Show of Force (10 page)

He had first seen the boy sitting on top of a dirty pile of snow. The child was dirtier than the snow and dressed in rags, but saw the military man coming and had stared at him. When the boy saw that the uniform was not quite the same as the regular infantry he had stood up, eyeing the stranger more closely. He watched the man come up directly in front of him and then saluted gravely in a little-boy manner. Gorenko returned the salute.

The child said nothing, and the man finally asked, “Could you tell me if this is the Kupinsky home?”

A shy nod was his only answer.

“Is your mother at home?” Another nod. “Are you young Alexander Kupinsky?”

The boy nodded and smiled. “Yes.” He saluted the man again. “Do you know my father?”

This time it was Gorenko who nodded without speaking.

After staring at the officer before him for just a second, tears began to form at the corners of the boy's eyes. “He's dead, isn't he? I don't have a father any more, do I?”

The passing seconds seemed like hours as he looked down at the child. “I will be your father now,” he had said firmly, his eyes reflecting the man who had saved his life in the streets in Stalingrad.

He had taken the boy's bony hand in his own and led him into the house. He gave the woman money for herself and the child, and had sent more whenever he could during the war. Once in 1944, he was able to visit, when the trains were running again. And the following year, when the war ended, she had let him take the boy back to the capital city with him. There was nothing she could offer the child in Leninsk, and she could barely sustain herself. She asked only that Alex be sent home to visit each summer if the commander had the money to do so. Each summer, he did return to his native town to see his mother, and each time he brought money from the man, who was now an admiral.

Alex became a member of Gorenko's family in those early years in Moscow. He was treated as a son, just as he had been told on that wintry day in 1943, and loved as one also, for there were no other children. He was allowed to enter one of the Nakhimov schools because of Gorenko, even though he was older than the others. When he was seventeen, he was entered in the Frunze Higher Naval School. He would not be an infantryman dike his father.

Gorenko remembered the vacations the boy had, when he returned to his adopted family full of new ideas from the school. It was not an easy life, but few Russian young men his age had any idea what it meant to be easy. The two talked late into the nights of the navy and what young Alex would do when he was graduated. Many of the discussions were serious, about Russian history, and strategy, and the great military thinkers such as von Clauswitz and Mahan. Alex was not just smart. He had a brilliant, challenging mind, and the Admiral treasured these evenings.

Alex wanted to learn at any time of day or night. He forgot nothing. History was one of his favorite topics, and he sensed the struggles of the Russian people more from Gorenko than from the books. He learned of the many nations that had invaded their homeland at one time or another, and how they were always defeated by the stolid army and the Russian winters. When their armies were desperate and there was no food and they had only the clothes on their backs, then the winds blew from the north and the snow came. And the Russians had time to recoup and fight again.

Now, in the twentieth century, Gorenko taught his son how Russia would expand. No longer would they be invaded from every direction. They would expand their sphere and become a major force in the world. They would not join other countries, but they would have other nations turning to them. Always, a prime factor in this dream was Gorenko's desire to change his Navy from a homeland defense force to a blue-water fleet, commanding the oceans of the world.

He taught Alex the lessons of war. The first thing he would accomplish was, the building of a submarine force. It was necessary if you were to protect your own supplies and deny them to your enemy. First you had to defend yourself, then you could take the offense. The undersea fleet would be followed by a surface force second to none. He remembered explaining to Alex that more than 20 million Russians had died during this last war, more than any other country, and never again would it happen if they could command the seas. Alex learned about
seapower
at the feet of the man who understood the American, Mahan. Each time they talked, Alex was reminded that the country that controls the oceans of the world controls the countries of the world. The necessity for intellect in the military was constantly driven home to Alex, now a young man, as he graduated from Frunze. As much as Gorenko hated the Germans, he told many stories of the General Staff methods that the Russians now emulated. It was always a good lesson to see how a small state like Germany could invade a large one like Russia. Only the best and the brightest reached the top, and that's where Alex would go.

In the mid-fifties, Gorenko became Commander in Chief of the Soviet Navy. Alexander Kupinsky had by that time exhibited his abilities both in the naval schools and on board ships. He was chosen for submarine training. He joined the fleet that his stepfather had created in less than ten years. Submarine command was Alex's dream, and Gorenko was sometimes hurt that he could not express to his comrades the pride he felt in the young man. Alex would have to make it on his own, without help from the Admiral.

It was after his first submarine tour, when Alex had returned to Moscow for a few days' leave, that they had one of their few arguments.

“I don't believe that you can extend your Navy throughout the world unless you can adequately service it. Any naval vessel should be able to survive on its own, but only if it is kept supplied. You taught me that yourself when we were reading Mahan!”

“We are ready now,” Gorenko had replied. “We are thin perhaps, but our bases around the world make up for our lack of service ships.”

“And if our bases are closed?”

“That should not happen again,” the older man had growled. “We are too strong now. Our missiles are too much of a threat.”

