by Jeff Edwards
The ship rolled heavily to port. Something hit Commander Ortiz from behind, throwing him against his console and then knocking him to the deck. The lights flickered, and it took him a second to realize that the hurtling object that had laid him out was another person—someone who hadn’t been properly braced for the explosion. The lights flickered again and then came back on. The ship had begun settling back toward starboard when the second torpedo found its mark and exploded.
* * *
The Ozeankriegsführungtechnologien DMA37 torpedo had been designed as a ship killer. Programmed to dive under the target’s hull before detonating, it carried a 250-kilogram high-explosive warhead powerful enough to shatter the keel of any ship the size of a cruiser or smaller. To make matters worse, as the explosion ripped through the steel hull plates, a white-hot bubble of expanding gases would flash-vaporize the water directly below the ship’s keel. Combined with the devastating effects of the explosion, the nearly incalculable stress created by the sudden loss of all support beneath the hull was frequently enough to break a ship in half.
But at 82,000 tons, Kitty Hawk was nearly ten times as large as any cruiser or destroyer on the planet. She could be damaged by torpedoes, but it would take more than one or two to sink her.
The wounded aircraft carrier slowed a few knots and began to list to starboard as water poured in through the two enormous holes in her hull.
CHAPTER 22
TORPEDO: THE HISTORY AND EVOLUTION OF A KILLING MACHINE
(Excerpted from an unpublished manuscript [pages 102–104] and reprinted by permission of the author, Retired Master Chief Sonar Technician David M. Hardy, USN)
On June 28, 1914, Archduke Francis Ferdinand and his wife were assassinated in the Bosnian capital of Sarajevo. The gunman was a young Serbian nationalist and a member of the Black Hand terrorist organization. Archduke Ferdinand had been heir to the throne of Austria. A month after his murder, Austria declared war on Serbia and, over the next several months, the conflict spread to every major country in Europe. World War I had begun.
Germany, a relative latecomer to submarine technology, put its unterseeboots (undersea boats) to excellent use. In short order, German U-boats dominated the seas surrounding Europe, stalking Allied supply ships and sinking them at will. The torpedo, which had been a relatively obscure weapon at the outset of the war, became an object of terror. The German U-boat captains wielded their torpedoes with skill and cruelty—painting the seas with fire and blood, and littering the bottom of the ocean with the broken ships of their enemies.
Situated safely on the far side of the Atlantic Ocean, the United States adopted a policy of strict isolationism. America turned a blind eye as the death toll in Europe skyrocketed. It was a European war, after all, and Americans were overwhelmingly in favor of letting the Europeans handle it themselves.
On May 7, 1915, a single event shifted public opinion in America: a German submarine, U-20, torpedoed the British passenger ship Lusitania. Two perfectly aimed torpedoes blasted through the hull of the ocean liner, sending the ship to the bottom of the ocean, along with 1,195 civilian passengers. Unfortunately for the Germans, 123 of those passengers were American citizens.
Horrified by what they saw as a barbaric attack on an unarmed ship, the American people began to scream for revenge. The United States was drawn into the war that it had struggled to avoid, shifting the balance of power to the Allies.
It is, perhaps, a supreme stroke of irony that the torpedo—the very weapon that had almost brought victory—would sow the seeds of Germany’s defeat.
CHAPTER 23
USS TOWERS (DDG-103)
NORTHERN ARABIAN GULF
FRIDAY; 18 MAY
0732 hours (7:32 AM)
TIME ZONE +3 ‘CHARLIE’
Someone was shaking him …
Some distantly conscious fragment of Chief Lowery’s brain detected the pressure of someone’s hand on his shoulder. A million miles away, someone with a tin bucket over his head was speaking gibberish in slow motion. The voice was tinny, echoey, and totally incomprehensible. The lump of unconscious meat that sometimes called itself Chief Lowery grunted and rolled over, burrowing farther under the blankets, away from the intruder, whoever—or whatever—it was.
The hand grabbed his shoulder again, tighter this time, and shook harder. “Heep! May-buff!”
