D. M. Ulmer 01 - Silent Battleground

by D. M. Ulmer

  Next, Phil sought out the ever-busy Gerry Carter. “Thanks for everything, Commander.”

  Carter took the young skipper’s hand and shook it firmly. “Even for turning your ship into an overpriced anchor?”

  “Especially for that, sir. You taught us we’re all in the same Navy despite the badges on our shirts.”

  “If you find the bastard that sank Savo Island, make a big hole in him for me.”

  “That’s a promise, sir.”

  The public address system, at maximum gain, blared Anchors Aweigh as a pair of tugs rotated Newport and pointed her bow toward the harbor entrance. The submarine’s air horn sounded a long resonant blast, in compliance with Rules of the Road, but actually signaled a final expression of gratitude to all at the Pitstop.

  Dave continued to watch after the crowd dispersed to the next job. Newport glided along slowly till she cleared the breakwater. Then her propeller dug into the sea and thrust her ahead at full speed. White foam contrasted with her sleek black hull as she slipped majestically out to sea.

  With well-deserved satisfaction Dave Zane thought,This is what it’s all about.

  Later, Blockhouse notified squadron operations that Newport had crossed the hydrophone array and performed the identifying maneuver.

  Dutch Meyer took the phone call.

  The watch officer said, “She sure is quiet, Commander. Held her less than three minutes.”

  Dutch added, “And Newport’s at high speed. If someone tries to sneak in, we’re only gonna get a peek so our trigger finger better be quick.”

  A furious Vasiliy Baknov believed sea conditions to be marginal for transfer of personnel from the rubber raft to ladder of a Peruvian tanker. The zampolit had lectured on a Communist Party mandate that South American countries, a key factor in winning hearts and minds of conquered peoples in the Western Hemisphere, must be handled with care. They had been exploited far too long by capitalist American greed and the Soviet Union would show them a better way.

  These platitudes did little to aid Vasiliy and his boarding party as they struggled to leap from raft to ladder. Soaked through, Vasiliy’s group appeared more as a pack of drowned rats than warriors from the most powerful Navy in the world.

  He thought, Too bad Poplavich didn’t have to drag his fat-ass up this ladder. Maybe the Party policy would become less important to him.

  Vasiliy gave the elderly tanker captain before him a crisp salute. Unfamiliar with such protocol, the captain made a sincere, if ungainly effort to return the gesture.

  In Spanish, the ship’s captain said, “Welcome aboard the Peruvian merchant vessel, Bolivar.”

  Through his interpreter, Vasiliy announced, “We will examine your ship’s papers and inspect cargo for contraband. You will be delayed as little as possible.”

  The Russian interpreter translated Russian to English then in turn English to Spanish by the tanker’s interpreter. Vasiliy did not like the looks of the ship’s young translator … The cut of his clothing, perhaps. To Vasiliy, the man’s accent and demeanor appeared very much American. Additionally, he appeared more annoyed over the search than the ship’s captain. He grew suspicious when the Bolivar translator read the papers in English.

  “Do not be too concerned, Comrade Lieutenant,” said the Soviet interpreter. “The important words are the same in Spanish as English. I am certain we are being told the truth.”

  Bolivar’s papers showed her to be a tanker loaded with Malaysian crude oil, bound from Sarawak to Lima. The papers also showed deck loads of teakwood and hemp.

  Vasiliy believed the Bolivar interpreter grew more pugnacious with each completed inspection; the sort of smug look expected from an American who succeeded in hiding something from the boarding party. He thought, That bastard’s an American, I know it. Perhaps we should take him prisoner then conveniently lose him overboard on the way back to Zhukov.

  All tanks proved to be filled with crude as shown in the manifest. The deck loading correlated correctly also, except for several tons of copra, not considered contraband.

  When the Bolivar interpreter accidentally struck Vasiliy’s chest with his elbow while retying a deck load strap, Vasiliy lost control.

  Quickly drawing his pistol, Vasiliy pointed it at the interpreter and snapped in Russian, “American bastard!”

  With terror in his eyes, the young man looked first to the Zhukov interpreter and then back at the Russian officer’s angry stare. Vasiliy stepped forward and struck the man’s face with his pistol, knocking him to the deck unconscious.

  The Soviet interpreter exclaimed, “Comrade Lieutenant! This must stop immediately.”

