Operation White Out, page 19
“I have the Conn,” the skipper announced. “Pots, flood everything you can! Diving Officer, take her to the bottom—quietly, quietly! Potts, Man Battle Stations—by sound-powered phone and runner. Get the word out, no noise of any kind…no noise at all!”
I stepped out to Plot, to assist Seth and the Chief Quartermaster. “Show me what you got, Fonzie,” I said as Seth and I leaned over the table.
Waverly showed up as the Battle Stations OOD and assumed the Deck and Conn.
“We’re here,” Chief Fonzarelli said, “near the bottom. Eighty-seven is here, ten thousand yards out. Eighty-eight is here at ten thousand yards.”
King handed him some numbers, and Fonzarelli laid a line on the chart from S-87. “This is the torpedo track,” he said. “It will reach our position in twenty-six minutes and twenty-eight seconds.” He placed a pencil point on the track. “As you can see, the torpedo is not aimed at us; it’s aimed at eighty-eight.”
“Unlikely Chángzhēng 3A knows we’re here,” I said.
“It’s also unlikely she would shoot at us even if she knew about us,” the skipper added. “China is not interested in going to war with the United States.”
“On the bottom on the skids,” Waverly announced.
Twenty-five minutes later, the torpedo passed above us, close enough to hear it through the hull. It had not yet activated its search sonar, definitive evidence it was not aimed at us.
“Sierra-eighty-eight’s captain would be one of Taiwan’s most experienced sub skippers,” I commented. “I presume he will make like a hole in the bottom.”
We watched and listened in silence, Sonar passing updates to Plot every minute or so.
Then King told us, “It’s gone active on search sonar. That means it is actively searching for its target. Up ’til now, it’s just been on inertial.”
The pinging went from quick to really fast. “It’s got something,” King said. “Stand by for boom!”
Instead, we heard a thud, something like a sledgehammer striking solid metal.
“Dud,” King said. “Now what?”
“Torpedo in the water!” Sonar announced quietly. “It’s from Sierra-eighty-eight.” And moments later, “Sierra-eighty-eight is moving…oops! She’s gone ultra-quiet. I’ve lost her.”
“That probably means that Chángzhēng 3A can’t find her either, so they won’t shoot again,” I said. “Besides, they’re busy trying to evade a smart torpedo.”
“Not yet,” King said. “No way they can hear it. They’re way too noisy. Besides, they know their first shot didn’t explode. They’ll want to try another one.”
The skipper nodded. “I think you’re right, King.”
King returned to Sonar.
A few minutes later, the Taiwanese torpedo passed over us. King came out from Sonar.
“Nothing yet. Chángzhēng 3A is just sitting there, searching, probably.” Mason waved King into Sonar.
Five minutes later, King returned. “It looks like Chángzhēng 3A turned toward us, or rather toward where Sierra-eighty-eight used to be. She’s cranked to flank—twenty-five knots. That means Chángzhēng 3A and the torpedo are approaching each other at nearly fifty knots!”
“Torpedo’s shifted to active,” Sonar announced. And then, “Sierra-eighty-seven shut down her engines and is drifting to the right.”
“They heard the torpedo,” I said. “Too late to do much about it.”
“Explosion at zero-nine-five!” Sonar announced.
“Best bearing and range,” Waverly asked.
“Zero-nine-five, seven-five-zero-zero yards,” Sonar answered.
“Officer-of-the-Deck,” the skipper said, “lift off the bottom quietly and bring us quickly but quietly on the outboards halfway to Sierra-eighty-eight’s last known position.”
Thirty minutes later, Waverly said, “In position, Captain. I’m bottomed with a heading of zero-nine-zero.”
Sonar announced, “I think I have Sierra-eighty-eight bearing zero-four-five.”
“Waverly,” the skipper said, “inform the crew that Teuthis will be taking on a twenty-degree port list. Then trim the ship to a port twenty-degree list. We’re going to shield our Gertrude transmissions with the sub’s body.”
Waverly allowed five minutes for the word to get passed throughout the sub. Then he ordered his COW to put a twenty-degree port list on the sub. That took ten minutes. When Teuthis stabilized, the skipper set the Gertrude to very low power and keyed the mike.
