D. M. Ulmer 01 - Silent Battleground

by D. M. Ulmer

  “You just did,” Gerry said. “Captain Danis is not here and that makes me the commodore. Get moving or in another thirty minutes this base and that goddamn derelict of yours is gonna be scrap iron on those rocks over there.”

  Grateful that darkness hid the grin on his face, Jim thought, Damn! These aviators are made of the right stuff. He placed a hand on the shoulder of the stammering submarine commander. “Come on, Phil. Let’s get moving.”

  Making up the anchor chains to Newport sapped the remaining stamina of the men struggling to save the Pitstop. The job finished, Commander Reynolds ordered the mooring lines slipped to save time when normally, they would have been taken in and stowed. Newport moved slowly into the teeth of the storm. The nest of barges, a scant hundred and fifty yards from the rocks and bearing down on them, the final anchor chain snapped, quickly finishing the job of tightening the anchor chains to Newport. Buchanan and Reynolds stood on Newport’s bridge and immediately recognized the situation.

  Buchanan shouted above the storm, “Okay, Phil, let’s do it!”

  Reynolds pulled the diving alarm and the two dropped below decks and secured the bridge access hatch. Popping ballast tank vents roared above the wind and Newport settled to the bottom. Momentary banging and grinding rumbled through the hull as the monstrous submarine rolled ten degrees in the direction of the storm then held.

  Ordering the number one periscope raised, Reynolds scanned the Pitstop then yelled out, “Yahoo! She’s holding.”

  Back on the Pitstop, Dutch Meyer took Gerry Carter’s hand and gave it a hearty shake. “Congratulations, Gerry. We got an even strain on all the chains. We’re home free.”

  The fatigued aviator turned submarine squadron Chief Staff Officer gasped, “Damn! You guys really do earn your submarine pay. But seriously, Dutch, what the hell will I tell Danis when he gets back and finds Newport on the bottom?”

  Dutch had a witty comeback for everything. “All you need to say is ‘Good morning, sir. How do you like having the most expensive anchor ever built?’ Danis will like that. Being first is important to him.”

  Dutch Meyer and Jim Buchanan had earlier discussed a test plan to demonstrate their new concept: detect an intruder with the sonar array, attack it with a Sealance missile launched from the seabed and finish the job by vectoring S3A aircraft over the damaged target to drop MK 46 Torpedoes. They would move quickly, but carefully, one step at a time and today focused on getting a missile onto a simulated target noise source.

  Meyer would take one of his improvised cable layers to sea and suspend a noise source in the vicinity of the hydrophones planted to monitor the sea approaches to the Pitstop. He’d then record his position using the Loran-C.

  Jim Buchanan remained ashore to monitor hydrophones from the blockhouse, a hastily constructed cover for the acoustic recorders and weapon control panels.

  He exclaimed to the hydrophone operator, a sonarman borrowed from Newport. “There it is!”

  The operator said, “Got it, sir.” The youngster read off target coordinates and Jim recorded them.

  As the numbers appeared at the precise position where Dutch had been dispatched, Jim thought, Good. He then had the operator double-check the reading. “Doesn’t look right, sailor,” he fibbed, “Try it again. Reset the display.”

  The second reading identical to the first one assured Jim the array could pinpoint a noise source. Now they had to demonstrate a Sealance payload could be dropped on the target vicinity.

  Jim activated one of the four missiles atop the sunken barge many miles at sea. The guidance system responded. He then set in the target coordinates and had a fire control technician; also commandeered from Newport, verify them.

  After validating the numbers, both on a scratch pad where he had written them and on the array display itself, Jim said, “Checks.” He then ordered the fire control technician, “Verify presets.”

  The youngster replied, “Read-backs correct, sir.”

  “Give me the numbers. I want to be sure.”

  The operator re-verified them.

  Jim ordered, “Fire one!”

  The operator depressed the firing key. A Missile Away light came on in response to the preset wire being broken when the missile floated free from the barge and began its buoyant ascent toward the ocean surface.

