The Golden U-Boat

by Richard P. Henrick

  As he proceeded into the adjoining mess hall, Aldridge spotted the Cheyenne’s senior sonar technician seated alone at one of the booths. Petty Officer First Class Joe Carter had a plateful of untouched scrambled eggs, pancakes and sausage in front of him, and seemed to be content merely to sip on his mug of coffee, all the while absentmindedly staring off into space. Aldridge decided to stop off at this booth before continuing on.

  “Good morning, Mr. Carter,” said the captain.

  Snapped from his deep reverie, the good-looking black sonar technician responded.

  “Uh… hello, Captain. Gee, I didn’t even see you enter the mess.”

  “From that dreamy, forlorn expression on your face, it looked to me like you were thinking about something other than your immediate duty,” observed Aldridge.

  “It wouldn’t happen to be your recently concluded shore leave, would it?”

  The likeable sailor grinned.

  “You hit it right on, Captain.”

  “Well, I hope yours was as good as mine was,” offered Aldridge.

  Carter nodded.

  “It certainly was memorable, Captain. This young lady that I met in Glasgow took me to Edinburgh on the train. Brother, is that ever a city! Edinburgh castle is right out of a history book, and while we were touring it, we even got to hear some of the pipes from the army music school that’s located there.”

  “I got to hear some live pipe music myself,” said Aldridge.

  “It really gives you the flavor of Old Scotland.”

  “I’ll say, Captain. They’ll never believe it back home, but I’m starting to really get into those pipes.”

  “You’d better watch it, Mr. Carter, or next thing you’ll know you’ll be coming home wearing kilts with a Scot lass on your arm.”

  “There could be worse ways for a guy to go,” said the black man with a dreamy smile.

  “How are things down in the sound shack?”

  quizzed Aldridge.

  “Everything appears to be functioning normally, Sir. I spent my last watch doing some interface with the newly modified Mkll7. I should have it completed by this afternoon.”

  “Good,” replied the captain as he prepared to leave.

  “Because I’m going to need you to focus one hundred percent on the quarry that we’ve been tasked to tag. Do you know much about the West German Type 206?”

  The St. Louisan grimaced.

  “That could be a real toughie, Captain. It’s small, agile, and capable of extended submerged operations under battery power alone. As I used to ask my students back in San Diego, have you ever heard the sound of your flashlight operating?”

  “That’s true enough, Mr. Carter. But they’re bound to have to ascend to snorkel depth eventually to recharge those batteries, and that’s when we’re going to have to nab them.”

  “I hear you, Captain. And we’ll be ready for them down in the sound shack the moment that they switch on those diesels.”

  “I know that you will, Mr. Carter. Now you’d better turn your attention back to that breakfast you’ve got before you, or Chief Mallott is going to think that you don’t like his cooking anymore.”

  Steven Aldridge winked and continued aft through the galley, where he soon bumped into this very individual. The portly chef was in the process of hand forming dozens of what appeared to be meatballs. As Aldridge walked by, Howard Mallott called out.

  “Hello, Captain. How are you on this fine December morning?”

  “It’s good to be underway again, Mr. Mallott. I see that you’ve got your work cut out for you today.

  Are those meatballs?”

  Halting a moment to wipe his hands on his stained apron, the bespectacled chief cook answered.

  “I should say not, Sir. These are turkey-balls. I’ll be throwing them into the pot along with some chopped onions, celery, carrots and potatoes.

  Then after adding a little garlic powder and some Kitchen Bouquet, you’ll be chowing down on some of the best turkey stew this side of the Mississippi.”

  “If it’s anything like that turkey burger you served me yesterday, I’ll look forward to it.” Taking a second to scan the spotless galley, Aldridge added.

  “How’s our food situation?”

  “The larders are filled to the brim, Captain.

  Right now we could sail for two months straight and I’d never have to serve you the same meal twice.”

  “I don’t know how you do it, Mr. Mallott. You’re a real culinary magician.”

