by D. M. Ulmer
The admiral lived by this. Therefore, Sherensky considered having made good his escape from a 688 to be good enough. “There is no need to sink him if he cannot hurt us. We evaded him easily.”
Zampolit Poplavich berated Vasiliy, “Our mission, Lieutenant Baknov, is to forge into the Pacific and destroy the enemy’s ability to replenish and rearm himself, not sink harmless submarines in the Sea of Japan. Do you suggest we disobey our orders and risk this ship in combat against a unit that shows itself to be of no value to the enemy?”
Sherensky took a breath to answer but thought better of it. He had warned young Vasiliy about the seriousness of his situation with the vindictive zampolit. Vasiliy had either forgotten the warning or believed his advice would be taken in the context presented and not as lack of confidence in the Soviet system.
Vasiliy replied, “We cannot expect the Americans will remain baffled by our new tactic. It is only a question of time before they discern it. This 688 has been frustrated twice and gains new experience with each escape. We must prevent this tactic from returning to America for pass off to its other submariners.”
The zampolit folded his arms stoically. “Do not bore me with your self-fancied wiser view of our mission than the one given us by our leaders. Simply answer my question.”
Immediately, Vasiliy realized what he had done and attempted to make amends. “Forgive me, Comrade Zampolit. I fear I permitted the power of the moment to blind my better judgment.”
“You would do wise to think well on those words.”
The zampolit departed the Attack Center, walked directly to his tiny office, closed the door and unlocked his file cabinet. Withdrawing a folder marked Lieutenant Vasiliy Baknov, he opened it and made some handwritten entries.
Eric Danis said to his friend as they turned into the driveway of the Digs, “This place is gorgeous. Damn it, Dave, how come you’ve never had me out here before?”
Dave replied in a somber tone, “One more comment like that, sir, and it’ll be no vino for you for the rest of the weekend.”
The balmy weather of the spring afternoon yielded to a stiffening breeze from the southwest and skies became leaden in color. A mild surf showed the coast’s wild beauty.
Eric greeted his wife Eve with a kiss. “Hi, Sweetheart. Hope you got everything done before you left.”
Dave shook a finger at Danis. “Eric is really asking for it today, Eve. Don’t know what we’re going to do with him.” He hugged her warmly. “Sure is great to see you again.” Holding her at arm’s length for a better look, he continued, “Glad somebody in the family managed to keep their good looks. You know, Eve, there’s a lot of handsome and available guys around. Take me for example. Maybe you should give some thought to throwing the old man over.”
Eve replied, “And lose all that good Navy retirement? Same old Dave Zane.”
“Maybe you could find a rich one. From the looks of you, you could do a lot better than the old sea dog here.”
Laughing, Eve said, “I’ll think real hard on it, Dave. First, line up all the available candidates and have them wear net worth labels instead of nametags then I’ll let you know.”
After Bea and Eric exchanged greetings, he asked, “What about all that lovely weather you keep promising me, Bea? You lure me up here then damn near blow me away.”
“That’s because you blew all the other invitations, Captain Danis. The Digs has its own personality and maybe thinks you don’t like it.”
With a serious tone, Eric said, “Bea, now that I’m finally here, I sure regret the missed opportunities. It’s truly gorgeous. I envy you and your dad. And about this captain nonsense … only old codgers get called that by beautiful women.”
Losing herself in an engulfing smile, Bea regained her composure. “Comments like that’ll only get you the best dinner you ever had,” she bragged.
Eric asked, “Bea, how about a glass of wine? Your dad says I’m cut off.”
“From a bottle of our very best, saved specifically for this occasion. If Dad doesn’t clean up his act, he gets one from the box. Cook’s the only one who does the cutting off around here.”
Dave wailed, “See, Eve. I’m always the one that gets picked on. Eric here puts up all the flak and I have to pay the dues. Now I ask you. Is that fair?”
Eve shook her head. “Tsk-tsk. Scapegoat’s written all over you, Dave. But you look none the worse for the wear.”
