“That mystery submarine, Commodore.”
“What?! Are you telling me you think it’s real? That there’s some sewerpipe screwing around in our opareas?”
“Commodore, I’m not positive, myself. But I think you should see what we’ve got before I do anything further with it.”
“Well, you got that part right,” said the Commodore. “What’d you tell Group last night?”
“Nothing, Sir. Besides, they were focused on the collision. Goldy and the submarine were down in the noise level.”
“Right. Good. OK—I’ll be over at 1130. I’ve got a tee time at 1315, so let’s keep it succinct. Jesus Christ, Mike.”
“I know, Commodore, I know. But I need some more experienced eyes to see this. I’m no ASW expert.”
“Everybody’s an ASW expert,” snorted the Commodore. “That’s why there are so many opinions about it. I’ll see you at 1130.”
“Thank you, Sir.” Mike hung up, and took a deep breath. This was going to be interesting. He headed back down to the wardroom.
THIRTY-TWO
USS Goldsborough, pierside, Mayport naval base; Saturday, 26 April; 1130.
Mike waited at the head of the wardroom table until the Commodore had taken his seat, immediately to Mike’s right. Mike remained standing when everyone else sat down. There was a lot of clearing of throats and shuffling of papers in the silence; everyone was nervous at the sudden appearance of the Commodore, especially since Mike had said he would not be seeing the Commodore until Monday. Captain Aronson’s volatile reputation had been embellished repeatedly throughout the waterfront, especially among the enlisted people. Mike sensed that the wardroom suddenly seemed overly warm and stuffy.
“Commodore,” he began, turning to speak directly to Captain Aronson. “Thank you for coming over this morning on such short notice. We had planned to run through this presentation a few more times, but, with your schedule, I think it’s important to let you see what we have now so we can get your advice on how to proceed. Sir, we’re going to take about fifteen minutes to show you what we were doing last week, along with some background tapes and some PC pictures to set the stage for what’s got our attention. If it’s a little unpolished—”
“I understand,” interrupted the Commodore. “Go ahead.”
Mike nodded to the Exec, who proceeded to walk the Commodore through the entire presentation, with the two chiefs doing their part with the charts and tapes, and Linc Howard running the video. The Commodore fidgeted at first, but slowly became absorbed in what they were showing him. He was obviously impressed with the bottom mapping correlation system developed on the PC, and complimented Linc on it. The Chief Sonarman finally came to the first contact of interest.
“Now, here,” said Chief Mackensie. “Here’s Alfa Three.”
He switched the audio tape back on, and everyone listened with their breath held to the click, the washing sound, and then the sharp echo quality of the first hit on Alfa Three. Chief Mackensie put his pointer on the television screen to show the visual display of the contact, and the Commodore got up to look closer, as the second and third click-wash-contact echoed in the wardroom. The officers and petty officers watched closely, to see how the Commodore would react.
“I got on the stack at this point,” continued the Chief. “Went to an expanded picture.”
The video presentation of Alfa Three jumped to center screen from the perimeter of the scope. It was clearly a brighter and stronger image.
“It almost looks too good,” muttered the Commodore.
“Yes, Sir,” said Mike, from his chair. “That’s what we thought, too.”
“So then we went directional pulse: long and hard down the bearing,” said the Chief. “Look at the image now.”
The audio tape in the background gave out the standard click to indicate the sonar’s receivers were blanked, but the ensuing washing sound carried overtones of the piercing ring of a high powered, directional sound beam. The sound of the returning echo was even sharper, as was the corresponding amber image glowing in the center of the screen, surrounded by clouds of noise and other interference from the tumultuous waters of the Stream.
“And, here, we changed down one frequency band on the sonar transmitter.”
“Why?” asked the Commodore, who continued to stare at the video screen display.
“Uh, because the Captain said to—” answered the Chief.
“They were reporting intermittent layers,” Mike volunteered.
