by D. M. Ulmer
Jim said, “You’ve solved half the classic problem, Dutch. Quieter they get, the more hydrophones we need. Spreading them over the defending areas is doable. Trouble is we only get a peek at the target and he’s gone before we can get a weapon on him. What’s realistic in terms of aircraft support, Gerry?”
Gerry answered, “I’ve checked out the runways and facilities at Hoquiam. The footprint’s okay for S3A Vikings and we can support three of them there.”
“How soon can we be up and running?”
“A month, give or take. I’ve got a fix on some reserve troops in the area that are in pretty good shape. We have the birds. Fortunately, somebody stashed some surplus 3A’s at Phoenix, Arizona and they’re ours for the taking. Couple of rubs though.”
Jim asked, “What’s that?”
“Fuel is the biggest one. We’re damn short of it and Air Force requirements for the European Theater sucks it down like it’s going out of style. We’ve got no petroleum coming in from the sea and mainland American resources are not up to it.”
Dutch asked, “What’s the other?”
Gerry explained, “We’d need seven hundred and twenty hours a month to give you full coverage. With three planes, we can provide about half that. If we had the fuel, of course, which is simply not the case.”
Jim inquired, “What’s your Viking’s top speed with a pair of MK-50 torpedoes aboard?”
“A little better than mach point eight five.”
Jim asked, “How long after alert at the field can you hit that?”
“Five minutes, give or take, depending on the weather.”
The three bent over an area chart that Dutch had prepared showing the hydrophone locations, along with Hoquiam airport.
Making some fast calculations, Jim stepped off the critical distances with a pair of dividers then said, “No way. We’ve got to think of something else. Back at the sub school, we’d brainstorm a problem like this as a Prospective Commanding Officer class project. A lot of good ideas came up and occasionally a solution. Maybe we can try that?”
Dutch answered, “Sure. We’ll take a shot at anything.”
Looking up from the chart, Gerry said, “This might be a stupid question, but a check of Jane’s shows this guy can lob an SS-N-21 to sixteen hundred nautical miles. Isn’t that outside the hydrophones?”
Jim knew weapons systems and responded to Gerry. “That’s true, but those long-ranges are for nukes. He’ll need conventional weapons against the Pitstop. His only chance is to come in close to launch them. Shooting conventional 21s outside the hydrophones will diminish his accuracy and improve our chances to detect and destroy the inbounds. He’s gotta launch from inside our phone array if he expects to do any good and he knows that.”
Dutch asked, “What do you know about Sealance, Commander?”
Jim wanted to invite the mustang to drop the title, but on the verge of command, he couldn’t afford to damage that certain mystique so essential to the job. “I’ve got a fairly good idea. It’s designed as a submarine launched weapon and can boost an MK-50 torpedo out a far piece.”
“That’s right, sir.”
Jim added, “But you have to know target location, course and speed if you expect to do any good with it.”
“My array does all that,” said Dutch. “I got to wondering whether we could anchor a barge within range of the hydrophones with a couple of ready Sealances on it. That would cut the time from initial contact to weapon on target down to almost zero.”
Jim liked the idea and said, “You’ll have an alignment problem. It can’t be maintained with the barge swinging back and forth in a seaway. I like part of your idea, though. But why not cluster the missiles on a platform and set them on the bottom?”
Dutch shook his head skeptical of the question’s validity. “On the bottom?”
“Why not?” Jim asked. “They’re designed to fly from a watertight composite capsule launched by an SSN. The materials don’t interact with seawater so you could leave ’em there indefinitely. Make the platform good and heavy so it’ll sit still then index guidance systems to north with gyro monitoring of earth rate. That’ll solve the alignment problem.”
Dutch exclaimed, “Damn! Sounds wild as hell, but right off the top, I can’t see anything wrong with it.”
Jim went on, “No wilder than putting them on barges. They’ll be invisible to satellite surveillance and improve the chances of surprising the hell out of any Soviet submarine that pokes his nose in here.”
