty yards of chain and give Denver a little more breathing room. But daylight would come in a few hours and illuminate the trapped Denver.

  An irate Bostwick said, “Okay, Mr. Smart-ass tactician, what the hell do we do now?”

  Chapter 10

  Dave Zane demanded of Dutch Meyer, “Now what the hell does that commodore of yours think we can do with that mess?”

  They watched a 688 being towed around the breakwater, one of the partially overhauled ships Eric Danis had turned out of Bremerton on the eve of the attack.

  He continued, “I told him yesterday it would be at least a month before we’re ready for work and already he loads us up. That thing is in such pitiful shape, you have to be an expert to tell it’s a submarine.”

  Dutch replied, “You really want to hear what he expects? He wants it fixed and sent to sea. That’s what.”

  “Damn it, there’s nothing we can do to fix it now. It’s only gonna be in the way and delay us from doing more important jobs so let’s anchor it outside.”

  The old mustang indulged himself a grin, “You tell the skipper that, Dave. He’s been sitting on the bottom of Puget Sound for the past month, bailing out water from a leaky patch; his crew has no idea of what’s happened to their families, and the only thing keeping them going is a desire to get their ship into action. If you’re gonna tell him he has to anchor out, give me half an hour to draw a crowd, ’cause I can collect fifty bucks a ticket for this show.”

  “All right then, what do you suggest?”

  “We both go down to the berth, welcome him to the facility and ask what we can do for him.”

  Grinning, Dave asked, “Am I really getting that old, Dutch?”

  “Yeah, and twice as ornery. Let’s go.”

  Mooring USS Newport showed the crew’s lack of practice since arriving at Bremerton more than six months ago. The ragtag gang assembled by Dave had no experience at all. Both ship’s crew and Dave’s men sensed the other’s problems and therefore performed the operation devoid of bickering and catcalling as the gap closed between the ship and dock.

  The Newport officer-of-the-deck ordered the brow set in place and Dave went aboard.

  What Dave considered an extremely young officer gave the order, “Attention on deck.”

  A crisp salute from the younger man showed Dave at least some facets of his day had survived. Dave, caught off guard by the courtesy, removed his hands from his pockets and assumed a semblance of the military position, which had evaded him since completing active service. He returned the salute in the prescribed manner of a retired officer by standing at attention.

  The submarine’s skipper said, “Good afternoon, Captain Zane. I’m Phil Reynolds, commanding officer. Welcome aboard Newport.”

  Dave thought, commanding officer? He looks younger than my paperboy. “Well,” Dave hesitated, but for only an instant. “Welcome to our base, Captain. We don’t have much here yet, but seeing you’re our first customer, it’s all yours.”

  Dave extended his hand and the submarine skipper took it with a firm grip and shook it.

  Commander Reynolds said, “Please come below, sir.”

  Both men proceeded to Newport’s wardroom where Dave accepted the customary offer of a cup of coffee.

  Dave began, “Well how did you enjoy the bottom of our Sound?”

  “Frankly, sir, I’ve only been in a few places I liked less.”

  “Perfectly understandable. How did things go back there? You’re the first guys out. What can you tell us?”

  Shaking his head, Reynolds said, “Not a nifty place to be. We heard the racket and just sat tight. That place is now as hot as a firecracker. Once in a while after the attack, we’d pop up at night and send monitors out to take background readings. The Reds used some pretty dirty stuff. Are you familiar with the term salted weapon?”

  “Isn’t that when they capture neutrons in the material to be blown up? Spreads around a lot of contamination.”

  “That’s right, sir.”

  Dave felt uncomfortable with the respectful form of address. He’d rather be called by his first name but had to come to terms with being back in the Navy.

  Reynolds continued, “From what we found, they used a cobalt sixty isotope. Its half-life is five years. It’s spread all over the southern part of Puget Sound. Even with leaching from heavy rainfall, we can’t get back into Bremerton for at least a year.”

  “How’d they do that? The technique you described requires a pretty good-sized device. It couldn’t have been delivered by a ballistic missile.”

  “That’s right, sir. I think we now know what the Soviets did off the Swedish coast a few years ago. A Foxtrot submarine ran aground there; and nearby, the Swedes found marks of a remotely piloted tracked vehicle on the seabed. Somehow, they got similar vehicles into Puget Sound undetected. They loaded them with the dirty stuff, drove them to desired burst points and programmed them to detonate concurrently with the missile attacks.”

  It struck Dave that young Reynolds had gotten it all pretty well together. His tone level steady and he took no delight in using his observations to focus attention on himself. He didn’t need to. Dave liked the notion that his country still produced officers of this quality.

  “What made you think they used RPVs?”

  Reynolds smiled. “We bottomed near Hat Island. One evening after we surfaced an irate local approached us in his boat and raised hell. He wanted to know if we were responsible for destroying the clam beds. Actually, Captain Zane, we found this refreshing. Here we were, recovering from a nuclear attack, up to our buns in a full-fledged war, and this guy could still worry about clams. The small space occupied by Newport could not have wiped out his bed, so I asked if he would show us where they were. He did, and my divers uncovered the tracks. Ivan had been there.