“What you’re really saying is that you didn’t believe what you saw and wanted to see if the lower freq would make this thing maybe go away …” retorted the Commodore. And then, as if to take the sting out, “And I would have done the same thing. I don’t quite believe what I’m seeing —it looks too much like sonar school.”
“Yes, Sir, it does,” said the Chief. “Then, after a few minutes, we lose contact—no echoes.”
“Just too much acoustic shit in the water out there, wasn’t there,” said the Commodore.
“Yes, Sir.”
The small knot of officers gathered around the television monitor continued to stare at the smears of light on the sonar display scope, as if trying to make that one bright contact reappear.
“What’d you do next?” asked the Commodore, straightening up from the television.
“We went silent, and closed in on the datum with the attack director in PK. We went in 4000 yards at twelve knots so’s not to cavitate, and then we lit off and went active again. I’ll fast forward this, ‘cause there ain’t nothin’ to see for the next twelve minutes.”
The Chief then took the Commodore through the second contact episode, with its sudden reappearance, up doppler, and even more perfect echo quality. The Commodore watched intently, and then nodded as if in recognition.
“This is a goddamned decoy,” he said.
There was a stirring all around the room. Mike suddenly felt a flush creeping up his neck. He said nothing, and avoided looking at Linc Howard. The Commodore watched for a few more minutes until the second contact was lost, and the Chief related the sequence where they had broken off the search. He nodded again, this time more slowly, and then went back to his chair.
He looked around the room at the expectant faces.
“OK, guys,” he said. “You have any more sound and lights for me?”
“No, Sir,” said Linc Howard.
He appeared to be ready to say something else, but the Commodore shut him off with a wave of his hand. He looked around the room, taking in their faces. Mike sat at the head of the table, just behind the Commodore’s line of vision. The Commodore began to speak.
“OK. First, I’m very impressed with the combination of the PC, the sonar video, and the sound recording system. I think it’s a unique development. Dream up a catchy acronym, and write it up. I’ll get it into the Fleet tactical improvement program. You’ll be famous.”
He grinned, and the officers and petty officers relaxed a little. Many found they had been holding their breath.
“Second,” he said, his face becoming serious again. “Second, I want everybody here to clam up about what you found out there, and what you’ve shown me on these tapes. I don’t mean by that that you go out of here and tell the mess decks you have a big secret, because that would draw attention to it. I want you to go out of here and say that the higher ups are skeptical, and we’re gonna study it. And everybody knows that when the Navy says they’re gonna study something, it means they’re gonna bury it. Whatever people have heard about this, I want them to lose interest. You all understand me? Can you do that?”
There was a chorus of “Yes, Sirs” around the table.
“OK. We are going to study it. I want all of this info put together as a complete briefing package, and I want Mr. Howard and Chief Mackensie to take it up to Norfolk to the ASW school, to their classification and analysis people. I’ll have my staff arrange it. I’m going to ask them to analyze the video and the audio, and to give
us a quick reading on what the two contacts are. When we get the answer, we’ll reconvene and decide what to do next. OK?”
Once again there was a chorus of assent. The Commodore got up, followed by everyone else. He gave Mike a sign that he wanted to talk to the Captain alone in his cabin. Mike led him out of the wardroom and up the ladder to the next level. The Exec followed the two officers to the cabin. Once inside, the Commodore told the Exec that he needed to talk to the Captain alone, and the Exec started to withdraw.
“Commodore, I’d really like XO to stay,” said Mike.
The Commodore, standing in the center of the small Captain’s cabin, frowned. The Exec studied the carpet.
“The Exec’s judgement is very important to me,” Mike persisted. “Whatever you have to say will affect us both, so I need him to hear it firsthand.”
The Commodore looked directly at Mike for a few seconds, and then said, “Very well,” and sat down in Mike’s desk chair. Mike took the only other chair, and the Exec sat on the edge of the bunk bed. The Commodore was silent for a moment, and then he looked at Mike.
“Tell me why you broke it off.”
