August 1971, Aegean Sea
Operation Marathon: Day 416
The bridge of the USS Manley, Red Force flag ship, was quiet except for the static hiss on the radio circuits. Commander Stoner, standing on the bridge wing, looked aft over the five-ship column formation of his squadron. Spaced at one-thousand-yard intervals, the line of sleek destroyers steamed north toward Istanbul at a leisurely ten knots.
The morning watch had just been set and joined by the captain, the XO, and the senior watch officer. Penderson, the Manley’s skipper, had perched himself in his chair and put on his stone-faced mask. Stoner watched the junior officer of the watch, a young ensign named Henner, who couldn’t have been more than twenty-three years old. Stoner knew what was about to happen.
As if on cue, the static hiss of the radios suddenly went silent. Stoner looked up at the Manley’s mast and watched the two radar antennas slowly swing to a stop. Looking aft, Stoner’s trained eye told him the radars of the other ships had also ceased their circular vigil. EMCON had been set, and all radio transmitters on the five ships were now silent.
The signalman on the Manley swung the blinking light aft toward the ships astern. His right hand rhythmically slapped the shutter lever, and the shutters clacked. Stoner looked at his watch. It was exactly zero-eight-hundred hours. Operation Steel Henge, a training exercise, had begun.
Orders were shouted on the Manley’s bridge, and in unison, the column of ships disintegrated as each ship veered to a different heading. The deep-throated baritone rumble of the engines increased in intensity as the ships easily accelerated past thirty knots. Responding to speed and crisp rudder commands, white ribbons of foam rose from their bounding prows as the ships heeled sharply into wide, sweeping turns.
The Manley was barely a quarter of the way through her turn when the senior watch officer shouted, “This is Mister Stein. Mister Henner has the deck and the con.”
Henner, the junior officer of the watch, was momentarily stunned. Without warning, he’d been given full tactical and navigational control of the ship for the first time. He looked at the senior watch officer, who looked away and walked to the rear of the bridge. Henner looked at the executive officer, who pretended to read the stack of messages in his lap. He swiveled his head to look at the captain, who sat trancelike in his chair. No one would look at him. Henner was on his own.
Stoner had watched this ritual many times before and remembered when he had been its object. It was a rite of passage and the way line officers became officers-of-the-line. The rules were simple. When a junior officer had mastered the basics, a time, place, and event were chosen that would force him to demonstrate his knowledge, skill, and poise. Once on this high wire, the safety net beneath him would be collapsed without warning. No one would coach him, help him, or give a hint that his actions were right or wrong. He had to walk the wire alone or fall.
Until it was over, the captain wouldn’t utter a word unless it was to save his ship from disaster. The test built confidence in the junior officers and enhanced the respect the officers had for the captain. The tests were always difficult and placed the junior officer under almost unbearable pressure. If they failed, they would never see the bridge again; their career was over.
Stoner had tried to explain the ritual to his wife on several occasions and failed. She’d always felt the rules were too harsh and unfair; surprise, difficult maneuvers, one mistake and your career was over. Stoner could see it no other way. Control of a ship was serious business with lives hanging on the judgment, skill, and poise of one man. It was the only way it could be because the sea never gives anyone a second chance. It was just the way things were. The way things had always been. The way it had to be.
Henner’s days as a student were numbered. This was his first test as a deck officer. Over the next year, there would be many more. He recovered from his initial surprise in a heartbeat and stepped to the forward center part of the bridge. “This is Mister Henner. I have the deck and the con. Steady on new course two-five-five.”
Henner was in for a long watch. The plan for the morning was for the Manley to thread its way through the maze of coastal islands at top speed. Stoner had seen the hairy slalom-run course they had laid out. Henner’s mind would have to be three turns ahead of his ship.
“Sir,” the quartermaster shouted, “on course two-five-five, shoal water one-hundred yards to port in three minutes.”
Henner never blinked. “Very well. Distance to next turn?”
