Operation Ivy Bells, page 8
This stretched our trip out to a full month…of tedious boredom, like I said. But not entirely.
One night about fifteen days into the voyage, I had the watch. Somehow we managed to stumble right into the middle of a Japanese fishing fleet. Sonar detected a huge factory ship, the type that stays at sea for months at a time, and a whole lot of small trawlers. Within ten minutes I was completely overwhelmed with targets on my tracking screen, and I could only imagine what Sonar was dealing with in the Sonar shack. Every few seconds Sonar hit me with another contact. In less than ten minutes we had designated over twenty-five contacts. Apparently we had come up on the factory ship to the north, and did not initially detect the rest of the fishing fleet to the south. I turned a bit south to remain fully clear of the factory ship, and almost immediately found myself in the midst of the trawler fleet – and that’s significant, because trawlers drag long trawl nets behind them, at depths up to 150 feet or more.
I slowed down to a crawl, and called the Skipper by sound-powered phone to tell him what was going on. He decided to get up and come to Control for a while, since the situation was a bit dicey. Just as he entered the Conn, all hell broke loose.
The first thing was a shudder we all felt throughout the entire sub. Almost immediately, Maneuvering called me on the squawk box, reporting heavy current draw, and a sudden strong resistance on both shafts.
“All stop!” I ordered, to stop the screws from turning, and instructed Ballast Control to put the sub into hover, “Maintain two-hundred feet.” And then as an afterthought, “Stand by to use thrusters.”
Pots had the BCP. I ordered him to find Senior Chief Gunty to relieve him so he could get back to Maneuvering to help out.
The Skipper sat down in his chair, a padded, raised executive seat at the back of the conning station. He didn’t interfere, but I was keenly aware that he was right behind me, ready to jump in if I did anything he didn’t like.
“Reactor Scram! Reactor Scram!”
That was all I needed. A reactor scram is when all the control rods drop into the reactor core, effectively shutting the reactor down. It’s an automatic safety measure that absolutely protects an overloaded reactor from any damage. But it also shuts it down completely, and that immediately shuts down the turbine’s steam supply, which also immediately shuts down the generators, and everything else run directly or indirectly by the reactor. That left me with only the diesel engines and the battery.
For obvious reasons we couldn’t run the diesels at 200 feet, and I didn’t think the Skipper wanted to surface in the middle of the fishing fleet. Besides, we were clearly hung up on something.
“Shift to emergency power, battery,” I ordered, glad that I had already sent Pots back to Maneuvering.
Throughout the sub, most of the lights went out, and emergency lights powered up, driven by the large lead-acid batteries built under the Control Room deck.
“Avoid all unnecessary movement about the ship,” I announced over the 1MC loudspeaker system. Gunty was going to have enough trouble maintaining the propulsionless hover without having to compensate for people moving about the sub.
I answered the sound-powered phone’s shrill burr. “It’s Dirk, Mac. Here’s the plant status.”
“Hold a moment,” I interrupted. Let me get the Skipper on line. I motioned for the Skipper to pick up the sound-powered handset by his chair.
“Captain,” he said calmly.
“Here’s the plant status, Sir. We pulled a terrific strain on the port shaft, and loaded down the starboard shaft as well. Can’t see any inside damage, but don’t know for sure yet. Still investigating. The lopsided strain cascaded back through the system, setting off the Scram. There appears to be no damage. I’ll give you a follow-on report as soon as we know more.”
The Skipper replaced the handset and asked, “Well, what do you think, Mac?”
“The Von Steuben caught a deep tow cable coming out of the Med several years ago – right after I got my commission.” I paused, reflecting on that event, and comparing it to now. “But this is different. I think we snagged a trawl net. With that Can on our stern, we certainly have enough places it could hang up.”
The Skipper nodded in agreement.
“We probably snagged a really deep one. When they realized they were snagged, and they obviously couldn’t shake it loose, they probably dropped or cut their tow lines. They had nearly everything out anyway. I think one or both the steel tow cables wrapped around the port shaft, jamming it, and then wrapped around the starboard shaft, but didn’t actually bind it.” I started to picture the consternation and panic on the Japanese trawler. “If they have any smarts,” I added, “they probably figure they caught a sub.”