  “It’s all in the organizing, sir. As I told you before, my father was the chef of the battleship New Jersey’s mess, and he’s the one who taught me the importance of drawing up beforehand a comprehensive monthly menu. Then as long as you have the proper provisions, the rest is a snap” “Well, keep up the good work, Mr. Mallott. Ill be the first to let you know what I think about that turkey stew of yours.”

  As Aldridge turned to continue his inspection, Mallott added, “Take care, Captain, and don’t be such a stranger. You’re always welcome at Howard’s Cafe.”

  Aldridge smiled, and a long cable-lined passageway took him further aft, toward the boat’s reactor and engine compartments. He passed by a ladder that led directly to the control room, one deck above. Here he could visualize his XO as he stood at his customary place beside the chart table, alertly monitoring the instruments displaying their course, speed and depth. Most likely Bob Stoddard would have the well-chewed stem of a corncob pipe clenched in his mouth, and Aldridge could breathe easily just knowing that such a capable officer was at the helm.

  A throbbing, muted hum called to him in the distance, and before going up to join his XO, the Captain stepped through a hatchway that had a sign reading, Cheyenne Power and Light mounted above it. The narrow, forty foot long passageway that he now transit ted was completely lined with steel tubing. He could smell the wax-like scent of warm polythylene as he halted halfway down this passageway and looked at his feet. A heavy, metallic cover was set flush with the decking. Aldridge bent down, and as he lifted up this cover, he viewed a pulsating golden glow, clearly visible through the thick, lead-glass viewing port that was positioned there.

  Twenty feet below him was the heart of the Cheyenne propulsion unit. The sealed nuclear reactor vessel was formed out of a grid of uranium plates, and filled with highly pressurized water that couldn’t boil. A series of control rods kept the nuclear fission from occurring until the reactor went on-line. Then the rods were slowly removed, and as the uranium235 elements began interacting, the unit went critical.

  Actual propulsion was achieved when the hot pressurized contaminated water was pumped through a series of heat exchangers. A second loop of uncontaminated water absorbed this heat, which turned to steam, that subsequently spun the turbines, producing both power to drive the ship and the electricity needed to operate the rest of its systems.

  Aldridge could never get over how efficient such a relatively simple process was, and as he closed the viewing port and stood, he turned to enter the space where this reaction was controlled. As he expected, he found Lieutenant Rich Lonnon seated behind the maneuvering room’s central control board. The brawny Florida native was in the process of logging the data that was displayed on the dozens of gauges, digital read-out counters and dials that were spread out before him.

  The two senior seamen who sat beside him also kept a close watch on this data, that showed among other things the temperature of the water flowing out of the containment vessel, its pressure, and its velocity. Only after the ship’s chief engineer reached out to momentarily trigger a compact pistol switch that was directly connected to the control rods did Aldridge announce his presence.

  “Good morning, Lieutenant.”

  Rich Lonnon alertly swung around, and as he laid eyes on his commanding officer a wide smile lit his face.

  “Good morning to you, Captain. Welcome to power central. Let me just get rid of this log and I’ll be right with you.”

  Lonnon handed h
is clipboard to the seaman seated on his right. A brief series of instructions accompanied this transfer, after which Lonnon stood and joined the newcomer by the wall of gauges that displayed the Cheyenne’s internal electrical power data.

  “It’s really good to see you again, Sir,” said Lonnon as the two officers exchanged handshakes.

  “I’m afraid I was forced to miss last night’s briefing in the wardroom when the port turbine began acting up on us. We eventually got it squared away, but by that time it was well past midnight.”

  “So I understand,” replied the captain, who liked the way Lonnon looked him square in the eyes when he spoke.

  “You didn’t miss much. Ed Hartman gave us an update on the just completed modifications to our Mkll7 fire-control system, and the XO briefed us on some new NavPers training courses that will be offered shortly. Then I got a chance to throw my two cents in by explaining the nature of the exercise that we’re about to be involved with.”

