Exit Plan (11 page)

“Thank you, sir. But I don’t think I need that many gray hairs just yet,” replied Simmons, visibly relieved.

“Nonsense! It suits you. Besides, you need those occasional surprises to add spice to your life.” The captain was clearly in a good mood, although he was just as surprised as everyone else when the loud
THUMP, THUMP, THUMP
of a ship’s propeller had been heard through the hull.

Two hours ago, a large ship, probably a supertanker, had passed very close to
Michigan,
and none of the submarine’s sensitive sonar arrays had heard a thing until it was right on top of them. Looking at the ship’s course as it passed by, it became clear that the bow of the tanker had been pointing directly at
Michigan.
Even a large noisy ship, normally easy to detect, can become a ghost if a sonar array is looking straight at the bow. The phenomenon, called a bow null, occurs when the ship’s structure and cargo absorb the noise from the propulsion plant at the very back. Simmons had turned pale when he estimated that there might have been as little as fifty feet between the tanker and
Michigan.

“Sir, surprises like that lead to heart attacks,” Simmons countered heartily.

Guthrie shrugged his shoulders as he reached over to the intercom. “Sonar, Conn. Report all sonar contacts.”

“Conn, Sonar,” responded Lieutenant Junior Grade Andy Buckley,
Michigan’s,
sonar officer. “We currently hold eleven sonar contacts. Sierra seven eight is classified as a tanker. He bears zero nine eight and has just dropped anchor. Sierra eight zero bears one two two and is heading southeast at high speed. Classified as a patrol boat. Sierra seven nine and eight two are tankers, bearing two one zero and two five six. Both are heading northwest. Sierra eight three, also classified as a tanker, is currently in our baffles. Contact is tracking to the southeast. The remaining six contacts are all fishing trawlers off our port bow, heading home to either Deyyar or Kangan. No close contacts.”

Guthrie took in the report as he quickly glanced at the fire control display’s tracks for the eleven contacts. Satisfied that his people had good situational awareness, he hit the intercom button again. “Sonar, Conn. Woody, we’re coming up for an observation. With us at a dead stop, keep a sharp ear.

“Conn, Sonar, aye.”

“Mr. Simmons, bring her up to eight zero feet,” Guthrie ordered.

“Bring her to eight zero feet, aye, sir.”

While Simmons had the ship’s diving officer and chief of the watch bring
Michigan
to periscope depth, Guthrie turned to Jerry and said, “We’ll take a quick look around and if all’s clear, we settle back down to a hundred and thirty feet and get you and the SEALs on your way.”

“Sounds good to me, sir. I’d like to get this excursion started,” replied Jerry with a smirk. “The SEALs are beginning to get that trapped animal look, and I was afraid they might start chewing off limbs to escape.”

“Long stays on a boat are agonizing for SEALs,” stated Guthrie. “They tolerate it just as long as there is a meaningful reason for being here. For them, it’s all about being down range and in the thick of it. They think we’re absolutely crazy for staying in a steel sewer pipe for seventy-five days at a crack.”

“Yeah, well, anyone who intentionally leaves a perfectly good submarine isn’t all there in my book, Skipper. And yes, I’m including myself in that category.”

Guthrie chuckled at Jerry’s comment. “Well, just get in and out as fast as you can. I’d like to let the SEALs off before one of them pops a gasket. I think Holt has managed to imprint his forehead on just about every piece of kit above the six-foot mark.”

It was Jerry’s turn to laugh. On more than one occasion he had heard a dull thud, immediately followed by some very salty language, only to see Barrineau roughly massaging his head. The young man needed to learn to duck.

“Passing one hundred feet, sir,” Simmons reported.

“Very well, Nav. Raise the photonics mast.”

“Raise the photonics mast, aye. Chief of the Watch, raise the photonics mast.”

Guthrie stepped down to the BVS-1 control workstation. Jerry followed. Unlike a standard periscope, the BVS-1 photonics mast didn’t have the ocular box and large barrel that penetrated the pressure hull. So instead of dancing with the “gray lady,” one just watched a flat panel display. While Jerry appreciated the multiple camera capability and excellent definition display of the high-tech mast, it was all very sterile. It lacked the dash and romance of a periscope observation characterized so well in the movies.

At first, the display showed a hazy greenish-blue background with shadows streaking across the screen. The operator spun the sensor head around, looking for any large shadows or evidence of a nearby ship. Then suddenly a brighter picture appeared as the camera cleared the water. The speaker for the electronic surveillance system started beeping and chirping as the antenna on the photonics mast detected the emissions of several radars. All were surface search sets and the signal strengths were weak. None were close. A couple of quick circular sweeps showed there were no close contacts. Guthrie grunted his approval and ordered
Michigan
back down.

“OOD, get us back down to one hundred and thirty feet. I’m going with the XO to missile compartment second level. I’ll be back before we launch the ASDS.”

Simmons acknowledged the order as Guthrie and Jerry headed down the ladder. Both walked quickly along the narrow passageway; several sailors had to flatten themselves against the wall to let the two by. Once through the watertight door, they crossed the compartment to SOF tube one. The large hatch in the tube was open and several SEALs were just coming out. Carlson was also waiting.

“She’s all loaded and ready to go, XO,” he reported as he handed Jerry a clipboard. “Here’s the prelaunch checklist and the compensation calculations.”

“Thanks, Alex. But shouldn’t you be in the BMC right now?” asked Jerry. There was a stern edge to his voice.

“Ah . . . yes, sir,” the lieutenant replied uncomfortably. “I just wanted to make sure everything was squared away for the mission, sir. That’s all.” Then after a slight pause, “She is my baby.”

