D. M. Ulmer 01 - Silent Battleground

by D. M. Ulmer

  A Soviet radar operator detected the initial launch but quickly lost contact when the missiles dropped to cruise altitude for short and quick deliveries of their payloads onto their designated targets. Denver had been well positioned for the attack. Close to shore, the shortened runs deprived Soviets of reaction time needed to mount adequate defenses.

  Ironically, the first warhead struck Flotilla Headquarters, taking the life of the intelligence briefer who had failed to properly identify and assess the threat posed by Denver. He misread the intelligence data and numbered her among the 688s not equipped with vertical launchers. Consequently, he did not anticipate a land attack. One hundred fifty officers and men died in the Flotilla Headquarters.

  The surprise attack raised havoc on the waterfront where personnel comprised the major casualties. An Alfa and three Tango submarines fell victim to the assault. Two Tomahawk warheads detonated among the ammunition bunkers. They failed to penetrate any walls; thus, no sympathetic explosions among the stored explosives.

  Damage inflicted upon the facilities would be quickly repaired.

  Ekaterina Baknov slept in her modest condominium. Since the conversation with her son on the eve of Zhukov’s departure, she thought often of the joyous days with her husband in the months following Vasiliy’s birth. She recalled the last time they danced Adam Adolphe’s Giselle at the Kirov. How high he had lifted her and how much love they felt. These happy thoughts accompanied her as she drifted off to sleep three hours before the attack.

  The high-rise apartment, erected just weeks after the missile tracks had been laid out from landfall to the antenna farm, had not been taken into account. If the building had been five feet shorter, the Tomahawk missile would have over flown it. It wasn’t. The hastily constructed structure collapsed when the missile struck it dead on and snuffed out the life of Ekaterina Baknov and the other occupants.

  Chapter 15

  Eric Danis had been there and done that enough times to make it harder to explain to Captain Tim Hopper, the Pitstop wasn’t prepared yet to fill his requests, repairs beyond the means of ship’s force, clothing, mail, and most importantly, salad, the first commodity to expire after leaving port. Last salad served to Hopper’s crew had been sixty days ago.

  Danis said, “I wish I had better news, Captain.”

  Captain Hopper, the Commanding Officer of the Trident submarine USS Idaho, The latest arrival at the Pitstop after eighty days submerged in the emptiness of the Pacific Ocean, said, “Thank you, Commodore. We’ve had time to accept the probability that most of our families did not survive the attack on Bangor. But still, it’s overwhelming. Getting back brings it all up again but we’ll deal with it, sir.”

  Almost at a loss for words, Danis forced a smile, nodded and said, “Captain, I don’t envy you your job right now.”

  Hopper attempted to put Danis at ease. “I guess it’s not the best time to ask for groceries but we are a little low. Right now, anything but dry stores would be like Thanksgiving for us.”

  “That we can handle. The food supply around here is great. I’ll have Commander Carter get right on it.”

  “What are chances of getting my troops ashore, sir? I know this operation is anchored out and your hands are full. But my guys have been a long time at sea.”

  “Of course we can. Forgive me for not thinking of that.” For an instant, Eric’s many happy homecomings flashed through his mind and he knew the Idaho crew could not find what they hoped for, however, Danis thought even a little change of atmosphere might help. “We’ve got eight to ten boats a day running between here and Hoquiam. I wouldn’t exactly call it the big apple of the West Coast but I think your troops will find it lively enough.”

  Hopper asked with reservation, “I guess there’s no chance of replacements?”

  “No, Tim. My orders are to turn you around and get you out of here in a week. Hopefully, we’ll scrape up a relief crew and call you back later. But for now, tea and sympathy is the best we can do.”

  “I understand, Commodore,” said Captain Hopper as he rose to leave then extended his hand.

  Danis took it warmly and said, “Congratulations to you and your crew on an outstanding patrol, Captain.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll pass it along to them.”

  After Captain Hopper left, Danis summoned Gerry Carter. “What can we do for these guys, Gerry? They’re really down. Eighty days sealed up in that overgrown sewer pipe and then going out for eighty more after a week ashore. That’s damn near inhuman. Hopper’s the first officer I ever spoke to that I couldn’t look in the eye.”