“Well if I at least look good, I can live with that.”
Dave opened a bottle of vintage Chardonnay and the old friends toasted their reunion before a roaring fireplace.
Raising his glass, Dave said, “To friendship. May it remain endless and the walls of these Digs provide it an equally endless retreat.”
Voices joined in the coziness of the rustic family room, “Hear! Hear!”
Outside the weather increased to a full-fledged Sou’wester.
The women excused themselves to attend the finishing details of dinner while the men settled in before the fire for another of their chats.
With the ladies gone, Dave said, “Eric, I know us old EDOs,” referring to his Engineering Duty Only designator, “got no business knowing how the big war is going, but what can you tell me? A lot can be concluded from the lack of anything encouraging coming out of Washington.”
“A pregnant observation, Dave. Lack of even a little fabricated good news is unnerving.”
“Anyone back there think surrender’s a viable option?”
“There are folks who’d answer yes to Patrick Henry’s question, ‘Is peace so dear and life so sweet it is to be purchased at the price of chains?’ And you know the damn special interest groups control the country.”
Dave added, “And the irony is politicians need the majority to get elected. What’s wrong with this picture? Is anybody doing well for us? Besides the Armed Forces, I mean.”
“Right now, it’s an Army-Air Force show. Apparently, they got things checked in Europe. Not sure how long they can hold out. Everything has to be flown in and the Soviets don’t have that problem. Wasn’t it Sherman who said ‘More beats better every time’?”
“You got me, Eric … you’re the history buff. So what about tactical nuclear weapons? They in the picture?”
“Not really. The Soviets want to be sure there’s something left if they prevail. They don’t want to win an empty bag. If TacNucs do come into use, it won’t be limited to Europe. Their land attack cruise missiles would make things damn tough. The SS-N-21 has long legs and can be submarine-launched off our coasts. We’d shoot down some of them but not enough to make a difference. Both sides are holding their breath ’cause TacNucs run up the chance of escalation. Neither wants that, particularly the Soviets.”
Dave said, “Well it’s not very damn likely we’d be first to use them. How about our new buddies, the Chinese? They like the Soviets about as much as we do.”
“Not much help there either, Dave. Look for China to ride the fence and jump in on the winning side when that becomes apparent.”
“Looks grim, doesn’t it?”
Eric thought for a second. “If we don’t regain control of the sea, we’ve had it. Despite the great job we’re getting from the Army and Air Force, we need the ocean to cart in and deliver the stuff required to win the land war.”
“So Eric, you think our submarines are doing any good?”
“We won’t know that till they start rolling back from patrol. And the jury’s still out on whether we can support them adequately with Pitstop operations.”
“Submarines are our only real hope for regaining sea control. Can they do it?”
“If we can knock off enough Soviet front-line nuke submarines, I think maybe we can. But it’s got to be their new stuff, not the old dogs and cats you and I used to chase around. If we can pin them back to first and second-generation equipment the job’s doable. With 637s, 688s, and patrol aircraft, we ought to be able to secure enough water to move the stuff we need. If we could get
the bastards to meet us in a big showdown, we might pull it off. But they’re too smart for that. They’re winning; they know it, so why should they change anything?”
“They’ll have to invade to get us to knuckle under completely.”
“Yeah, Dave. They can take their own sweet time about it and consolidate the rest of their holdings worldwide while they cut us off from what we need to mount opposition. Then they can strike at their leisure.”
“You might be right, Eric. Damn it, you’re probably right. We’ll just keep doing what we’re doing and count on you warrior types to figure something out.”
“President Dempsey comes across stronger than he did during the election. But he’s got a lot of influential defeatists to fend off in addition to the lack of any good news we’re unable to provide.”
Dave exclaimed, “Damn! Now that makes me mad. When I think of those people we saw along the road on the way up here. They’re not quitting and they’ve got a helluva lot less to cheer about than Dempsey’s wimps. These people deserve better than that.”
