Boomer, page 32
“Our first unit is in enabling run.” The search!
“Target’s first unit is range gating. Appears to have picked up a noisemaker. Second unit range gating also—I’m damn sure on us—at a three-second ping interval.” The torpedo was homing, coming in at high speed for the kill.
Another sonar wave washed over Manchester. Damn, Newell hadn’t turned away yet. He was taking another range to….
“He’s getting ready to shoot again.” David Hall was thinking the same thing.
“He couldn’t … I don’t think. His tubes were empty. That’s too fast for reloading,” Simonds said. “Less than five minutes from that first shot at the boomer. He’s just refining his solution.” He called down to the torpedo room. “How long to reload one and two?”
“Three minutes—maybe less if we level off sometime. Christ, this reloading isn’t the easiest thing to do standing on your ear.”
“You’re doing a wonderful job,” Simonds called back. “But if you don’t do it faster, you may find yourself swimming.”
“Our first unit’s homing on something now. Second unit’s … something’s wrong with that second one. Both the boomer’s shots are range gating, but I can’t tell on what. A hell of a mess out there.”
Steel closed his eyes. If he held course for too much longer, Pasadena would eventually come in behind him. But that would be suicidal for Newell! He’d used four torpedoes—two for the boomer, two for him—and there was at least one range gating on Pasadena right now. How long before she reloaded?
With his eyes still shut, a vision of Wayne Newell materialized. No, it wasn’t a single likeness, more a multiple image of different stages in Wayne’s life—a serious, single-minded student at nuclear power school, the faultlessly impeccable navigator, a nondrinker because he couldn’t drink and maintain his perfect vision of himself, even the perfectionist who questioned superiors about anything less than 4.0 on his fitness reports. He was a man of absolutes, and it was now quite obvious that he intended to eradicate this interruption in his pursuit of Florida.
Once Wayne had made up his mind, there was no turning back. He was a man who established goals and met each one before he went on to the next. Manchester—or rather, her destruction—had become the next goal, and Steel understood that Newell would be persistent in his attack. He would go to unusual lengths, following his own concepts of pressing the attack rather than any established doctrine. He was a club fighter and he would press in for that final shot, ignoring his opponent’s punches, seeking the surprise shot that would drop the other to the canvas—or the ocean floor.
Steel thought about the loss of the other boomers and imagined the tremendous pressure that Newell must be under. What in God’s name had possessed him? How had he managed to hold his crew together? There were no immediate answers to those questions, and Steel knew in a flash that he would never know because one or both of them would shortly be dead.
There was also another thing he understood. Manchester could fire as many as she was capable of, and Newell would continue to press the attack as long as he remained afloat. He was that type of individual. Steel thought about how impressed he’d always been with Wayne’s determination. He still was.
“Two-second ping interval on the one that’s after us.”
What was it closing on? Was it Manchester? Was it a noisemaker? They had turned away from the torpedoes, gone deeper to confuse them. That was increasing the range, a bit more time anyway, even if it was only seconds. How do you change everything you’ve been taught?
“Our first unit’s in a two-second ping interval.”
Steel had two full tubes. Pasadena was reloading all four. “Come right. Sonar, let’s go active and get another range. Firing-point procedures on three and four.”
The OOD had worked with Steel for a long time. “Settle on a course off his stern, Captain?”
“Correct.”
“Fifty-six hundred yards.…”
Steel wasn’t concerned with anything else. The OOD would settle on a course. The fire-control coordinator, Peter Simonds, would have a solution. The weapons in tubes three and four had been ready before they fired the first two.
“We’re turning toward that torpedo, Captain,” Simonds said under his breath. Everyone else in control understood that, but none of them would want to hear it broadcast either.
“Hell,” Steel answered, “he’s never bothered to turn away from us.” How do you change everything you’ve been taught?
The XO had one thumb in the air. “We can do it at this range. Solution is.…”
The thumb was enough of an answer. “Tube number three, match sonar bearings and shoot.”
The water slug was physical confirmation that the torpedo was on its way.
“One-second ping interval on that torpedo, Captain. I don’t know what it’s on to but it sounds happy,” called Chief Moroney. Even with a torpedo bearing down on him, the chief was no different than he’d been during exercises.
The hell with the wire. “Add another two hundred feet,” he called to the diving officer. “Left full rudder.”
“Our unit is in continuous range gate.” That meant their first shot was homing on a target … a noisemaker … perhaps Pasadena.
“Launch transient on the target’s bearing … another single torpedo in the water.”
Somehow, Wayne Newell had reloaded and held his course long enough to fire. Now he had to turn away and go very deep.
An hour before, the General Secretary had been talking about balancing on a high wire with no net beneath them. It seemed an accurate comparison. The other members of his Defense Council—the new Defense Council—had been in agreement. None of those remaining had any desire to become involved in a missile exchange unless it was apparent that the odds were heavily weighted on their side.
