D. M. Ulmer 01 - Silent Battleground (12 page)

The auditorium echoed with cheers as the briefer concluded his remarks and left the stage.

A circle of officers surrounded Sherensky, each to add his personal message of congratulations.  Sherensky noticed Lieutenant Baknov standing nearby and beckoned to him.  He raised the young officer’s right hand.

“Comrade Baknov … comrades.  Behold … this is the very hand that launched the torpedo strike against
Savo Island.”

The young officer joined his captain and accepted the accolades.

Later Sherensky congratulated young Baknov again.  “Vasiliy, you have done your work well.  Fortunately,
for
Zhukov
and me this word has not spread far.  We need you for our next voyage and can’t afford to have you promoted from under us.  That will come soon enough.”

A beaming Vasiliy responded, “Thank you, Captain.  I’m honored and indebted to you.”

Sherensky changed the subject.  “It is good your mother can be with you these final days before our next mission.  I once saw her dance at the Kirov … long ago.  I can remember very little but often heard my father and mother sing her praises.  It is regrettable what happened.  I hope the wounds you may have suffered are healed.  You must give her my warmest regards.”

Vasiliy nodded.  “I will, Comrade Captain, and thank you again.”

Take away stealth and a submarine’s value is all but eliminated.  It must remain undetected or forfeit its raison d’etre.

Reduction of radiated noise thus became paramount to mission success and resulted in new revisions to
Denver’s
daily
operations.  A series of five clicks on the 1MC general announcing system would call the crew to battle stations and replace the noisy gong-gong-gong of the general alarm.  The clicks plan, quite audible throughout the ship, provided for light sleepers to awaken the heavy ones as a backup measure. 
Denver
transitioned from a peacetime to a wartime footing.

A stewardsman rousted Brent from a sound sleep and shook the dream matter from his head.  He reckoned his dreams likely made no sense, so therefore impossible to recapture after awakening.  No big loss, but for an unknown reason, he seemed to enjoy this one.

“Here we go again,” groaned his roommate, Dan Patrick, “fifth time today.”  Both men, exhausted by lack of sleep, bore deeply traced lines in their faces.

They slept in blue patrol jumpsuits and needed only to slip on sandals, but with the compartment rigged for red, they had to grope for them.

Arriving at the Attack Center they encountered operational activity, plotting tables being set up, fire control systems activated and communications checked among the various combat stations.  They used sound powered phones, as loss of ship’s electrical power would render the MC systems inoperable.

Denver
made her way westward across the widest part of northern Pacific toward the Sea of Okhotsk.  Their orders read:
Breach the chain of Kuril Islands, proceed south to the Sea of Japan and conduct hostilities against Soviet naval units afloat and ashore.

Brent took his Battle Station position as attack coordinator and wore a phone and headset to connect him to the torpedo room.  He paralleled electrically
transmitted weapons orders verbally to insure accuracy.  In the Attack Center, he supervised operators of three MK 81 ACCs and a MK 92 WCC, responsible respectively
for processing digitally formatted combat data and transmitting directions from the Attack Center to the torpedo room.  He conducted transmission checks to insure the various equipments talked to each other accurately.

The executive officer asked, “What’ve we got, Brent?”

“Captain called us to battle stations, Jack.  He’s got something down there.”

Jack hit the 21MC press-to-talk button.  “Sonar, Conn, report the situation.”

The captain’s voice answered, “Possible contact, Jack.  About three-ten, distant.”

Trying to keep the edge off his voice, Jack asked, “Got a make on ’em, Captain?”

Bostwick replied, “Nothing.  We’re looking LOFAR and passive narrow band.  We’ll let you know.”

Brent said softly, “Recommend come right to two-nine-five, Jack.  That’ll put the best part of our sonar array on ’em.”

Jack nodded agreement.  “Captain, Conn, coming right to two-nine-five for a better look.  Recommend check the baffles.”

The captain’s voice had an edge, “That’s well, Conn.  We’ll get the baffles.  Don’t want anyone sneaking up on us.”

Silence hung over the compartment for nearly an hour while the crew waited at battle stations.  They had secured from all other ship’s activities, including the gaining of much needed rest, and their attentiveness diminished proportionately with time.