“Don’t prejudge Dempsey. He might surprise us if we can give him some indication we can win. If we can’t, then his decision boils down simply to how many lives we lose before he cries ‘Uncle’.”
The phone rang as a gust of wind rattled the windows so hard they seemed on the verge of shattering. Bea picked it up and after a short exchange with the caller, summoned Eric. “It’s the base. Commander Carter.”
“Evening, Gerry. What’s up?”
“Bad news, Commodore. Waves are coming over the breakwater and breaking the base anchor chains. Not sure how much longer we can keep it off the rocks.”
Chapter 14
Brent and Dan Patrick met with Jack Olsen in the Wardroom to determine how the Soviets evaded the Denver attacks. Convening such meetings is a command responsibility, but Bostwick avoided it. Olsen then had to initiate the session, though it made him uncomfortable to do so. Additionally, Bostwick had confided to Olsen his concern over their inability to unscramble the mystery and that it justified aborting the land attack against Vladivostok. The captain argued the attack failures signaled a fatal vulnerability leaving Denver with no capability against threat submarines. Sharing this with Brent and Dan would have the effect of dumping fuel on the captain’s fire so Olsen remained silent on the subject.
Their brainstorm session carried well into its second hour and nerves had grown ragged when Brent used a tone that annoyed Dan. “Whatever they’re doing is simple. Plain as the nose on our faces but we’re not seeing it.”
“You and your thoughts, Brent. I’ve got a bellyful of both. Damn it! We’ve been turned back six times. Let’s face it. These guys know far more than we give ’em credit for.”
Jack Olsen spoke with a tone that signaled the two lieutenants to contain their emotions. “That’s exactly why we gotta figure it out. So let’s use our energy for that instead of bickering.”
Shrugging off Dan’s put-down, Brent said, “Not only figure it out but bring the answer home with us to spread it around. You’re right, XO. We need to get cracking and time is running out.”
Brent broached the Bostwick-Olsen issue over the land attack in his next comment. “We’re now down to two ADCAPs. We oughta hoard these for self-defense on the trip home. I suggest we move the land attack up and get out of here a few days early.”
Both pair of eyes turned toward the executive officer as he said, “A good thought, Brent, have you worked up the target package?”
They didn’t need a target package. SUBPAC’s directions required none. Brent knew Olsen wished to exclude the land attack from the meeting agenda and correctly sensed the reason: the captain’s reluctance to pull Denver’s trigger against Vladivostok.
“A few more items on strike timing should do it, XO. I’ll have it for you in two hours.”
“Good, Brent. Now back to the subject at hand.”
Both Olsen and Patrick knew Brent had the best grasp on tactics so they yielded the lead to him. “I believe we have plenty of data from our busted pick operations. Each time a target was well within range it has evaded our torpedoes. I’ve arranged all the shots into this matrix.” He unrolled a large piece of plotting paper onto the table. “The most significant is Doppler but we eliminated that with our one-two combination, first Doppler in and then out. And we’ve worked both sides of the layer.”
Dan asked, “What about countermeasures?”
“Can’t eliminate them so they remain a possibility. Sonar recorder data for all shots showed nothing. They shoot back immediately, likely to make us evade. Bottom line, nothing definitive. Maybe they’ve got a countermeasure we don’t know about.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Not a lot to go on but what little we have shows our torpedoes continue beyond where we think the target is but don’t attack anything.”
Jack asked, “Something wrong with our torpedoes, maybe?”
“Possible, but contradicted by the Tango success.”
Dan suggested, “He was coming toward us. The rest were going away. Could that be it?”
“I don’t think so, Dan,” said Brent. “The only difference is the Doppler. The weapon shouldn’t care whether it’s up or down just as long as it’s there. But right now, we gotta consider everything. That answer leaves us trouble. Shooting only bowshots oversimplifies his counterattack problems. Our second attack, you remember, the Akula came closer to cooking our bacon than I like to think. If we were on his bow when he shot, there’s no doubt we’d be history. We do know he makes initial detection on the noise from our torpedo.”