Now they were startled to note that both the General Secretary and the Minister of Defense were visibly shaken as they reentered the council chambers. The former appeared more exhausted than disturbed, while the latter’s face had become a ghostly white, vividly contrasted by his heavy beard. There was an aura of defeat about them.
“It seems there is no doubt on the President’s part that Pasadena is the cause,” the General Secretary announced, sitting down heavily. “I have no idea what his source of information might be.”
“They’re bluffing,” the head of the KGB commented with little vigor.
“Possibly.”
“But,” the Minister of Defense countered, “they also seem to have figured out the purpose behind SSV-516 and the satellite.”
“More bluff?” This time the KGB leader sounded even less sure of himself.
“Possibly.” The General Secretary had determined before the last phone conversation with Washington was completed that he wanted each member of the Defense Council to realize that they had talked themselves into the final decision. “There is also a possibility of both sides extricating themselves before we run out of choices.” How he wished his wife could join him now, see how he was turning their heads, see how he had taken control of the situation. “That high wire I mentioned has become a razor blade.”
The Chief of the Main Political Directorate was a dour individual who rarely spoke until he had a sense of how the others felt. “May I assume that each of you finds that a meeting of the minds is more advantageous than seeing this strategy through to its conclusion?” He was always formal and precise, a habit that maddened the head of the KGB, whom he now turned to. He had no intention of letting anyone respond to the first question. “May I assume that Soviet intelligence services made assumptions years ago that no longer have any bearing on this situation?”
The KGB head bristled for a moment, looked to the General Secretary for some support, found none, and finally said, “Predicting the future seems to be more difficult as each year passes.”
“One generation cannot think for the other?” the chief pressed.
“It is apparent that … this is the case.”
The Minister of Defense said, “They claim that Pasadena has been destroyed … that their missile submarines are all on alert and that Florida will destroy every military base west of the Urals if there is further indication of any aggression against their submarines.”
“What proof is there?”
“They intend to order her to launch a missile. The President says that’s all the proof required. The target will have little value. If we attempt to destroy the missile, if there is any indication from any of their satellites of launch preparation here, they will launch a massive strike. They are prepared,” he concluded with finality.
“So are we.”
“It’s a bluff,” the KGB head growled.
“Possibly,” the Minister of Defense responded unconvincingly. He might have added that both sides knew that in the end it would always come down to a bluff.
“At this moment they are in contact with every major nation and they are detailing the events of the past few days,” the General Secretary said quietly.
“What’s to prevent them from—”
“We have already intercepted those messages to their allies explaining that the Soviet Union and the United States have reached an agreement to avoid what might have been a general exchange.…” He droned on without expression until he was interrupted.
“What if Florida doesn’t launch? How do we know that Pasadena hasn’t been successful?”
“There appears to be only one method of finding out. The President is quite adamant in that regard.”
Neither the General Secretary nor the Minister of Defense mentioned the second set of conditions.
“… Range gating … first target’s torpedo on two-second interval …” an anxious voice reported from Pasadena’s sonar room. The same voice a split second later, “Second target’s torpedo still range gating … one-second interval now.”
Another voice in the background, “Oh, Christ, listen to those screws. Maybe the noisemakers didn’t work—they must be on us.”
The boomer had fired two torpedoes at Pasadena. The first had been decoyed and the other one appeared to have passed the noisemakers and was gradually closing in a stern chase. But the second submarine also had one working torpedo attacking them head-on.
Pasadena’s crew reacted out of instinct to their situation. They had been at war for days, their enemy seemingly known only to their captain. Wayne Newell’s personality had reversed itself too, often cajoling a crew that feared an enemy they were unsure of, then shifting into depressions in the last day. This lack of continuity in crisis had thrown them into total confusion. Yet the captain’s face now radiated a smile of contentment that frightened those around him. Two torpedoes, each one carrying enough high explosive to rip Pasadena apart, were range gating on his submarine and he was actually enjoying himself.
“Number-one tube loaded. The chief says he’ll have the tube and the unit ready super fast. They’re working on the others now.”
“XO,” Newell called, looking about the control room for his executive officer, “how long—”
“He’s in sonar, Captain.”
“Ridiculous. He’s the fire-control coordinator. He’s supposed to be here—with me.” Newell’s face shaded. The smile vanished.
“Captain, recommend more noisemakers,” the OOD said for the second time. There was an urgency in his voice magnified by fear. They’d evaded after shooting at the boomer, coming right, then left, then right again. And they had increased their depth twice. Still, two torpedoes had searched for and apparently found them. The XO had gone into sonar. Now the OOD found himself left completely out of the captain’s plans. He fired noisemakers on his own.
“Depth?”
“Seven hundred.”
“Go deeper,” Newell decided, as if it was of little concern to him, “another hundred.” He took a couple of steps toward the entrance to sonar. “Dick! What the hell are you doing in there? Get your ass—”
“First torpedo is on continuous range gating.” Locked on and closing. “Must be on a noisemaker or—”
“Oh shit …” was cut off as a powerful explosion rocked Pasadena. She seemed to jump bodily to port. Yet there was no change in her forward motion after a violent shudder coursed down her entire length. The torpedo had detonated on a nearby noisemaker.