  “Commodore, you can’t do anything for them.”

  For the first time the laid-back Eric Danis raised his voice to the chief staff officer. “What the hell do you mean, Gerry?”

  Gerry responded quietly. “I mean exactly that, sir. We’re in a war now and it makes a personal hell for everyone. There are no more carriers so I won’t get to do what I trained for all my adult life. Young Reynolds is damn lucky to get a command back and wouldn’t have if it weren’t for you and Zane.

  “Commodore, at the risk of sounding like the script from a grade-B war flick, you can’t take on the personal problems of everyone that comes in here. You’ll be overwhelmed. You got too damn many problems of your own. Trust me, sir. These guys are big boys and can take care of themselves. War makes ’em grow up fast.”

  Eric Danis smiled and doing his best impression of James Cagney playing Captain Flag in the World War I film, What Price Glory said, “Why am I so hard on ’em? Because I love ’em, that’s why.”

  Both men laughed.

  “You got it, Commodore.”

  Finally up and about, Woody Parnell spent a lot of time in the Attack Center learning the duties of a conning officer. A strong youngster, his wounds healed quickly and he took on light duty, mostly learning details of running a conning watch. He enjoyed the new hero status resulting from his minesweeper action and basked in the awe of younger crewmen.

  Life aboard an attack submarine in the forward areas has only moments of excitement; the rest is passed waiting for something to happen. Consequently, many of the off watch crew hung out in the Attack Center. If anything happened, it broke there.

  Gary Hansen also spent much of his off watch time there to gain a better understanding of how the boat drivers used the information he sent them from Sonar. This helped improve his personal efficiency at his end of the 21MC.

  Sounding a bit like a complaint the young petty officer said, “Here it is mid-May and the baseball season’s six weeks old. And we don’t know a thing. Wonder how the Twins are making out?”

  The helmsman asked, “Are they even having a baseball season with war ’n everything?”

  Woody muscled his way into the conversation. “Sure they are. Didn’t stop ’em during the last one.”

  Another troop volunteered, “But that wasn’t a nuclear war, Mr. Parnell.”

  “Well neither is this one,” Woody said. “At least not anymore.”

  Hansen expressed his wish for a bit of major league baseball news. “I, for one, would sure like to get the ball scores once in a while. Twins made some good trades over the winter and oughta be doing pretty good. And I got a high school buddy supposed to move up from the farms this spring.”

  Woody offered, “Hansen, I can get the scores.”

  “You can, sir? How do we do that halfway on the other side of the world?”

  With a matter-of-fact voice Woody said, “SATACBAK BRAVO, that’s how.”

  Hansen shook his head. “Never heard of that, Mr. Parnell.”

  “It’s a radio term, Hansen, Satellite Tactical Backup, Bravo. Never gets used because it’s a backup circuit. They have to test it, though, so they’ll send almost anything. Sports scores mostly, ’cause it helps morale.”

  “Why don’t we get ’em, sir?”

  The rest of the watch troops in the Attack Center also expressed interest with enthusiastic anticipation.

  W
oody shook his head. “Can’t. SATACBAK B is a surface ship system. But maybe with the right parts, I could modify one of our receivers to copy it.”

  Hansen exclaimed, “You could, Mr. Parnell? What do you need? They might be in our spare parts bin.”

  “Yeah, Hansen. Actually, it wouldn’t take much, resistors and capacitors mostly. I’ll make you a list.”

  Within a day, Woody had the list. The enterprising Hansen found everything except one component among the sonar spares. Hansen made his way from stem to stern, trying to trace down a resistor with unusual power tolerances and finally found it in the communications’ electricians bin. It cost him two Penthouse Magazine back editions, fair exchange in his view for getting the ball scores.

  With great pride and anticipation Hansen delivered the resistor to Woody.

  “Hey, that’s all right, Hansen,” Woody said as he received the part. “Shows how green I am to think we didn’t have this kind of stuff aboard, otherwise, I would have set this up a long time ago. Now understand, nobody else can be in the radio shack while I work on this. Crypto stuff in there, you know, only officers and radiomen allowed.”