Chief Lowery flailed one arm in a half-hearted attempt to drive the intruder away. The sudden motion ratcheted his brain a couple of notches closer to consciousness. “Keef! Hay-gupp!” It was the voice again. Closer this time, and more word-like. The shaking continued.
A switch in the deep recesses of his brain clicked reluctantly to the “on” position. Lowery felt the rumble of his own groan as it escaped his throat. He clenched his eyes shut even tighter, preparing the muscles for the unthinkable task of opening his eyelids.
The hand on his shoulder continued to shake him toward awareness. “Chief! Way-gupp!” The voice was an urgent whisper, close to his ear.
A whiff of his dream still floated at the edge of his memory, an indistinct sweetness, like the subtlest perfume smelled at a distance. It was a wonderful dream, part of him knew. A glorious re-imagining of life, in which Charlotte was still in love with him, and he could somehow dance and sing like Fred Astaire.
He groaned again and felt his hand come up of its own accord to scratch an itch near his right ear. The movement drove the last of the dream from his mind. “What?”
The hand stopped shaking his shoulder. “Chief, wake up!”
Chief Lowery grunted and opened one eye. He didn’t bother to point it toward his tormenter. “What time is it?”
“What?” The voice sounded confused. “It’s, um … just a second … it’s, uh … oh-seven-thirty-three, Chief.”
Lowery opened the other eye and began blinking heavily to get things moving. “It’s seven thirty in the morning?”
“Uh … yes, Chief. Seven thirty-three.”
“Oh God …” Chief Lowery said. “Forty minutes … I got a whole forty minutes of sleep this time.” He yawned. “Go away right now, and I may let you live.”
“I need to talk to you about the radar, Chief. SPY radar.”
The words brought Lowery to full consciousness. No, not the words. The voice. His uninvited guest was not one of his techs. It sounded like … Lowery grabbed his privacy curtains and slid them back, opening his coffin-sized bunk area up to the rest of the berthing compartment. He recognized his mistake immediately. It was after reveille, so the lights in Aft Chief Petty Officer’s Berthing were on. He flinched away from the unexpected brightness and tried to squint out of the corners of his eyes.
Into the bleary circle of his vision swam the face of CS3 Charles Zeigler, better known to the enlisted crew as Z-Man, or Zebra. Zeigler was a Culinary Specialist—a cook.
Chief Lowery blinked. “Zeigler? Do you have any idea how much sleep I’ve had? Or, I should say, how little sleep I’ve had?”
Zeigler shook his head. “No, Chief, I don’t. But this is real important. I know who’s been … I mean I know what’s wrong with your SPY radar.”
Chief Lowery sighed. “Petty Officer Zeigler, you are a CS. A cook.”
“Yeah, Chief. I’m the night baker this month. I’ve got sweet rolls in the oven right now. As soon as they’re done, I’m going off shift.”
“Sweet rolls in the oven,” Chief Lowery said. “That makes you an expert on the most sophisticated combat radar system in the world?”
Zeigler grinned. “I’m not an expert on radar. I’m a cook. Which means I’m an expert on potatoes. That’s what’s wrong with your radar, Chief. It’s the potatoes.”
Chief Lowery grimaced. The potatoes? The potatoes? He slid one leg out of his bunk and dangled it toward the floor. “Excuse me, Zeigler. Could you back up a little? I’m getting up. This is either going to be the coolest story I’ve ever heard, or I’m going to strangle you right where you fucking stand.” He reached for his pa
nts. “Chicken bones … potatoes … thank God there’s not a problem with the linguini. That would probably sink the whole goddamned ship.”
* * *
Forty minutes later, Lowery and his three technicians stood gathered around a SPY console in Combat Information Center.
Gordon yawned. “What are we looking for, Chief? I’m setting up to do some signal injection tests on Array #4. I’d like to get back to it.”
“Hold your horses,” the chief said. “Just watch the screen. If this works, you can forget about troubleshooting the array.”