Gerry asked, “Reds still operate their satellites?”
“We never touched them. And we still got ours too.”
Dutch cautioned, “It’s later than we think then. They must know about this place by now and we can expect them to come after it.”
Gerry asked, “You want me to put a hold on the Viking operation?”
Jim replied, “No. Our little deal might not work and even if it does, we’ll need S3A’s for follow-on attacks. One MK-50 is not likely to damage an Akula enough to stop him from launching his 21s. We can vector your birds on top and rub a hell of a lot of salt in his wounds. The initial damage will make him noisy and easier to track.”
“Could you vector us on top of the target?”
“No,” Jim replied, “but if you drop an explosive charge, we’d hear it and vector you from there. Will that work?”
“Like a charm,” said Gerry.
“Good,” replied Jim, nodding. Then he said to Dutch, “It sounds to me like we better get moving.”
Gerry added, “Yeah, we better do that before some government analyst gets wind of it and proves it can’t be done.”
The captain’s attitude toward Brent deteriorated at an accelerated rate. He considered the young officer as the genesis for all Denver’s problems, Bostwick’s problems, actually. With a short time to go as CO of Denver, he would likely emerge in excellent shape for flag rank, particularly if the patrol had any kind of success at all. Timing meant everything and with an American public hungering for good news, it would be perfect for Bostwick. But he regarded Maddock a liability to this goal, rather than the asset he truly was.
He admonished Brent by listening to his comments then didn’t acknowledge him. He did this when convened in the wardroom to determine how the Alfa got away and nearly killed Denver in the process.
Bostwick opened the meeting. “I don’t need to say how important it is for us to learn from what happened today. If the Soviets have developed a method to counter a 688 then the war could well be lost.” He studied the face of each officer in turn to ensure the gravity of his message had set in then continued, “Dan has assembled all the tactical data recorded during the event. Dan?”
Dan Patrick discussed each data point in painstaking detail. He invited interruptions for clarifications and got many.
When Dan finished, the captain spoke again. “I suspect one or a combination of three things could have happened. One, the Alfa had an escort that detected and attacked us. Two, Alfa used a noise augmenter that he secured when he heard our torpedo. Concurrently, he fired back at us and then began to evade. The third would be a bona fide fluke. We just picked a bad time to shoot, maybe just as he slowed down to clear baffles. Thoughts, anyone?”
Brent considered his predicament but knew nothing he could say or do would damage his career any more than it already was. So what the hell? “I have problems with all three, Captain.”
Tension filled the wardroom. Emotionally drained from the Alfa close call, none wanted another knockdown drag-out session between the Captain and Brent.
Continuing, Brent said, “Most of us have heard Alfas on surveillance missions. He’s much quieter than this guy showed us today. An escort would have to go ahead in order to do the Alfa any good, and he would have to pass right by us. If he didn’t hear us then, he sure wouldn’t have with the Alfa in between.
The trouble with two is securing a noise augmenter does not affect an active acoustic torpedo at close range. With his targ
et strength, our ADCAP should’ve seen him right after enable and that’s the same problem with number three. He did something planned and it worked. We’ve got to think this through more carefully.”
Brent did not raise his eyes to the captain, whose face had become flushed. Bostwick took a deep breath then spoke softly and with self-control, “Take charge of this meeting, Jack. Report to me what you conclude our plan should be,” then he left the wardroom.
No one spoke for several moments.
Brent broke the silence. His stomach churned, but he knew the train had to be set back on the tracks. His voice cracked slightly as he said, “I think they know a lot more about our tactics than we give them credit for. For openers, how would we defend ourselves against a 688 if we knew her attack style? I think that’s the direction we should take.”
Dan added, “We need more data. We can’t throw up our hands based on this tiny sample. We gotta figure out what to do next time.”
“Shoot,” Jack Olsen said. “Start the ball rolling.”
