Boomer, page 28
It was one of many personality quirks she observed that year. None of them were new, none of them even enough to drag out in the open. Each by itself was minor, but taken together they troubled her greatly. She loved Wayne Newell, but she saw his work—though she later determined that perhaps it was more him than the Navy—changing him into another individual.
It was all so subtle at first that she was sure it had to be his work—the rigors of Navy life—that was gradually taking him away from them. It couldn’t be another woman. He had no time to cultivate another relationship. But others had seen it, too.
Dick Makin mentioned it casually at a party one night. It was an XO’s responsibility to understand everything about his captain, and he was doing what he had to do, asking if his captain’s wife had also noticed the man wholly responsible for a nuclear submarine was changing. She said little, answering only that she thought Wayne seemed to be working too hard. But she knew Dick saw the answer in her eyes, and she understood when he hugged her that night at the door and said—“I’ll take care of him out there for you.”
Myra could feel the tears coming to her eyes, and she struggled to hold them back, ashamed to admit that she could actually think herself into such an emotional state. She had to be stronger than this if she was to hold their marriage together. Dick Makin couldn’t do that for her. And with that thought, she lost her composure completely.
No communications with SUBPAC!
The word—any word … whatever word might be hot at the time—was sure to spread through a Navy ship like wildfire. In a submarine, where men were more confined and quickly learned to depend on each other, the word moved even faster. The fact that Wally Snyder had reported to the captain that communications with the outside world had ceased, that there were no messages, nothing, when they last rose to periscope depth, troubled each man in a different way. They had no idea that their communications with the outside world had been totally under the control of SSV-516. When the link connecting her with the satellite was destroyed, Pasadena was completely cut off because the other circuits were being jammed. Moscow had failed to consider such an accident. They also had never considered how it would affect submariners who thought the world above them was at war.
How many days had they been under this stress? When did the conflict actually start? And where? They were unaware of any actual declaration of war. Was the Soviet Union the only enemy? Did it all begin in Europe, as the experts had anticipated? Did the Warsaw Pact nations pour hundreds of thousands of troops through the Fulda Gap to deluge the NATO countries? Or had it come down to threats between the two superpowers which eventually escalated to a missile exchange?
They knew only what they had been told. The captain of a submarine not only holds each man’s life in his hands, he also controls the minds of his crew. Their information comes at his sole discretion. Wayne Newell was both their leader and Pasadena’s propaganda minister. Whatever he chose to tell them had to be accepted, of necessity, as gospel.
He had told them that America was in danger. He had told them that Pasadena had been selected for a vital mission that just might save their country and their loved ones. One hundred thirty of them had functioned as one for him, sinking two Soviet boomers—even though they gave every indication of being American—because he had released classified information to them about a horrifying masking device the Russians had invented to confuse them. And he had accepted the lonely responsibilities that came with his position when challenged by members of the crew—Newell placed those who questioned his absolute authority as captain under ship’s arrest and confined them before they could contaminate the rest of the crew with their mutinous ideas.
With each fearsome dollop of knowledge that came to them, they continued to hold together as one, accepting the fact that “they must face a lonely challenge with bravery, as so many of their seagoing forebears had done through the centuries.” Those words had been a bit much for some of them, especially the older ones, but they were willing to be led. Their captain had successfully inspired his crew with that tradition, and they were proud of themselves in facing such adversity. Their minds were controlled by one man, and they had to place their trust in him. They had no other choices, no options.
Until this moment, they had been the hunter in a chaotic world. But now the situation had changed radically. They were closing another contact, ordered to sink one more boomer that sounded just like one of their own. But a second submarine—a “bird dog,” their captain had called it—was out there, and its job was to protect the boomer, to sink them before they could hit their target. It could be nothing other than a fast, highly maneuverable submarine like their own, a lethal threat that could not be overlooked.
Now they were facing an unseen enemy—if it was truly an enemy … for fear spawned doubt—with the knowledge that there no longer was any contact with their country. Had there been a nuclear attack on the U.S.? Were they now fighting for what had been, rather than what once existed? Had their families perished in a nuclear holocaust?
Was there anything worth fighting for at this point? Whatever the answer might be, their training dictated that they see their mission through to the end, whether the ultimate result was protection of their country or revenge for its destruction.
Newell discerned this attitudinal change, subtle at first in its implications, almost instantly. Makin sensed it, too, as did the department heads and chiefs and leading petty officers. It could be seen in the eyes of each man. And smell—the nose revealed a great deal about men in conflict. Even today’s nuclear submarines with their complex atmosphere control systems could not erase that unique aroma arising from tension and fear. This was uniquely different from the hard-earned sweat of a working man. It was musky, oily, and its source could be discerned simply by looking into a crewman’s eyes. They told what a man was thinking even if he kept it to himself, and they explained why the scrubbers could never cleanse the air completely.