The Engineer called back to tell us that there appeared to be no damage. But he could not test the shafts until he got the reactor back on line, and that was going to take another hour.
“Skipper,” I said, “we’re not going anywhere. Let’s deploy the Basketball to examine what really happened. Then I can send my guys out to cut off anything caught on the Can, and clear the shafts.
The Skipper thought it over for a minute or two.
“Make it so,” he said. “Captain has the Deck and the Conn. Batman to Control.”
“Batman” was the nickname of Special Operations Officer, Lieutenant Commander Lonie Franken-Ester, so called because he was in charge of the Bat Cave, the forward compartment that had been the cruise missile launch facility in an earlier incarnation of Halibut. He was also in charge of deploying and manipulating the Basketball – a basketball-size camera-carrying remotely operated vehicle (ROV). Live images were sent to the Display Room in the Bat Cave, and they could also be seen on the Control monitor and in the Dive Locker.
Lonie got his instructions and went forward to launch the Basketball.
A few minutes later the Control monitor flickered. Shortly, the screen resolved into a moving image of a portion of our starboard hull illuminated by a beam of light from the Basketball as it moved upward from the Aquarium – the double-lock hull penetration in the Bat Cave used to deploy the Basketball, the fish4, and to retrieve items from deployed divers.
The Basketball moved up to the deck hanging about twenty feet out, and slid back toward the stern. Senior Chief Buck Christman was driving the Basketball from the Display Room. He had a fine touch. The Basketball moved smoothly, without jerks or hesitation. Its beam picked up the Can.
“Look at that, Skipper,” I said as the screen filled with the trawl net covered chamber.
Buck brought the Basketball alongside the Can to look under it. It appeared that the net had somehow wrapped itself completely around the Can and then got draped over the rudder, which we could clearly see as Buck panned to the stern. Then he followed the net tow cable from the rudder down to the port screw, where it was intertwined in the screw blades. Then he followed it under the hull and wrapped around the starboard shaft.
“It looks doable,” I said to the Skipper, and left to get my guys going.
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4 High-resolution sidescan sonar towed device that produces detailed images of the sea floor.
CHAPTER TEN
USS Halibut – North Pacific
I grabbed Ham and Jack, and sat them down in the Wardroom where I explained the situation. “We caught a Nip trawl net on the Can, and I think they cut their steel tow cables as soon as they discovered their problem. Since the trawl net was a long way out, the cables had a lot of lead, and one got picked up by the port screw as they fell and wrapped around the shaft. The starboard shaft probably picked up the bitter end.”
Jack whistled while Ham just looked thoughtful. “We’re gonna go fix it,” I added. “Give us something to do besides drill.”
Ham laughed. “Too bad. I had a good one cooked up for this evening.”
“Let’s put two guys in the water, and one each in both locks,” I said, “Jimmy, Whitey in the water, and Bill and Ski in the locks.” I stood and stretched. “I need to stay aboard, ‘cause if shit hits the fan while they’re out there, I want to make sure Control doesn’t do something stupid.” I paused. “Besides, I guess I got us into this mess.”
“Shit, Mac, give it a rest!” Ham reacted. “The way I see it, you saved the mission – assuming we get this shit off us – and maybe even the boat.”
I appreciated the praise, especially coming from Ham, but I was still beating myself up for getting us into the situation in the first place. If I had just given it a bit more thought when Sonar reported the factory ship. I should have given it a much wider berth, so in my book, it was my fault. That’s what I told the Old Man. He’s still mulling it over.
“Jack, I want you to stick to Ham like stink on shit.” I grinned at him. “This is not routine by any means. We’re diving over-bottom (that is, the ocean bottom is below the maximum depth we can dive – in this case, way below it, maybe as much as 12,000 feet at our location), and we’re hovering in mid column at about two-hundred feet.” I stood up again. “Get ’em out, do the job, and get ’em back.”