  “I heard all about our little game of Kraut tag from the XO earlier this morning,” said Lonnon.

  “When you need the speed, we’ll be there to supply it. That you can bank on.”

  The chief engineer reached up to reset an overloaded power circuit and continued.

  “Since I also missed you at both lunch and dinner yesterday, I never did get to find out how your leave turned out, Captain. Did that doll of a daughter of yours behave herself?”

  “Sarah was wonderful,” answered Aldridge.

  “Susan and I kept her so busy that she didn’t have the time to get into any trouble. Though she did give us a fright one time on the island of Mull when she disappeared from the yard of the B and B where we were staying. Luckily it only took us a couple of minutes to find her on a nearby pasture, cuddling a lamb that she found nestled in the grass there.”

  “I’ve been to the Highlands myself during my last tour,” revealed Lonnon.

  “And as far as I’m concerned, it ranks a close second in raw beauty to the Everglades of my native state. Why, I bet that you could have stayed up there at least another month if you could.”

  “I don’t know about that, Lieutenant. I kind of missed this old bucket of bolts. And besides, from the size of that stack of paperwork that was waiting for me on my desk, I got back here right in the nick of time. One more memo and I might have never been able to get back into my cabin.”

  The chief engineer’s chuckle was cut short by the ringing of the nearby intercom handset. Lonnon alertly picked up the black plastic receiver and spoke into it.

  “Maneuvering… why yes, XO. As a matter of fact he’s standing right next to me… very good, I’ll pass that on to him.”

  Lonnon hung up the receiver and turned back to his commanding officer.

  “The XO would like your presence in the control room, Captain. He says that those charts that you requested from the navigator are ready for your perusal.”

  “Good,” said Aldridge.

  “Now I can find out more about that patrol quadrant that we’ve been assigned to. Will I see you at lunch, Lieutenant?”

  “As long as that turbine behaves, I should be there, Captain.”

  “Well I sure wouldn’t want you to miss out on the turkey stew that Chief Mallott’s planning to serve us,” said the grinning C.O.

  “Not turkey again,” protested Lonnon.

  “Why if the Chief keeps this up, not only will we have the lowest cholesterol count in the entire navy, but we’ll also be the only sub crew that goes around pecking at the ground and gobbling!”

  Steven Aldridge was in an excellent mood as he left the warm confines of Cheyenne Power and Light and climbed up to the deck above, where the sub’s control room was located. He entered the familiar confines of this equipment-packed compartment and found it fully manned. Up against the forward bulkhead, the two planes men sat harnessed to their upholstered leather command chairs. One of these seaman gripped a control stick that controlled the vessel’s sail-mounted planes, while the other was responsible for activating their rudder by turning the steering column that he tightly held.

  Immediately, behind the planes men the chief of the watch guarded the complex assortment of main vent levers and air-induction valves that determined the Cheyenne’s buoyancy. While beside him, the manifold operator monitored the state of the boat’s hydraulic and air pressure systems, ever on the ready to change the balance of their ballast should they get out of trim.

  From the digital depth gauge mounted in front of the planes men Aldridge could clearly see that they were currently sixty-five feet beneath the sea’s surface. Other read-outs showed their speed to be twenty-eight knots, on a course that was taking them due northward. Satisfied that all appeared to be going well, the captain went on to join the two officers who were gathered around the chart table.

  The sub’s XO and its young navigator, Lieutenant Andrew Laird, were busy studying a detailed bathymetric chart of the Norwegian Basin as Steven Aldridge addressed them.

  “I understand that you’ve got the charts of our patrol quadrant ready.”

  “That’s affirmative, Skipper,” returned the XO.

  “And just wait until you see where they’ve put us.”

  Bob Stoddard used the stem of his pipe to point out a square portion of the Norwegian Sea laying between the Norwegian city of Narvik to the east, and Jan Mayen Island on the west.

  “Our northern flank extends to the Mohns Ridge,” continued the XO.

