“Roger. This won’t take long. Out.” To Buck, Rich said, “Finding Keith the second time was a lot easier than the first time. It helped a lot that he thought of reactivating the homing signals.”
“That’s true, Skipper,” Buck muttered, “but still this whole thing took too long. All together, it’s more than twenty-four hours now. You and I’ve been up the whole time. So have a lot of others. We’re already beat, and our real job’s just beginning.”
“Can’t be helped, Buck, but we’ll all get some rest once we have Keith moving out of here. What depth do we need so as not to hit him with the ’scope up?”
“The high ’scope will just graze him at one-three-five feet, if we go right under him. Recommend we make our first pass a few yards abeam at a hundred forty feet, and check for anything dangling below his keel. I’d sure hate to hit a piece of debris hanging there.”
“That sounds like good sense to me. Set him up on the TDC and conn us under him parallel and off to the side at minimum speed. If it looks clear we’ll go closer the second time, and then right under, if necessary. Once we get a good feel for it, we’ll try to hold in position for a careful look at that wrecked propeller.”
Manta slowly positioned herself in line with the Cushing’s heading, from ahead, as it turned out, this being the shortest distance, in the meantime rising to the prescribed depth. “The depth is critical, Tom,” said Buck to his engineer. “It’ll be tough to stay right on at the slow speed we’ll be making. Be sure we have experienced men on the planes and the ballast control panel—and maybe you ought to stay here in the control room yourself.”
“Aye,” said Clancy. “Deedee has the dive. Want me to relieve him? He’s about due for relief anyway.”
“Yes. We’ll be making only about one-knot speed; so you’ll practically need a stop trim.”
“Aye, aye. I’ll take over. Stop trim it will be.” Clancy conferred briefly with Deedee Brown at the diving station in the control room’s forward port corner, then announced to Buck at the periscope station and everyone else in the control room, “I have the dive.”
With Clancy making tiny perfecting adjustments to the trim, her propellers turning at creeping speed and Buck and Rich manning both elevated periscopes, the Manta swam slowly toward and beneath the Cushing. Raising the periscopes out of their wells against the sea pressure of only 140 feet had been a slow and laborious process for their hydraulic hoists, for they had been designed with periscope depth, less than half that, in mind. Great care would have to be exercised in lowering the periscopes when the inspection was completed; the pressure would drive them down correspondingly fast, with possible damage on bottoming. Both were much more difficult to turn than at normal depth: pressure was driving them hard against their support bearings in the hoist yokes.
Sonar and the TDC continuously reported bearing and range. Slowly the range shortened. The Cushing was nearly dead ahead. They would pass almost directly under her. “Losing her forward,” said Jeff Norton on the speaker from the sonar room. This was to be expected; the sonar transducer was located under Manta’s forefoot. “Last range, one-four-oh,” said Jeff. “Ten degrees off the port bow.”
“That checks, TDC,” said Deedee Brown from the starboard side of the control room, drinking deeply from the mug of coffee which was all he had permitted himself before manning his battle station. “Now it’s one-three-oh.”
“I figure we should see him in four minutes, Commodore,” said Buck, mindful that everyone in earshot was eagerly listening. Richardson did not answer, for the same reason. His own estimate was more nearly five, to allow for the additional distance from Manta’s bow to her periscopes.
“One hundred yards,” announced Brown.
“I wonder if sonar can hear any of his machinery noise, Buck,” said Richardson, his face still pressed against the rubber buffer of the periscope eyepiece.
“Ask them, Jerry,” said Buck, likewise immobilized against his own periscope. “Also ask the Cushing if they can hear us.”
Both heard the answers to Abbott’s questions directly. “Affirmative,” said Jeff Norton, using the ship’s intercommunication speaker from the sonar room. “He’s quiet, but we can hear a steady hum. We’ve had him ever since a thousand yards.”
“Affirmative,” said Keith over the Gertrude set. “We can hear you very loud. One pump especially. Sounds like your condensate pump.”