Brent considered the vastness of the ocean area where
Denver
patrolled.  If the entire Soviet Pacific Fleet patrolled all routes available to
Denver
, one in a thousand represented the odds of an encounter.  He reckoned distance to be covered and
Denver’s
slow speed of advance.  Provisions would not
support a round trip at this rate. 
Why in hell not race through this part and slow down as we approach the coast where encounters are more likely?  Something’s gotta give here.

Captain Bostwick entered the Attack Center.  “Secure from battle stations.  Whoever he was, we couldn’t find him.”

Everyone thought, but dared not speak out,
another false contact.

Dan responded to the captain, “Secure, Aye,” and then passed the instruction to the Quartermaster of the Watch.

Continuing, Dan said, “Looks like you could use some shut-eye, Captain.”

The captain wore the deep marks of his fatigue, circles under the eyes, drawn and sallow complexion and no visible expression on his face.  Loss of
Utah
had hurt him emotionally and a sense of guilt drove him beyond endurance. 

Bostwick responded to Dan’s comment, “I’m a little tired, but right now Sonar’s the right place for me to be.”

Brent said, “Let me relieve you in sonar for a spell, Captain.”

Looking surprised, the captain replied, “Uh … why thanks, Brent.  I am pretty damn tired.  Maybe I will hit the sack for just a bit.
 
But I want to be called even if you suspect you have something.”

“Of course, Captain.”

Brent knew there was no need for anyone but the watch to be in the sonar shack.  The men were more than competent to perform their jobs without officer supervision.  But he volunteered for the job to take the edge off everyone’s nerves.

With the captain out of earshot, Brent asked Jack Olsen to join him in Sonar where a heated discussion erupted.

Jack exclaimed, “No way, Brent.  You been in the Navy long enough to know you shouldn’t be talking like this.”

“I’m not talking insubordination, XO.  The captain’s in trouble, and it’s our job to help him.  Did you read the Caine Mutiny?”

“We had to at the Naval Academy.”

Brent went on, “Right.  They vilified old Queeg, but the bastards in his wardroom should’ve born the guilt.  They let him down.  I think the Captain will do fine, but he needs propping up from us.  You mind if I talk to him?”

Jack shook his head.  “You piss him off every time he looks at you, Brent.”

“Dan Patrick, then?”

The executive officer remained silent.

“Damn it, Jack.  I want an answer.  We owe the taxpayers a better return than what
Denver’s
giving right now.  Think on it, but if you don’t have an answer by tomorrow, I’m gonna force the issue.”

Lowering his voice, Jack said, “I’ll get back to you, Brent.  I hope you realize what you’re laying on me.”

Brent looked Jack directly in the eye and answered, “Yep.”  He did not add,
and you better do it.
 

He didn’t have to.  Jack read Brent’s mind perfectly.

Dutch Meyer sat in the well-appointed conference room of Pritchett Aerospace Los Angeles Office.  He drummed his fingers upon an oak table to relieve apprehension over how he would procure vast amounts of material with only a blank promissory note signed by Eric Danis as compensation.  A dainty cup and saucer sat before him.  Dutch, happy Pritchett could still come up with good coffee, wrapped a massive hand about the cup, for its tiny handle could not accommodate his fingers.

A handsome, graying man in an impeccable three-piece suit entered the room, smiling warmly.  “Good afternoon, Commander.  I’m Todd Benson, Marketing Manager.  Your visit is unexpected, but welcome.  We always make way for the Navy.  Is there something I can do for you?”

They shook hands.

Disguising his uneasiness, Dutch replied, “Yes, sir, matter of fact there is.  I represent Commodore Eric Danis, Commander Submarine Squadron Three.  We’re assembling a temporary Submarine Base on the Washington Coast and I’ve been authorized to requisition equipment and weapons for the initial outfitting.

“How many Tomahawk land and ship attack missiles do you have ready for shipment?  We need these immediately.  Then, I’d like to see your production schedules for the rest of the year.”

Todd Benson raised his hands in mock surrender.  “Oops, you just moved out of my job code.  Sounds like you need to talk to the
HawkProjOff
direct.  Let me get somebody.”