Olsen exclaimed, “Damn it! We make the quietest submarine and the noisiest torpedoes.”
“Next time we’re in town, mention that to Den Mother’s dad, Dave Zane. He oughta be good for two hours on the subject.”
“Okay, wizards,” said Olsen. “Keep the big think on it. We’ll meet again in the morning.”
The two left and Jack braced himself for the next meeting with Bostwick. Subject: Move up the Vladivostok strike.
Eric Danis and Dave Zane covered the final mile of their abruptly initiated journey on foot through a newly carved trail built to facilitate bringing power lines to the Pitstop.
Dave berated himself. “How could I be so dumb? Worst storms are out of the southwest and I missed the anchor points completely.”
Strong southwest wind pressured the chains one at a time, depriving them of collective holding power. However, sufficiently stout all together, one alone couldn’t carry the entire load, therefore the anchor chains broke one by one like pulling open a zipper.
Eric took everything in his customary matter-of-fact stride. He knew Dave had done a great job just getting the project moving. He also knew omissions would reveal themselves and be corrected as they emerged. Irony here, the first storm threatened to destroy the entire operation. This would seriously, if not fatally, delay turning around submarines desperately needed for the war effort. Eric had learned over the years that frustration did not help, hence wasted no time on it. But this obstacle challenged his emotional control to a new high.
Upon reaching the beach, they discovered the pounding surf had severed telephone lines and communications with the Pitstop. The heavy seas also prevented reaching the facility by small boat.
“Damn!” Eric cursed and for the first time seeming to vent wrath upon his old friend, “Didn’t anyone consider a simple walkie-talkie backup radio?”
Dave made no reply.
Eric continued, “I’ve got a wounded birdman in charge out there who’s never commanded anything bigger than a ten-foot rowboat … and I can’t even talk to him.”
“He’s got seamen out there with him, Eric. Gerry knows how to get the right advice. Count on him.”
“What other choice do I have?”
Despite the breakwater, waves broke over the barges and soaked Navy men and civilians working side by side, in what appeared a losing fight to save the Pitstop. Bo
th reserve anchors had been dropped at the anticipated pressure points. But they’d see no strain until the next anchor chain parted so the domino effect continued. The problem could be delayed but not resolved.
One of the two available tugboats had a towrope wrapped about its propeller and couldn’t move. Even both tugs working in tandem would not provide sufficient power to hold the barges in place.
Gerry Carter asked of Jim Buchanan, Phil Reynolds and Dutch Meyer, “Okay experts, what the hell do we do now?”
The inventive Jim Buchanan had no suggestions. “We shoulda used the tug to drag the anchors out till the chains strained before we dropped them.”
With growing impatience in his voice, Gerry said, “Shouldas don’t help. Where does this leave us?”
Nothing came forth from the three submariners.
Time was running out so Gerry scrambled for a solution. “Phil,” he asked, “that … what did you call that thing on Newport … the outboard?”
“Secondary propulsion system.”
Gerry’s irritation began to show. “Yeah. Well whatever the hell it is, can it move your ship against this wind?”
Phil answered, “Yes, sir, it can. But it can’t hold something the size of this base against the storm.”
The confidence in Gerry’s voice did not reflect his true feelings. “It won’t have to. That sewer pipe of yours is gonna perform its most important job since they built it. It’s about to become a thirty-six hundred ton anchor.”
Puzzled, Phil asked, “What are you talking about?”
“This. Make up all the bitter ends of the broken anchor chains to the Newport. Fire up your outboard and haul them into the wind till they’re as taut as you can get them. Then submerge and sit on the bottom.”
The idea struck Reynolds like a kick in the solar plexus. Less than two weeks ago, he had ended a miserable six-week stint on the bottom of Puget Sound and had no wish to enact another similar demand upon his crew.
Phil snapped back, “I want to discuss this with the commodore first.”