D. M. Ulmer 01 - Silent Battleground

by D. M. Ulmer

  Henri grasped the man’s wrist and dragged the surprised sailor into the raft. Henri’s right arm, coiled like a cornered rattlesnake, delivered the blade to the man’s rib cage.

  “Aaagh.” The young man expired and was the first Soviet to fall in hand-to-hand combat in World War III.

  Relief at Henri’s victory and apparent solution quickly ended.

  A nearby voice cried out, “Tovarich! Tovarich!”

  None in the raft spoke the language, but all recognized the tone. More than just one enemy prowled about and the survivor had to be suspicious. A light flashed, blinding the Americans, quickly followed by a burst from the Soviet’s AK-47 blasting its rounds into the raft.

  Henri’s M-16 silenced the attacker, but not before two men of the Denver raiding party fell dead into the sea. Air hissed through bullet holes in the raft.

  Henri ordered, “Okay, Honkies, up and out. Shit’s hit the fan!”

  The four surviving Denver crewmen leapt onto the sweeper deck and moved forward according to plan with two on the port side and two starboard, instead of three as originally planned. A sudden earsplitting explosion ripped through the darkness as the charges set by Woody and Barnes destroyed the radio shack and its transmitter. No one emerged from the deck access door and hatches.

  Woody and Barnes shouted in unison, “Denver, Denver,” as they raced aft, not wanting to be mistaken for Soviets.

  When Woody met Henri, he yelled out, “We got the transmitter. Hang the rest of the charges over the side and we’ll blow up the rest of this tub. Then get our asses outta here.”

  Henri responded, “Feel like swimming back? Ivan made some serious holes in our raft before he bought the farm. No, sir, Mr. Parnell. It’s two down and eight to go, that is unless you got some of them in the radio shack.”

  “Only eight left … let’s go get ’em.”

  A deckhouse door burst open. Two Soviets emerged firing wildly but American M-16s dispatched them before they could inflict damage.

  Woody yelled, “Henri! Have the troops each stand by a door. On my whistle, open it and toss in a grenade.”

  “That’s a bummer, sir. The only doors unlocked will be the ones they want us to open. I got a better idea.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  Henri quickly explained, “There’s a gas-engine pump on the fantail. There’s gotta be gasoline too. Let’s dump it down a ventilation intake, and then toss in a match. Keep those doors and hatches covered till I get back.”

  Leaving the others, Henri disappeared, but quickly returned with a gas can.

  Woody ordered, “Take a couple of men and get the pump. We don’t know what they have stowed below decks, but you can bet there’s plenty of mines. Starting a fire might blow us all sky high. We’ll run the engine exhaust into the fresh air intake and gas them with carbon monoxide. They won’t know what happened.”

  They found a ventilation intake aft of the bridge not far from the destroyed radio shack then fitted the pump hose over the engine exhaust pipe, while two of the raiding party removed hand lugs that held the grating in place. Henri inserted the hose and gave several pulls on the start rope. The engine sputtered to life and he set it to full throttle.

  Woody shouted, “Okay, Henri, find me something to break the padlock on the radio shack door. Let’s see if there’re any goodies in there.”

  “Yes, sir. But first, I’ll report our situation back to the ship. They must have heard the noise and will want to know what’s happening.”

  “Good idea. Do it.”

  Henri directed his Aldis lamp toward Denver.

  On board Denver the port lookout exclaimed, “Signal! Captain.”

  Bostwick ordered, “Quartermaster,” and the petty officer began to record the message.

  Transmitter, destroyed. Two casualties. Life raft gone. Four Soviet dead. Remaining crew trapped below decks. Pumping gas engine exhaust into ventilation intake.

  Brent thought, Somebody over there’s really thinking. He correctly assumed it to be Henri. Good thing he went along on the raid.

  The captain asked, “How do we get them back without a life raft?”

  “We’ll have to go to them. Pick up the anchor, then drive over with the outboard,” said Brent, referring to the electric powered secondary propulsion motor that rigged out from beneath the engine compartment and able to be trained through three hundred sixty degrees for direction control.

