"Skipper, is that soon enough to start?"
Hunter answered, "Yeah. Don't want the team to peak early and slack off. I can't see a place where we will have a problem earlier, do you?" He stood and headed for the door.
"No, sir. Probably not."
Hunter ducked through the hatch into the reactor compartment passageway, thinking, Bill had certainly come along way since he reported onboard. He's thinking more like a submarine skipper now. Still, Hunter was worried. How would the XO hold up when it really got tense?
02 Jun 2000, 2100LT (1900Z)
Mustaf had just drifted off when his cell phone jangled.
General Liu Pen began without preliminaries. “Mustaf, are you still on schedule for the first shipment?"
These Chinese are almost as lacking in the social graces as those barbarian Westerners.
“We have decided on our first customer.”
“I must remind you not to use names on these circuits. We don’t know how closely we are being monitored,” Mustaf chided the Chinese spymaster. “We are still on schedule, but a complication has arisen. As you know, our competition has sent out a mission to stop our production.”
“Truly, most unfortunate,” General Liu Pen replied. “I am expecting you to counter this move.”
Mustaf explained the plan that he had put into effect.
General Liu Pen chuckled, “How ironic. Our first customer will be in Honolulu. With all the trans-Pacific traffic through there, the panic will spread worldwide quickly. I would expect such disruption that the capitalist economy could collapse.
"The delivery must be absolutely on schedule. Timing is very important. As we discussed, the demands will be delivered to selected world leaders with a requirement for payment in seventy-two hours. Symptoms must not be discovered before that time, but within twenty-four hours afterward. That way, if they refuse to pay, the world will blame them. If they pay, the treacherous admiral will be blamed."
"Brilliant,” Mustaf almost chortled in reply. "Not only will it be communicated from there, but that pest hole of capitalist decadence will be no more. The virus can live in the soil and be completely viable for years. America’s window on the Pacific will be shattered forever."
General Liu Pen replied, "Now it is I who must warn you to be careful, my friend. Please plan the delivery method most carefully. I want our first to be our best."
04 Jun 2000, 0630LT (03 Jun, 1930Z)
Hunter stepped into control and stopped beside Chief Jones, the diving officer. His small bench sat just behind and between the helmsman, Seaman Osterburg, and the planesman, Seaman Lipinski. All three looked at him expectantly.
He asked "You two ready?"
Chief Jones chimed in, "They're ready. I trained them real good."
"OK, then." Hunter turned toward Sam Stuart. "Officer of the Deck, pass the word on the 1MC."
Stuart grabbed the microphone and said, “The ship will be conducting high-speed maneuvers.”
The 1MC announcement was met with a chorus of, “Oh, Boy! E ticket ride time!” The crew loved the effect that large rudder angles had at high speeds. It made for an exciting roller coaster ride.
High-speed maneuvers were meant to be used only in extreme emergencies, like avoiding an incoming torpedo. Frequent practice was required to effectively and safely execute the tricky maneuver. Normally when operating at speeds above twenty knots, a limiter was placed on the rudder control that prevented rudder angles above three degrees. It was a safety measure to prevent uncontrolled, dangerously rapid rudder movements. But for these maneuvers the limiter was disengaged. The ship control party strapped themselves into their seats while everyone else searched for a secure handhold.
Hunter ordered, “Ahead Flank!”
Back in the engine-room, the throttleman spun the large chrome ahead throttle wheel as fast as he could turn it. The growl of the steam entering the massive turbines grew to a roar as the mammoth shaft spun faster. SAN FRANCISCO leaped ahead. The slam of the reactor coolant pumps shifting to fast speed was heard throughout the ship. Past twenty-five knots, then thirty, until finally the ship was speeding almost as fast as a car could legally go. Seven thousand tons of steel racing underwater.
Hunter braced himself firmly against the chromed railing and stanchion and ordered, "Right full rudder."
He knew what to expect next. The sub was like a very large airplane flying underwater. The large rudder angle caused the ship to heel over to starboard as the ship’s head swung around. The snap roll that ensued was frightening to the unsuspecting, almost instantly reaching 45 degrees. Everyone and everything not firmly strapped down was violently tossed to port. That was the good news. The bad news was that with the rudder now at a steep angle from its normal vertical orientation, it acted as a stern-plane as well as a rudder. The ship’s nose pitched up for a split second, then dropped quickly.
The helmsman and planes man both had to anticipate this and work as a finely honed team to prevent the sub from diving out of control into the depths. Unlike an airplane going into a dive with thousands of feet to use for a pullout, the submarine had only a few hundred feet before it reached crush depth.
Osterburg and Lipinski were the best team onboard. They had to be, there was no time for orders or even communication between them. Osterburg had to pull on his control column so that the fairwater planes went to full rise as he turned the wheel to right full rudder. Lipinski had to immediately yank back on his column to pull the stern planes to full rise. A practiced and skillful team could perform this maneuver with only a few feet of depth change. They had to “catch her” before the nose started to drop. If they were able to keep the nose from dropping, they could maintain depth control throughout the turn.
