by Larry Bond
Shimko and Hudson studied the chart closely. Jerry and Peters, having laid out the courses and knowing them by heart, stayed out of the way to give the XO and chief some room.
“How long for each survey?” Shimko asked.
“I’m planning on forty-five hours. The UUVs have a fifty-hour operational endurance with a ten-hour emergency reserve. That gives us about a twenty-five-percent safety margin.”
“How many UUVs will we have out at any one time?”
“Technically, XO, there are times during the mission, for about an hour, when all three UUVs will be out. One will be deployed surveying sites, while a second unit is launched and the third waits to be recovered.”
“During which Seawolf is tied to one area.”
“Yessir. We’re only constrained in our ability to maneuver when we’re launching or recovering a UUV, which takes no more than half an hour. Once that’s done we can maneuver freely, we just have to stay relatively close to the rendezvous point so the UUV can find us again . . .”
“Never mind,” Shimko interrupted. “The critical issue is being committed to one spot while a UUV is deployed. What if we have to abort a rendezvous to evade a transiting vessel?”
Jerry had an answer. “Sea ice will be starting to form in the area by the time we arrive, so there is little risk of running into fishing traffic or even other merchant ships. The only likely problem would be from Russian warships or submarines, and according to the intel weenies, their training cycle is largely over for the year. There may be some small-scale operations before the ports freeze up, but they just concluded a major exercise period. Our mission plan is to get in, do the surveys, and then get out before they start any last-minute training evolutions.”
Shimko was not deflected. “If we have to bug out, we need a plan to rendezvous with the UUV somewhere else.” He pointed to an exercise area, outlined in blue and neatly labeled “R-Two.”
“Overall, you’ve got a good approach route into the area, and the route leading from one survey site to the next is along a good path. You also have an emergency recovery location for each site, but it’s too close to the site itself. I want two alternate rendezvous locations for each survey site, well away from the box.”
“Yessir,” Jerry responded. “For unmanned vehicles, they are pretty smart. If a survey is interrupted, we can give it a new location and tell it to loiter there until we arrive.”
“That’s fine, but I don’t want you hunting all over the chart for a spot when the air is filled with flying excrement. I want it already picked and plotted in calmer times.” Jerry nodded his understanding.
Shimko pushed his point. “This is the Russian Navy’s playground, even if it is international waters. They’re normally touchy about visitors, but since they lost Gepard, they’ve reached new heights of paranoia—even for Slavs.
“You know, they blame us for Gepard’s loss.” Shimko gave Jerry a look that seemed much longer and more intense than a simple glance. Jerry’s last boat, Memphis, had been very involved with the Russian sub’s demise, but the entire event had been classified, sealed, and was withheld even from the rest of the submarine service. Jerry tried to look innocent.
“We can’t assume they won’t change their routine,” Shimko continued. “Maybe they’ll patrol in the thickening sea ice for a longer period than we think. The hulls on their surface ships are ice-strengthened.” He shrugged, then ordered, “Also, find and plot more than one exit route from each site, and make sure the routes lead to areas with lots of maneuvering room.”
“Yessir.” Jerry acknowledged the order and checked to make sure that Peters was taking notes.
“Now walk me through it,” Shimko ordered, and Jerry began with Seawolf’s careful entrance to the Barents Sea. Framed as it was by the Russian coast to the south and Novaya Zemlya on the east, it was easy to understand why the Russians considered it home waters, the same way Americans might view the Gulf of Mexico.
Seawolf would cross the gap from Greenland to Svalbard, under broken sea ice and hopefully bad weather. Svalbard was a cluster of islands under Norwegian control. It usually hugged the southern edge of the North Pole’s permanent ice cap. The sub would pass south of the islands, then turn southeast to conceal her approach as much as possible.
Once in the Barents Sea, Seawolf would slow, creeping into areas used by the Russians for fleet training and exercises. These were no more than rectangular shapes drawn on a Russian chart, but they were used by the Russian Navy to manage their at-sea training during the Arctic summer.
The U.S. didn’t have those charts, of course. Careful observation of Russian exercises by satellites and submarines and other methods had given U.S. intelligence a pretty good idea of where they were.
American and other Western submarines had prowled those waters for years, watching the Russian Fleet practice their craft, recording signals, sometimes even recovering expended weapons. The Russians watched for outsiders, sometimes finding them, often not. Although the training areas were in international waters and thus theoretically open to anyone, the Russians could make eavesdroppers feel very unwelcome.
Lately Russian antisurveillance measures had become so stringent that it was not only difficult to get close enough to gather any useful intelligence, it had become downright hazardous to anyone making the attempt. And with a shrinking submarine fleet, the U.S. Navy was experiencing difficulties providing comprehensive coverage during the exercise cycle.
So it was time for a new plan. The U.S. would plant acoustic recording devices on the seabed to monitor Russian activity. The information could be recovered later by another submarine when the area was quiet. These sensors would gather some of the raw intelligence data that a submarine would normally be tasked to collect. There would be other Western assets that would still be watching, but their observations would be from a safe distance.