Stoner smiled. The kid would do okay. Stoner looked back out to sea at his scattering squadron. Dispersed and under radio silence, his foxes were now electronically invisible. They would dart about in the coastal radar clutter, then break into the open sea. Confident, Stoner headed below for some coffee. After all, the last thing Henner needed now was a commodore looking over his shoulder.
§
Several hundred miles to the south, hidden in the radar shadow of Crete, the USS America’s battle group came to twenty knots and brought her bow into the wind. Six screening destroyers lunged through the seas on random zigzag courses. The piercing ring of their sonars probed the deep for the wolflike submarines stalking the America.
On board the America, the thirty-knot wind ripped at the yellow jacket of a catapult captain standing even with the cockpit of a Phantom jet. The catapult captain held the life of the pilot in his hands. He knew it and the pilot knew it, but each had faith in the other and in the finely tuned leviathan machinery they controlled.
The catapult captain lowered his goggles, positioning them in the recess of his helmet, and then raised a clenched fist. The deck quaked as the engines of the Phantom thundered to life. The catapult captain checked the Phantom’s underbelly while the aircraft chafed against her restraining harness. The catapult captain checked his mental checklist: all wheels locked, ailerons and control surfaces correct, ordinance safe, and the catapult saddle block secured to the nose wheel.
The pilot jammed his helmet back against the headrest, and the catapult captain noted the simple movement as correct and complete. Like a baseball pitcher checking the sign from his catcher, he looked down the deck to be sure it was clear, and then in a single fluid motion, he swung his body forward, dropped on one knee, lowered his head, and threw his right arm forward parallel with the deck.
The catapult operator, standing on the sunken catwalk off of the deck, jammed a lever forward. The catapult fired, sending a tremor through the deck.
In barely over a second, the Phantom cleared the deck, leaving only a feathery plume of steam from the catapult in its wake.
In unison, barricades and exhaust arresters retracted, and a dozen men sprang from the catwalk to shepherd a second Phantom onto the catapult. Thus, the precise perilous ballet, the quintessence of naval professionalism and symbol of naval supremacy, began. It would continue uninterrupted throughout the day.
Within seconds, the America’s other catapults fired, sending three more Phantoms skyward to join the first. The airborne hounds turned north and across Crete in search of the Red Forces. The hunt had begun. Admiral Eickhoff’s Blue Force juggernaut was in motion, pitting raw power and force against Stoner’s scampering foxes. In the end, the outcome would be inevitable. Blue Forces had never lost a training exercise.
§
For the next four days, the Farnley kept her station in the battle group. The first break in the tedium was a scheduled refueling.
The Farnley broke off with the other screening destroyers to refuel while the America proceeded eastward. The USS Severn, a fleet oiler, steamed due west directly into the sea, refueling two destroyers at a time, one on either side.
Javert, irritated that the Farnley had been positioned third in line for refueling, watched the long, boring operation. He envied how the other ships accelerated quickly, leaping forward from their waiting position aft of the oiler, then dropped power so that they glided into position alongside the oiler.
Light orange lines thrown by gun
s from ship to ship were the first step. These were followed by heavy line, then by a two-inch steel cable. The fuel hoses, hung in deep scallops, would run across the cable and dance suspended while the destroyers drank. Then came the breakaway, the maneuver Javert envied most.
When the lines were clear, the destroyers would bolt, almost explosively, from the side of the oiler. At flank speed, huge mountains of white water welled up from their sterns, leaving the ocean foaming in their wake. The ships wouldn’t slow down but would continue their sprint through an ocean-churning turn, and charge over the horizon to resume their protective patrols around the America.
Javert knew there was more to these maneuvers than just showing off. Speed was important when pulling away from an oiler lest the destroyer get caught in the venturi across the bow and stern of each ship. If caught in the venturi’s suction, the ships would be drawn together. To avoid collision, the lighter ship used speed to cut quickly across the venturi.
Flank speed wasn’t necessary. Twenty knots would do it, but every captain liked to show off what his overpowered ship could do.
Other captains enjoyed their commands, and displaying the speed and grace of their ships was part of the fun and adventure of being a captain. Javert envied them.
