Flight of the Condor

by Richard P. Henrick

  Stuffing the sausage into his mouth. Lefty was quick to reply.

  “Coincidence? You’ve got to be kidding me. I’ll accept a chance meeting off the Straits of Juan de Fuca, but for us to tag ‘em again down by San Clemente, less than two weeks later, is a bit much. No, I tell you that they’ve been trailing us all along.”

  Still not buying his coworker’s argument, the freckled Texan shook his head.

  “The important thing is that we were able to pick ‘em up on both occasions. Billy Powers tells me that the Skipper sure was pissed when Command called us off the last pursuit. The way Billy told it, the Old Man almost bust a gut when he was forced to divert us up northward to look for this missile wreckage.”

  “I don’t blame the Captain,” retorted Lefty.

  “It’s hard to believe that the Brass still don’t have then-priorities straight. The Razorback’s a first-line man of-war.

  Sure, we might be a bit slower and have to surface for air a few times more than a nuke, but we can still hold our own. To place us on a salvage mission is a complete waste of the taxpayers’ money.

  We’re an attack boat and ought to be treated as such.

  To let those Russians off the hook like we did gives me a bellyache.”

  Looking on as Lefty stuffed another mouthful of hotcakes into his mouth, Seth grinned.

  “I doubt that’s the cause of your tummy problems, pawdner. I still don’t know where in the blazes you put all that chow, but you certainly can pack those vittles away.

  Have you always had this kind of appetite?”

  Lefty answered after gulping down a mouthful of milk, “This ain’t anything, Tex. You should see me at mealtime when I’m in training. Why, during football practice I can never get enough inside of me.”

  “Your poor family must have some food bill,” reflected the fair-skinned Texan.

  Lefty nodded.

  “My father always said from the day I first joined the Navy that I’d eat Uncle Sam broke.

  I must say that Cooky sure turns out some awfully tasty chow, although it can’t begin to compare with my mom’s cooking.”

  After carefully soaking up the remaining maple syrup with his last sausage. Lefty gobbled it down.

  Only then did he push his plate away and issue a satisfied burp of approval.

  “That should hold me until lunch,” said the senior seaman, whose glance went to the wallmounted clock. Suddenly aware of the time, he bolted upright.

  “Jesus, Seth, we’d better get moving! We’ve got exactly one minute to relieve the chief before we get our butts kicked.”

  Following close on his coworker’s heels, the gangly Texan stood and proceeded to make his way hastily out of the galley. Fortunately, they didn’t have to go far. Less than a dozen steps separated the mess hall from the sonar room. The narrow, dimly lit compartment was located off the central corridor, immediately across from the crew’s bunk area.

  Senior Seaman Jackman was the first one to make his way inside. Waiting for his arrival there, from the seat of an elevated stool, was Chief Petty Officer Lawrence Desiante. The moustached New Yorker greeted him anxiously.

  “Christ, Jackman, I thought you were gonna stand us up.”

  Calmly checking his watch, Lefty responded, “What do you mean, Chief? We’re a whole fifteen seconds early.”

  Not about to dignify this remark with a response, the khaki-clad chief removed the headphones that he had hanging from his neck and stood.

  “The Captain’s got us on active at the moment. He’s interested in knowing if that debris field has shifted any.”

  With this revelation, Lefty’s gut instinctively tightened.

  An active sonar search meant unnecessary noise, something that an attack sub wanted no part of. Powerless to voice his objections, he stood aside as the chief and his assistant prepared to vacate the room.

  “Our passive hydrophone arrays are a bit screwed up with the racket that DSRV is creating strapped to our hull like it is,” added the chief with a yawn.

  “So concentrate your attention on that missile wreckage.

  And for Christ’s sake, don’t screw up! I’ve been going for eighteen hours now, and I hear my bunk calling. I’m counting on you guys for me to get some decent shut-eye. So please, don’t let me down, ca 0? pisce’ Signaling that he understood. Lefty watched as the chief and his assistant exited into the hallway. Relieved to be on his own, he turned toward his coworker.