  Radio silence had been imposed, again for security reasons; hence, Jim would wait for Dutch to return with the full results. The monitor would show the running torpedo sounds blended with the sound source if all went well.

  Buchanan and Dutch had joked about the peacetime amenities for safety, once ironclad but now dispensed because of wartime urgency. The Federal Aviation Administration would not be notified and the missile had no provisions for command destruction in the event it miscued and headed in the wrong direction.

  Dutch complained, “Now, what will I do if it hits us, Jim?”

  “Cheer,” said the ever-flippant Buchanan. “If it does, we’ll have succeeded beyond our wildest dreams.”

  “Look closely,” Dutch warned. “It should be coming in any time now.”

  He would know within a few seconds when the Sealance MK-50 Torpedo payload impacted in his area. He had six pairs of eyes in binoculars, each scanning sixty-degree segments of the horizon.

  The men searched diligently then heard the most terrifying words to be spoken during a naval operation. “Oh shit!”

  Someone yelled from the flying bridge. The entire crew hit the deck, each making his own separate thud but combining into a single loud one. An explosive CUSH preceded the crew being doused with seawater as the Sealance payload knifed into the water a scant twenty-five yards astern.

  Dutch thought, Missed us but think I’ll cheer anyway.

  He raced to the passive monitoring equipment, turned up the speaker and monitored the display. The MK-50 ran into its search pattern. Abruptly the pitch increased as the torpedo made passive detection on the noise source and shifted to high speed to attack the target.

  The weapon continued re-attacking until its endurance expended and then sank. Later came the sound of an explosion as the weapon struck bottom and detonated.

  Dutch quipped, “Even the warhead works.”

  Ashore, cheers erupted in the blockhouse where positions of the exploding warhead blended perfectly with the noise source.

  Next day, data sets collected afloat and ashore melded to show the ‘Meyer-Buchanan one-two punch’ would provide a lethal welcome to any submarine approaching the Pitstop with hostile intentions.

  The time had come. Jack Olsen took a deep breath and knocked on the captain’s stateroom door.

  Bostwick grumbled, “C’min.”

  Stepping inside, Olsen replied, “Afternoon, Captain.”

  “Yeah, Jack. What’s up?”

  “Got the plan for the land strike, sir. We need to move it up a few days. We’re down to two ADCAPs and ought to get out of here before they’re used up. There’s no reason for us to hang around.”

  Bostwick spoke as though he’d give the matter some thought and already discussed it with his executive officer, but in reality, he hadn’t. “Damn it! Jack, I already told you we’re not doing this.”

  A fragment of the captain’s ability to intimidate him remained so Jack set his jaw and stood firm. “We have to, sir.”

  “We have to die and pay taxes. And frankly, I’m not sure about the latter.”

  “Here’s the plan, sir.”

  The captain snapped, “How much longer do you expect me to put up with this mutinous bullshit?”

  “It’s not mutinous, Captain. It’s our orders. We have no cause for failing to carry them out. And our country needs the good news.”

  Bostwick resisted, “We won’t make it out of here to give it to ’em if we conduct that strike.”

  “I disagree, Captain. We’ve been shot at six times and always evaded. Only thing that can reach us quick enough after the launch is an aircraft. Their air dropped CP-45s are useless against a
688.”

  “You’ve been talking to Maddock. That son of a bitch thinks he knows everything. He’s got it in for me and he uses you to pull my chain.”

  Jack’s voice remained steady and firm. “He doesn’t, Captain. He feels you’re a very capable officer. He considers his recommendations to be the best expression of his loyalty. He’s sorry you misconstrue—”

  “Damn it, Jack! Knock off the bullshit? You know Maddock hates my guts and nothing would make him happier than to see me go under.”

  “I know nothing of the kind, Captain, but that’s not the issue here. We’ve got to decide about the land attack.”

  “What the hell option do I have? If I don’t go along, I’m stuck with the threats you’ve laid on me about what happens when we get back.”

  “Put it in any terms you like, sir. Anything I’d say back home is invalid if you’ve got sound logic behind your position. I’m the one at risk if you do.”