"Damn it." Osterburg was a millisecond late in taking the fairwater planes to full rise. He stared in horror, his face ashen, as the sub's nose dropped almost immediately to a 45 down angle. The depth indicator hummed as it reeled off the rapidly increasing depth. Everyone who had been tossed to port was now violently thrown forward. The ship’s control party was frozen in horror. No one seemed to know what to do. There were only seconds to react as the sub raced uncontrollably to her doom in the depths.
"Oh, my God!" QM1 Buell yelled.
Hunter was thrown violently to port and forward but maintained a death grip on the stanchion. Was there time to save his ship? Had he asked too much this time? One thing was sure, if this was the end; he would go down fighting. “All Stop, rudder amidships, full rise on the stern planes, full rise on the fairwater planes,”
She didn’t stop. Still SAN FRANCISCO dove into the depths. There simply was not enough time for the planes to take effect to bring her under control before they reached crush depth.
Osterburg pulled on the column with all his strength. His jaw was clenched rock solid as he strained uselessly to bring the ship up.
Chief Jones cried out, "Two hundred feet to test depth, Captain!"
“Emergency blow the forward group,” Hunter ordered. This was the last resort. If the emergency blow did not work, there was nothing left.
"One hundred feet to test depth!"
The roar of high-pressure air filled the compartment as 4500psi air forced the water out of the forward ballast tanks.
"Fifty feet to test depth!"
Slowly the angle started to come off as the emergency blow began to take effect.
"Twenty feet to test depth! Starting to come up!" Chief Jones yelled exultantly. The men in control cheered wildly.
As more water was forced out of the forward ballast tanks, the bow came up more rapidly until the angle passed through zero and the ship started to rise. Hunter ordered, “Secure the blow.” The roar of air stopped. “Vent the forward group, ahead standard, maintain a zero bubble, make your depth one-five-zero feet,” the orders came in rapid succession as Hunter fought to save the ship. He did not notice how tightly he had been gripping the rails until the ship had finally leveled out. His white-knuckled death grip
on the stainless steel pipe caused his hand to cramp. The first time he noticed the pain was when it was all over.
Osterburg stammered, “Skipper, I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened.
“That’s the reason we practice, so you don't hesitate next time,” Jon Hunter responded evenly to the young sailor. No sense in letting him see how really close they had come. In combat he might choke even worse.
Hunter slipped out of the control room to go to his stateroom before anyone noticed his sweat drenched coveralls or how much his hands were shaking. A fresh pair of coveralls and a cup of coffee and he would be back to normal.
Bill Fagan knocked on the state room door and stepped in. “You OK, Skipper?” he asked.
“That one was close, too close.” Jon Hunter replied, his voice still shaking. “We’re going to have to be more careful and train harder. Can’t afford a screw up like that where we’re going. We’ll do emergency ship-handling drills every day until we get in the area.”
11
04 Jun 2000, 1600LT (05 Jun, 0400Z)
Quarters G was really half of a duplex on Hospital Point at the edge of the Pearl Harbor complex. Built in the 1920s, it originally served as quarters for the nurses at the old naval hospital that lent its name to the point. The hospital was long since gone, enveloped by the expanding shipyard in the 1930s. The result was a little known, quiet backwater surrounded by the noise, dirt, and grit of an industrial shipyard activity.
Just before World War II, the house and its neighbors had been converted into quarters for the commanding officers of the ships that sortied out of the Naval Base. Early residents had front row seats to the devastating attack of 7 December, 1941. The USS NEVADA had been purposely run aground almost in their front yard to prevent her from sinking and blocking the only exit channel.
A row of large date palms lined the street, adding to the sense of a quiet island paradise. The banyan tree rooted in the front lawn was probably the largest one on Oahu, if not the largest in Hawaii. Its thick branches spread horizontally for almost a hundred feet in every direction. Aerial roots descended to become massive secondary trunks on both sides of First Street and the intersecting alley that ran alongside the lawn. The effect was a large, shady grove that promised protection from the blazing tropical sun.
Across First Street, the squadron commodores had laid claim to the row of Panama style bungalows that backed onto the water’s edge. The Caluccis' house was directly across the street. There was no escaping the demands of the job, not even at home, when the boss lived across the street.
Hunter's oldest daughter, Megan, discovered the banyan tree provided a haven away from the trials of being a teenager on Hawaii. The branches made an ideal resting-place above the world where she could find the solitude to read and write. She sat up there now, writing a letter to her father. These letters had long been a tradition between them. She had written her first one at the age of three. She had known even then that Daddy wouldn’t see them until he was almost home. They, along with Mommy’s letters, met him when he returned from patrol to the Sub Base at Holy Loch, Scotland. Since then, the letters to Dad had become a touchstone between them.
She had inherited his blonde hair and flashing brown eyes, but her beauty came from her mother. More than one sailor had found to his dismay that she was not amused by sailors.
On the lanai beside the old house, her younger, redheaded sister, Maggie, was helping her mother set the dinner table. The place setting at the head of the table was empty, as usual.
Life on the Islands was not easy for the girls. They had left their friends on the mainland behind for this move to a new and different culture, a culture that did not readily accept haoles (white non-natives). Megan was finishing her senior year at Radford High School. Just off base, it had a student body that was pretty much equally military dependents and locals. The friction between the groups left an unmistakable aura of tension around the school.
