Operation Ivy Bells, page 25
The bad news was that they had us boxed in; the good news was that they didn’t know it.
“Maintain your heading for now, Mac, while we evaluate what is happening,” the Skipper said.
“Aye, Sir.”
And at that moment a deafening ping rang throughout the entire sub, right through the hull. We had just discovered where the Soviet helicopter was.
CHAPTER THIRTY
USS Halibut – Krusenstern Strait
Before the ping reverberations stopped ringing in our ears I issued the order. “Make your depth five-hundred feet – snappy!”
The Skipper stood up and grabbed the 1MC mike. “Open the outer doors on one and two,” he said over the 1MC.
“Sonar, how far away is the Whiskey?” On the intercom.
“Ten miles, but he’s accelerating, Sir.”
“Mac, bring up the plant right away. Push with everything you’ve got straight toward Chirinkotan.” He beckoned me over to the chart table and pointed at the westward most island of the nearby group. “As soon as you can clear the tip of Shiashkotan,” he pointed to the southern end of a barbell shaped island at the northern side of Krusenstern Strait, cut right into Ekarma Strait.”
“I get it,” Skipper. “We mask our noise with the background of Ekarma Volcano.”
“That’s the plan,” the Skipper said, puffing on his stogie.
We were about twelve miles southwest of Shiaskotan, and the Whiskey was about ten more miles out. He could easily cover the ten miles in an hour, but would be totally blind while doing it. In the meantime, we would be halfway to Ekarma Strait. He would have to slow down, and perhaps even go to periscope depth to get updated information from Ognevoy. Since the bird would have to do several dips in the right location to find us again, they would lose at least another hour screwing around. This would put us in Ekarma’s cone of background noise, although they would have a pretty good idea of our plan by connecting the dots. Given the Whiskey Skipper’s apparent ability to read our mind, we could count on that.
Dirk’s guys got the plant up and running in less than five minutes. I goosed it to seven knots – faster than we were supposed to go, but I figured the tech boys had slipped in a safety factor, and right then I needed any advantage I could get. The Skipper didn’t question my order, so I guess he agreed.
We weren’t going to launch torpedoes against any of these guys unless they launched first. But they had tried once before, so we were definitely ready. I planned to slow for a good look in an hour, since the Whiskey was behind us. I wasn’t worried about Gnevnyy, but I had Sonar keep a close eye on Ognevoy, since she definitely had the ability to hear us as she got closer.
An hour later, I went to all stop, and coasted, twisting right with the thrusters to give Sonar a good look to the rear. We couldn’t hear anything, so I brought her up above the layer to 150 feet. Sure enough, the Whiskey was about where we had been an hour earlier, quietly at periscope depth, just as we figured.
No way the Whiskey could hear us, though. He was probably coordinating with another dip from Ognevoy’s bird.
The sound-powered phone chirped. “Conn, Sonar…Pinging about two miles behind us, below the layer. I don’t think he can see us, Sir.”
A couple of minutes later, “Conn, Sonar…he’s stopped pinging – I think he’s bringing the transducer above the layer.”
I could picture the chopper pilot simply rising slowly while communicating with his sonar tech.
“Make your depth nine-hundred feet, snappy!” I ordered. “Don’t cavitate,” I added.
At 180 feet, Sonar informed me that we had passed through the layer. I looked at the Skipper, and he nodded.
“Mark your depth,” I said.
“Two-seven-zero feet,” Chris answered.
“Make your depth two-fifty feet,” I said.
If this guy was going to play yoyo games, I might as well be positioned to move through the layer quickly.
A minute later, Sonar announced: “Pinging from above the layer – still two miles back on our track.” Suddenly Sonar announced, “Conn, Sonar, the Whiskey is dropping fast. I think he’s going to…” King paused for a moment. “Conn, Sonar, make that the Whiskey just transmitted a single ping. If his guys are sharp, they might pick us up. If they got anything, we’ll get another short burst of pings in a bit.”
“Make turns for seven knots,” I ordered, “come left to zero-five-five.” I turned to the Skipper. “Give him a smaller aspect, and get closer to Ekarma.”