“To Taiwan AIP sub on bottom, this is USS Teuthis.” He waited for a minute, cranked up the power a bit, and repeated his call.
This time the Taiwanese submarine answered, also on low power. “This is ROCS Hi Bào, Roger.”
“Hi Bào, this is Teuthis. I will move closer to you to minimize transmissions being overheard.”
“This is ROCS Hi Bào, Roger.”
Waverly moved to within 1,000 yards of Hi Bào, and then the skipper transmitted again.
“Hi Bào, this is Teuthis on low power. Do you read?”
“This is Hi Bào. Roger.”
“What is your status, Hi Bào?”
“We are bottomed at one hundred eighty-three meters. We were struck by a torpedo somewhere aft—a torpedo that did not explode. Our stern planes are not working and are locked in full dive position. We have air for ten days.”
“This is Commander Lonie Franken-Ester, Commanding Officer of Teuthis. We are a US nuclear submarine with lockout diver capability. We are carrying the DSRV Mystic. With your permission, we will move close aboard your port side and examine your damage with a television-enabled remotely operated vehicle (ROV).”
“This is Tiong-hāu Zhang Min, commanding ROC Submarine Hi Bào (Sea Leopard in English). Permission granted to come along my port side. How close will you come?”
“We have skids that allow us to bottom safely and extendable outboard drives for precise maneuvering. We will approach you to within twenty meters.”
The skipper turned to Waverly. “You got that?”
“Yes, Sir.” Waverly issued the appropriate orders to bring Teuthis alongside Hi Bào.
“Secure Battle Stations,” the skipper told Waverly. “I’m going to get some sleep.”
USS TEUTHIS—BOTTOMED IN WAGONER INLET
Wilbur assumed the watch for the final two hours of day sixty-six. He launched the Basketball under Wally’s control and moved us deftly port to port alongside Hi Bào. He took nearly two hours and did it right. Franklin relieved him as Wally was preparing to inspect the damage to the Taiwanese stern planes.
Even though it was midnight, all the divers except Sergyi crowded around the Basketball monitor in Dive Control. Wally moved the Basketball out and down the port side of Hi Bào. She had a teardrop shape like the Barbell, ending in a single propellor. The upper and lower rudder and stern planes formed a large plus sign ahead of the screw, when viewed from astern. They were free of any kind of fairing or cage. The sub was not designed to bottom, but when she did, as now, she rested on the hull forward of the sail and the bottom of the lower rudder that was strengthened to carry the weight.
As soon as the port dive plane came into view, it was obvious that it was at full dive. Wally moved closer to where it attached to the hull. I could see nothing obvious. He moved the Basketball forward, so we saw the plane’s leading edge. It angled down slightly.
“That’s not right,” I said to no one in particular.
Wally brought the Basketball over the top of the dive plane. Near the outer edge was a big dent.
“Looks like the torpedo came from above and hit the edge of the plane really hard,” Ham said. “Bent the shaft.”
“Give some thought as to how you might be able to repair that,” I said to Ham. “And, Wally, be prepared to show the damage to the captain. I’ll get him.”
The skipper, the Engineer, Doug Watson, Ham, and I sat around the Wardroom table.
“The stern planes drive shaft appears bent,” the skipper said.
“More particularly,” Doug added, “the port shaft is bent down with the plane in full dive. If we can get some leverage, we should be able to jack it back.”
“Here’s my thought,” I said. “We do not appear to have bottomed on rock. So, we cannot jack upward against the seafloor. If we can rotate the planes until the bend is toward the stern, we can jack the plane against the hull to straighten the shaft.”
“We don’t know there isn’t rock a foot or so below the silt,” Ham said. “Before we do anything, I think we should check that out.”
“We need to discuss this with their engineering people,” Doug said. “Perhaps while you check the bottom, Ham.”