About a half-hour later we were assembled in the Dive Locker tucked into the forward end of the sub’s after compartment. Jimmy, Whitey, and Bill were suited up and climbing up the ladder through the lock and into the Can. Ski followed them. Ham was setting in the dive parameters, with Jack double-checking each setting. Jer and Harry were taking up space and getting in the way.
“Harry, you stand by to help Ham,” I said; we needed a mobile person around for this. “And Jer, you get some shut-eye in case we need some relief back here.” He wouldn’t sleep, but we needed some room.
Although I wanted the guys to be on their toes, realistically, this was a pretty routine dive. In fact, under normal circumstances, we could have done it with our regular Scuba gear, although the guys would have been a bit narced. They would have been perfectly fine on Nitrox or Tri-mix, but we didn’t have time to mix the gases, and besides, why give up an opportunity to strut our stuff?
Just as the guys settled down in the Can, the lights flickered, and the main lighting came back on. “Looks like the reactor’s back on line,” I said to Ham. “I’m going to the Conn. You got the watch.” As I left, I noticed that Jack made the proper log entry.
The Captain still had the Deck. He asked me if I was ready to take over again. “If it’s alright with you, Skipper, I’d rather hang out here to keep on top of the hover, but be available to get back to the dive station if I’m needed there.”
“Any problems?”
“No, Sir, but this is an over-bottom dive, and even though we know what’s out there, there may be more to it when my guys get on scene.”
“I agree.” He picked up the 1MC mike. “XO to the Conn.”
Commander Fred Roken arrived shortly, and assumed the watch from the Skipper after being briefed on the status. The Skipper remained in his chair, retaining an overview of everything. I stayed near his chair, keeping an eye on the monitor that currently gave me a view of the dive console over Ham’s shoulder. I picked up a headset with a boom mike that tied into the dive communication system.
“Dive, Conn, what’s your status?”
“Conn, Dive, we’re pressing down the Can. We’ll be there in five minutes.” Ham flipped a switch on the console, and I could see the divers in the Can on the now split screen. Jimmy was squeezing his nose – clearing was always difficult for him on the first dive, Whitey and Ski were yawning – they could clear with no problem, and Bill looked bored – he had Eustachian tubes the size of pencils.
“Conn, Dive, at two-hundred. Designate Petty Officer James Tanner ‘Red Diver;’ designate Petty Officer Melvin Ford ‘Green Diver.’ Divers entering outer lock.”
“Conn, Aye,” I acknowledged. Sometimes, when things are happening really fast, you just don’t get around to acknowledging every call, but you’re supposed to do it, and if something ever goes wrong, the log had better show that you did acknowledge. Otherwise the big red finger may be pointing right at you.
Actually, we really did do things by the book. What we did was dangerous, even under the best of circumstances. The guys in harm’s way were my responsibility; but even more, they were my friends.
“Dive Control, Outer Lock. Permission to crack the lower hatch.” Bill was talking, his voice squeaky and distorted by the compressed helium. He didn’t need any electronic unscrambling because we were only at 200 feet, but you still had to listen closely to understand him.
“Outer Lock, this is Dive Control. Wait on that.”
This meant that Jimmy, Whitey, and Bill had entered the outer lock, and sealed the hatch. I turned to the Skipper. It was his boat, and Ham was about to breach watertight integrity. The Skipper nodded his permission.
“Dive, Conn. Permission granted.”
Ham immediately said, “Outer Lock, Dive Control. Crack the lower hatch.”
On the screen the Skipper and I watched as Bill leaned over the lower hatch and turned the locking wheel to the left. After a few seconds he looked up and gave a thumbs-up.
“Hatch unlocked,” Bill announced to no one in particular.
“Dive Control, Aye.”
We all could see that the hatch didn’t lift off its seat. “Open the interlock bleed valve from both sides,” Ham ordered. The divers would need to equalize the lock pressure to the outside, and Ham wanted both locks to be at the same pressure. Opening this small valve would maintain the same pressure in both locks, so long as the pressure in either lock didn’t change too rapidly. Bill and Ski complied, although I couldn’t see Ski in the main lock because the split screen showed Dive Control and the outer lock. “Bleed the pressure,” Ham then ordered.