A kill was essential. Every single man understood that equally as well as Newell. Without a successful attack, and one executed very soon, Pasadena would be on the defensive. He knew the boomer must know he was out there. She’d gone strangely silent, or at least slowed enough so that sonar no longer had a contact. That meant any fire-control solution at this stage would be based on what the computer had developed up to the boomer’s last known position. The advantage had been lost!
The mouse was now tracking the cat—the boomer must have its sonar array streamed aft—developing its own target analysis. That would be accurate, much more so than his own. Would they be suspicious enough to fire first? Although Wayne Newell was now convinced in his own mind that he was facing an enemy submarine, he remained able to discern the fact that his crew might be confused by his approach.
It all depended on who got the first shot.
How much time had passed since he was last in sonar? Newell wondered. He’d given Steve Thompson thirty seconds to straighten out that sonarman, Dixon. That shit about the boomer’s signature had better be taken care of. He glanced about control quickly for his executive officer. Where the hell was Makin? Then he remembered he’d told him to make sure Wally Snyder was secured in his quarters. Don’t let stress twist your mind from your mission, Newell. There was so much going on.…
For a moment, eyes closed, he was back at the Charm School outside Moscow. The KGB instructors had stayed close to his group for just a few weeks before turning them completely over to the Americans. For a few days he’d been suspicious of the Americans attempting to gain control of him. But it never happened. It was months later that it came out in a discussion with his comrades that the Americans had been so brainwashed that they’d given up completely. They were no longer even capable of the desire to convert the Russian students, nor did they seem interested in escaping. Many of them had acquired Russian wives and were raising families within the bounds of the Charm School. The will to resist had been torn from their minds. And, he now wondered, had Wayne Newell been so brainwashed that he was incapable of going over to the Americans? Was that why, after all those years, after the family he’d sired, that he still remained loyal to a country he left over twenty years ago?
His eyes were suddenly wide open. Had anyone noticed? No—not a soul.
In the background he heard the diving officer cautioning the stern planesman about his bubble. A rumble of voices came from sonar, then an angry shout, then silence. They were tight. Every single one of them was tight to the breaking point.
How long could he control them?
How much time?
Once again Newell became aware of the eyes. The word moved quickly. Pasadena had turned north and increased her speed to close her target. They were attacking. But what the hell was going on? There were no communications with the outside world … if one still existed! The XO was absent from the control room, placing an officer in hack. There were angry voices in sonar arguing about the contact … the target that had gone silent. The word … the word … said that target sounded like Florida!
Newell had heard that name uttered outside of sonar already. How the hell does the word get out so fast? The eyes … no, not the eyes—it was the smell that bothered him the most. It hadn’t been present in their first attack at all. This crew had total faith at that time. They were going to save the world. But during the second one, now that he thought back on it, it was recognizable. Now it was pervasive. Why the hell couldn’t the scrubbers cleanse it from the air, for Christ sake!
Dick Makin reappeared in control. “Captain, I—”
“Later, XO. No time now.” Don’t let this thing get any worse … don’t lose control of the situation! Newell fully comprehended the need to maintain full control. “Our target is still dead in the water. I want you to coordinate the attack while I talk to the crew.” He was speaking rapidly now. No time to allow anyone to interfere. “Don’t worry about the second target. Just figure that the Russian boomer is probably tracking us. I want to fire on his estimated position, then take evasive action. Once he hears something in the water, he’s not going to sit still any longer. Then we go in for the kill … maybe even go active sonar for a perfect position on him.”
Before Makin could respond, Newell was on the IMC. “We are proceeding now to attack a Soviet ballistic-missile submarine off our bow. I would caution each of you not to jump to conclusions relating to our just-completed communications period. Any rumors now are dangerous. I consider such silence from shore is most likely equipment problems. So … no worries there.” As the last words were spoken, he knew they were uncharacteristic of him. When he looked toward his XO, Makin’s face confirmed that.
“Since our responsibilities,” he continued, “are to destroy Russian SSBNs before they can fire, I believe we hold the key to our country’s future in our grasp.…” Even the split-second hesitation was unlike him. It was frustrating! “This target has not, repeat, has not fired a single missile, or we would have heard it. You better believe that.” Why had he said that? “I know you are afraid only for your families, not for yourselves. If you perform as I am now asking you, you will be doing your families and your country a great service.” Thank God, a good comeback.
There was a moment of silence, though Newell’s deep breathing could be heard in the background. “If there is one thing that I deem absolutely critical to exclude if we are to complete our mission, it is rumor … unfounded rumor. These rumors that I have been hearing come from men who have not been able to stand up under the tremendous pressure each of you has successfully overcome. Now we are facing an enemy who knows we are on the attack, and I ask each one of you to forget these rumors, all of them unfounded, until we have successfully sunk him.” There, that should do it.
Dick Makin studied many of the faces in the control room as Newell spoke. Everyone had listened. There was no doubt about that. He could see some faces relaxing, but there were also others that exhibited no change. It was the first time Wayne Newell had failed to convince everyone.
Pasadena was closing to attack a target that was totally aware of them and that would fight back at the first indication of trouble … and there was an obvious loss of confidence.