  Vasiliy growled back, “What do you know? He is an American, I say.”

  Several tanker crewmen attempted to scurry the young man off but Vasiliy stopped them by gesturing with his pistol. “I want to see this man’s papers.”

  Panic showed on the crewmen’s faces as they wondered what else might be in store.

  Bolivar’s first mate located the injured man’s papers and presented them for inspection. They identified him as a Peruvian national. This did not placate Vasiliy. His mother’s death at the hands of Americans had driven him beyond being rational.

  The Soviet interpreter demanded, “You must apologize, Comrade Lieutenant.”

  Vasiliy snapped back, “Never!”

  Then he ordered a light signal to the submerged Zhukov where he knew a periscope monitored the tanker. He led his party down the ship’s ladder where they again performed the acrobatics of re-boarding their raft.

  Zhukov resurfaced in the tanker’s wake after Bolivar had been released and directed to proceed on course. On Bolivar’s bridge, the injured interpreter, head bandaged, reported to his captain that aside from a headache, he felt well.

  The captain said, “I am sorry, Manuel. If the son of a bitch had put that pig boat anywhere near my bow, I’d have cut him in half.”

  Neither Vasiliy nor his interpreter picked up on the slight English-accented Spanish by Bolivar’s captain, the only American on the tanker.

  The Pitstop PA system blared Anchors Aweigh to welcome home rust-streaked Denver as she rounded the breakwater and pushed her way into a beautiful June morning. She moored outboard of three 688s, two having deployed from Bremerton by order of Commodore Danis on the eve of the war. The third, like Denver, a WestPac returnee, had deployed from Pearl Harbor before the war started.

  With the Denver’s brow set in place, Commodore Danis strode briskly across and greeted Captain Bostwick. “Welcome home, Hal. And congratulations. There’s some great satellite before and after photos of your Vlad attack.”

  The captain said, “Commodore, it’s great to be back. Hey, looks like you’ve been pretty busy,” as he gestured about the facility.

  “A few things going down here. Enough to get your good ship turned around and back out there to do us some more good.”

  Bostwick did not want to hear these words. He thought, Surely my relief must be aboard.

  Danis continued, “But there’s some bad news. You’re going to have to give up Denver. Jim Buchanan’s onboard with orders as your relief.”

  “Oh, no.” Bostwick feigned disappointment, “Don’t I get at least one more shot at kicking Soviet butt?”

  “It’ll be a long-range kick, all the way from the other Washington. You’re reporting to a flag maker job on 02’s staff.”

  Bostwick thought with great relief, Right on. “I’ll go wherever I’m sent, Commodore, but I sure hate to give this up. Would you like to come below?”

  “Lead the way, Skipper.”

  Brent did not see her at first. Bea stood behind a group of workers congregated to form a welcome home contingent. The crowd parted for an instant and he caught his first glimpse of her. Back lighted by the bright sun, she looked quite feminine in a light blue dress. How wonderful to see you, ran through Brent’s mind as he raced across the brow, threaded his way through the welcome-home crowd and took her in his arms.

/>   As they embraced, applause arose from Denver’s main deck, led by Dan and Woody.

  The pair yelled in unison, “Hi-ya, Den Mother.”

  Bea and Brent waved their response.

  When he caught his breath, Brent said, “Can’t tell whether my mind or body is happiest to see you.”

  Smiling at him, Bea asked, “How ’bout we run a contest?”

  “I’m game,” and then his tone grew serious. “Bea, I didn’t know if you survived the attack. It had me worried sick. You told me you were going to the Digs. I figured you reached there before the attack came but I didn’t know. Commodore Danis knows how things are with us and I banked on hearing from him if anything bad had happened. That kept me going, Bea. He did a great job of letting the crew know about families when he could. Each time he learned something, he’d squeeze it into the limited radio broadcasts we received.”

  “He is a dear, that man. Stuck his neck out a foot but let me know Denver survived. And he sent me a heads-up on your homecoming.” She could not help but smile each time she looked at Brent. “And that’s how I knew to look so beautiful today, even though you didn’t say so. First time I’ve worn a dress since you left.”

  “Oh damn, Bea, you are gorgeous. Guess you’re gonna make me eat crow for not saying that right away?”

  She shrugged her shoulders and said, “For a while.”