“If what works?” Burgess asked. “What are we waiting for?”
Chief Lowery held up his hand. “Just give it a minute. We should start seeing … There!” He pointed to the screen. “Read ‘em and weep, boys!”
A jittering wedge of video static glowed bright green on the radar screen. The interference was back.
FC2 Burgess stared at it. “There it is! But it’s only eight in the morning! We’ve never seen it before mid-afternoon …”
The interference vanished after less than a minute.
“Hey! It’s gone!” Fisher said. “That was fast.”
Chief Lowery grinned. “Keep watching, Fish. In about two minutes, you’re going to see something you’ve never seen before.”
They stared at the screen together. Considerably less than two minutes later, the interference appeared again, in a different part of the screen.
Fish nearly jumped. “Holy shit! It’s on the starboard side now! That’s Array #3. We’ve never seen it in Array #3!”
The chief crossed his arms and looked smug. “It all depends on where you put the potato.”
All three technicians glared at him. Gordon spoke first. “What the hell are you talking about, Chief?”
The chief grinned again. “Fish had it right all along. If you can’t fix your radar, go see the cooks.” He uncrossed his arms and patted Burgess on the shoulder. “Come on, boys. Let’s go track down the Division Officer. He’s gonna love this!”
* * *
An hour later, they were all gathered around the SPY console for another demonstration. This time, the onlookers included Ensign Christopher Lance (CF Division Officer), Lieutenant Terri Sikes (the ship’s Combat Systems Officer), Lieutenant Commander Peter Tyler (the executive officer), and Captain Bowie.
On cue, the sizzling wedge of static interference appeared on the lower left side of the screen. Like the previous time, it disappeared after a minute or so, only to reappear a short time later on the starboard side of the scope.
The XO cocked his head to the side and looked at Chief Lowery. “It’s not a SPY casualty, is it?”
Chief Lowery shook his head. “No, sir. It’s not a hardware problem or a software problem. It’s a potato.”
“A potato?”
“Yes, sir. That’s why we couldn’t find the source of the interference. It wasn’t in the radar at all. It was completely external.”
“A potato,” the captain said.
Chief Lowery grinned. “I didn’t believe it myself, sir. But it’s true.”
The Combat Systems Officer gave the chief a hard look. “Would you mind telling us how a potato made its way into our SPY radar system?”
“It didn’t, ma’am,” the chief said. “The potato is entirely external. Or I should say potatoes, because there have been several of them. We’ve just been seeing them one at a time.”
“You’ve dragged this out long enough, Chief,” Ensign Lance said. “You’d better tell them the rest of it before they beat you to death.”
“Yes, sir!” Chief Lowery tried to bring his grin under control. “The potato business has been going on for a long time. It’s sort of a secret thing that the mess attendants keep to themselves. They’ve got these two long bamboo poles. I don’t know where they got them from, but they keep them stashed in one of the dry provision storerooms. Anyway, when one of the mess attendants wants a snack, he drags out these two bamboo poles. They can plug the narrow end of one pole into the wide end of the other pole and make a single pole that’s even longer.”
“Where does the potato come in?” the CSO asked.
“They jam the potato onto the top of the bamboo pole, and then use the pole to hold it up a few inches from the front of the SPY radar array. SPY is pumping out more than four million watts of microwave energy. The intensity that close to the array face is really high. It’s like the giant microwave oven from hell. It’ll cook a potato in about a minute. If the mess attendant brings along a pat of butter and a little salt, presto! Instant snack.”
Captain Bowie half-smiled and shook his head. “I don’t know whether to laugh or hang somebody from the yardarm.”
“Wait a second,” the XO said. “If this potato thing has been going on for so long, why haven’t we seen this interference problem before this past week?”
“Well, sir, the bamboo stick and the potato are transparent to radar. The microwaves go right through them, so they don’t show up on the screen. That’s how the mess attendants have been able to do this for so long without getting caught. Then, last week, Seaman Apprentice Murphy was assigned to mess attendant duties. One of the other mess attendants shared the secret potato trick with Murphy, and that was when the problem started.”