  “Okay, you bastard let me see the damn attack plan. But remember and you pass this along to that arrogant running mate of yours. The Navy lasts a long time and if we survive this, I’ll be well positioned enough to make you both damn sorry.”

  The last of the new anchors hit the sandy bottom, this time arranged to hold things in place against the next Sou’wester. Eric Danis had assembled Dave Zane, Phil Reynolds, Dutch Meyer, Darby Cameron and several Newport engineer officers for a final run through of the Newport’s reduction gear repair plan. Gerry Carter and Jim Buchanan, Danis’s advisors-at-large, rounded out the group.

  Commodore Danis began, “Gentlemen, your time is too valuable to be wasted in meetings just to keep me informed so we’ll make this brief. However, I want to take the opportunity to express how pleased and impressed I am with Gerry’s inventive and decisive action during the big blow. It saved our bacon or at least prevented a disastrous set back of six months or more.

  “Congratulations, Gerry. I want you to hold school on these guys to see if you can load them up with that kind of initiative.”

  All laughed.

  Jim Buchanan said, “You’ve got your work cut out for you, Gerry. Submariners fit into the spectrum somewhere between Louis XIV and Attila the Hun. Some pretty hard heads to crack.”

  The men laughed again.

  Danis added, “And while we’re giving out kudos, the ‘Meyer-Buchanan one-two punch’ is a show stopper. I want a tight report to pass off to the other refit sites. Make it crisp, hard and no windows for some damn vested agency to poke a stick through.”

  Jim smiled at his boss and said, “Yes, sir.”

  Turning to his weapons officer, Danis asked, “Dutch. How are the Sealance reloads coming?”

  “Four more rounds on station and eight ready as soon as the crew gets back with them.”

  “I don’t want to know how he did it but Dave Zane got Newport’s new reduction gear.”

  Dave replied, “Commodore, are you saying I’m devious?”

  Not fully recovered from the bad feeling brought on by his error on the initial anchoring plan Dave had self-medicated with humor.

  Danis asked, “How else could we have gotten this place set up?” signaling no intention to wallow in what might have happened. He went on, “Mr. Cameron has the experience needed to fix Newport’s main bearings. You’ve all met him so let’s drop formalities and get on with it. Darby?”

  Standing before the very men that Brent Maddock once declared would not permit him ever again to work on submarines, Darby Cameron set up a homemade easel with briefing sheets attached. War has a way of neutralizing such pronouncements. He opened with a plan view of the Pitstop with marked locations for positioning Newport, the crane and the bearings.

  A little nervous at first, Darby quickly settled down. “Here’s the materials flow. The locations are spotted within the crane’s reach, Newport and the repair parts.”

  He covered a myriad of details including moving parts from the dock to the ship, installing them, the procedures for meeting stringent precision requirements, testing the work and the closing up process then finished with, “Our watchword when in doubt will be STOP. It’s gotta be right the first time through because we won’t get a second chance.” He added the customary, “Questions, gentlemen?”

  Danis asked, “None? Very well then, let’s get on with it. Dave, stick around will you?”

  All the others rose and left.

  After pouring each a cup of coffee Danis said, “With all the hustle and bustle of getting this thing up and going, Dave, it occurs to me I–” Eric grasped for the right expression, “I just don’t show you enough appreciation. I depend on you for everything. This whole damn operation couldn’t be pulled off without you. Two other facilities on this coast are at least two months behind us and started before we did. None of these would even dream of attempting this repair.

  “You came up with the materials and know-how to put Newport back together. How you did it will always be a mystery to me. You’ve got her within two weeks of being able to deploy. Maybe I expect you to just sense my appreciation. That’s wrong and I want to set the record straight.”

  Dave turned and looked out to sea through a porthole in Eric’s palatial accommodations. He blinked hard and absorbed a tear that threatened to fill his eye.

  “Eric,” he said, “between you and me, I think we’re going to win this damn war.”

  Captain Bostwick, back in his Jekyll role, took absolute charge of the situation. It amazed Jack Olsen how the morale of his troops rose and fell with the skipper’s moods. If he lived to be a hundred, Olsen believed he’d never fully comprehend the psychology of leadership.