“That final torpedo got lost in the blast.” Nothing could possibly be heard on the passive sonar. The voice was frantic, unidentifiable. “Maybe … it had to be on continuous range gate.”
“Go active on the target,” Newell ordered.
Christ, the OOD thought, there’s another almost on top of us and he’s paying no attention.
“Fifty-two hundred yards.”
“Firing-point procedures.”
Lieutenant Holloway, the weapons-control coordinator, sat at his console, his face ashen, eyes tightly closed. “Weapon is ready,” he said in a soft monotone.
“Good job, Bob, good job. Not much time left.” Newell’s expression was one of heightened glee now. He seemed to have forgotten his executive officer as soon as the torpedo was reported ready. “Shoot on generated bearings.”
The familiar thud of the water slug was felt through the length of the ship.
Done. Beautiful. Never let anything else interfere when you’re making an attack. “Left full rudder. Bring her up to three hundred feet.” The diving officer found Newell beside him. “Make it as big an up angle as you can. Take her right to the edge.” His hand rested easily on the man’s shoulder. It would be close. If they got enough water between themselves and the blast, they might just make it. “You’ve got a torpedo coming up your ass and you might just save our necks. I don’t want to vent main ballast.” Even before he had finished, he was crossing control toward sonar, grabbing the overhead supports to brace himself against the radical maneuvering of the submarine. “Dick, what the—”
His executive officer stood framed in the door of sonar, his face a grim mask, eyes boring into Newell’s. “Captain, we have been firing on American submarines. There is absolutely no doubt among anyone in sonar. It is my duty—”
Pasadena jerked wildly to starboard and seemed to leap toward the surface at the same time a deafening blast rocketed through the ship. The lights blinked out. Loose bodies and gear were hurled in every direction.
The first voice to be heard shouted, “Lost steering control.”
Chapter Seventeen
Buck Nelson had read those articles in the Navy publications in his spare time. Professional reading it was called. Speculation. That’s what he called them—pure speculation. No one, especially some young buck at a typewriter, could tell what it was really going to be like until it actually happened. Now that it had, one of the terms that had been used kept coming back to him—melee warfare.
Simply stated, modern sonar and silencing techniques combined with computer technology and high-speed torpedoes would create the melee. Like a catfight, nothing would happen until the contestants were almost on top of each other. Then it was a high-speed melee with the old tactics tossed out and intuition and luck the deciding factors.
And that’s what Nelson anticipated now as sonar attempted to keep him abreast of the nearby action. He wondered if he would ever learn why two 688s were fighting with each other after one had actually fired on him. His concern over the 688s abated with the next report from sonar.
“Torpedo still has us—or something near us—range gating now at one-second intervals.”
“Time for that decoy. Shoot …” Nelson ordered.
“We’re only at six hundred now,” Jimmy Cross said. They couldn’t get too deep as far as he was concerned. He’d double that depth now without blinking an eye—after the creaking and groaning of the hull contracting under pressure, it was still a piece of cake when one considered the alternative. Either pull the plug or vent main ballast….
Florida turned away from the decoy, increasing speed and going deeper on Nelson’s orders. Even though the wires had been broken when the 688 turned toward the other submarine, that torpedo was persistent. But the decoy would sound like Florida.
“Make it a thousand feet.”
“Continuous range gating … doesn’t seem to be any change in—” Dan Mundy’s calm, even voice was cut off by an explosion off her port quarter.
Florida was still increasing her depth when the blast occurred, and it seemed to give her an added push. But it was distant enough that there was no damage. The decoy!
“Make her level,” Nelson ordered. “Speed ten knots.”
“You’re going to stay around for the action,” Jimmy Cross commented soberly, a slight smile forming at the corners of his mouth.
Nelson nodded. “They’ve forgotten us for the time being. More than likely, they heard an explosion out here but they don’t know what happened. It makes sonar worthless for a while. It’s just mush out there between us and them. I think if we just stay near all that busted-up water where the torpedo blew, no one’s going to be the wiser. I can’t take the chance of running and having the bad guy come chasing after us later. If we just shut up, sooner or later someone’s going to do something dumb.”
“Captain,” Chief Delaney reported, “we can’t tell what’s happening out there. Between those explosions and their maneuvering, we can’t tell who’s who.”
David Hall had a special way with words, a method of calling a spade a spade in visual terms. There was never any doubt about his opinion of other people or a particular situation. Ben Steel had eventually developed almost a dependency on his sonar officer’s critical assessments. Although it wasn’t rare for David to raise his voice, this time he was anything but loud. His tone as he stood at the entrance to sonar was solemn, “Captain, continuous range gate on that torpedo.” He was pointing toward their starboard quarter as if he were able to see the torpedo beyond their hull. “No doubting we’re the target. Recommend we pull the plug—”