When Benson left, an attractive secretary arrived and asked, “More coffee, Commander?”

“No thanks.”  He watched her well-turned buttocks sway beneath a tight skirt as she walked away.  He thought,
Maybe I’m not as old as I think.

Dutch hated acronym buzzwords of the
in
set. 
HawkProjOff
likely
meant Tomahawk Project Office in Pritchett-talk.  He felt buzzwords to be good only for covering gaps in real knowledge.

A stern looking man with rolled back shirtsleeves and a loosened tie entered the conference room.  “I’m Al Mahler, Tomahawk Business Manager.  Is there something we can do for you?”

Dutch liked the cut of this man, less handsomely
appointed than Benson and spoke in whole words.  He repeated the story given earlier to the marketer.

Mahler barely masked his astonishment.  “You’re quite serious?”

“Very serious.  Those are my orders.”

In steady tones, Mahler replied, “You understand, Commander, that none of these missiles are ready for delivery.” 

The business manager had drawn a line for the company’s position.

“I’ll take ’em in any shape you got ’em, Mr. Mahler.”

Mahler said, “They’re not signed off by the resident Defense Contract Administrator.”

“That’s okay.  I’ll sign for him.”

Showing a hint of exasperation on his face, Mahler said, “But they have not completed acceptance testing yet.”

Putting on his grimmest expression, Dutch said, “I promise you, sir, they’re gonna get one hell of a test where I’m taking ’em.”

Mahler shook his head then said, “This is absolutely out of the question, Commander.  We can’t do this.  Why there’s no—”

Dutch cut him off, “And, there’s been absolutely no wars.”

“You must understand—”

Dutch interrupted him again, “No, dammit, you’re the one that’s gotta understand.  We got submarines coming in with empty launchers.  We need those bullets to get ’em turned around and back out there into the fight.”

The shaken but determined business manager replied, “I’m not authorized to release these missiles.”

“Well you better find somebody who is, and tell him if action doesn’t start in an hour—” then pointing to a wall clock, he continued, “one hour from now.  I’m leaving here and I’m coming back with a detachment of Marines to take those goddamn missiles by force if I have to.”

Dutch hadn’t the slightest idea where he’d find any Marines much less how he’d get authorization to use them.  He would do everything possible before he’d return to Eric Danis whimpering over failure to bring home the missiles.

“I’ll get someone,” Mahler said then left the room.

Dutch’s heart skipped a beat when
HawkProgMgr
himself stood at the conference room door in a blocking stance.  He looked sternly
at the Navy commander.  “I hear you need a few Tomahawks for some empty submarines.”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“Helluva good idea.  Let me buy you lunch and we can work out the details while we eat.”

A wave of relief surged through Dutch as the two walked off to a plush executive dining room.

The manager apologized, “A hangover from prewar days.  It takes us awhile sometimes for the message to sink in, but we’re capable of making things happen pretty quick around here when we have to.”

Over lunch, they formed a plan.  Factory acceptance testing would be limited to the flight critical items and done immediately.  The
birds
would be moved to Astoria as quickly as possible.  In a few hours, the first truckload exited the plant gate and headed north on Interstate 5.

As Dutch stood up to leave,
HawkProgMgr
handed him a card.  “Here, when this is all over come by and see me.  We’ll need a few bolts of your kind of cloth.”

The two men shook hands and a relieved Dutch Meyer made his departure.

Chapter 7

Dave Zane scanned a cove cut into the rugged Washington coast by five million years of punishment from the sea.  The harbor opened to pounding Pacific swells, but a sandbar reached northward from the southern end to the entrance.  Shallow waters of the bar would permit the barges used to haul in equipment to be sunk to form a breakwater.  Only the lack of a suitable overland access had prevented its previous use as a port. 

The bay covered approximately two square miles and had ample deepwater.  He took soundings earlier in the day with a fish finder Fathometer in a small boat he commandeered.  The northern end of the bar dipped to a depth of seventy-five feet and formed a channel two hundred yards wide.

Dave figured two rows would do it, and the barges would not have to be stacked.  “This will be it,” he said then trudged five rugged miles back to the road and his car.