“Fifty yards,” said Deedee Brown. “Twenty-five yards. Ten. Five, four, three, two, one, mark! We should be passing under him now.”
“You must be about to pass under us,” said Keith’s familiar yet distorted voice over the UQC.
Suddenly, shockingly, a tremendous black mass swept into view, dead ahead. Startled, Williams grabbed for his periscope hoist control lever, nearly jerked it toward him, recollected himself just in time. “Wow!” he exploded, with a nervous expulsion of breath, returning his face to the eyepiece buffer and swiftly manipulating the hand controls.
To Jerry Abbott and the other anxious watchers in the vicinity, it was clear that both Rich and Buck had had a scare. The huge bulk of the other submarine, appearing so suddenly directly in their fields of view, must have seemed about to strike them, the mathematical calculations notwithstanding. But now both men had recovered, were tugging at their periscopes, operating the motorcycle-type controls in the handles, shifting from high-power magnification to low- and back again, elevating and depressing their angles of sight.
“Say, this is interesting,” said Buck Williams. “Keith’s sail is painted white! It sure wasn’t that color when he left New London! Wonder when he did that?”
“There’s a scratch!” said Richardson. “It’s a dent. A small one.”
“Where is it?” asked Abbott swiftly, pencil poised over the clipboard prepared for notation of observations.
“After end of missile compartment, port side, halfway between keel and waterline!”
“There’s the EPM! It’s dangling on a bent girder about fifteen feet below the keel!” said Buck. “It’s really mangled, too! Good thing we didn’t pass directly under—it could sure wreck a periscope!”
“Here’s another dent! A big one! Ten feet below the waterline, middle of the engineroom, I’d estimate! No doubt she was hit from the port side!”
“Right!” exclaimed Buck. “I can see a lot of dents all along the port side, from here on aft!”
Jerry Abbott was writing rapidly. “Can you see the propeller?” he asked.
“Here’s the port stern plane! It’s really bent! Folded right up against the side like an aircraft wing on a carrier hangar deck!” Buck’s excitement had transmitted itself to everyone in the control room. Only Tom Clancy and his diving station crew kept their eyes rigidly on their instruments.
“The rudder looks okay,” said Rich, “from here, anyway—no, it’s bent to starboard. The top rudder is okay. It’s got a lot of white paint on it, too. The lower rudder is bent to starboard, but maybe it’s still operable. The propeller is total. It’s a mass of twisted junk. Even if he could get the shaft turning, it wouldn’t give him any thrust at all. I’ve never seen one as bad as that!” He drew back from the periscope, saw Buck Williams looking at him contemplatively. “I’d like to go back and hover near the propeller and stern control surfaces,” he said. “Do you think we could balance right off her stern for a closer look, perhaps from right aft?”
With Buck’s nod of comprehension, he went on. “I don’t think there’s anything more to be gained by looking over the rest of Cushing’s underwater body, but we ought to have as good an idea as we can of how the situation is back there. Especially whether Keith can steer or not. Towing him will be a lot harder if he can’t. While you’re maneuvering around, I’ll get on the underwater telephone with Keith and tell him what we’re up to, and ask him to try to operate the rudder while we’re watching. Stern planes too, although that looks pretty hopeless.”
“Keith,” Rich said a few moments later into the Gert
rude mouthpiece, “we’re dead astern of you. How do you read?”
“A little mushy, but clear enough, Rich. How does it look?”
“Not good. Several big dents, your port stern plane is folded up against the side and the rudder is bent. The propeller is useless, I’m afraid. We’re closing in for another look at your stern. Can you operate your rudder?”
“Affirmative. It moves slowly and we can’t go as far right as we used to, but I think it’s usable.”
“Good! That’s very good news. How about the stern planes?”
“We have a little travel in them before they bind, but not much. We can go from five degrees rise to three down.”
“Good,” said Rich again. “When we get into position I’ll ask you to operate the rudder and stern planes and maybe the propeller shaft. Can you do that?”
“Affirm. We know the shaft’s bent out of line. Max rpm is about twenty.”
“Roger. Back soon.”
“Roger.”