  They boarded Denver, went below and joined an impromptu gathering in the wardroom. The captain had ordered up two bottles of Vodka and some cans of caviar recently liberated from the hapless Soviet minesweeper. A similarly supplied party, under auspices of the COB, had broken out in the crew’s mess.

  Commodore Danis quipped, “It’s against Navy regulations to partake of alcoholic beverages aboard a United States warship except for medicinal purposes. Don’t know about you, Captain, but I feel sick as hell.”

  Bostwick replied, “Me too, Commodore. I’ve had a headache ever since I woke up this morning. I’ll have the corpsman write us a prescription.”

  “Mark of a good commanding officer. Action first, paperwork later.”

  Of the caviar, Woody Parnell said, “This stuff’s not half bad once you get it past your nose.”

  After Bostwick poured each glass full, Danis announced, “May I propose two toasts? The first, to victory.”

  “Hear! Hear!” All replied and savored their first sip of the vodka.

  Danis raised his glass again, “Goddamn Josephus Daniels,” the traditional Navy toast to the World War I Secretary of the Navy, who decreed no alcoholic beverages permitted aboard U.S. warships.

  “Goddamn Josephus Daniels,” chorused fifteen voices.

  Upon realizing Bea had no security clearance, Danis drew her and Brent aside. Danis wanted to be sure no word of Denver’s contact with the Soviet minesweeper went beyond the room. “You know, Bea, Captain Bostwick got this Vodka in Seattle before he left.”

  Bea replied, “Where else, Eric? I’m a Navy junior, remember?”

  Eric nodded. “Good. While I’ve got your ear, I hear some good things about this fine young man of yours. But this is not the time to embarrass Brent.”

  They responded with a smile.

  Maintaining a transparent air of aloofness, Danis continued, “Look, I’m sorry Bea, but your dad will be tied up here the rest of the day so would the two of you mind running out to the Digs to see if Dave drank that bottle of champagne I left cooling in the fridge?”

  Brent replied, “You heard what the commodore said, Bea. It’s a lousy assignment, but somebody’s gotta do it,” and the two departed.

  Initially unnoticed, Jim Buchanan entered the wardroom and poured himself a glass of vodka. Suddenly Captain Bostwick’s voice boomed above the din. “Jim Buchanan. You rascal. You’ve come to take my ship from me and I refuse to give her up.”

  The two shook hands. Jim served with Bostwick at two previous duty stations and knew him well. He easily saw through Bostwick’s statement and knew that nothing could please Bostwick more than his springboard assignment at OpNav.

  Jim said, “I trust you had a great patrol, Hal, but not too great. You’re a big pair of shoes to fill just for openers. War hero status on top of that makes the job near impossible.”

  Bostwick beamed. He took the compliment well.

  Continuing Jim said, “Seriously, Hal, can’t tell you how happy I am for the opportunity to command Denver. I look forward to seeing the patrol data. A lot of good lessons there, I’m sure.”

  “I’ll have Jack Olsen work up a schedule. Relief in a week sound okay?”

  Danis interjected, “How about two days, Skipper? This time next week, you’ll be head down and butt up in the Pentagon. War has a way of making things happen quicker.”

  A tone of mock surrender in his voice, Bostwick replied, “Guess we heard what the boss said.”

  Later, after the festivities on Denver, Eric Danis and Dave Zane sat in the commodore’s office. Eric and Dave had grown up together in a different time and the thought of arranging for young Maddock to go off and make love to his friend’s daughter gnawed at Eric’s conscience a little.

  Dave reminisced, “These homecomings are great, Eric. I remember how Dale and Bea would drive to the boat to greet us. Soon as we got home, I threw a handful of dimes onto the lawn and told Bea she could keep all she found. Said I tossed out ten but it was actually nine. After that, the second thing I did was to take off my shoes.”

  In his own inimitable way, Dave let Eric off the hook.

  The interpreter immediately contacted the zampolit upon his return from the Bolivar boarding. Poplavich then went to Sherensky and demanded, “Comrade Baknov must be relieved of all duties. This is necessary to deter others who might be similarly disposed.”

  Sherensky thought, Winning a war is challenge enough for field commanders without the second-guessing of political twits.