Mike took a deep breath. He had been waiting for this question. He could tell the Commodore that he had not wanted to alert the possible submarine that they were definitely on to him, that breaking it off was a tactical decision based on cover and deception. That might get him off the hook in case the Commodore thought they should have persisted. But the Commodore was staring right at him, his black eyes looking like two gun barrels. Mike opted for the truth.
“I didn’t want to believe it,” Mike admitted. “I didn’t really know what the hell to do with it, so I backed out. I told the guys that I broke it off so’s not to alert the contact that somebody knew he was out there. But the truth is, I figured if we came in with a contact report and scrambled the whole ASW defense force, Group would have had my ass.”
The Commodore sat back, his face unreadable. The silence in the cabin grew. Mike felt compelled to fill the void. He was having trouble meeting the Commodore’s gaze.
“I still don’t quite believe it,” he continued. “But once we got in and I got to see all the evidence the guys put together, it’s more convincing. Maybe Norfolk will find a hole in it, but I’m beginning to believe they won’t. That’s why I wanted you to see it.”
The Commodore nodded slowly, as if deciding on something.
“OK,” he said. “First things first. As the Captain of a destroyer, or any warship, you must always, and I mean always, sustain the elements of intellectual integrity inherent in your position as a Commanding officer. And then you have to stick by them. You broke off this contact because you were afraid of what the staffs back in port might think or say or do. That’s not your job, and your decision fails the integrity test. You should have reported it. Straight facts, the reasons why the contact looked different from what you had been seeing, and then you should have stayed on the bastard until he was well and truly lost in the Stream.”
The Commodore sat back in his chair. He seemed to grow larger in the chair as he continued.
“We give you, the Captain, almost unlimited authority over this ship and its people, but we expect unlimited accountability. Part of the accountability has to do with the consequences of a politically unfavorable action.”
The Commodore got up then, and paced around the small cabin for a minute before continuing. The Exec, who was acutely embarrassed, stared hard at the deck.
“You are quite right in your estimate of how that news would have been received,” continued the Commodore. “There would have been some ridicule around the morning staff meeting, and your dear friend Captain Martinson would have had some clever riposte to make.”
He turned around to look at Mike.
“But that isn’t your concern, Captain. Your job is to call ‘em like you see ’em. To tell the unvarnished truth, and not to filter your operational reporting through the lens of what is or is not politically acceptable. I know there are lots of Pentagon E-ring ballerinas who would tell you different. The truth is that the system is every bit as politically sensitive as you’re making it out to be, Mike, but it depends on at least one entirely rigid benchmark: the Captains of all the ships have to be consistently straight. Only if that is true does the system have the luxury to indulge in internal Navy politics. We assume that when we get a report from you that nothing was found, then nothing was found. As your people have pointed out down below, there is some disturbing evidence that something indeed was found. As your boss I now have two problems: what to do about Alfa Three and Alfa Four, and how to restore the system’s faith in one particular Commanding Officer. Got anything to say? And do you want to excuse the XO now?”
Mike’s heart sank. His face was flushed, and there was a pit in his stomach.
“No, Sir. I understand my mistake, and, no, I don’t want the XO excused. He has to learn this, too, and I haven’t been teaching him very well.”
“That’s for damn sure, Captain.”
The Commodore returned to Mike’s desk chair and sat down. He pressed his left hand up to his face and rubbed his lips absently, closed his eyes, and thought for a minute. The only sound in the cabin was from the forced air vent in the overhead. The bright sunlight streaming through the porthole cast a white circle on the locker at the end of the cabin. The Commodore opened his eyes.
“OK. Enough lecturing. We’ve had a screw-up. Now we have to recover. Have your people put that presentation together as a package today, and then I want Ensign Howard and Chief Mackensie to go with me on my trip to Norfolk tomorrow, Sunday. The Fleet Conference doesn’t begin until Monday, but the Fleet Commander’s giving a reception tomorrow night, so unfortunately we have to travel on Sunday. I’ll get your guys into the ASW school’s classification and analysis center—the CO’s a friend, and we’ll get an informal, quick read. Then, if it comes out like I think it will, you and I will go see the Admiral here; that’ll be Wednesday, when I get back. We’ll let your two guys give the brief, we’ll show him the Center’s opinion, and then we’ll let him figure out what to do. I’ll be back Wednesday noon.”