“Well, what do you think, Buck?” Rich and Buck were again at their periscopes, with Manta now balancing at a slightly shallower depth than before, directly astern of the Cushing so that the tips of her extended periscopes appeared to be only a few feet away from the mangled propeller of the disabled submarine.
“Nothing anyone can do for that eggbeater out there, but maybe they can work the rudder and planes.”
“That’s what I think, too. Have Jerry ask them to work the rudder.”
“Wilco,” said the Gertrude set, and the rudder began to move.
“Nothing much wrong with that,” said Richardson with satisfaction. “At least Keith can steer! Now tell them to secure the rudder and go to the stern planes.”
Through the periscopes, both men saw the halting, painful movement of the horizontal control surfaces. “Tell him to secure that. The port plane is striking the hull, and that’s the most he’s ever going to be able to move it.”
They waited as Abbott transmitted the message and the movement ceased.
“Now tell him to try the propeller, building up slowly to whatever speed he wants.” The crumpled mass of bronze, once a beautifully curved, delicately balanced example of shipbuilding art, slowly began to rotate, and in the process its center could be seen describing an arc inches in diameter. “Tell him to stop!” said Rich. A moment later, speaking on the UQC himself, he said, “Keith, your propeller shaft is bent at least six inches out of line. I could see it making a foot-diameter circle as it went around.”
“I understand,” said Keith, after the barest suggestion of a delay.
“We’re going to get clear now and prepare for towing. We’d like you to drop down to one hundred fifty feet and hover there. Lower your anchor to the fifty-fathom mark and set your brake, but not too tight. We want it to slip a little as we take you in tow to help ease the initial shock. Be ready to tighten the brake as the pull begins, and secure it with everything you’ve got as it approaches the eighty-fathom mark.”
“Wilco,” said Keith.
“Let us know when you’re ready.”
“Wilco,” said Keith again.
To Buck, Rich said, “The only difference between what we’re having Keith do and what the Besugo did is that she had to rig her anchor from the forecastle before submerging and therefore had to set the brake tight at the beginning. This may help make up for the Cushing being three times as big.”
“Roger,” said Buck, looking steadily at his superior. Both of them knew the exchange was entirely for the benefit of their crew, for the procedure had been discussed in private many times.
“His anchor will be at four hundred fifty feet. We’ll make our depth five hundred, so there’ll be no chance of hitting it.”
“Roger, Commodore. When do you want to go to towing stations?”
“Whenever you’re ready, Buck. Which side do you want to use?”
“Makes no difference. Port side.”
“Very well.”
The stilted, official conversation was necessary for one reason only: Richardson and Williams had decided to make the real thing as nearly like the drills as possible. Chances of error would thereby be lessened, and crew confidence increased. Now Buck picked up the hand microphone for the ship’s general announcing system, spoke into it. “All hands,” he said, “rig ship for towing. Port side.” He hung the mike back in its bracket, turned away, then turned back and picked it up again. “This is the captain,” he said. “This time it’s for real.”
The only change Richardson saw in personnel stations was the arrival of the ship’s best helmsman, and separation of the wheel and annunciator controls from the bow planesman’s station to which, in the cruising condition, they had been cross-connected. Doubtless there was not a person on board for whom Buck’s final admonition was needed. Nevertheless, Rich was instantly aware of its effect. He himself felt like cheering.
Manta had departed from New London with her two sets of towing gear stored in the after torpedo tubes. The inner doors of both tubes had already been replaced by anchor billets. Getting ready to tow involved only opening the outer door of the designated tube, number eight, and ejecting the contents, a metal canister filling the entire tube, by a short jet of high-pressure air through a fitting on the anchor billet. The canister, merely a large galvanized iron can, slid out, split open and sank, releasing the paravane. This immediately began to rise toward the surface, carrying with it a short section of heavy chain on the near end of which was a large steel hook. The other end of the chain terminated in a swivel, from which extended a long length of beautiful white nylon hawser, now being dragged outward and upward from the open tube. The inboard end of the hawser also held a swivel, followed by another section of chain which entered the open torpedo tube door and was firmly attached to the anchor billet.