The captain’s eyebrows went up. “Seaman Apprentice Murphy brought some new twist to the potato-and-stick routine?”
“Yes, sir,” Chief Lowery said. “I guess Murphy’s mother taught him to wrap his potatoes in aluminum foil before he cooked them. And aluminum is not radar transparent. A potato-sized piece of foil hanging three or four inches in front of the array face throws a whole lot of electromagnetic backscatter. Enough to jam the hell out of a big sector of SPY’s coverage.”
Lieutenant Sikes looked at the deck and shook her head. “Two hundred million dollars worth of state-of-the-art electronics, and we were being jammed by a potato?”
“I’m afraid so, ma’am,” Chief Lowery said. “We only saw the interference on the port side, because there’s a small landing at the top of the 01 level ladder, just below the Super-RBOC launchers. It makes a great place to stand when you’re holding the bamboo pole up in front of the array. It can be done from the starboard side too, but there’s nowhere to stand. You have to hang off the side of a vertical ladder and hold the bamboo pole with one hand. The port side is much easier.”
The XO said, “Don’t tell me. I’ll bet I know why the jamming only happened in the mid-afternoon. That’s when Seaman Apprentice Murphy gets his break, isn’t it?”
“You hit the nail on the head, sir. But Murphy got rotated to the night shift. That’s the only reason we found out about it at all. Murphy told the night baker about his improved method of cooking potatoes, and the night baker was smart enough to put two and two together. He came and woke me up.” Chief Lowery looked at the captain. “If you ask me, sir, I think CS3 Zeigler deserves a Letter of Appreciation for this. He single-handedly solved the mystery of the ghost potato.”
The captain snorted, tried to hold it in, and then began to laugh quietly. The Combat Systems Officer burst out with a laugh of her own, more like the bray of a donkey than anything human. The entire group dissolved into hysterics. It was one of those wild group laugh sessions, where every time it starts to die down, somebody snorts again, and it cranks up for another go-around.
It took five minutes to die down to chuckles. The XO stood, half hunched over, wiping tears from his eyes. “You want to know what’s really funny?” He gasped a few times before gathering enough wind to continue. “Murphy’s potatoes probably took three times as long to cook as everyone else’s because he wrapped them in foil. If SPY wasn’t so damned powerful, they probably wouldn’t have cooked at all.”
The captain shook his head. “No, Pete. I’ll tell you what’s really funny. You get to write the message explaining how the most advanced warship in the world got jammed by a vegetable.” He snorted again. “Because I wouldn’t touch that report with
a ten-foot bamboo pole!”
CHAPTER 24
WHITE HOUSE SITUATION ROOM
WASHINGTON, DC
FRIDAY; 18 MAY
12:13 AM EDT
The double doors swung open, and two Secret Service agents entered the room and took up positions at either side of the doorway. The president strode into the room a few seconds later, holding up his hand as he walked. “Please, don’t get up.”
He slid into his chair at the head of the table and looked at each of his three advisors in turn. “We all know why we’re here,” he said. “Fifteen U.S. Sailors dead, nearly thirty more wounded, two helicopters destroyed, and a half-billion dollars worth of damage to an aircraft carrier.” He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger. “The question is, what do we do now?”
Admiral Casey, the Chief of Naval Operations, cleared his throat. “My position remains unchanged, Mr. President. Our best recourse is to sink those submarines and do it now.”
The president forced a half-smile. “I understand how you feel, Bob. But I’m not going to start a war here.”
“Looks to me like the Germans have already started it, sir,” Admiral Casey said. “God knows why, but they want to duke it out with us.”
Secretary of State Whelkin shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
The CNO’s eyebrows shot up. “They took the first shots,” he said. “At the Brits and then at us. And you don’t think they’re spoiling for a fight?”
SecState raised her index finger. “I’m not disagreeing with you, Admiral. I’m certain that you’re right; the Germans are looking for a fight. I just don’t think they want a war.”