The Skipper concurred.
“Three more pings, Sir,” King announced. “And he’s getting underway again. I think he got a return from us.”
“Probably,” I said to the Skipper, “but he can’t know for sure, so he’s coming to investigate.”
“Take us above the layer, Mac,” the Skipper said.
“Aye, Sir,” and I did.
“Conn, Sonar, the bird is pinging continuously below the layer.”
No surprise that, since the Whiskey might have gotten a whiff of us before he speeded up.
“Conn, Sonar, he’s stopped pinging.”
I ordered us back below the layer.
“Belay that order!” the Skipper said, and looked at me. “He’s going to ping again down there.”
“How do you know, Sir?” I asked.
“Because it’s what I’d do,” he said with a subdued grin.
“Conn, Sonar, pinging again…below the layer.”
“Take her down now, Mac,” the Skipper said with satisfaction.
We were pointed dead center toward Ekarma Strait. The current was with us. I glanced up at the surface wave monitor.
“Skipper, look at that!” The monitor was indicating a significant increase in wave activity.
“Conn, Sonar, it’s getting kinda noisy out there.”
During the next fifteen minutes, the surface waves went from a foot or so to over ten feet, and still growing.
I looked at the compass. We were fifteen degrees off course. “Mind your head, Skidmore,” I said.
“I’m trying, Sir,” he said. “Something’s pushing me all over the place.”
I turned to the Skipper. “You want to go up and take a look, Sir?”
The Skipper picked up the sound-powered phone. “Sonar, what’s the pinger doing?”
“He’s packed it in, Skipper. It’s useless in these waves.”
“Take her up for a quick swing around, Mac,” the Skipper ordered.
As we approached periscope depth, the Skipper was already at the raised scope, sweeping around as the scope broached. “Up another two feet,” he ordered. “One more.” A pause. “One more.” Then he stopped sweeping with the scope pointed to port. “Mark,” he said, and swept to the starboard side. “Mark.” Sweep back to port. “Mark,” and to starboard, “Mark. Same landmark each side,” he said to Parrish.
“We’re not moving, Sir,” Parrish said. “We’re bucking a seven-knot current.”
“Bring her to all stop, Mac, and maintain your heading with the thrusters,” the Skipper ordered. “Take the scope.” He turned it over to me.
I did a quick sweep around, and could clearly see our drift backward. The Skipper went to the chart table and consulted with Parrish. Then he came back to me.
“When Ekarma is due north, come to three-one-five and set turns for fifteen knots. Hold that for five minutes, and then slow down to six and a half knots. Pass between Chirinkotan and Ekarma. Check your position visually every fifteen minutes.” He picked up the 1MC mike. “Close the torpedo tube outer doors. Nav to the Conn.” He turned back to me. “Set quiet condition, but relax from ultra-quiet for the time being. I’ll be in my stateroom.” He squeezed my shoulder as he left. “Good job,” he said.
USS Halibut – Northbound, Sea of Okhotsk
As we swept backward, the surface wave activity subsided a bit, but it was clear that bad weather was moving in. On my next sweep around, I tilted the scope up to see the sky. It was dark and angry, and by the time I finished the sweep, I could see rain pelting the water.
In a dramatically short time I was heading three-one-five at fifteen knots. After slowing to six and a half knots five minutes later, I chose to dolphin down below the layer, and come back to periscope depth every fifteen minutes. The current was with us on this side of Ekarma, and much slower, spread out as it was across the much wider passage between Chirinkotan and Ekarma, instead of the scant four miles of Ekarma Strait.
An hour later, we had passed Chirinkotan and were headed toward the open water of the Sea of Okhotsk. Surface waves were a jumbled nasty fifteen feet and growing, so I informed the Skipper, and took her down to quieter water at five-hundred feet.
As I relaxed on the Control Station, I replayed the past four hours. We had slipped the noose once again. But these guys were playing hardball. I could not believe they had any inkling of our actual mission or the location where we would place the tap. They did know of at least one destination we were likely to visit – the missile splash zone. And that is where I suspected they would likely head.