  “What was I just telling you about Command?” emphasized the senior seaman disgustedly.

  “We’ve got no business shooting off our active sonar like this.

  Why they can hear us all the way back to Vladivostok!

  If you don’t mind, I’ll monitor passive for the time being. I don’t think that I could take hearing all those pings wasted.”

  “That’s fine with me,” returned Seth Burke calmly.

  Still not certain what had gotten into his high strung coworker, the Texan seated himself on the same stool that the chief had been utilizing. As he adjusted the headphones over his ears, he noticed that Jackman was settling in before the passive console.

  With high hopes that Lefty would soon calm down, the seaman second class focused his own attention on the loud, wavering blast of sound energy that was continually pulsating from their bow.

  Beside him, Lefty Jackman was in the process of adjusting his own headphones. Unlike his coworker’s set, his were attached to a series of sensitive microphones placed strategically throughout the Razorback’s hull. Designed to pick up the sounds of an enemy vessel before they were tagged themselves, the passive arrays were of enormous value.

  With a familiar ease, honed by hundreds of hours of practice. Lefty swept the surrounding seas. It didn’t take him long to pick up the strange racket that the chief had warned about.

  The streamlined nature of the Razorback’s hull was designed to create a minimum of noisy, free-flowing holes for water to be forced through. This was one of the unique features that allowed them almost silent operations. But because they were currently carrying a DSRV piggyback on their stern, this feature was completely negated.

  For the Marlin to be carried, a special cradle had to be bolted onto the Razorback’s deck. The temporary nature of this bulky structure created a great deal of drag. Not only was their top speed reduced, but the sub’s sound signature was drastically altered. Far from being silent, their forward progress was all too audible.

  Lefty took in the resonant surge of this noise and silently cursed. Until the DSRV was released, the stern hydrophones would be practically useless. A quick check of the bow array found these sensors in much better condition. Though he had to turn up their volume a bit more than usual, he was soon able to begin an accurate scan of the sea before them.

  Ten minutes later, he was in the process of penetrating the waters off their port bow when a barely audible hiss sounded beyond the normal clicks and moans of the sea creatures themselves. Quickly he reversed the scan and, after isolating the noise’s precise location, amplified the signature fivefold.

  Since it emanated from a portion of the ocean located at the extreme limit of their sensors, Lefty closed his eyes to concentrate more fully. Gradually this noise took on a fuller definition.

  Unlike the modern nuclear subs that had a variety of computerized equipment to interpret such signals, the Razorback’s passive sensors relied solely on the ears and the memory of their human operator. Lefty Jackman prided himself on his hearing ability. Three years before, he had even heard the sound of a miniature screw as it broke loose from his mother’s glasses and dropped to the kitchen floor. This feat was even more unforgettable considering the fact that the radio was blasting a Cardinal baseball game at the very same time. Able to pick out the merest bit of distortion on a record or tape, Lefty had trouble appreciating most modern music because of its generally poor musicianship and engineering. Rather, his tastes ran more to the classical. Violins were his very favorite. In the hands o
f a master, there could be no more pleasing sound for him.

  What he was hearing presently grated his nerves like the loudest, crudest heavy-metal rock and roll.

  Twice in the previous couple of weeks a similar distant chugging surge had been picked up by their hydrophones. Only when he was certain that he had not dropped off into a dream did he turn to inform his coworker.

  “Sweet Mother Mary, Tex, I hope I’m not going bonkers, but take a listen to this signature that I’m picking up off our port bow. It sounds too damn familiar!”

  After removing his headphones and replacing them with an auxiliary set connected directly into the passive console, Seaman Second Class Seth Burke attempted to determine just what his partner was getting so excited about. At first, he could hear nothing unusual. It took a full thirty seconds for him to pick out the barely audible, distant surging sound. It took him another half minute to identify it.

  “You’ve got to be kidding?” observed the shocked Texan.

  “It can’t be!”

  Nodding his head that it was. Lefty rechecked the signature’s bearing.