  “We figured the rest by deduction. But here’s the really funny part. The guy came back and let us have it again. He claimed he argued against bringing the carrier battle group into Everett, Washington in the first place. Had they listened to him, the Soviets wouldn’t have run their tracked vehicles in there and this reinforced his position. After the war, he’d go to Washington, DC and say as much. What a feisty guy.

  “He’d been there two weeks when we saw him and he’s already a goner. It would’ve done no good to tell him that. We thought it best to let him live out what little time he had in a place he obviously loved.”

  “You did the right thing.”

  “From what we could tell, sir, Bremerton and Everett got hit hardest. Lucky the battle group left port a few days earlier. The Soviets likely intended to deny access to any port facility that we needed to conduct the war. I suspect there’s a bunch of other places in the Sound with wiped out clam beds too. Whoever directed the RPV movements reached station early with plenty of time to practice.”

  “As far as your ship went, how did things go?”

  “On the plus side, we performed our mission. We survived the attack and brought you a hull to repair. But in the yard before the attack, we lifted the reduction gear casings and found wiped bearings on the port low speed pinion and high-speed gear. We ordered replacement bearings but had to deploy before they arrived. Unless you got a line on some, I’m afraid we’re nothing but a spare parts bin.”

  “How long have you been in command, Phil?”

  “I relieved my predecessor two months ago in the yard.”

  Dave paused for a moment. If he found the bearings, he had no one at the Pitstop capable of making repairs of this magnitude and did not wish to offer any fal
se hope. During their short acquaintance, Dave developed a fondness for young Reynolds.

  “Look, son … er, Captain. We’ve performed a kind of miracle here just getting this place set up. We just might have another one up our sleeve.”

  Jack Olsen said, “An armed boarding party is our only option. We can’t hide by bottoming with only ten feet beneath the keel. Slipping past them undetected is out of the question, unless they’re deaf and blind.”

  Captain Bostwick addressed his hastily assembled council of war, “What do we know about the target?”

  A long-term submariner contention is: There are only two types of ships, submarines and targets.

  Nodding, Jack addressed the weapons officer seated at the end of the wardroom table. “Brent?”

  Brent continued to function well despite the captain’s now open hostility toward him. “Yevgenya class, sir. No more than ten aboard. Sonar got a make on her. A one-lunger diesel propulsion system. A couple of sweeps with a Don II Radar just before she anchored is consistent, although common, with a number of warships that size.”

  Bostwick asked, “Brent, any chance she detected us?”

  “None sir. We’re well inside the width of a Don II transmission pulse and no suspicious radio intercepts. Real problem is the damn radio. We intercepted her anchoring message and the power of the response signal indicated a transmitter’s fairly close. Maybe even on the island itself. We’ve got more reason than just the minesweeper for being out of here and submerged before daylight.”

  Dan Patrick added, “If we get caught, we’ve had it. The Soviets have the hardware they need to keep us from reaching deepwater.”

  Captain Bostwick agreed to let the boarding party go. “Okay. It’s our only chance. Who’ll lead this? Brent?”

  Jack replied, “He wants to, Captain, but he’s too important to the success for the rest of our mission.”

  The captain gritted his teeth as he asked, “Who then?”

  “Woody, sir,” Dan replied. “He’s right out of the Academy and he’s the most recently trained in infantry tactics. He’s also in the best physical shape.”

  Considering Dan’s choice, Bostwick thought for a moment. True. Green, but tough and smart. “Okay, Woody, you got it. Some of my classmates led platoons in Vietnam as second lieutenants and gave good accounts of themselves. We’re banking on you.”

  Grinning, Woody said, “I won’t let you down, sir.”

  Moments later, Brent assembled Woody Parnell and twenty enlisted candidates in the crew’s mess. Quartermaster Henri, not a nominee, suspected a mission planning session in the works and slipped into the meeting uninvited.

  Brent outlined the situation and a plan. “Our major goal, prevent the Soviets from reporting Denver’s presence. Eight men, under command of Ensign Parnell, will take a rubber life raft and approach the minesweeper. Silence is paramount,” Brent cautioned. “If they hear us before we get to the radio transmitter, it’s over. Blowing it up is the first order of business. Next, the crew must be terminated. We can’t take the chance of someone reporting our presence.”

  The crew winced upon hearing these sobering words. Submariners are trained to sink ships and other submarines. People died but from less personal actions. Denver troops found the concept of one on one, kill or be killed to be a new and unnerving one.

  “Our best point of entry is from astern.” Brent pointed to a large, hastily drawn representation of the minesweeper.

  “Ensign Parnell and one troop will board. Parnell will move up the starboard side and the other up the port, each with a satchel charge. I don’t know which side the radio shack is on, but the one who finds it, open the door and neutralize the occupants, silently if you can. Then set the charge alongside the transmitter and activate the timer. You’ll have ten seconds to put some distance between your buns and the charge.”

  Low remarks and repositioning of feet by the candidates reflected mounting concern and excitement.

  Brent continued, “The sound of either gunfire or the explosion will bring the enemy out on deck. Hopefully, it will be the latter. The radio shack could be unoccupied. The explosion alone could bring the enemy out unarmed, but the sound of gunfire … well, you know what to expect then.