Obviously, secrecy was paramount. If the Russians discovered the sensors’ existence, they could be easily destroyed or recovered. Besides the embarrassment, and loss of valuable intelligence, the devices used some very sophisticated technology—not the sort the U.S. wanted to share.
Jerry showed the XO how Seawolf would approach each survey site and launch a UUV, an automated underwater robot, to check out the bottom topography and to measure the ambient acoustic conditions. Several sites would be examined in each exercise area. The collected data would be used by the bright boys back home to compute the exact sensor locations, which would be planted later.
After examining every yard of their planned path, the XO quizzed Jerry about GPS satellite coverage, deviation from standard sonar conditions, marine life in the area, and the effects of the aurora borealis on communications. Jerry’s ready answers pleased Shimko, but earned him a crack about “smartass know-it-all.”
“Make those changes I mentioned and we’ll brief the Skipper tomorrow at nineteen hundred.”
“Aye, aye, XO,” Jerry replied. Shimko finished, “That’s all, then.”
Jerry turned to help his chief gather up the maps and notes, but Shimko called him aside.
“How’s the watch bill coming?” the XO asked.
“It’s done,” Jerry answered, “I’ll have a smooth copy on your desk this afternoon.”
“Fine.” Having watched Jerry mentally shift gears, Shimko hit him with the real question. “Who’s taking her out?” he asked, in a voice slightly softer than normal conversation.
As senior watch officer, Jerry not only made up the underway watch bill, he managed the junior officers’ training. Conning Seawolf when she got under way was an important learning opportunity for a junior member of the wardroom.
“Hayes,” Jerry replied followed by a short pause, “and Palmer. With your permission, sir.”
Shimko frowned. “Palmer,” he repeated, working through the idea and not enjoying the implications. “After the hash he made of his last underway, why should I give him another chance?”
Jerry hoped the question w
as rhetorical. “Because he can’t qualify without it,” he replied earnestly. “Because he learns from his mistakes.”
“And if he flubs, it’s too late to replace him,” Shimko replied acidly. “Seawolf is not just a training aid, and I’m not inclined to risk the boat as we leave for an important mission.”
“Lieutenant Palmer would be pleased to answer any questions about underway procedures you wish to ask,” Jerry replied positively.
“Fine. I’ll see both of you right after lunch tomorrow.”
“Day after tomorrow?” Jerry replied hopefully. “They’ll be loading weapons all day today and most of tomorrow.”
Shimko sighed. “All right. Day after tomorrow, then.” He paused, then said, “You can’t carry him forever, Jerry.”
“He’ll find his feet, sir. He just needs a little more time.”
“I hope so, for everyone’s sake,” the XO answered as he left the ward-room.
Peters and Hudson had finished collecting all the charts, and Jerry double-checked them as they left to make sure nothing was left behind. Everyone on a nuclear submarine had some sort of security clearance, but it didn’t pay to get sloppy with sensitive documents. Although he might have more room in a jail cell, the food was worse.
~ * ~
Chandler was not in his stateroom, or in the comms shack. Jerry hadn’t expected the man to be waiting outside the wardroom, but he begrudged the time it would take to find the commo, and he couldn’t trust Chandler to find him.
Matthew Lloyd Chandler III was a good officer. The son of a successful submarine admiral, he’d just made lieutenant and seemed destined for higher rank. But as communications officer and Jerry’s subordinate on the ship’s organizational chart, Chandler seemed to be a drain on his time, not an asset.
He finally found Chandler in the ship’s office. When he saw Jerry, the lieutenant spoke first. “I got those questions answered, sir. I should have looked in the manual,” he said humbly, gesturing to a fat notebook on a rack over the yeoman’s desk.
Chandler’s formality irked Jerry. He did work for Jerry, and it was of course proper to address officers senior to oneself as “sir,” but naval custom allowed officers who worked together and were separated by one pay grade to use first names. The submarine service was even more informal. And any pretext for formality had been removed two months ago, when Chandler had been promoted from lieutenant j.g. to full lieutenant, the same rank as Jerry.
“Petty Officer Wallace helped me find what I needed.” Chandler nodded toward the yeoman, sounding grateful.
Then why didn’t you ask him in the first place? Jerry thought, but suppressed the urge to say it. He simply said, “Good. Then are they ready for me?”
“Yessir.” Chandler handed over the forms.
Jerry reviewed them on the spot, since their next stop was the ship’s office. They were neatly filled out. He took his time, but couldn’t decide if he was pleased or irritated to find everything in order.
As Jerry read, the phone in the ship’s office buzzed, and Wallace answered. He listened for a moment, then replied, “I’ll tell him.” Wallace turned to Jerry. “Chief Hudson’s looking for you. He’s in officers’ country.”
“I’ll meet him there,” Jerry answered. He initialed the forms and handed them to the yeoman.