What I didn’t know was what they had in store for us.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
USS Halibut – Submerged, West of Kamchatka
Storms in the Sea of Okhotsk are never your average normal storms. Up here they start at ohmygosh and end up off the normal storm rating scale. The one above us as we crawled toward our destination was over the halfway mark toward off-the-scale. I came on watch to a gently rocking sub, just enough to make it pleasant – except for one thing. We were at 350 feet. For surface action to move us around at this depth would take monster waves. As I arrived at the Control Station, I glanced up at the surface wave monitor. Thirty-five to forty foot waves running in our direction.
Let me put this into perspective. If you were on the typical ocean-going yacht – forty-five to fifty feet long, and if you were sideways to these monsters, they would roll you over in a flash. If you did it right, you’d nearly be standing on your ass one minute, and nearly standing on your nose a minute later. You might survive it – but I wouldn’t bet next month’s paycheck.
These waves were moving us around at 350 feet, and we were that long and displaced 5,000 tons. What I’m saying is that these monsters were moving 5,000 tons of steel as if it were nothing. In this shit the Whiskey was down deep – for him – and getting the crap beaten out of him. He was either going home, or finding shelter in the lee of one of the Kurils. He was no longer a threat to us. For the time being anyway.
The Ognevoy and Gnevnyy could survive these waves, if their COs were any good, but it was survival time. They had lost all interest in us.
It was boring again, except for the potential of being sucked to the surface. The Skipper kept us heavy, so that we had to “fly” using our dive planes to keep us at depth. That meant that we had to be extra alert on watch, because if something went wrong, we would drop quickly if we didn’t compensate by immediately pumping water out. But even that got boring as we plodded along at six knots plus a bit, heading for our rendezvous with destiny.
The storm stayed with us as we traversed past the end of Kamchatka Peninsula, and worked our way north to our rendezvous point. As the water shallowed up, the waves beat us up more, but a couple of days later the worst was over, and we began to breathe easier. Our unspoken worry had been that the Soviet trio would tag-team us, keeping us under intermittent surveillance, so that we really could not have approached our actual destination. We were even faced with the possibility that we would have to abort – but as it turned out, they were gone, with virtually no chance that they knew where we were.
I decided to put Whitey, Bill, Ski, Jer, and Harry in the Can. I wanted an extra man available for this task. The pod was 12,000 pounds of delicate equipment, and we wanted to put it in place and get the hell out of there quickly. For that I figured we could stand a bit of crowding in the Can.
I took myself off the watch list when Ham loaded the guys into the Can. Ham and Jack had already done a complete system check, twice over. We were ready to go.
It was always fun to watch the guys press down. As usual, Whitey, Ski, and Jer just yawned their way down. Bill didn’t appear to do anything – he just pressed down as his ears equalized in real-time. And Harry, well Harry was always glad when we paused the descent so he could catch up with his nose-squeezing and blowing.
As the topside storm abated, we reached the general vicinity of the Soviet cable. Ham had the divers resting as much as possible, four in the rack and one on watch on a two-hour rotation. Josh had the Deck with Chief Barkley in Sonar, and King was hanging out just in case.
I was at the Control Station giving Josh a personal update on the divers’ status when Sonar announced, “Conn, Sonar, we have the transponder, bearing zero-two-zero. It’s about five miles away, Sir.”
That was my signal. I hurried back to the Can and informed Ham that we were coming up on the set point. Ham held reveille on the guys, and got them ready for the big event.
We had decided to leave Harry in the Can, so the others were getting suited up as we approached the transponder.
The process was a piece of cake when compared with the last time we were here. Josh eased up to the transponder, and went into a hover about fifty feet above it. In the Bat Cave, Bobby Shanks launched the Basketball, and flew it to an observation position off the starboard bow. Using the thrusters and pumps, Josh eased the Halibut down and about fifty feet to the south of the transponder, and spun around so we were pointed toward the west. Then he gently settled the sub on the bottom, raising clouds of silt that blocked the Basketball camera’s view.