“Okay,” the skipper said. “We have some ideas here, but Doug is correct. We need to talk with their Engineer first. I’ll make the arrangements.” He picked up the phone and called the OOD in Control. “Franklin, get hold of Lieutenant Taggert. Tell him to prepare for DSRV ops. Ham, get your divers out to check the bottom. When they finish, keep them at pressure since they will have to effect any repairs. We’ll bring their Engineer here so he can inspect the damage, and then Mac, you and Doug will go there to see the internal arrangement.” The skipper leaned back in his chair. “Any questions?”
When there were none, he left to call Hi Bào.
“Hi Bào, this is Teuthis. We will send the DSRV Mystic to your after escape hatch to bring your Engineer here so he can inspect the damage using our facilities.”
“This is Hi Bào. Roger, we will comply. Please advise when Mystic is underway.”
Anticipating what was coming, Ham had already commenced pressing the divers to 600 feet. Taggert and his people were ready to lift off Teuthis fifteen minutes after receiving the order. Doug and I met at the after escape trunk. Together, we climbed through the trunk into Mystic.
Typically, Abelé secured the hatch and flooded the skirt, but this time, Flanger did the honors. Since we were only several feet away from Hi Bào, Taggert lifted us above both submarine sails and then moved aft until he spotted the Hi Bào escape hatch centered in the identifying sealing ring. He lowered Mystic until the skirt made a good seat, and then Flanger pumped the skirt dry, opened the hatch, and pounded on Hi Bào’s hatch with his hammer. The hatch opened, revealing a face with smiling Chinese features.
“Welcome to Hi Bào,” the man said in passable English.
Doug and I descended into the Taiwanese submarine, where an officer met us. He saluted. “I am Siáu-hāu Li Wei, Executive Officer. My rank is the equivalent of your Lieutenant Commander.” His English was indistinguishable from everyday American English.
“I am Commander Mac McDowell, Executive Officer of Teuthis,” I said, returning his salute, “and this is Lieutenant Commander Doug Watson, our Engineer.” Doug and Li Wei exchanged salutes.
“Please accompany me forward,” Li Wei said.
The crewman who had opened the hatch—I took him to be a chief petty officer—pointed upward and nodded with a smile.
“Sure,” I said and yelled through the hatch, “Chief, you’re getting company.”
We followed the Executive Officer forward to their small Wardroom, where we met their captain.
“I am Tiong-hāu Zhang Min, Commanding Officer,” he said in a medium-tone baritone. He was nearly as tall as me and appeared to be in excellent physical condition. Doug and their XO stood eye to eye at five feet eight inches, but Doug was stockier, outweighing him by at least twenty-five muscular pounds.
“Please sit,” the captain said, waving at the small table. “Your presence is a Godsend,” he said without preamble. “With thick ice above us, I do not know what we could have done to extricate ourselves from this predicament.”
His English was precise and well educated with just a trace of accent. “My crew of fifty-nine and eight officers consists of the best submariners in our Navy. They are stoic but worried about our present circumstance. Knowing that, in a worst-case scenario, you can take us aboard your vessel has reassured everyone.” The captain chuckled from deep in his chest. “I understand the burden an extra sixty-seven people would place on your vessel. So, let us do everything possible to avoid that.” He reached for a phone and placed a call.
Shortly thereafter, an officer wearing the same rank insignia as the XO pushed the curtain aside and entered the Wardroom.
“Please meet my Engineering Officer, Siáu-hāu Chen Kai,” the captain said.
Doug and I introduced ourselves.
“Pleased to meet you gentlemen,” Chen Kai said, his English more accented than either the CO or XO. He was short—about five feet six inches, slim, and trim.
“How much of your crew speak English?” I asked the captain.
“Everyone,” he answered. “In fact, most educated people in Taiwan speak some level of English. There is a movement to make English the second official language of Taiwan.” He looked at his Engineer. “Chen Kai, please show our guests your port plane problem from inside the Engine Room. Then you will accompany them to their submarine to view the damage from outside.”
He took us aft. Doug traced out the hydraulic lines for the stern planes. “It looks like you can separate the port from the starboard actuators,” he said to Chen Kai. “Once you inspect the outside damage, if you agree, your people should isolate the port stern plane hydraulics so we can rotate the plane from the outside. You will understand once you see the problem.”