Several refinements had been added to the original device during the course of testing it: strain gauges had been the first; a large bolt in the billet, when unscrewed, now allowed the chain and hawser to drop clear, thus permitting the outer door to be shut and the tube to be restored to its original use. Most recently, the hook had been modified to slide easily down the anchor chain of the ship to be towed until it fetched up on her anchor, where it would snag fast, and an additional UQC had been installed on Manta’s stern to facilitate communication abaft the propellers. Just before departure, the hooks for both devices had been checked by actually testing them with a chain and anchor identical to the Cushing’s, intended for an identical submarine still under construction.
While the football-shaped paravane was deploying upward and to port, where its vanes kited it, Buck was maneuvering the Manta into position two miles astern of the Cushing, waiting for the ready signal from her. It came in half an hour, about when expected, and Buck set the course. As before, the TDC and sonar were used to establish the proper relationship to the Cushing, so that Manta would pass parallel to, but not directly beneath, the disabled missile submarine. Calculations and drill both had showed that at three knots the paravane streamed, as planned, about one hundred feet above and fifty yards off to the side of the towing submarine. Manta was programmed to pass fifty feet below and one hundred feet abeam of Cushing’s anchor, so that her diagonally dragged hawser could not fail to intersect the vertically hanging anchor chain of her quarry.
“We’ll be abeam in five minutes, TDC,” said Deedee Brown. “Checking right in there, about thirty-five yards on her starboard beam.”
“Come left one degree,” said Buck to his helmsman. “Steer one-two-seven.”
“One-two-seven, aye aye” said the helmsman from his post a few feet forward of the raised conning station. His movement of the wheel was barely perceptible. An instant later he announced, “Steering one-two-seven, sir!” He had not taken his eyes off the gyro compass repeater in front of him.
“Mark your depth!” said Buck.
“Five hundred feet. On the nose!” This was from Tom Clancy.
Buck picked up the general announcing m
ike, waited, looking at the clock mounted nearby. “All hands,” he said finally, speaking deliberately into it, “we should start feeling it five minutes from now! Mark your clocks!”
Richardson glanced at his wristwatch. It was an involuntary movement, one he had made at precisely this point during each of the drill exercises. But his mind hardly registered the positions of the hands on its dial.
“One minute until abeam, TDC,” said Brown. “Thirty yards.”
“That’s about what I wanted, Skipper,” Buck said quietly. “She’s a fat ship and I want to be sure there’s plenty of overlap across her chain.”
Rich, sitting on the stool which had automatically been his station since the beginning of the drills, nodded his agreement.
“Two minutes till we might feel the chain!” Buck announced over the mike, looking at the bulkhead-mounted clock. To Clancy he said, “Remember, Tom, the chain will begin by pulling us up by the stern. Keep a zero bubble and let her seek her own depth. But when she starts taking on the weight of Cushing’s anchor gear back there, you’re going to have to pump out a lot more water than for the Tringa or Besugo. Don’t let her get an up angle, and don’t let the depth increase.”
“Roger,” said Tom Clancy, wondering why it seemed necessary to repeat these already well-rehearsed matters.
“Abeam to port! Twenty-eight yards!” announced Deedee Brown. “That checks with sonar,” he added.
Buck grabbed the mike, announced immediately, “We’re abeam! We’ll begin to feel the chain one minute from now!” Speaking quietly to Richardson he said, “Do you suppose there’s any chance Keith won’t realize he’ll have to flood forward trim when we take the chain, and that we want the Cushing to increase depth some?”
“That’s all in that long dispatch we wrote for ComSubLant to send. Anyway, he’ll know what to do while his ship is being towed. The Cushing’s not going to tow quite like the Besugo, you know. Setting up steady-state conditions will have to wait until we’ve got him hooked and underway.”
There was a tight grin on Buck’s face. “I know all that, and I’m damn sure Keith knows how to handle his ship. I guess I’m getting wound up a bit.”
Cold is the Sea Page 29