Mike nodded. “Yes, Sir, can do. But I wonder—”
“If we should wait that long?” interrupted the Commodore. “Way I see it, we’ve had a series of incidents: the fishing boat disappearing for no apparent reason, the sighting report of a U-boat, and now your contact, all over a two week period. If there is a guy out there, he’s hanging around. We have to figure out two more things: is it true that there is a gomer out there, and why is he hanging around. In the meantime, I’ve got the Deyo going out on engineering sea trials next week. I’m going to have him do his trials in that area where you were this past week, and I’m going to have him do passive analysis all week, in the diesel engine sound spectrum. We’ll see what he turns up. I’m especially interested in the night time. If this is a submarine, I think this might be a conventional boat, a diesel electric. He’ll have to charge his batteries, and he’ll do that at night. With any luck we can catch him on the snort.”
“But he’ll be doing that amongst a dozen diesel powered fishing boats, Sir. It’ll all sound the same.”
“Maybe, but maybe not. If Deyo can record one diesel engine out there that is distinctly different from all the others, we get another clue. He won’t be able to localize it amongst all the others, but we’ll have another indicator that something is, in fact, out there. If we get lucky, he’ll get something before Wednesday, and that will strengthen our case with the Admiral. OK. XO, now will you excuse us.”
The Exec got up with alacrity and excused himself from the cabin. Mike sat back in his chair, and waited for some more incoming. The Commodore was looking at him again.
“OK, Michael. Here’s the story: when this gets to the group, Martinson’s going to take the position that you falsified an operational report. In a sense you did, but we have an out: ASW classification is a CO’s prerogative, and you did not believe t
he data as it was presented to you. When you got back in, and the guys were able to put together a comprehensive analysis, you began to doubt your original decision, and then you did report it—you called me. I saw the presentation, and still doubted the data, but was willing to take it to Norfolk. Norfolk will decide what Norfolk will decide. If they say it’s a big nothing, the matter will never come up. If they say it’s possible, then, and only then, do we take it up the line. If they squawk, our defense is that we did not want to cry wolf until we were a lot more certain of our facts. Got it?”
“Yes, Sir. And I thank you for your support. I can see that I screwed this one up.”
“That you did, Sunshine. And lest you think I’m a generous soul, you should understand that my support is more than a little bit in my own self interest: they may well ask why I didn’t come to them as soon as I saw your sound and light show this morning. As we both know, classification of a sonar contact is a very subjective thing; in the absence of other indicators, we always tend towards caution. But the Admiral’s no dummy, either, and he’s going to see that the crucial part is the why: if there is a bad guy loitering out there in our opareas, there has to be a reason. Think on it, and remember what I had to say about integrity: senior officers’ capacity to indulge themselves in Navy politics is only made possible if every CO always tells the truth. You need to talk to your XO, too. Right now he thinks I’m picking on you unfairly. You need to explain to him that I’m being entirely fair in picking on you.”
Mike grinned. “Yes, Sir. And thank you.”
“Don’t thank me,” said the Commodore, putting on his hat. “I’m only saving my ass here; saving yours is a lesser included offense. Now you can see me to the quarterdeck.”
THIRTY-THREE
USS Goldsborough, pierside, Mayport Naval Base; Saturday, 26 April; 1245
After seeing the Commodore off, Mike walked back along the main deck to the hatchway leading into after officers’ country, as the group of officers’ staterooms on the port side aft was known. It was getting hot outside, and the metal bulkheads of the ship were beginning to radiate their own heat, baking the salt spray of a week at sea into a fine, white powder around the fittings. The Exec’s stateroom was the third door on the left in the narrow passageway. He knocked on the Exec’s door and went in.
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