“Attack with a bow aspect. It’ll be completely different and give us more advantage. We’re obviously quieter, ’cause he passed right by and never heard us.”
Brent responded, “Think about what happened today. That tactic would have shortened his torpedo run, reduced the gyro angle, and because he wouldn’t have to reach back into his baffles to find us, would’ve counter fired against our ADCAP much sooner. I don’t think we’d be alive for this meeting had we used that tactic.
“Damn it … guys, listen! This guy is not the submarine school attack trainer out here. If we screw up we’re not just going to hear the voice of our friendly instructor saying ‘Bang, gotcha,’ over the 21MC.”
He turned to Dan who ground his jaws and bowed his head in embarrassment. “Dan, I’m sorry. Maybe we let the pucker factor have too much control. I poke at your idea but have nothing better to offer. And I don’t defend the tactics of this afternoon. They damn near got us killed but did permit us to escape. Let’s not throw the baby out with the bath water.”
Jack Olsen asked, “What’s your suggestion, Brent?”
“I say we stay with the game plan for now, but pay more attention. Next time, have Sonar tape the whole thing and we’ll analyze it from here to kingdom come. In the meantime, let’s study the stuff Dan assembled for us. If anybody sees anything or even thinks he does, speak out.”
Jack asked, “Further comments? Okay everybody, let’s get some rest.”
All rose to leave.
Jack stopped Brent. “Stick around. I’d like to talk a little.”
Brent forced a smile. “Gee. I wonder whatever about?”
After the others left, Olsen said, “The hostility between you and the captain has reached the point where it can no longer be ignored. Letting it get out of control is dangerous for all of us. Because he is the captain, we owe him loyalty. I think you understand that and probably even practice it better than the rest.”
Surprised to hear this, Brent did not interrupt.
“You understand tactics head and shoulders above anyone else in Denver. I think you also recognize the captain’s ego has a tough time handling this. You don’t rub his nose in it, but on the other hand, you don’t let him make any mistakes. This patrol, whether he realizes it or not, assures fulfillment of his lifelong dream of making flag. The nation needs heroes and Denver will provide the first news worth cheering about. Your hand in the success of this mission has been pivotal. The captain might even recognize this, but I doubt he’ll admit it. Keep doing more of the same, however, I want you to do one thing.”
“What’s that, Jack?”
“Be sure there are always some officers around when you give him advice. Me preferably, but anybody will do.”
Brent scoffed, “The captain never talks to me directly so it’ll have to be in a group.”
“I’ve noticed, but just in case.”
“You got it, boss.”
“Brent, I know how much the Navy means to you and how all this must make you feel.”
Brent thought, Damn it! It’s the last time I tell Dan anything.
Jack went on, “Nothing in this life is certain, but I’ve gained a sort of stranglehold on the old man that puts me in a good position to ensure he doesn’t hurt you. I give you my word, Brent, I’ll pull that string as hard as I can and I have reason to believe I’ll be successful.”
A great load had been lifted from Brent’s shoulders; he smiled and said, “Thanks a lot, Jack. Ya know, it’s too damn bad the skipper chose the political route and not the tactical one. Once he settles in, he’s damn good. His problem is he hasn’t given it enough thought so he doesn’t have the self-confidence. And he’s too proud to take advice from us.”
“Well, he took the political path and that’s what we have to live with. At least until we get back and he’s relieved. The situation is survivable for you, at least in my view. Just keep up the good work.”
“I’ll give it my best shot, Jack.”
The executive officer left and Brent indulged himself a few quiet moments to enjoy his rejuvenated spirits. He searched through the box of cassettes and selected a Cleveland Symphony rendition of the Nutcracker. He did not understand the music, but it helped him to recall his first and penance date with Den Mother to thank her for rescuing him and his drunken cohorts.
The overture had barely finished when Woody Parnell hobbled into the wardroom for the first time since being wounded. “Hi, Brent.”
“Hi, yourself, hero.”