We returned to Teuthis on Mystic, where Doug and I accompanied Chen Kai first to meet the skipper and then to Dive Control. By this time, Ham had divers in the water on umbilicals, so we could communicate easily.
Chen Kai was obviously fascinated by our diving technology, but he turned his attention to the Basketball as Derrick glided it around the port plane. One of the divers accompanied the Basketball, pointing out specific things as Doug mentioned them.
“I agree with your assessment that the torpedo hit the top of the dive plane, bending the shaft,” Chen Kai said. “Straightening it may very well solve the problem.”
“Here are my thoughts on how to fix this,” Doug said. “First, the divers weld eyebolts to the rudder top and the trailing edge of the port diving plane while your people isolate the hydraulics. Second, we attach a chain between both eyebolts connected to what we call a come-along—a cable pulling rachet. Third, the divers rachet up the dive plane to where the shaft bend is horizontal. Fourth, the divers use a hydraulic jack between the hull and the plane inner edge to push out the plane, straightening the shaft—we hope.” Douglas was silent for several seconds. “The skin at the stern planes—that’s not your pressure hull, is it?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“How strong?”
“It’s structural, but I’m not sure it can take the hydraulic jack pressure.”
“Then,” Doug said, “we’ll have to distribute the pressure with a steel plate. Do you have the capability to manufacture a one by one-half meter plate that conforms to the hull lengthwise?”
“We can do that,” Chen Kai said.
“Good. Get your guys on it. We’ll bring it over here with Mystic when we’re ready.”
WAGONER INLET—DIVING OPS ON BOTTOM
Ham’s divers (no longer mine, alas) lived for the kind of operation that lay ahead. In 600 feet of water under a thick ice cover—twenty feet or so—they had to jury-rig a major repair for a foreign submarine that had to hold for their 8,125 nautical mile journey to their home waters.
Each of the divers could weld underwater, but First-class Engineman Wlodek Cslauski and Second-class Auxiliaryman Jeremy Romain—Ski and Jer to everyone—could weld underwater better than anyone I ever met. Their job was to attach a steel eyebolt to the rudder top and the trailing edge of the port dive plane so that it would not pull loose under the strain of the come-along. Doing those welds in air would be difficult enough, but doing them underwater at 600 feet was something that few men in the world could pull off.
Following the adage of measure thrice, cut once, Ham cautioned Ski and Jer to work together, slow and steady. I was in Dive Control when he set them to their task.
“Listen, you knuckleheads! Everyone’s depending on you—our guys and their guys. You are the only ones here with the skill to pull this off. If we don’t fix this, we all will be hot bunking the entire way to Pearl. Nobody wants that, so make this work!”
“Nothing like a bit of pressure,” I said to Ham with a grin.
“Just six hundred feet. They’ve been deeper,” Ham said.
Derrick and Wally worked port and starboard, relieving each other when the need to sleep was about to overcome. Ski and Jer started with the upper eyebolt. They chipped off paint until they struck bare metal, grinding it smooth with an air-powered wheel. They drilled a hole in the shiny section to accommodate the eyebolt pin. Ski pushed the eyebolt pin through the hole and held it in place while Jer, the more experienced welder, struck his arc. In underwater welding, the welder surrounds his work with a nitrogen bubble. In an illustration, this looks neat and clean, but in the real world, as soon as the bubble forms, it rises upward, to be replaced by another. The welder has to generate his weld segments while the bubble is there. Under the best of circumstances, it isn’t easy. It took them over a half-hour to complete the weld.
The second eyebolt went somewhat faster, but they were hindered by the narrowness of the plane trailing edge. They swam a little jig around the eyebolt when they finished the task.
Ham shifted the divers in the water so that Harry, Jimmy, and Gil took on the task of lifting the dive plane with the come-along.
In Control, Waverly received a transmission from Hi Bào. “This is Hi Bào. The dive plane hydraulics are cross-connected so we can move the port dive plane independently when ready.”
Waverly passed the message to Dive Control. Harry, Jimmy, and Gil had already connected chains to both eyebolts and had hooked the chains to the come-along.
