Boomer, page 3
“The box” was home for a boomer until they were relieved by a sister ship on a predetermined date. They didn’t move from that box. They might steam around the boundaries just as a fish swam interminably around the glass sides of an aquarium. They also maneuvered in relation to unknown contacts, because invisibility was the price of their mission. Other times, it could be caprice that determined their position within their sector.
Wayne Newell would have loved to bet that the contact would already be on a westerly—or easterly—heading, if it had appeared to be northerly before. Otherwise it would have to leave its assigned box. Perhaps they’d already heard him. But he knew he couldn’t open his mouth. American boomers were the quietest submarines of all. Somehow, someone might begin to wonder why he knew a supposed Soviet boat was acting just like an American one. Did anyone know how a Soviet SSBN patrolled its assigned sector?
“Seems to be heading west, sir. Signal’s no stronger.”
“Dick, what do you think their boomers do? Do they steam around in circles, or boxes? Or do they just do whatever comes to mind?” Better someone else comes upon the answer.
“The Russians are precise,” Makin answered, “If we’ve got one of their boomers here, the odds are that he’ll head to the west for a while and then turn south.”
“Good enough for me.” The XO had answered Newell’s question in front of everyone in the control room. “Since we seem to be astern of him, let’s head in the same direction and kick up our speed again. He’ll have a hard time hearing us if that’s the picture.” Newell was sure that was exactly what that boomer was doing. It was more difficult, almost impossible depending on acoustic conditions, to hear a quiet contact approaching from astern.
The contact did take a westerly heading. The signal did improve in sonar. “Captain … that’s one of ours….” Even on the speaker suspended just above their heads in the control room, the attack team could sense horror in the voice that called out from sonar.
Newell looked over at his XO. “Dick, why don’t you step in there and calm them down. It’s a natural reaction. I can understand. I think they just used someone else to reinforce the situation. I know how tough it’s going to be.” His voice was sympathetic.
“Chief,” Makin beckoned to Tommy Lott as he slid the sonar door shut behind him. “That’s not one of ours. It would help a lot in the control room if your men could—”
“Listen to this,” a young, still unnaturally high voice, unaware of Makin’s presence, interrupted. “I fed the sound into the computer. That’s a Trident out there. No difference at all. Whatever makes Alaska a bit different from the others, that’s her signature. This computer doesn’t screw up.” The concern that had been evident in his voice in the control room increased in intensity. “Chief, you have to listen to this.”
Lott’s headphones were around his neck as he spoke. “I’ll take care of it, XO. This is his first boat. He doesn’t understand what it’s like in the control room.” The chief slid the headphones back over his ears without another word, and the executive officer returned to his station near the captain. Discipline on an attack boat was often silent, understood by all. A submarine was too small for conflict.
“We’re going to take him on the southerly leg … if he turns to the south,” Newell added. If we’ve gotten this close without being detected, leave well enough alone. “Come left to two two zero,” he said, to the OOD. Then he turned to Makin. “I’m going to get into position and then wait for him, assuming we’re right about the box. I can’t imagine he has a guard dog or we would have heard something from it by now.”
“Sonar would have had to pick up something,” Makin agreed. “How many torpedoes?”
“Two. I don’t care if we’re surprising him. I don’t care if the first one’s a direct hit. I don’t believe everything I’m told about the Mark 48.” It was designed to explode directly beneath the hull, creating a huge air pocket that would theoretically break the target’s back, “Their double hull’s more than likely made out of titanium, and it’s a tough son of a bitch, I want to make sure it sinks the first time.” He turned to Bob Holloway, his weapons-control coordinator. “I intend to fire two torpedoes ten seconds apart. Get all your noise out of the way now. I don’t want him to hear anything beforehand. The first sound’s going to be the water slug sending that fish into his arms. We want everything ready— absolutely perfect—before we shoot.”
Newell considered Pasadena’s current position in relation to the contact. He intended to hit his target on its southerly leg. Why not assume it was going to continue its apparent straight-line maneuvering? He estimated his firing position very carefully. Once he was ready and was completely silent, it would be no different than hiding behind a tree. He’d be invisible. Satisfied, he asked the quartermaster to give the OOD a course to that spot.
When sonar eventually reported the target had turned down the predicted southerly leg, Newell checked his initial firing point again. “I want to be at a point exactly four thousand yards east of his estimated position … right about here.” He jabbed at the chart with a finger. “We’ll maneuver to remain absolutely silent until we shoot.”
Pasadena was circling near her position, almost an hour before firing time. “I want to hold us at four hundred feet, stay below him,” Newell said to the diving officer. “He could be running deeper than I’m estimating, but we’ll fire from there.” He had to be dragging an antenna—the boomers were in constant contact with the National Military Command System. Newell struggled to conceal his knowledge that this was a Trident with a communication buoy probably operating at no more than three hundred feet.