As the current swept the clouds away, the Basketball flew lower, down to the forward skids. The bright shaft of light emanating from the Basketball cut a white swath through the murky water, but as I squinted at the monitor over the dive console, I could see the skid with increasing clarity as the cloud moved away on the current.
I knew that Josh was pumping an extra heavy load of water into the tanks to hold us firmly to the bottom. No rocking on anchor cables this time. With only a relatively small remaining swell from the storm, we probably were not at much risk, but it was good to know that we had this assurance.
Josh called me say the ship was ready for dive ops. It was our show again.
USS Halibut – On the Sea Floor at the Cable Repeater
Since the guys were already suited up, there was little else to do but equalize the outer lock and put the divers into the water – all four of them this time. Bobby moved the Basketball into position off the starboard quarter a couple of feet from the Can hatch.
“Control, Red Diver, ready to open the hatch.” It was Whitey.
“Control aye. Open the hatch.” Jack was doing the communicating.
I watched the Basketball monitor as the hatch opened. A rim of light appeared, and then, as the hatch lifted into the lock, a white shaft illuminated the submarine deck just below the opening. The first umbilical snaked its way through the hatch and disappeared down the sub’s flank, followed by a second. Then Whitey and Bill (Green Diver) dropped through the hatch and sidled toward the Basketball, floating alongside – I presumed, because I could no longer see them. Two more umbilicals tumbled through the hatch, followed by Jer and Ski, Blue and Yellow Divers, respectively. The breathing of four divers on the circuit created a significant background noise that made it a bit difficult to communicate.
“Proceed to the pod,” Jack ordered.
The water was too murky for Bobby to maintain a broad view, so he arbitrarily picked Whitey, who had dropped to the starboard after ratchet. We left the divers alone to get themselves placed and coordinate their actions. It took about fifteen minutes before they were satisfied that they were properly positioned and ready to lower the pod.
While that was happening, I directed Bobby to move the Basketball along the bottom of the sling so I could examine its entirety. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but I could see nothing out of place. By the time the divers were ready to commence lowering the pod, I was satisfied with its apparent external condition. I signaled Jack.
“Commence lowering the pod,” he ordered.
Bobby looked over Whitey’s shoulder, and I was certain that every available monitor on the sub was tuned to this eerie scene 400 feet below the surface of an enemy super-power’s home pond. Four courageous divers worked with apparent unconcern at a crushing water pressure with four feet of visibility and a thirty-foot ceiling above them. With minimum chatter, they lowered the pod inch by inch, until forty minutes later all 12,000 pounds rested on the bottom between the sub’s skids.
I ordered the divers to clear the skids and hang off the submarine sides in mid-water, while the sub lifted free of the bottom and moved backward enough to clear the pod. In our initial discussion of this maneuver, we had first considered bringing the divers back into the Can. We rejected that as being too conservative and a significant waste of time. Then we considered putting the divers on the sub’s deck near the hatch, but that raised the possible issue of catching an umbilical beneath a skid. We finally opted for the divers hanging alongside the sub with the umbilicals fully off the bottom. Since we were using thrusters and pumps only, the risk seemed minimal.
As we commenced the approximately 150-foot move, Ski’s helium distorted vice suddenly squeaked, “Whoa – what was that?”
“Clarify, Yellow Diver, clarify,” Jack prompted.
“I just lifted five feet, Control. Jest mindin’ my own business, and then I’m five feet shallower.” Ski was on the port forward station.
“Red, Green, Blue Divers…” Jack let the question hang.
“Red Diver…nothing.” As I said, Whitey was starboard aft.
“Green Diver…nothing.” Bill was starboard forward.
“Blue Diver…yeah, I felt something, like a passing wave. Moved me a bit.” Jer was port aft.
I called Josh. “Conn, Dive Control, what’s the surface doing?”
“Starting to pick up,” Dive, “five- to six-foot swells. We may be feeling the edge of a follow-on storm to the last sucker.” Josh was the bearer of not-so-good news.