“Roger.” Bill reached for a ball-valve handle near the top of the lock, and turned it slightly.
Buck was monitoring our conversation, and lifted the Basketball to get a view of the top of the Can. A steady stream of bubbles began to rise from the outside of the Can where the outside bleed valve was located. I glanced over at the BCP and the depth gauge. We were at 195 feet. I caught the XO’s attention and glanced at the depth gauge.
“Mind your depth, Diving Officer,” the XO ordered.
“Aye, Sir.” Chris was mildly embarrassed, but it is not easy maintaining an exact depth in the open ocean, especially when you have zero forward speed. Chris was doing okay.
A boomer has automatic hover equipment that sucks water in and out of a specially designed hover tank so efficiently that the boat can remain within about six inches of desired depth. But we were in an aging nuke that never was designed to do any of the things we were demanding of her. On balance, she was holding up pretty well. The hover kept Gunty busy as hell. I saw what he had done. He was running water into one tank and out of another simultaneously, while partially opening and shutting the flow control valves to give him the required momentum. Just before we hit 195 feet, one of his tanks had reached capacity while he was still emptying the other – so we got a bit light. By the time Chris received his admonition, Gunty had it back under control. What they were doing was actually pretty slick – especially since none of us had ever done it before.
As we settled back down, the lower hatch in the outer lock suddenly popped up a couple of inches, and Bill closed the external bleed valve before the lock could flood. Jimmy lifted the hatch back on its springs. The hatch was cocked halfway back, and would remain open.
“Securing the hatch,” Jimmy announced as he fastened the hook that prevented the hatch from swinging shut accidentally during an unexpected ship’s movement.
“Roger that. Suit up,” Ham ordered.
Each diver donned his bright yellow Mark 11 backpack with its bulky canister, bottles, gauges, and connectors, attached the hot water hose to the suit connector; and then each slipped the Kirby-Morgan helmets over their heads, and hooked them up to the gas hoses from the backpack and umbilical.
“Outer Lock and Dive Control, Red Diver. Comm check.”
“Dive Control, Aye.”
“Outer Lock, Aye.”
“Outer Lock and Dive Control, Green Diver. Comm check.”
“Dive Control, Aye.”
“Outer Lock, Aye.”
It takes a while to tell the story, but it happened quickly. Remember, we were in a hurry.
“Divers go!” Ham ordered.
With Bill feeding umbilical, Jimmy lowered himself through the open hatch, followed immediately by Whitey. Buck brought the Basketball down, so we watched the divers enter the water on the split screen.
“Red and Green Diver, Comm check.” Ham was just making sure, and I understood. We were hovering at 200 feet with divers tethered to our ass. It was dicey, to say the least.
“Red Diver, Aye.” Jimmy’s voice sounded squeaky and muffled, and his breathing noise made it even more difficult to understand him.
“Green Diver, Aye.” Same for Whitey.
“Dive Control, Red Diver, we confirm the problem. The Can’s completely covered with a trawl net, and it’s draped completely around, and then back across the rudder.” He paused. “Whitey – your light…”
On the split screen I could see the beam of brightness barely visible in the darkened water column as Buck focused in on Whitey.
“Look, Whitey…see!” We could sense his excitement, even through the distorted helium speech. “Dive Control, Red Diver, there’s one tow cable wrapped in the port screw. It extends right from the net caught around the Can. It passes under the stern and is wrapped around the starboard shaft.” And then, “Let’s go, Whitey. We can cut this sucker loose.”
For the next ten minutes all we heard was heavy breathing mixed in with gas bubbling sounds as we watched the divers struggle with their knives and the tough fiber of the trawl net. Then, suddenly, the net slid out of the view of the Basketball.
“That does it, Dive Control.” It wasn’t exactly according to the book, but Jimmy had earned the right. “The net’s on its way to the bottom, Dive Control.”
“Sheeeit!” Whitey suddenly squeaked, sounding like nothing so much as one of the Christmas chipmunks. “Down, Jimmy!” There was no mistaking his intent. “Right now!”