The weapons-control coordinator reported ready. The torpedoes had been warmed, the tubes flooded and pressure equalized, muzzle doors opened—anything that would send a warning to their target had been completed beyond the estimated range of the target’s hearing … assuming Newell was correct about their sound gear, he said. The XO claimed it still didn’t have the sophistication of their own; Newell said he could take no chances. What he couldn’t say was that he knew American listening devices were still superior to anything the Soviets made.
The weapons-control coordinator reported that all the presets—target’s course, speed, range, aspect, optimum depth—were good enough to launch an attack … assuming the target made no further maneuvers. Nothing was absolute in the ocean depths, where sound could be twisted in strange ways.
“Range?” Newell’s face remained calm as he asked the same question once again for the third time in ten minutes. Dick Makin knew exactly what was running through the captain’s mind—emergency procedures, in case they’d been detected.
“About eight thousand yards.”
“Any change in the sound?”
“Negative, sir. If they’re preparing to shoot anything at us, they did it a long time ago. They’re just cruising down the highway … not a care in the world. You know how these boomers are.” But they weren’t always like that. Quite often their maneuvers were pure whim, to put off any silent marauders.
“You’d think they might be a little more concerned … what with everything that’s happening on the surface,” the OOD said. This all seemed so easy to him, more like an exercise shot. Combat was supposed to be so much more complex. “You’d think they’d have as much information about the war as we’ve gotten. They have to remain close to the surface for messages.”
“Hell, we’re in the middle of nowhere,” Newell answered. “It’s just like being out in the desert. If there’s a hawk around, you’ll see him almost as soon as he sees you.” He saw by the man’s eyes that he wasn’t completely satisfied. “You worried about the masking technique they’re using?” Newell had heard others talking—whispering, really, because they didn’t want their captain to think they were nervous about this new tactic.
“I guess so, Captain. Sonar’s never reported anything but Alaska’s signature since we confirmed the contact.” He folded his arms awkwardly. “It’s eerie.” His eyes remained fixed on the control-panel dials before the helmsman as he spoke. “Besides, he’s driving a straight line.”
“You’re damn right it’s eerie,” Newell answered. “I feel the same way. Hell, if we hadn’t been warned about that masking device of theirs, we’d probably be asking them to exchange movies by now.” He moved over beside the OOD and placed a hand on his shoulder. “And if we hadn’t received that message, it’s quite possible that by right this minute one of their torpedoes would have split us open like an egg and you and I would be floating toward the bottom … and we’d already be compressed into a tiny piece of goo that even the sharks wouldn’t touch.”
The OOD’s eyes moved from the dials to settle on Newell, but he said nothing.
“Myself, I’d prefer the Russians got their jocks blown off, Steve.”
“Me, too, Captain,” the OOD answered, his gaze moving back to the dials. “Me, too.”
The silence in the control room seemed overpowering until Newell called out, “Range?”
“Coming up to six thousand….”
“Okay,” Newell interrupted, “one more time. Firing-point procedures, tubes one and two.”
The weapons-control coordinator went through the same reports. The torpedoes were ready.
The fire-control coordinator, Dick Makin, repeated that the solution was ready. Although the target would be crossing Pasadena’s bow, they would fire before it reached that point. There was no reason to start it out as a stern chase for the torpedoes. The target would turn away instinctively anyway.
They waited—silently—as their target closed, Newell looked over to the diving officer.
“Slight up bubble, sir,” he answered, anticipating the question.
His glance shifted to the OOD.
“The ship is ready, sir.”
“The weapon is ready, sir.”
“Solution ready, sir.”
Newell’s voice boomed out, echoing through the control room. “Shoot on generated bearings.”
A water slug propelled the first torpedo out of the tube.
Ten seconds later, “Tube number two, shoot on generated bearings.”
Every man in the ship was involved in his own thoughts as he felt the shudder of the slugs, yet each also shared a similar thought—this was the first time Pasadena had ever fired in anger, and they desperately hoped everything they had been taught would now save their lives.
“Both units running properly, sir.”
“That woke him up!” the chief sonarman exclaimed a moment later.
“Evading?” Newell called out. So much time seemed to have passed—yet it was no more than twenty seconds since the second torpedo left the tube. There had to be some reaction from their target. There was no doubting your sonar when a torpedo was fired at you. It sounded like a train! Newell wanted to move, too, to evade whatever might be fired back at him. That’s what they taught you. Yet he didn’t want to break the wires that controlled the torpedoes, that directed them right into an evading target.
Another pause. Then, “He’s cranking it all the way up … probably going deep … probably turning….” The voice from sonar was tentative, breaking occasionally to listen, as it also attempted to report on what was occurring at the instant.
The torpedoes shifted from a high-speed pre-enabling run to a slower snake search for their target. The wires had broken. Pasadena could maneuver whenever he wanted to.