Recognizing the music, Woody exclaimed, “Ah ha! Peter Ilyich Tchaikovsky. Did you know he only wrote the ballet? The actual story is by E. T. A. Hoffman. Wanna hear all about it?”
Brent replied, “You bet your ass,” and thought, Dan absolutely gets no more from me.
Chapter 13
Jim Buchanan thought, It’s sure good to be at sea again, even on a tugboat. He stood on the tiny bridge of a yard craft converted to a cable layer by the resourceful Dutch Meyer. Slight of build, his face in its apparent perpetual pleasant expression, Jim’s pale blue eyes squinted through the black rims of his navy issue glasses. Under normal circumstances, failing eyesight would have precluded his command tour but war changed that. Three years ago, he believed his career as a seagoing officer had ended.
A superb teacher, his value to the Navy continued in a different vein and the best and brightest among submariners benefited from Buchanan’s able tutelage. His knowledge and passion for tactics combined did much to prepare embryo warriors for the grim days no one realized lay ahead. Although unplanned, Jim’s path choice proved to be the exact medicine needed to mend his career. War generated a vital and immediate need for his expertise in the conflicts that now raged in the silent battleground.
Evening neared and golden sunrays brightened the final hours of a beautiful spring day off the Washington coast. Underway for nearly twenty-four hours, the snowcapped ridges of the Olympic Mountains had fallen below the eastern horizon.
Jim said, “Looking really good, Dutch. As long as we use the same Loran-C rates you planted the hydrophones with, we’ve got no worry about geographical position error. All we need is the location of the missiles relative to the phones.”
Both men nursed hot cups of coffee. War shortages be damned, black coffee is the lifeblood of seaman; and sailors always find ways to get it.
Even the inscrutable Dutch Meyer found it difficult to contain his excitement over the impending test.
Jim said, “This oughta give you some empathy for women, Dutch. Now you know how they feel when they’re about to give birth.”
Dutch chuckled at the analogy. “That’s new ground for me, Commander,” he said then got back to the business at hand. “There’s a crew ashore listening on the phones. They’re marking our position hourly. I’ll check for deltas when we get back and that should be the frosting on our cake.”
A small barge astern on a bridled towrope yawed from side to side in the moderate seaway.
Behind it, a cable paid out connecting it to the shore-based test equipment. A canvas tarpaulin covered its deadly cargo of four encapsulated Sealance missiles.
Jim asked, “How long to station?”
“About an hour and a half. It’ll be totally dark. I’m glad as hell you thought about satellite surveillance. I’d never have covered the missiles. Think they saw me plant the hydrophones?”
“Maybe they did, but figured you were a fishing boat. From all appearances, both would look like the same thing and there are plenty of them out here.”
Two hours later, Dutch and his small crew made final equipment adjustments on the barge. They communicated with flashing lights because radio transmissions were almost certain to be intercepted.
The quartermaster signalman reported, “Message from the barge, Commander, READY FOR TRANSMISSION CHECKS.”
Jim replied, “Aye, send it.”
Dutch Meyer ordered the shore-based test team over the trailed wire, “Spin ’em up and enter test coordinates.”
The system reacted perfectly and Dutch reported to Jim, again via flashing light.
Jim exclaimed, “Damn! Absolutely no reason they won’t do the same thing sitting on the bottom.”
Returning to the bridge, Jim directed the quartermaster, “Send the following message, EXCELLENT. COMMENCE SINKING OPS, then said, “and add to it, AND GET YOUR FAT ASS BACK HERE.”
The astounded youngster asked, “Really, sir?”
“Really, sailor.” Denver’s prospective commanding officer had a good chuckle then went below for another well-deserved cup of coffee.
An hour later, the barge rested on the bottom armed with four tactical Sealance missiles at the ready. With target data provided by hydrophones on the seabed, they could place a deadly MK 50 Torpedo quickly upon an unsuspecting target. The tug and its elated occupants made its way back to the Pitstop.