  “Either sound will cue the rest of the attack party to move out, three port and three starboard. Cover the exits. Let as many get out as you can before opening fire. There’s supposed to be ten aboard but maybe a few more or less. Questions? Make them brief. We don’t have a lot of time.”

  Hesitating for answers and when none came, Brent asked, “Okay then, volunteers?”

  Twenty-one hands shot into the air.

  “Thanks, men,” Brent said then chose a first class petty officer and six others.

  The stern voice of Jacques Henri demanded, “Mr. Maddock, I don’t see how you can pull this off without the benefit of my experience. What you just described is like a normal Saturday night in East St. Louis.”

  “We need you for the rest of our mission, Henri. We can’t afford to lose our leading quartermaster.”

  An irritated Henri went on, “Are you saying I’m indispensable, sir? Look, you’re sending Barnes because he’s heavy on explosives. He’s the logical choice to accompany Mr. Parnell to the radio shack. You need a petty officer to control the rest of the troops while they wait for the noise to start. And, in the event of casualties to the bomb squad, someone has to pull off the rest of the job. Like I said, you need me on this one, sir. Besides, I won’t need to darken my face.”

  A nervous laugh came from the assembled submariners.

  Someone asked, “What about your teeth and eyeballs?”

  The crew laughed louder this time.

  After considering Henri’s request for a moment, Brent said, “Okay, Pruitt, Henri gets your seat. The rest of you guys get out of here so we can get ready.”

  After a flurry of handshakes and wishes for good luck Brent, the captain and Chief Cunningham stood topside to see the raiders off.

  Taking Henri’s hand, Brent stumbled to find a suitable expression.

  Henri said, “Trouble with you white guys is you don’t know how to handle emotion.”

  The two men embraced without embarrassment.

  “Just get your sorry ass back here, Henri. I need you to beat up on during my watch.”

  “Treat me right and I’ll bring you a Red scalp.”

  The small raiding party boarded the raft and disappeared into the darkness.

  Brent admired the manner by which leadership fell so naturally to the young black petty officer and wondered from which band of fierce warriors had Henri descended.

  On board the raft, Woody ordered the four paddlers, “Quietly, quietly,” as much to quell his own butterflies than to reduce noise made by the crew.

  Either a weaker than estimated current or lesser distance between Denver and the minesweeper shortened the raiders’ transit from what they anticipated. Before they realized it, the raft had reached the minesweeper and moved along its starboard side. Blisters of rust flaked the paint and red streaks ran down to the water line. The sound of a running auxiliary engine, probably a diesel powered generator, masked what little noise the sailors made as they fended their craft off the sweeper’s side by hand.

  Woody saw no one moving about above deck so he ordered the raft repositioned at the stern according to plan. He and his men, dressed completely in black, including gloves and stocking caps, moored their tiny craft with quarter inch nylon line to the enemy ship. They sat quietly for a moment and listened. No sounds other than the generator pierced the quiet night, and the raiders’ heartbeats made a deafening sound in each man’s ears.

  Heretofore unseen steel shown in Woody’s baby blue eyes when he ordered Petty Officer Barnes, “Okay, let’s go.”

  Being the first American warrior to occupy Soviet territory thrilled Woody as he leapt onto the deck. He hoped time would soon find many followers. Being careful, Woody looked into the glass of each deckhouse p
orthole while moving up the starboard side of the sweeper and detected no movement.

  No surprise, he thought. It’s 0300. At anchor with a crew of ten, all except perhaps an anchor or engineering watch slept soundly in their bunks.

  He scaled a ladder to the bridge. Still no Soviet crew encountered. He quickly located the radio shack just aft of the bridge. An artistic radioman had painted a tier of lightning flashes on the door, the traditional symbol for radio transmitting equipment.

  The radio shack had a porthole. Woody looked in and detected no apparent movement. He attempted to open the door. Oh shit! It’s locked and we didn’t bring anything to bust it open.

  Someone made a sudden movement on the bridge. A click sounded as Woody cocked his pistol.

  A hoarse whisper sounded from Petty Officer Barnes, “Denver.”

  No password had been established, but when Barnes heard Ensign Parnell’s weapon being cocked, necessity gave birth to invention.

  Woody explained the situation about the locked door.

  Barnes exclaimed, “Dammit! What’ll we do, sir?”

  “These bulkheads can’t be more than quarter inch plate. The transmitters are against the bulkhead on the portside beneath the antennas. If we put both satchels against the outboard bulkhead and set them off together, it ought to do the job. What do you think?”

  “Yes, sir. These charges are big enough to knock out anything.”

  Woody snapped back, “Okay, let’s do it.”

  At the raft, Henri heard the approach of stepping feet as the Soviet sailor on anchor watch made a routine walk about the weather decks of the sweeper. Henri thought,That asshole’s gotta be blind not to see our mooring line.

  Clunk … clunk … clunk. The man walked past the raiders then stopped.

  Henri drew the only knife that someone had the foresight to bring on the mission.

  The enemy sailor turned around and walked back then put his hand on the mooring line.