  “She’s coming in on a course of two-two-zero. Now do you believe what I’ve been trying to get into that thick skull of yours? I don’t know why, but one of the Soviet Union’s most sophisticated attack subs seems to pop up wherever the Razorback is sent. Not even the Secretary of the Navy is going to be able to keep the old man from giving them a chase this time. Captain Exeter just won’t believe it!”

  Seth Burke was having trouble believing it himself as Lefty’s hand shot out to activate the comm line.

  Seconds later, the boat’s XO was receiving a detailed description of just what they had chanced upon.

  “I don’t give a damn about our current mission!”

  exclaimed a very determined Philip Exeter.

  “This time the Razorback is going to give those Soviets a run for their money. Our first task has to be to dump the Marlin.”

  A tense silence possessed the control room, until the XO’s voice broke from the circle of officers gathered around the navigation table.

  “That should be easy enough. Captain. We’re only a few miles from our pre-planned drop-off point anyway. I’ll ring the Marlin on the underwater telephone and tell them to prepare to deploy.”

  Accepting the Captain’s nod of approval, Patrick Benton proceeded over to the communications station.

  Meanwhile, Exeter turned to address the sub’s current OOD.

  “Lieutenant Willingham, bring us down to one hundred and fifty feet and issue an all-stop. As soon as the Marlin is safely clear, we’ll be diverting to a new course of two-two-zero. Ring engineering and let Lieutenant Smith know that we’re going to need flank speed. Battle stations are to be sounded, and then we’d better get to work on determining a decent attack angle.”

  Spurred into action by these directives, Scott Willingham barked out the orders that soon had the control room buzzing with activity. While the Diving Officer carefully readjusted their trim, and the planes men began the task of guiding the sub to its new depth, the young Weapons Officer picked up the comm line and calmly called engineering.

  With his eyes still glued to the bathymetric chart of the waters off Point Arguello, Exeter’s hushed voice was directed solely toward his Navigator.

  “I’d say those Soviets have been prowling around our territorial waters long enough, Lieutenant. Let’s see what we can do about making their stay here a bit less hospitable. Since we can’t outrun them, what’s the best course to intercept?”

  While the Razorback’s command team prepared their pursuit, three fellow Naval officers found themselves anxiously perched on the sub’s stern, in a fifty foot-long cylinder of high-tensile steel. From the Marlin’s pilot chair. Commander Will Pierce efficiently activated the various switches that were bringing the DSRV’s power plant back to life. Beside him, Lieutenant Lance Blackmore remained glued to the underwater telephone, in the process of receiving a message from the Razorback’s XO. Watching them from the shelter of the vessel’s central pressure capsule was Ensign Louis Marvin.

  No sooner did Blackmore disconnect the phone than he turned to address the grayhaired officer seated on his left.

  “That was the Razorback’s XO, sir. We’ve been ordered to immediately disengage.”

  Having suspected as much. Pierce called out to the Marlin’s sphere operator.

  “Release those capture bolts. Ensign! Prepare the boat for separation.”

  While Marvin pivoted to hit the trigger switch that would free the DSRV, Pierce doublechecked their hydraulics system. Satisfied that all looked good, he activated the aft thrusters just as the security bolts disengaged with a loud, metallic click. The main propulsion unit was set into gear, and the Marlin was now on its own.

  It wasn’t until the vessel had completed a ninety degree turn at full throttle that Pierce again spoke.

  “Contact the Razorback and let them know that we’re all clear, Lieutenant Blackmore.”

  Without hesitation, the junior officer activated the radio telephone unit and hit the transmit switch. Only seconds after he conveyed Pierce’s directive, each of the three members of the Marlin’s crew could hear the distinctive whirl of the Razorback’s single screw.

  Steadily increasing in intensity, this roaring sound was accompanied by a pronounced shudder as the sub’s gathering wake deflected off the hull of the Marlin. The disturbance quickly passed, and soon even the sound of the sub’s engines faded in the distance.

  “What in the world was that all about?” queried Marvin.