It was at that time that a voice from sonar reported— “Second contact has increased speed considerably … closing the area.…”
The other submarine was racing toward them, sensing the situation—the hunter had now become the hunted for a second time.
Chapter Fifteen
Buck Nelson was on the slightly raised platform between the periscopes in Florida’s control room, rocking slowly, heel to toe, heel to toe. His hands were folded behind his back. He would have been pacing if there’d been room. But with no more than a few feet to spare in either direction in these tight confines, heel to toe, heel to toe was the next best solution.
Jimmy Cross, whose attitudes were closely aligned to his captain’s, preferred a more relaxed Nelson. Jimmy sometimes played a silent, private game that would ease his tension. He would compare this rather tall, professorial-looking Nelson with rimless glasses to the gaunt, one-armed Nelson—the heroic British admiral astride Victory’s quarterdeck as she sailed boldly into range of the enemy’s broadside at Trafalgar. After all, he would reason, the military similarities between the two men were many— boredom with trivia, tactical brilliance, introspection, even the egos. Cross preferred the control room, though, to the splinters of the quarterdeck.
Then a voice from sonar shattered the almost mystic aura building around this imaginary Nelson. “Closest contact has increased speed … appears to be on a direct intercept course with us.”
Nelson stopped his rocking and wheeled about to stare at his executive officer as though Cross had called out the report. “What do you say, Jimmy? Who’s fooling who?”
“Shiiit,” This time his favorite expression was purely cover. Nelson never approached him that way, not in front of the crew. “I don’t know what to think, Captain. Chief Delaney seems to be awfully damn sure that’s a 688 out there.”
“Have we heard a signal from her?” Nelson inquired softly, aware that nothing had been heard. It hadn’t occurred to any of them that the two contacts were so close in bearing that it would have been close to impossible to determine which one sent the signal. “Anything that might confirm that suspicion?”
“Not a damn thing,” the XO responded just as quietly. Quite frankly, with Nelson acting the way he was, Jimmy was just as happy any decision would be the captain’s. What the hell was he asking his XO for? This was the type of problem Nelson loved!
“Then what do you say, Jimmy?” Nelson snapped. “What the hell do you think is happening? You know as well as I do that in a situation like this one of our submarines is supposed to identify itself with a coded sonar signal if it can’t avoid transiting a patrol area.” There it was —the first admission that he was as confused as everyone else. Nothing happening fell into an acceptable sequence, at least not according to the doctrine they’d been fed since they were junior officers. It felt good to get it off his chest.
Cross was unsure of what to say. His C.O. was generally even-tempered, never prone to reacting rashly. It was the first time since getting under way that Nelson had shown a flash of temper. “There’s nothing that makes sense, Captain, Maybe he has a sonar casualty.” But that was unlikely, the way the other boat had been maneuvering. It knew Florida was out here, and it gave every indication of closing them for a specific purpose. Nothing was covert about her approach, and there was no such thing as a submarine that appreciated company. “Outside of breaking silence and signaling him, we’ve got to protect ourselves.”
“That second contact’s increasing speed … radically.” Dan Mundy’s voice from sonar was more urgent, an octave higher. “She’s not shy about any of us out here either… all of a sudden it’s balls to the wall.”
“I want all tubes flooded,” Nelson ordered calmly, “pressure equalized. I also want a decoy ready.” His eyes fell on Cross momentarily. “I will sink anything that comes within our envelope of safety, and that first contact is doing just that, regardless of who they are. We’ll prepare tubes one and two now.” There, he’d put into words the decision he’d made fifteen minutes before. There shouldn’t be any doubt in any man’s mind about how it had been made. The contact was neither acting like an American submarine nor following any established precepts. It was just that it sounded exactly like a 688. How the hell are you supposed to react in this situation?
The torpedomen were acting on Nelson’s orders before he’d finished explaining his intentions to his XO. As each step was completed, the report flashed back to the control room.
Nelson’s eyes swept around to the weapons-control coordinator, Lieutenant Sargeant, who had been strangely silent. “You have a good track. Are your presets entered?”
Dave Sargeant licked his lips. It was all entered—speed, gyro angle, enabling run, optimum depth. “Yes, sir. Recommend base course one eight zero, speed ten.”
“Very well.” Nelson looked to his right to Jimmy Cross. The XO was the fire-control coordinator. “Firing-point procedures, tubes one and two.” He had yet to open the muzzle doors. That would be the last step, the one that would tip the scales.…
Florida settled on the recommended course and speed. “The ship is ready,” the OOD said.
“The weapons are ready.” This from Sargeant.
Nelson could sense every eye in control fixed on him.
“Very well. Stand by noisemakers and decoys. Pass the word to all hands the ship may maneuver radically at any time.”
Florida had been quiet as a mouse … quiet as a boomer gone dead silent, Nelson mused. Ten knots was still goddamn quiet. If the nearest submarine had a firing solution, he had to be a little nervous now because his target was closing. Maybe preparing to fire? Imagine that—a boomer squaring off against an attack boat! “Range?”