  Zhukov needed the talents of Vasiliy to perform her mission so the captain attempted to reason with the obstinate zampolit saying, “Ah yes, Comrade Zampolit. Lieutenant Baknov is clearly out of line. I shall require him to support the sound Party guidance. I shall discipline him immediately but must prevent the loss of his valuable role in the success of our mission.”

  Poplavich did not like Sherensky’s tone but neither did he wish to be identified as one who deprived Zhukov of needed services. “Go on, Comrade,” he said.

  “First, we make it known to him he will no longer serve as a boarding officer. Then his indiscretion will be made known to all in Zhukov.”

  The captain figured the crew would probably applaud the news of Lieutenant Baknov’s action but did not share this with Poplavich.

  The zampolit asked, “And then?”

  “We let Vasiliy know the Party is not without compassion then permit him to make amends through demonstration of his loyalty. Require him to assist you in preparation and delivery of political lectures to the crew. And fine him twenty percent of pay for twelve months.” Sherensky looked for expression on the zampolit’s poker face but found none. “We’ll set the time as one year before amnesty. In the meantime, we keep the advantage of his weapons and combat training. Believe me, Comrade, this could be very important to us before the mission is over.” Make the zampolit realize Vasiliy may be key to getting Poplavich’s abundant ass safely home.

  Poplavich considered the proposal a moment. Though not making it known, the zampolit had no true wish to die for the Communist Party despite the fact it would earn a plaque in his memory to hang in the Kremlin. Having the arrogant Baknov under his thumb had a certain appeal and he saw logic in the balance of Sherensky’s plan.

  “Yes, Comrade, Captain, we shall do as you wish but I insist on confinement after his next indiscretion. Is that understood?”

  “Clearly, Comrade Zampolit.”

  A knock on the captain’s stateroom door interrupted their meeting. A messenger reported that a zampolit and commanding officer eyes-only message had been received and they personally must comp
lete the decryption.

  While Sherensky typed in the plain language text, the decrypted message rolled out on a tape from the crypto machine and read:

  ZAMPOLIT/COMMANDING OFFICER EYES ONLY. TO ALL UNITS. MOVEMENT OF NORTHERN FLEET SUBMARINES TO PACIFIC VIA BERING STRAIT TO SUPPORT ANTI-MERCHANTSHIP CAMPAIGN WILL COMMENCE LATE JUNE. PACIFIC FLOTILLA REACTOR POWERED SUBMARINE UNITS CURRENTLY DEPLOYED PROCEED TO STATION DESIGNATED IN WAR PLAN. THERE, SCREEN BERING SEA TO INSURE SAFE PASSAGE OF NORTHERN FLEET UNITS. DEPART IMMEDIATELY TO VICINITY LATITUDE FORTY-FIVE NORTH, LONGITUDE ONE SIX FIVE EAST AT BEST SPEED. FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS TO FOLLOW.

  So, thought Sherensky, someone near the top is finally convinced the Pacific Ocean is far too large for the plan we have been embarked upon.

  Bea’s dress, a puddle of blue, blended with the bright afternoon sun on her bedroom floor. Brent watched her as she slept. Her rich brown hair lovely even in disarray, she lay on her back uncovered from the waist up. The late spring afternoon warmed them and he savored this view of his ladylove. They’d yet to seek out Eric Danis’s bottle of champagne; but after Brent lighted Dave Zane’s inventive wood fired hot tub would be a good time for that. Their initial physical reunion completed they settled down to the mental one.

  Marriage had never been broached but this did not preclude Brent from thinking of Bea decorating their apartment, shopping together, long motor trips into the mountains for skiing in winter, entertaining friends at home and raising a family. They’d have children and fill the void left by his estranged but beloved son. War cannot defer such things. Life goes on, for there are always wars and those who survive them.

  Brent fully intended to be involved in raising his children, even if it caused him to leave the service. This reality put his problems with Bostwick into a different perspective. Should he be fortunate enough to secure her promise, Brent would not let this marriage fail like his last one. Bearing such pain once in a lifetime is quite enough and he would not let it happen again.

  At Annapolis, the student prince-like backdrops for Brent’s courtship of his first wife kept them from discerning the true substance of lasting relationships. The robust Pacific Northwest setting of his time with Bea bristled with reality and gave him confidence his deep feeling for her did not impair his judgment. His mental reunion with Bea proved more voracious than their physical one.