It wasn’t fair that he should be dealt such a bad group of officers. All he really needed was just a few good officers who could keep his engines in shape and do so without trying to undermine him. He had hoped the navy would send him a good officer to shape up Ross. It was too early to tell for sure, but he just knew Lee wasn’t going to work out either.
Meyers had quickly taken Lee’s side, or was it that Lee had taken Meyers’ side? It didn’t matter. They refused to give him his boilers. For weeks they swore they could only get one boiler operational without parts, then suddenly the second boiler got fixed. Now they were singing the same tune about the other two boilers. Smoke, it is all smoke. They’re trying to make me look bad and pull me down.
How do the other captains do it? I have to keep trying. I must follow my orders. I must make my officers follow my orders. I must not allow my officers to admit failure or make excuses. There are no excuses for failing to follow an order, for them or me. That’s what’s best for the navy and the Farnley. I must demonstrate my leadership.
§
Biron had been watching the captain carefully and had noticed Javert’s growing restlessness and his squint that usually foretold trouble. He hoped the captain wouldn’t try to interfere.
He’d nudged the Farnley to five-hundred yards astern of the oiler and waited his turn. Refueling made many officers nervous. Biron knew he would sweat off five pounds during the refueling from tension and mental exertion, but it didn’t make him nervous. Refueling was the ultimate challenge in ship handling, and Biron welcomed it as an exhilarating test of skill.
“Blinking light from the Severn,” Javert called out.
Biron raised his binoculars to read the message clearing them for approach. Javert sat quietly squinting straight ahead, and Meyers leaned casually against the radar repeater next to Javert. He must have seen Javert squinting also.
The apelike Portalatin was at the helm, and Ensign Nat Hayes stood ready behind him as safety observer.
Biron took off his binoculars, a useless encumbrance for refueling, and opened the brass voice tube that connected him to Portalatin and the lee helmsman.
A puff of smoke ejected from the stacks of the destroyer in front of them. Their refueling done, the ocean heaved behind her stern and rose in a white swell of churning, twisting froth. She pulled away smartly, braiding the ocean behind her in swirls of translucent milky-blue water.
Soon clear of the oiler, the destroyer’s stern swung sideways, and she heeled into a turn. Still accelerating, she looked like a muscular greyhound galloping gracefully across the sea, the bow falling, then springing upward through the next swell driven onward by her falling stern.
Biron glanced over at Javert, still squinting harshly at something on the horizon. It was time. “All ahead two-thirds. Make turns for twenty knots. Come right one-half degree,” Biron shouted into the voice tube.
Biron gauged his lateral distance from the oiler and watched the turbulence at her stern. It is like Charybdis, the great torrent of water that could swallow ships, Biron thought. Too close or too slow and the bow of the Farnley would be drawn in by the suction to the inevitable collision, but for now, the Farnley was right where Biron wanted her.
The Farnley slowed and glided into position beside the oiler. Built for speed with a forty-foot beam to her three-hundred-ninety foot length, the Farnley was dwarfed by the Severn, a lumbering five-hundred-fifty-foot behemoth with nearly thrice the Farnley’s beam.
Almost two hours later, Biron was waiting anxiously for the last refueling cable to be released. Finally, the forward cable’s latch released with a loud bang, and the cable fell, writhing serpentine into the turbulence between the ships.
Biron bent forward to order ahead full into the voice tube when a hand clamped down on his shoulder. When he turned, he was face to face with Javert. “All ahead flank, Mister Biron, that’s an order,” Javert said.
Biron was stunned by such an absurd request, even from Javert. Flank speed was impossible on only two boilers. “We can’t, Captain!”
“All Ahead Flank.” Javert yelled.
“You can’t use flank speed, Captain,” Biron yelled back.
§
The lee helmsman strained to hear Biron’s voice over the wind noise, and couldn’t understand why Biron wasn’t using the voice tube.
“All ahead flank, Aye, sir,” he shouted into the voice tube, ratcheting the handles forward on the engine order telegraph.