  He stood before a 1MC microphone and addressed his crew, “This is the Captain speaking. I’m proud of how you’ve prepared Denver to deliver this first American strike against the enemy. We’ll hit the Vladivostok Naval Facility, home of the submarines that have hurt our cause the most. We attack and then return home to rearm for more and greater strikes. I expect all to give their usual outstanding performance. God bless, good luck and man your battle stations.”

  A cheer erupted from the troops as they proceeded to their posts.

  Brent took his position behind the Attack Control Console. He had reprogrammed the combat system to load target coordinates into the twelve land attack Tomahawk missiles in the vertical launchers.

  Captain Bostwick said with confidence, “Okay, we’ll shoot above the layer then duck below to evade counterattack.”

  This wasn’t Brent’s choice of tactic. He thought, It’s exactly what the opposition expects. He’d have remained above the layer believing aircraft dropped torpedoes would be likely set to run below it. Brent deduced in any case, the best Soviet air dropped device fell well below the 688-performance envelope. He wisely chose not to reveal this and detract from the captain’s moment.

  The captain ordered, “Make your depth six-two feet, smartly,” and then, “Make ready twelve TLAMs. Flood and open the muzzle doors.”

  “Six-two smartly,” Chief Cunningham responded followed by Brent’s acknowledgement of the TLAM orders.

  After raising the number two periscope the captain took a look around. The closeness of the landmass unnerved him. He observed darkened ridges on the horizon and discerned a clear light pattern that outlined the port. At 0300 Vladivostok time human activity would be at its lowest, a big factor in both hammering the enemy and making good an escape.

  He commanded, “Report when TLAMs fully ready.”

  Brent responded, “Aye, sir. Eight preset and matched. Expect the rest in four minutes, Captain.”

  Bostwick ordered number one periscope raised to conduct an electronics countermeasure search.

  The ECM console operator reported, “Many shore-based and surface ship radars, Captain. No ASW aircraft.”

  What jackasses, Bostwick thought. With all our recent local exchanges, you’d think someone on the staff would know we’re in the area. They must know we’ve got land attack missiles. Are they truly that ar
rogant or just plain stupid?

  With a crisp tone, Brent replied, “Twelve birds ready, Captain,” showing a lack of any emotion, accumulated from the long and arduous training sessions he had conducted.

  Captain Bostwick’s voice also betrayed no emotion. “Fire missiles in sequence, one through twelve.”

  Denver rumbled and shuddered as missiles departed her vertical launchers. In short order, the last bird had departed and the launchers secured.

  Brent reported, “Twelve away, Captain. Recommend we haul buns, sir.”

  Bostwick wasted no time. “Right full rudder, all ahead full.”

  The helmsman acknowledged.

  “COB, take us all the way down.”

  Cunningham replied, “All the way, aye, Captain,” and then to the helmsman, “Fifteen down on the angle.”

  Denver responded eagerly to her first directions to embark on the initial leg of the homeward bound trek. The crew sensed this and their spirits soared.

  How anti-climatic, Brent thought. The attack began and ended quickly and left no sense of having engaged the enemy. Denver crewmen saw or heard nothing. Weeks would pass before they’d know how well the attack succeeded, if at all. Maybe a satellite scan would provide a quick look.

  Brent knew twelve conventional warheads would do only minor damage to Vladivostok’s extensive Naval facility. However, its effect on Soviet national morale could be substantial. During WWII, the Doolittle raid inflicted only minor damage to Tokyo but seriously impacted morale of the Japanese populace.

  Above the surface, twelve missiles roared into the sky with a great show of smoke and flame. This fireworks-like display ended abruptly. Rocket boosters burned out as air breathing missile sustainers took over and drove the weapons below the radar horizon to cruise altitude. Here they spread out and raced toward various landfalls where radar altimeters would plot ground contours and match it to profiles stored in the missiles’ Tercom computers. Most went in the direction of the submarine refit facility, two sped toward ammunition bunkers, one to the suspected location of the Flotilla Headquarters and the last missile headed toward a Navy antenna farm on the far side of the city.