“No noisemakers yet … wait one … yeah, there’s one in the water, I think … if I didn’t know different, I’d say it sounds just like one of ours … there’s a couple more of them.” Another hesitation. “First torpedo’s out of search … homing … range gating….” The torpedo’s sonar had locked on its target. Now it would close relentlessly, its speed increasing as it closed for the kill. “Christ, it’s all so close I can’t tell if it’s locked on the target or the noisemaker … same for number two….” The voice was increasing in pitch. The entire process wouldn’t consume much more than two minutes, just one hundred twenty seconds, hardly enough time for an unsuspecting submarine to evade a surprise attack.
“Steve,” Newell’s call to his sonar officer rose over the voice from sonar, “No counterattack … no snapshot?”
“Nothing like that, Captain. I don’t think he’d have had a prayer evading if he tried to shoot. He’s just playing rabbit for us.”
A sharp blast whipped through Pasadena like a lash as the first torpedo exploded.
“Was that a….” Newell’s voice was drowned out by a second, equally vicious explosion, an echo to the first.
“I couldn’t tell, Captain. Too soon after he fired noisemakers. If I had to guess, I’d say that first was a direct hit.”
“What about…?”
“There’s just a mess out there, sir.” The chief had anticipated Newell’s next question. “We’re so damn close….”
Newell had already begun to speak to the OOD. “Let’s move—just in case he’s got one last gasp left.” He called over to Bob Holloway, “Stand by tubes three and four.” And to the control room as a whole, he added, “We’ll prepare to fire again. Maybe we just blew up some noisemakers. Those titanium hulls can be pretty damn tough, but he’s got to be hurting. Eight hundred feet,” he ordered the diving officer.
The control room had remained silent, almost trancelike, from the moment the torpedoes were fired. There had been no struggle, no frantic scramble, as they prepared for their enemy. They’d approached quietly while their target presented itself—almost an assassination. It had been little different than putting a gun to someone’s head … akin to an execution.
They’d fired.
They’d waited for the body to drop.
But in this case they could not see it drop, not even through the miracle of sound. The turmoil caused by two torpedoes detonating within seconds of each other had left a sound void in the water, and it was absolutely foolish to wait for it to clear. They could become the sitting duck without ever knowing it.
Pasadena returned to normal operation. The OOD and the diving officer brought her to life. Torpedo tubes were readied for another shot. The attack team began the process of preparing another solution—if a target still remained.
“There was at least one hit, Captain,” Tommy Lott bellowed from sonar.
“What have you got, Chief?”
“Got to be going down … propeller’s going crazy… sounds like he’s trying to back out of trouble … blowing main ballast … want me to put it on the speaker?”
Newell was in sonar before the chief had completed his last words. And what he heard left no doubt in anyone’s mind that there was a submarine struggling for life. That was just seconds before another sound came clearly through the water—crumbling, snapping metal.
Bulkheads were shattering.
Pasadena had been unable to hear that initial leak, if indeed that first indication of water had seeped into their target that slowly. But once through the hull, once that first trickle had grown to a flow—then a roaring, smashing cascade—the increasing pressure had burst interior bulkheads like eggshells.
The sound of tortured metal screamed across the depths as the engineering spaces imploded, tearing the frantically spinning shaft from its bearings. Each man in Pasadena’s sonar would retain a mental picture of exactly how their target was experiencing its final seconds, men and equipment alike bursting apart from the intense pressure. It must have been mercifully quick for most of that crew, even for those in the most distant spaces of the submarine who would have seconds more to imagine their fate before every compartment imploded from the pressure.
Newell turned slowly and walked back into the control room. As he reached behind to slide the sonar door closed, he said softly, “You can go back to business as usual, gentlemen. Pasadena has destroyed the enemy.”
The men in the control room glanced briefly at each other, unable to hold anyone’s gaze for long as they silently thanked their lucky stars that the other guy had been sunk. Their captain had brought them through.
Across the water the remains of their target plummeted to the bottom of the Pacific. USS Alaska’s pieces spread like windblown seed as they plummeted toward the ocean floor. Her Trident missiles would no longer threaten the Soviet Union.
When Pasadena went to periscope depth and raised her antenna for her normal messages that night, she received new orders. She was sent to a new sector, almost three days from her current location. Her target there would be another Soviet ballistic-missile submarine—and it, too, possessed the same devilish masking device that would imitate an American Trident submarine.
There were a great many similarities in the destruction of Nevada. The messages received by Pasadena communicated even greater peril, warned that her mission was even more critical to the safety of the nation, and described how the next Russian SSBN also carried a masking device that would allow her to imitate another American boomer, Nevada, perfectly. They were not to be deceived. They were not to question their orders. It was imperative that this Soviet missile submarine be sunk at the earliest moment, before she received orders to launch her missiles on America. Any hesitation by Pasadena could mean her own loss, and that could herald the end of the United States.
Wayne Newell reinforced this in his own way until his crew hungered for their new target. Only after Pasadena had successfully destroyed her second target, only after the explosion of her torpedoes and the haunting sounds of the target’s death throes, did they ponder the horror of what they had accomplished—another submarine, one that gave every indication of being one of their own, had gone to the bottom with all hands.
Chapter Two
Looking Ahead