  The delighted Hansen replied, “Yes, sir, understand perfectly. When do you think we’ll get some scores?”

  Woody furrowed his brow and muttered, “Mmm,” then said, “today is Thursday. By Monday, I should be able to summarize the weekend in the majors. With a little luck, might even have the standings.”

  “That’s great, Mr. Parnell. This is the absolute most.”

  “Like to do what I can, Hansen. Make sure all the guys know that.”

  “I’ll tell ’em, sir. I surely will.”

  Word spread throughout Denver like wildfire. On Monday, they would have a summary of the weekend ball scores and maybe standings and records of all major league teams. Spreadsheets developed and pools initiated among the Denver gambling set. During the morning watch on Monday, a grim-faced radioman walked from the shack and posted a sign.

  A summary of the weekend baseball scores will be posted on the radio shack door at 1500, compliments of Ensign Parnell.

  Ignoring a myriad of questions, the radioman re-entered the cipher-lock door. At 1500, a group of some thirty enlisted crowded into the area immediately adjacent to the radio shack. The same radioman emerged and again, without saying a word, posted a replacement sign.

  Scores announcement delayed until 1800. Reason: Failure to take Daylight Savings Time into account and movement into a new time zone to the east.

  This elated Gary Hansen, as he’d be off-watch at that time. At 1800, he and fifty sailors struggled for the limited space available. A few of the more serious gamblers stood to win enough to buy a new car when they returned to port.

  Again, the stern-faced radioman emerged. He removed the old sign and with dramatic flair, he unfurled and posted a new one.

  Weekend ball scores: four to three, one to nothing after fourteen innings, eight to seven, and here’s a real blowout, seventeen to four. The rest are fairly average: four to three, three to two and seven to five and so forth. All that’s needed to get team names and current standings is to douse this sign with a bucket of steam. –Ensign Parnell.

  The crowd quickly diminished as each read the bottom line. Among the last, Lieutenant Commander Jack Olsen turned away only to be confronted by the grinning Parnell.

  With a laugh in his voice, Woody said, “C’mon, Exec, not the old baseball score gag? Old hat even before Farragut joined the Navy.”

  A series of five 1MC clicks interrupted the ball score gaggle, the new signal established to quietly call all personnel to Battle Stations and the crew scurried off to assigned posts.

  Captain Bostwick made the customary demand when he reached the Attack Center. “What’ve we got?”

  With Brent on the watch, Bostwick omitted the usual first name address to his conning officer. This had become so routine the young officer scarcely noticed.

  “Oscar, Captain. Bearing zero-four-five, closing fast. Sounds like he’s coming home and anxious to get there.”

  “Aye, what do you figure the range?”

  “Quite a way out, Captain. Can’t believe the racket he’s making. Either no one’s warned him we’re here, or he doesn’t give a damn.”

  Despite his adverse feelings toward Brent, the Captain knew no one understood how to fight a 688 better than this young warrior so he asked, “What do you think about letting him have it head on?”

  “Terrifies me, Captain. Shortens the range too much and the last few guys damn near ate our lunch at close range. Let’s shoot at his stern. This’ll give us more time to collect data on the evasive maneuver if he uses it. I’m convinced that whatever they’re doing is simple and we gotta figure it out.”

  “Okay. Let him go by and we’ll shoot two. One above and one below the layer.”

  Brent thought, Damn it! It didn’t work last time so why do we think it will now. But go along. Life’s too short.

  The attack party sweated out the final moments. Six of the last seven engagements with the enemy found them running for their lives. All expected a torpedo from the target back down the bearing line. Nonetheless, they did what had to be done.

  Brent thought, Damn these kids are tough.

  The Oscar passed closer than any previous target, which assured a good estimate of target range and speed. Brent correctly anticipated Bostwick’s cautious nature would result in shooting at long-range. Denver could fire at minimum enable range and make it tough for the Oscar to avoid the ADCAP; but Brent conceded firing at short range also increased danger of a successful counterattack.