  “While to the south, we go as far as the Odin oil fields.”

  “That’s quite a chunk of real estate to cover,” observed Aldridge as he studied the chart.

  “Any ideas as to where we should begin?”

  It proved to be the Cheyenne’s freckled-face navigator who offered the first suggestion.

  “I think we’ll find them hidden among the seamounts of Mohns Ridge. The seafloor is extremely irregular there, with some of those ridges extending up to six-hundred feet from the sea’s surface. Since that’s well within the limits of the Type 206’s depth threshold, the West Germans can use the natural contours of the basin to hide in.”

  “That’s an interesting theory, Lieutenant Laird,” replied Aldridge.

  “What do you say, XO?”

  Bob Stoddard took his time responding.

  “The Lieutenant might very well be correct, but since the ridge is at the northern extremity of our sector, we’d have to sprint up there directly to initiate a proper scan. If we gambled on his theory and lost, we’d have to backtrack and start all over again.

  Thus we’d be much better off beginning our hunt at the southern edge of the quadrant, and then continuing to work our way northward, using sprint and drift to cover as much territory as possible.”

  “If you think about it, those oil production platforms could offer our quarry just as much cover as that ridge could,” reflected the captain.

  “Since our initial approach is from the south anyway, it would be to our advantage to gradually work our way to the north, rather than wasting the time rushing up there at flank speed, with our sensors all but useless.

  What’s our ETA at the southern edge of the quadrant, Lieutenant Laird?”

  The Navigator hastily calculated the shortest distance between their current coordinates and the Odin oil fields.

  “We’re presently transit ting the waters that lay between the Faeroe and Shetland islands.

  If our speed remains constant, we can reach the southern edge of our patrol sector in a little over thirteen hours.”

  “Since the exercise doesn’t even officially begin for another twelve hours, that should be more than sufficient,” said Aldridge.

  “Pull every chart that we’ve got on that oil field, Lieutenant Laird. And XO, make certain to inform Lieutenant Lonnon of the speed that we’re going to require. The sound shack must be notified of our plans so that Chief Carter and company will be ready when called upon.”

  “I’ll get on it at once, Skipper,” replied th
e XO.

  “And while you’re getting this old lady ready for some action, I’ll be down in my stateroom trying to put a dent in that paperwork,” said Aldridge.

  “If I’m lucky, maybe I’ll be able to find the surface of my desk by the time that Kraut sub’s history.”

  Chapter Eight

  It had been an exhausting, tense night for Mikhail Kuznetsov. Little did he realize the great distances that he would have to drive as he cautiously followed the flatbed truck away from the site where the heavy water had been stolen. The rain that continued to fall was both a curse and a blessing.

  The roads in this region were twisting and narrow, and the freezing precipitation only made them that much more treacherous. Yet because of this storm, traffic was a minimum, and he was able to follow at a safe distance in his rented Volvo without having to worry about losing the truck.

  The route that the Nazis picked took them down the eastern shores of Lake Tinnsjo and on into the city of Konisberg. Here, the roads improved substantially, with a well lit freeway leading them all the way into Oslo. Mikhail had half expected them to stop in the capital city, but instead they drove straight through it. Thankful that he had a full tank of gas, Mikhail followed them onto Route 69. This highway led them due north to the coastal city of Trondheim, some 450 kilometers distant.

  It was morning when he finally braked the Volvo to a halt beside a large wharf. Trying his best to ignore the throbbing pain that coursed through his cramped arthritic limbs, he left the car to proceed on foot.

  The truck had pulled right onto one of the docks, where it had backed up to a waiting trawler.

  Mikhail hid behind an immense mound of smelly fishing nets and breathlessly watched as two familiar blond men dressed in black oilskins climbed out of the truck. Forgetting all about the great fatigue that had more than once almost caused him to fall asleep at the wheel, he watched as these figures proceeded to a small pier side building. The white-haired Russian would never forget the last time that he had seen this same pair at work.