  The captain agreed. “Get the repair party back up and finish the ballast tank patch.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Back on board the enemy vessel, Henri said to Ensign Parnell, “We don’t have to break the door down. The hole from the explosion is plenty big enough to get in.”

  Before the young black could stop him, Woody leapt through the hole and entered the radio shack. Instantly, two pistol shots shattered the stillness.

  Woody spun, fell to the deck and lay motionless.

  Henri held his M-16 around the edge of the hole and sprayed a full magazine into the radio shack. He removed the empty magazine and snapped another one into place. His flashlight probed the smoke-filled compartment and fell upon a youngish sailor, slumped against a bulkhead, barely alive. Blood flowed from both nostrils and multiple wounds in his upper body. He appeared to be no older than Ensign Parnell.

  The young Soviet had no idea of their meaning, but the last words he heard came from Henri. “Sovie bastard!”

  Henri emptied the entire magazine into the twitching corpse.

  Tears streamed down Henri’s face. In his mind, he had failed the important charge he’d given himself; bring Ensign Parnell back alive. He knelt and lifted the officer’s head into his lap. “Damn it, why in hell did you have to run in there?”

  Henri’s grief came to an abrupt end as Woody sighed, “Beats the hell out of me, Henri. You’re not gonna tell Mr. Maddock about this are you?”

  Woody became conscious and raised a bloody hand. Two bullets had struck him, one in his arm and the other in his thigh.

  Anchor lights on the minesweeper continued to burn although the balance of her crew had succumbed peacefully to the carbon monoxide gas pumped into the ventilation system.

  Denver made up alongside the first enemy warship to be seized since Rear Admiral Dan Gallery captured the Nazi U-505 in June 1944. The raiding party, welcomed home, embarked upon a new fame that would follow each for the remainder of his time in Denver. But the pain of losing two crewmen put a damper on this.

  A submariner’s belief goes: either all the ship’s company is lost in combat or none is. There would be no grief experienced among the crew in either case.

  Woody Parnell, cherubic warrior, acknowledged his shortfall for racing into the radio shack to the extent he felt no gratification over his spectacular achievement. The Denver crew boarded the sweeper and seized anything and everything that might be useable on their own ship. These included two cases of vodka and several tins of suspicious looking and smelling caviar.

  Dan Patrick made the most important find, a crypto machine and key lists. If the sweeper could be disposed of in deepwater, the Soviets would consider these items lost and not compromised. They could prove valuable in the months ahead.

  Daylight would soon be upon them and they’d have to get moving.

  Brent tried another of his Mad Maddock schemes on the Executive Officer Jack Olsen and Lieutenant Dan Patrick, beginning with, “Okay, XO, this is gonna sound wild, but I think it’ll work.”

  Jack Olsen wore a cynical expression. “What’ve you got for us this time, Brent? Paint us like a sailboat and do the rest of the trip to Vladivostok on the surface?”

  Grinning, Brent said, “If Tom Edison worked for you, we’d still be reading by candlelight.”

  “Never mind the analogies; just give me your latest.”

  Continuing with some enthusiasm, Brent said. “I think we can get a few miles courtesy of the sweeper.”

  “Okay, give me the punch line.” Then Olsen asked, “How wi
ll we do this?”

  “Henri says the sweeper has an autopilot. We’ll fire up his diesel, give it turns for ten knots and set the AP for the heading we want to make good. This’ll double the advance speed we can make safely through this area. It’ll give us a noise blanket for as long as the Soviets let us get away with it.”

  Shaking his head Jack asked, “Won’t Ivan get suspicious when he doesn’t hear from this guy?”

  “Let’s hope they figure he has radio problems and is heading home to get it fixed. Conveniently, that’s the same direction we need to go.”

  Jack frowned, “What if they don’t and they send somebody out to check on him?”

  “We’ll run submerged and use the floating wire as a detonation cable. We can run it through a cooling water intake or something on the sweeper. Our engineers can figure it out. We’ll use the cable to detonate an explosive charge set in the middle of the sweeper’s mine load. We want to sink him in deepwater so Ivan can’t find out what we took.