  Bostwick read Brent’s mind and beat him to the punch.

  “We’ll let this turkey open out to six thousand yards before we let him have it.”

  Denver launched an ADCAP, ending with the same results identical to all the previous engagements. Sonar detected a torpedo from the target immediately after the attack was initiated and Bostwick ordered the same tactics that had previously saved his ship. Unfortunately, noise from Denver’s ETC jammed the acoustic recorders and precluded gathering further data on the enemy evasive maneuver.

  Having reached evasion attitude and assured the Soviet torpedo now expended its remaining energy against the ETC countermeasure, everyone aboard knew Denver once again had successfully evaded an enemy counterattack. A collective sigh of relief went through the ship.

  Brent suddenly shattered the Attack Center discipline of silence. “I’ve got it, Captain. I know where the son of a bitch is. The only place he can be. On the surface.”

  Bostwick demanded, “How do you know that?”

  “He knows we’re attacking him as a submarine so he’s become a surface ship. Why not? The Reds own the surface and air. He’s got nothing to worry about up there. Recommend come to periscope depth for a look.”

  “Damn it! Brent.”

  “He’s up there, Captain. Trust me.”

  The captain made no response.

  Jack Olsen said, “Let’s try it, Captain. What’ve we got to lose?”

  Captain Bostwick’s face slightly flushed in anger, but he ordered the ship to periscope depth and there wallowing in the seaway, he saw a huge Oscar class submarine, apparently having planed to the surface so his attacker would not hear the ballast tank blow. He had performed a classic airless surface.

  Bostwick ordered, “Make ready two TSAMs,” using the acronym for Tomahawk Ship Attack Missile. “We’ll blow the son of a bitch out of the water.”

  Brent grabbed Jack by the arm and dragged him to a corner of the Attack Center. “Don’t let him do it, Jack. We’re onto ’em. Knowledge of the tactic is way more important than the kill. This guy can’t hurt us from where he is. He’s going home to get patched up. If we’ve got this thing figured out right, a lot of Soviets will buy the farm.”

  Jack said with an exasperated tone, “Damn it, Brent, stop talking in parables. What’re you trying to say?”

  “What we’ve just found out is
more important than killing a dilapidated Oscar. Shut the old man down. I don’t envy you the job.”

  Grinning wide, Jack blurted out, “Think so, Brent? Watch this.”

  Returning to the open Attack Center area Jack Olsen announced in a loud voice, “Let the turkey go, Skipper. Bring the straight scoop back on what these bastards are up to and we’ll bust a lot more than an Oscar junkyard. Letting this guy go will make us look a hell of a lot better than we do already.”

  Bostwick, concerned an ASW aircraft would fly down the TSAM contrails and put a weapon on Denver, flooded with relief at Olsen’s recommendation. “Good thinking, XO,” he announced in a loud voice. “Now, let’s concentrate on getting this crew back to the States for some well-deserved rest.”

  Bea called out as she returned to the Digs early from shopping, “Dad, are you home?”

  Dave replied, “Uh … out on the deck.”

  He appeared to be gasping and out of breath. He wore sweats and looked as if he had been exercising.

  Curious, Bea asked. “What’s this all about, Dad? When did you stop conserving energy for filling and lifting vino glasses?”

  “Oh,” Dave said, looking a bit startled then explained, “lotta work at the Pitstop and I gotta stay fit.”

  An implausible answer, she thought, but she did not push it and only murmured, “Mmmm.”

  Eager to change the subject, Dave said, “Got some good news. Brent should be back in about a week. Keep that under your hat though. No one’s supposed to know.”

  Bea’s expression revealed her elated feelings. “Oh, Dad, that’s great. When did you hear?”

  Putting on a serious expression, Dave said, “Gotta be careful about that. Let’s just say I know and Eric cleared me to tell you.”

  “Tell Eric I said he’s a sweetheart. Is there room for Denver? How many are in already? Three at least and the Idaho makes four.”

  “When your old Dad makes a refit base, he includes room for everything. Actually, we can handle up to eight but only reach four with the crane.”