“Yeah, I know.” Jerry understood exactly where the winged ASDS pilot was coming from. And while he was sympathetic, it was still his job as the executive officer to train the junior officers assigned to him to think things through and do the right thing. “Vernon will make sure I don’t screw up too much, and I promise I won’t scratch the paint. . . Dad.” Jerry grinned with the last word. “Now report to your station.”

“Aye, aye, sir. Good luck, XO. Captain.” Carlson’s spirits were clearly buoyed, for as he approached the watertight door he spun about and said, “Remember, XO, mind the big rocks!”

Jerry snapped his fingers and pointed at the watertight door, encouraging the young man to get going.

“Nicely handled, XO,” commented Guthrie. “But shouldn’t you be getting your carcass up into the ASDS? You wouldn’t want to be late for your first mission.”

“No, that wouldn’t look very good. I’ll see you in a few hours, Skipper.”

“Good luck, XO. And do watch out for big rocks.” Guthrie smiled as he slapped Jerry on the shoulder and then stepped back to allow his exec access to the hatch. Once inside the tube, a SEAL closed and dogged the hatch. Jerry quickly climbed up the ladder into the lockout chamber. Barrineau and Higgs were waiting, and as soon as Jerry had pulled himself into the ASDS they secured the two hatches. Hunched over slightly, he worked his way up through the operator’s compartment to the pilot’s seat, sat down, and strapped himself in.

The displays were all up and running, showing the status of the trim system, propulsion, battery charge, navigation, as well as the minisub’s attitude, course, and speed. A quick look at the status board showed mostly green, with only the docking skirt and the docking pylon latches being red. Jerry reached over and grabbed the logbook for ASDS-1 and started to make the proper entry; the paperwork gods must be appeased.

Higgs climbed into his chair and buckled up. As the copilot, he was responsible for life support, sensors, communications, and operating the lockout systems. He also helped to monitor propulsion plant and battery status.

“Pilot, ASDS is ready for launch. Docking skirt and the pylon latches indicate red,” Higgs reported.

“Very well, Copilot.” Jerry flipped on the underwater communications system switch. “Starbase, Gray Fox. Comms check, over.”

“Gray Fox, Starbase. Read you loud and clear, over.”

“Starbase, Gray Fox. Flood docking skirt, over.”

“Gray Fox, Starbase. Flooding docking skirt.”

There was a brief bubbling noise as the air in the space between the docking skirt and
Michigan
was vented to sea. The indicator on the status panel turned green.

“Pilot, docking skirt indicates flooded,” said Higgs.

“Very well,” replied Jerry, then hitting the transmit button again, he said, “Starbase, Gray Fox. Release docking pylon latches, over.”

“Gray Fox, Starbase. Releasing docking latches.”

A loud
KA-CHUNK
resonated through the hull as the four docking latches in the pylons bolted to
Michigan’s
outer hull swung to the unlocked position. The ASDS was now held to the mother submarine by only a few hundred pounds of extra water in her trim tanks.

“Pilot, docking latches indicate unlocked. The ASDS is ready for launch in all respects.”

“Very well, Mr. Higgs. Pumping from trim tanks to sea.” Jerry punched up the ballast control screen and told the computer how much water he wanted pushed overboard.

“XO, remember to apply a little upward thrust once two hundred pounds have been pumped out,” cautioned Higgs. He wanted a clean launch. Bouncing around on the mating ring was the sign of a sloppy takeoff, a sign that would be heard by those in the tube and the BMC, and gleefully noted on their return.

“Understood, Mr. Higgs.” Jerry knew what he needed to do next, but his copilot was just doing his job by reminding him. As the readout passed 190 pounds, Jerry gently pulled back on the joystick. Slowly, the ASDS lifted off of
Michigan’s
turtleback; a subtle scrapping noise being the only external evidence the two submarines had separated.

“Nice,” murmured Higgs with approval.

“Starbase, Gray Fox. We have separation, over,” declared Jerry.

“Gray Fox, Starbase. We hold you clear of the deck, over.”

“Starbase, Gray Fox. Roger that.”

Jerry waited a few more seconds, then turned toward Higgs. “Copilot, activate the forward looking soar.”

“Activate the forward looking sonar, aye. Pilot, the sonar is on line.”

Normally, a transmitting sonar would be a significant vulnerability. But the collision avoidance sonar on the ASDS operated at very high frequencies and low power, which made it difficult to detect unless you were really close. Still, Jerry would only keep it on as long as it took to ensure they had completely cleared
Michigan.

“Pilot, the ASDS is clear and free to maneuver.”

“Very well, Copilot. Secure the forward looking sonar.”

As Higgs turned off the sonar, Jerry brought up the autopilot menu and selected the pre-stored course, speed, and depth for the first leg of the trip. The display looked similar to that on a Garmin or Tom Tom, just without roads. Once the route was confirmed, he pushed the transmit button.

“Starbase, Gray Fox. We are clear of your position and are proceeding to Point X-ray, over.”

“Gray Fox, Starbase. Roger that. Godspeed. Starbase out.”

Jerry reached over to the main propulsion motor panel and selected “all ahead two-thirds.” Once the ASDS had some forward way on, he lightly pulled the joystick to the left. “Coming left to course zero zero zero,” he announced. Higgs acknowledged the report as he monitored the propulsion system display. Within ten minutes, Jerry had the ASDS up to her flank speed, a blazing eight knots. Satisfied that everything was in order, he activated the autopilot and leaned back into his chair.