  “I thought we still had a couple of miles to go until we reached our pre-planned drop-off point.”

  “It appears that the Razorback had a little uninvited company to check out,” offered Blackmore.

  “They seem to suspect that there could be a Soviet Victor-class attack sub cruising in the waters south of here. Do you think that we should scrub today’s mission. Commander?”

  In the process of checking out a bathymetric chart that he had unfolded on his lap. Pierce shook his head.

  “I don’t see any reason to go to that extreme, Lieutenant. The Soviets are always poking their noses where they don’t belong, and I can’t see how their presence here could effect us. Even it we were in a state of war and they meant us harm, the Razorback is quite capable of keeping them off our backs. So for the time being, it’s business as usual.”

  With his glance still locked on the chart. Pierce continued, “Though we’re a bit east of our ordered position, this looks like a good spot to take the Marlin down. We’ve got a good sixteen hundred feet of water to play with here. We’ll continue heading westward until we reach the eastern tip of Arguello Canyon.

  The ocean depth increases rapidly there, and we should only be able to explore the first couple of miles of the canyon’s bottom before reaching our depth threshold.

  “If our sonar has no luck, this could signal the western extreme of the Titan’s debris field. If that’s the case, we’ll turn eastward here, and retrace the preliminary scan completed by the Razorback. If this plan is all right with you, gentlemen, I think it’s time to earn our day’s keep. Ensign Marvin, prepare the Marlin for a deep dive. Lieutenant Blackmore, activate the bathymeter and begin an active sonar search.

  I want to know every bit of manmade debris that lies beneath us, no matter how small it may be.”

  While his junior officer turned to do his bidding, Pierce grasped the DSRV’s control stick and angled their tilting propeller shroud upwards. Next, he flooded the ballast tanks. The additional weight of tons of sea water soon had the Marlin plunging downward. Minutes later, their depth gauge passed 850 feet, the point where most submarines would be forced to level out. Oblivious to the clearly audible moaning strain of the hull around them, Pierce continued their dive.

  Also watching the depth gauge increase was Blackmore.

  As they passed 900 feet, he realized that this was the deepest that he had ever been. Thou
gh his feet and limbs were already icy cold, a narrow band of sweat formed on his forehead. Far from the panic that gripped him off of Kauai, he experienced a mild feeling of tense apprehension that he supposed was only normal.

  At least he hadn’t screwed up this time, when they were in the midst of those vital communications with the Razorback. Now, if only he could keep from freezing up in an emergency. This remained his greatest fear.

  He would never forget those nightmarish moments when the Marlin had been swept out of control by the Kauai Channel’s underwater currents. When their interior lights had failed, Blackmore had found himself so scared that, for a few seconds, he had been unable to hit the emergency breaker switch that he was responsible for. With his heart beating wildly, and his arms heavy as lead, he had been totally useless. Yet somehow he had managed to snap back and, with the lights’ reactivation, had gradually regained his cool.

  For the rest of that mission, any sense of panic had been totally absent. He guessed that he had been so busy with the five round trips it took to remove the Providence’s crew that he had had no time for fear.

  After the rescue had been completed, he remembered being possessed by a feeling of complete exhaustion, unlike any he had ever felt before. Fortunately, the flight on the C-5A had allowed him six hours of uninterrupted sleep. He had awakened to find himself at Vandenberg. While being briefed on their new mission. Lance had been again surprised when the commander had again chosen him to be the Marlin’s copilot. He was certain that Pierce had seen him freeze up before, yet the senior officer hadn’t said anything about it. And here he was, hardly twenty four hours later, once again putting his life in Lance’s inexperienced hands.

  Marvin had said that this was an excellent sign.

  The commander wouldn’t give Blackmore a second chance unless he was certain that Lance could handle the job. Once again the spirited ensign had advised the Marlin’s newest officer to lighten up. Everyone who dove deep beneath the seas felt such apprehensions at first, it was only natural. Thus, Blackmore had to quit being so tough on himself. He had to learn to relax and let things take care of themselves.