  “If a helicopter comes, let it get close enough and maybe we’ll make history. The first submerged submarine to down an aircraft.”

  Jack looked to Dan Patrick. “What do you think?”

  Dan replied, “What I always think, XO. Maddock is mad as a hatter, but then this whole damn war is madness so why not? I say let’s do it.”

  Jack replied, “Let me get the captain. If we’re going to do this, we gotta move out.”

  “Give me a break, Jack. I gotta low-key my advice to the old man. Can’t you and Dan pass this off as one of your children?”

  Mulling it over for a moment, Jack actually enjoyed the new hold he had gained on Bostwick so he said, “Okay, Brent.”

  Brent rose to leave, but Jack stopped him. “Look, Brent. You’re a bit short of pats on the back lately. For whatever it’s worth, we’d be damn well hurting without you.”

  Pausing, Brent’s face began to flush as he said, “Thanks, Jack. I really appreciate that.”

  Jack said with sincerity, “Not half as much as you deserve.”

  Chapter 11

  Naval Aviator Commander Gerry Carter performed well as a front man for the submarine squadron. Given an assignment, he regarded success to be routine. He looked beyond specific instructions and carried out intent, as well as the letter of each order.

  A qualified and motivated cadre had been assembled to establish Eric Danis’s submarine repair facility. It included the Bremerton yard personnel squirreled away by the resourceful Dutch Meyer on the eve of the Soviet attack. The men now needed expressions of reassurance and resolve from a strong leader to guide them through a dilemma that exceeded any other in the history of their country. Their morale hinged on this and Commander Carter ensured the need would be filled.

  Thus, Carter conducted the commodore’s arrival in the manner of military shows during World War II that did much to restore the morale of the country after a stream of successes by the Japanese. A tough talking military leader was just the ticket and Carter made the pomp of Commodore Danis’s arrival at the repair facility second only to General Douglas MacArthur returning to the Philippines.

  The day typified a Pacific Northwest prelude to summer, sun shining brightly while a gentle northwest breeze swept over the cluster of unkempt barges. Carter arranged the officers, twenty including the hapless Newport wardroom, into a single rank. Behind them stood the civilians mustered to man the base along with Newport’s enlisted crew on either side.

  The small tug that carried Eric Danis northward from Grays Harbor now made its way alongside.

  Carter commanded, “Attention on deck!”

  Military personnel snapped to the traditional position.

  Danis stepped onto the new base, his military bearing impeccable and wearing an expression that both reassured and warned the men assembled.

  Rendering a smart textbook salute, Commander Carter said, “Good afternoon, Commodore. Welcome to SUBRON 3 Repair Facility.”

  Commodore Danis returned the courtesy with equal precision and said, “Thank you, Commander Carter. My first perceptions are equal to the excellent reports that precede my visit,” then he turned and approached his old friend Dave Zane, took his offered right hand and held it for a moment as he continued, “Let me set the record straight. From this date forward, the correct nomenclature for this operation is Zane’s Pitstop.”

  Dave replied, “Hi, Eric. I hope that title doesn’t scare away any customers.”

  The two exchanged warm expressions that grow only from many years of mutual respect and admiration.

  Commander Carter led the commodore among the ranks of officers and introduced each one then the designated leaders among the civilian workforce. Next, the commodore gave the shortest and most important speech of his life. The words would be crucial to the success of his operation so he chose them well. He often thought of what he would say then went with his instinct, which always worked best for him. He directed Carter to have everyone stand at ease and when the order was executed, he assumed an uncharacteristic pose; cap pushed to the back of his head, hands on hips, he straddled to a comfortable position.

  Danis began, “I’m damn tired of having my ass kicked by the Reds. And I’m even more tired of doing too little about it. From the looks of this operation, I stand among determined and competent people who share this point of view. I won’t waste time with platitudes. Instead, I’m going into those fancy quarters Captain Zane commandeered for me then get out of this sailor suit and into some working togs. I’ll be around for the rest of the day for head-to-heads with each of you. I want your views on the way things go so I can understand the problems as you see them. As far as the war goes, we may be down but we’re not out. Operations like Zane’s Pitstop will do much to get us into a winning position. And we’re going to win.”