Meyers ran to the bridge wing and engaged Javert to take his mind off Biron, who, frustrated and angry, turned to the voice tube and shouted, “All ahead full.”
The lee helmsman heard the order and, recognizing his mistake, panicked, jerked back hard on the levers, and pulled them all the way to stop. Trying to recover, he jammed them forward to flank, then, finally finding his mark, pulled them back to the full position. Unfortunately, a five-year-old fuse in the circuit between the bridge and the engine room blew before he managed to position the levers to full.
§
In the engine room, Stucky didn’t have a chance to ask Chief Ross what to do. Ross had seen the order.
“All the way! Open the throttles all the way! Jam ‘em open, son! Quick!” Ross screamed. For a fraction of a second, Ross’ mind snapped into a state of déjà vu. “Jam ‘em open, son!” It was a peripheral thought that flashed into his mind, glanced off his conscious thought, then disappeared. He tried to pursue the thought, but it was gone.
Ross knew Biron was the bridge officer, and Biron was one of the best. He wouldn’t make a mistake like this. An officer had two ways to tell the engine room an order was an emergency bell. Biron had used both; a sequence of flank-stop-flank, and asking for more power than was available. The emphasis was unmistakable. Biron told the engine room crew the ship was in serious danger, and he needed every ounce of power the Farnley had, even if it risked equipment and personnel.
§
The lee helmsman’s erratic behavior attracted Ensign Hayes’ attention. After a few seconds, he noticed the engine room had not responded to the full engine order. Knowing something was wrong, Hayes took a deep breath and yelled as loud as he could, “Engine room does not answer; indicating all ahead flank.”
§
With the wind, Biron hadn’t heard what Hayes had said, but knew Hayes would only speak in an emergency. Biron’s head snapped around, and when he saw the engine order telegraph, he immediately understood.
§
In the boiler room, Canterbury had seen the order on his small repeater and wondered if Ross would answer the flank bell. He only wondered for a second; steam pressure began to plummet. Canterbury jammed the fuel valve wide open, and another member of the boiler team slammed the air damper
s open. That’s all there is. I hope it’s enough, Canterbury thought.
§
It took several seconds for Biron to collect his thoughts. Meyers had charged at the captain yelling, but Javert pushed the lee helmsman out of the way and guarded the engine order telegraph. The bridge was in total confusion.
Biron turned his attention to the oiler. The Farnley was accelerating now and pulling ahead. If they lost power alongside the oiler, all he would be able to do was pray.
§
In horror, Canterbury watched the steam pressure fall and along with it the boiler water level. Pressure fell past five hundred pounds. The vicious cycle had begun. The engines consumed every ounce of steam generated. The pressure dropped. The lower the pressure, the faster the water boiled. The faster the water boiled, the faster the water needed to be replaced. The pumps would never be able to keep up.
§
Ross leapt from his bench and stood directly behind his throttlemen, one outstretched hand on the shoulder of each. A timer ticked in his head. He knew about how much time he had. Watching the pressure gauge, he kept repeating to his throttlemen, “Steady… Steady… Steady.”
§
Canterbury watched the water level drop past the red line indicating the minimum safe operating level. He prayed. Pressure stabilized at four hundred pounds.
§
The timer went off in Ross’ head. “Half throttle! Now, quick.” he shouted.
§
Canterbury had stopped breathing when the water level completely disappeared from the sight glass. He knew boilers don’t melt down under these conditions; they exploded. He couldn’t hold his breath any longer. He jammed the valve closed and took a deep breath. The boilers’ torchlike flames vanished. Defeated, Canterbury lowered his head and waited for the lights to go out.
§
Biron heard the hollow pop emanate from the stacks. Relays clicked, and the Farnley fell silent.
The sight before him seemed unreal, unimaginable, thousands of tons of steel hurtling through the sea, slowly, inevitably being drawn together. If they collided, it would be no contest. The Farnley’s thirty-five-hundred-ton mass was no match for the Severn’s mass of twenty-five-thousand tons moving at sixteen feet per second.
The Marathon Watch Page 11