The normally gregarious Megan had retreated into her studies and a few close friends. She could usually be found either here in her tree reading or on the phone with her best friend, Sally Johnson. On several occasions she had taken the family cell phone up in her tree, but Peg Hunter had yelled at her for that.
Maggie had it worse. She attended the Aliamanu Middle School, a little further from the base. The demographics here were more strongly dominated by the locals. Her fair skin and bright red hair meant that she really stood-out as a haole. The twelve-year old was having a tough time dealing with entering the teen years at the same time she was trying to acclimatize to the new and hostile environment. The turmoil had exacerbated an already rebellious streak in her. Her green eyes often flashed with frustration.
06 Jun 2000, 1430LT (0430Z)
The sub raced to the Southwest on a general course of two-one-zero true. They passed from Tuvalu into the territorial seas of the Solomons. Reaching 165 East longitude and 010 South latitude, the sub changed course to two-seven-zero true and headed for the San Cristobol straits separating Guadalcanal and Maramasika to the North from San Cristobol to the South. The Straits provided a deep-water passage from the Pacific to the East into the Solomon Sea to the West. The site of some of the most savage land, air and sea battles of World War II, the area was now a quiet tropical backwater.
“Damn it, Chop. What do you expect me to do?” Sam Stuart growled in exasperation. “Your people just can’t take care of their gear. Swain knew full well that the seal was leaking, but no one told us until the motor burned.” Stuart stalked off in the general direction of the engine-room.
The young supply officer muttered under his breath. All Bill Fagan could catch was something about the ice cream machine.
The Ensign looked up and saw the XO standing there. “XO, the ice cream machine smoked.”
Bill Fagan ducked his head into the galley where Petty Officer Swain stood by the open back panel of the ice cream machine holding a fire extinguisher aimed into its heart. The charred panel was smoke-blackened. Both the compressor motor and controller wiring were a partially congealed mass of melted plastic and copper. The pungent aroma of burnt sugar mixed with the smell of fried insulation.
Few things affected crew morale more than the ice cream machine. In the cramped confines of a submarine there was little space to be given over for crew comfort. What little there was meant that much more to the crew. The ice cream machine, with its continuous supply of cold treats, was a mainstay. A supply officer or head cook who allowed the vital machine to fail would be at the receiving end of crew and wardroom hostility.
Fagan completed his brief inspection of the deceased machine. Turning to the dejected young officer, he said, “Well, Mr. Green, I suggest that you get that machine fixed. I gather that the Eng is not enthused about working on it.”
“XO, it’s not quite that simple,” Ensign Green began to explain, reluctantly. “You remember we replaced the ice cream machine a few weeks before we left. The new one was completely different from the old one. Different maker, model and all.”
“Let me guess,” the XO interjected. “You forgot to put in a COSAL Change Request so you don’t have any spare parts.”
The crest fallen look on the Chop’s face told the XO that his guess was right on target. He continued with a notably sharper tone to his voice, “Mr. Green, didn’t they teach you anything at Athens besides golf? You, of all people onboard, should know that to get spare parts you have to tell the system what equipment you have. Let me make this perfectly clear to you. I don’t really give a damn if you and Petty Officer Swain have to sit in the freeze box and stir bowls of ice cream mix with a spoon, but the crew will have ice cream. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” the supply officer stammered as the XO stalked off.
A few minutes later, Chief Turston and two of his electricians emerged from the engine-room, each carrying a bag of tools and test equipment
“Mr. Green, the Eng told us that you might have a problem. Don’t know if we c
an help, but we’ll give it a shot,” the Chief said.
Glancing in the innards of the machine and noticing the trail of blackened ooze leading from the leaky seal to the motor, he muttered, “Looks like a real mess. Sure would have been easier to fix before you gave that motor a taste of ice cream.”
“Thanks for the advice, Chief,” the supply officer said dryly. “Do you think that you can fix it?”
“Well, Mr. Green, don’t know yet,” the leading electrician said, rubbing the stubble on his chin. “The wiring will take a little time, but we can fix that here. The motor and compressor are an integral unit and the motor wiring is shot. We’ll have to try rewinding it on the lathe. Haven’t used that jig, don’t know if it'll work. I’m guessing two days, if everything works. Better break out a parka and find a comfortable seat in the freeze box.”
07 Jun 2000, 2000LT (1000Z)
The chiefs nervously chattered as they assembled in the chief’s quarters small smoke-filled lounge. The COB had not told them why when he called this unusual meeting. But, they could sense something important was afoot.
The group gathered most evenings to “smoke and joke” with a camaraderie developed from years of shared experiences.
The chiefs provided a vital “deck-plate” level of leadership and technical experience, bridging the difference from the bright young college kids in the wardroom and the equally bright Navy-trained enlisted crewmen. They were the father figures to the crew and the mentors for the younger officers. Because of their unique position and history, they had achieved a special status and privilege, which included their own berthing space, the chief’s quarters, the “goat locker”.
Operation Golden Dawn Page 11