  He paused a full thirty seconds and appeared to scan each man’s face individually to make sure his message sunk in—then continued with, “I’m touched by your warm welcome and I thank you. I’ll close with instructions that we’ll all hear often in the weeks to come. Back to work. We’ve got to get this place ready to fix submarines.”

  Lieutenant Vasiliy Baknov attended a morning operations briefing and listened to the local summary in order to keep abreast of things because Zhukov would deploy within the week. The briefing officer directed his pointer to the northern edge of Proliv Yekateriny pass near the southern end of the Kuril chain.

  “We have detected several explosions in this area, however, the area hydrophones detect no signs of the enemy’s presence.”

  Vasiliy was immediately skeptical. The only American warships able to reach that area are submarines and likely undetectable by our ancient hydrophones.

  The briefer continued, “The area is heavily seeded with small mines … perhaps too heavily. An occasional porpoise or sea lion sets one off and that,” he said with a smile, “in turn sets off our ASW forces. These mines are tiny and cannot destroy a submarine, but they make enough noise to alert us and provide warning if one tries to pass. Damage to a submarine is minor, but its stealth is compromised, especially at higher speeds. This neutralizes the 688 class acoustic advantage and makes it inadvisable for him to continue his mission. With no capability to repair such damage at sea, they must make the long return trip across the Pacific to the shambles of their submarine bases.”

  I wouldn’t be too sure of that, Vasiliy thought. Submariners must be resourceful to survive, including those of our enemy. He wasn’t quite certain how it could be done, but if Zhukov sustained damage off the American coast, much scheming and trying to make repairs would precede giving up before making the forty-five hundred mile voyage home.

  The briefer droned on, “Actually, our dense field of small mines does not work as expected. There are many false alarms. Explosions are investigated by patrolling Tangos, but zeal to make a kill has already resulted in two of them striking mines themselves. We suspect this is the case now.”

  Again, the briefer smiled and s
aid, “Our young Tango commanders are reluctant to report self-sustained damage.”

  Quiet laughter ensued.

  Next, he presented the current weather and the seventy-two hour forecast then asked, “Questions, comrades?”

  Vasiliy spoke up, “Yes, sir. What is the contact approaching La Perouse Strait?”

  “It is a reydny traishchik.” (Russian for roadstead minesweeper.) “He has apparent radio problems and is returning for repairs. Other questions? No? Very well then, this concludes the morning briefing.”

  More than two days had passed with no Soviet warship in the area making a report and Vasiliy felt uncomfortable over lack of concern shown for the explosions. He thought, Very unusual.

  Recognizing Sherensky among the departing officers, Vasiliy, said, “Good morning, Captain.”

  Sherensky replied, “Ah Vasiliy. Good morning to you. And what brings you here? I believed you would be with the others enjoying shore leave this last week in port.”

  “I thought the same of you, sir.”

  “Perhaps we two are the only worriers. This must be so. I don’t even see our learned zampolit among this morning’s assembly.”

  “Comrade Captain, do you believe our waters are clear of American submarines as Intelligence seems to think?”

  “Frankly, no. But if they’re present, it is in extremely low numbers. Insufficient to impact our current plan. It means simply we must be alert when we leave Vladivostok. It will be good training for us and peak our readiness before we reach station.”

  “Might it not be wise for Victor IIIs, or perhaps an Akula, to conduct a search of our home waters? Those wild men with their mine fields are ineffective and our Tangos no match for a 688.”

  Zhukov’s captain changed the subject. “Vasiliy, your enquiring mind pleases me. I know this will accrue much benefit to us before this war is over. But caution … our zampolit, shall we say, is no giant when it comes to wisdom, and you give him much cause to be alarmed. He considers … well, he believes your father’s defection counts against you. He looks for reasons to report you to the party, not because you are disloyal, but because it gives the impression that nothing escapes his scrutiny. These observations and subsequent reports strengthen his reputation … if you follow my meaning.”