Chief Hudson was waiting by Jerry’s stateroom with a third-class petty officer Jerry didn’t recognize. The young sailor nervously came to attention when he saw Jerry, and Mitchell let him stay that way for the moment.
“Lieutenant Mitchell, this is Petty Officer Dennis Rountree,” Hudson reported. “He’s just come aboard, fresh from school. Here’s his service jacket.”
Jerry opened the file and skimmed it quickly. Twenty years old, although he looked about fourteen. Good scores, no disciplinary problems. He’d expected that, but it never hurt to check. “At ease, Petty Officer Rountree.” Jerry smiled as he said it, trying to really put the young man at ease. “Welcome aboard. You’re coming to a great boat with a handpicked crew. Since you’ve just been picked as well, you’re allowed a few moments to feel proud, before Chief Hudson starts working your tail off. We’re getting under way in eight days, and we’ll be gone for a while. Are you ready for that? Everything squared away ashore?”
“Yes, sir. I can’t wait,” Rountree replied enthusiastically
Jerry’s smile matched the chief’s. “Keep that attitude, and you’ll do well.” Turning to Hudson, he asked, “Did you phone the XO?”
“Yessir, he said to see him when we’re done.”
It was only a few steps from Jerry’s stateroom to the XO’s. Jerry knocked twice, lightly, and waited to hear “Come” before turning the knob.
Lieutenant Commander Shimko had the neatest stateroom Jerry had ever seen. Of course, when you live in a space the size of a walk-in closet, neatness is more than just a virtue, but the XO’s room was almost pathologically spotless. Shimko’s stateroom had two bunks on one side, separated from the opposite bulkhead by a three-foot-wide patch of linoleum deck. That bulkhead held a sink and mirror. Next to that was a closet, and next to that a fold-down desk. A chair in front of the desk took up about a third of the available floor space.
Any open wall space was covered with clipboards or papers taped to the bulkhead. All the papers were taped in exactly the same way, at exactly the same height. The clipboards all hung at the same height as the papers.
Although the stateroom could accommodate two officers, the XO customarily had the stateroom to himself, unless a guest was aboard. Shimko had converted the upper bunk into additional file space, piles of folders and papers arranged with mathematical precision. Even the in and out baskets, full almost to overflowing, managed to look organized.
“XO, sir, this is Electronics Technician Third Class Rountree.” Jerry offered the XO his file.
Shimko took it and then offered his hand to the sailor. “Welcome, aboard. Any issues or questions so far?”
“No, sir,” Rountree replied quickly.
“Good, let me see if the Captain’s free.” He stepped down the passageway to a door with Seawolf’s seal on it. It showed a snarling wolf’s head rising from the blue ocean against a black background. A black banner across the top held the boat’s name in red. Another banner under the seal read, “Cave Lupum”—”Beware the Wolf.” Underneath the seal, a gleaming brass plaque read “Captain.” Jerry could hear music from the captain’s stateroom; it was the bugle solo from the skipper’s favorite song, “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy.” For some strange reason, their captain loved 1930s-1940s-era music. Shimko sighed, rapped once, then crocked the door. “Petty Officer Rountree, sir.”
Jerry heard the music stop, and then the captain say, “Good. Show him in, XO,” and then the door opened the rest of the way. The XO stepped back and motioned for the young sailor to step forward. Jerry and Chief Hudson remained at ease, but Rountree snapped to attention.
Commander Thomas Rudel looked more like a bank teller than a sea captain. He wasn’t tall, didn’t have a barrel chest, and didn’t even have a bellowing voice. Jerry had seldom ever heard him raise it, or even speak sharply.
He didn’t need to raise it. The crew had learned that Rudel was incredibly smart, eminently practical, and at times very funny. The XO tended toward the more satirical “phortune cookie filosophy,” but Rudel’s humor was subtle and dry—you had to listen for it, but it was worth the effort.
“Welcome aboard, Petty Officer Rountree.” Rudel sounded genuinely glad to have the young man aboard. “You’re joining a great boat with a great crew. ‘Great’ means getting the job done, and it means taking care of each other. You can’t do one without the other. Everyone in the chain of command, which now includes you, watches out above, below, and to either side for his shipmates...”
Jerry didn’t mean to tune out the captain’s welcome-aboard speech, but he’d heard it several times, including on his own arrival aboard. And he couldn’t listen to Rudel’s speech without fl
ashing back to his first boat, and his first captain.
~ * ~
Jerry’s tour aboard USS Memphis had turned out well, but that was in spite of Commander Lowell Hardy, Memphis’s skipper. Where Rudel called on nobler motives, Hardy had ruled by fear. Jerry’s first meeting with his first captain was a preemptive ass-chewing that had left Jerry questioning his career choice.
Hardy had compensated for his intimidating manner by micromanaging the entire boat. Any good submariner was detail-oriented, but focused on his own job. Hardy didn’t trust anyone’s skills or motivation—and the crew had felt it, both the officers and the enlisted men.