“We also have no aircraft carriers. Remember Mahan said you have to not only control your own seas, you must project your power, and in his time there were no aircraft carriers or even airplanes.”

“That will come,” was the reply. “I will not be caught like Hitler was. I will go to the oil fields and supply bases, and I will have a service force second to none.”

“That is fine to say now. But how do you plan to support our submarines when they cross the oceans?”

At that point Gorenko had risen from his chair angrily. He did not accept criticism easily, especially from the only person that he had perhaps ever loved. The conversation was cut off.

The next morning, the Admiral was his old self. He told Alex he would have him sent to the Grechko Naval Academy for further study after his first sub command. In the spring of 1962, after an early promotion, Alex Kupinsky received his command, a submarine being made ready for a deployment to the Western Atlantic.

S
am Carter stretched lazily in his bridge chair, glancing down at the flying fish leaping gracefully through the air alongside the
Bagley.
His captain's chair had been returned to the open starboard wing after a brief tropical downpour. He looked across at
Lake Champlain,
noting activity on the flight deck a thousand yards off his port bow. The mighty elevators had already brought a dozen tracker aircraft to the flight deck, and he could see them being wheeled into position for takeoff.

“Looks like they're getting ready to launch, Bob,” he remarked to his operations officer who was standing OOD watch. He looked back over his shoulder to the flag on the
Bagley's
mast. “I'll bet we come about thirty degrees to port for launch. What do you think?” It was always a mental game.

Collier, looking up at the flag, nodded his agreement. “Can't argue with that, Captain.” And to his junior officer of the watch, he said, “What will our course to station be if the carrier turns about thirty degrees into the wind?” Both Collier and the captain knew within a few degrees, from their years of experience, but every junior officer had to develop these same instincts.

“Bridge . . . this is CIC,” came a voice from a pilothouse speaker. “The last flight of trackers is returning to the carrier soon. We just picked it up over their tactical circuit. I expect they'll have another launch before they retrieve. That means they will reorient the screen anytime.”

The JO, who had just gone to his maneuvering board to begin plotting the solution to their assumed station, looked out to Collier for a response. Instead, Carter turned to him from his chair. “Ask Combat what the course to our new station will be.” He paused for a moment, then winked at Collier. “And ask him how long it will take to get there, Mr. Stritzler.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” responded the JO, turning to relay the .captain's query.

“Keeping them on their toes today, sir,” Collier said, not expecting his captain to respond. Carter was the finest CO in the squadron for training junior officers, and he never let up on them. It was especially important now when they were in wartime conditions, standing watch on and watch off, Blue/Gold Teams as Carter called them. All stations were manned, including the depth-charge racks, hedgehog mounts, torpedo tubes, and gun mounts. The men were allowed to stand easy on these hot days—their captain was reasonable about comfort, as long as they were ready.

After a moment, “How do I know which direction the wind is from?” came back from the CIC watch officer.

Carter moved from the comfort of his chair into trie pilothouse and switched on the speaker to CIC. “You have a wind indicator in Combat that is in working order unless Mr. Mezey has been gundecking the equipment reports again. I would suggest that you use that and a maneuvering board, if there happens to be one available,” he added sarcastically. “And bring your solution out to me on the starboard wing within the next sixty seconds. I would hope the OTC has not already given us the signal by then.” He switched off the speaker, knowing that that particular ensign would never make the same mistake twice.

Over the water came the distant roar of piston engines warming up, preceded visually by the puffs of exhaust smoke, which quickly disappeared over the Caribbean. The anticipated signal from the officer in tactical command came over the primary tactical frequency and, after a reasonable period of time to avoid error, it was executed.
Lake Champlain
required only a change of course into the wind and increase of speed in preparation for the launch, but the little destroyers in her eight-ship screen had to scurry at top speed in a variety of directions to get to their new stations.

Collier allowed his JO to conn the ship into its new position. He knew the excitement within each new ensign when he had the chance to show his captain how he could place the ship exactly where the admiral on that carrier required it to be. Carter nodded to the young officer, acknowledging without words the smooth execution of a complicated ship's movement done well.

After watching the launch of the new flight of trackers, and the return of the previous twelve from their search for Russian submarines, Carter spoke to Collier. “I'm going below to my cabin for a while, Bob. Gonna catch up on a bit of paperwork. I may even take a nap.” He looked at his watch, noting there were only twenty minutes left in the current Gold Team watch. “When Donovan relieves you, have him call me if those trackers pick up anything new on those oil traces they found this morning. I wouldn't be surprised if they had something there. The last intelligence reports indicated there were at least two subs in the immediate area, and sooner or later we're going to find one of them.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Collier replied, saluting as Carter left the bridge.

Approximately forty miles from the ships of Task Group Alpha, Lieutenant Alexander Kupinsky, skipper of a Russian
Foxtrot-class
submarine, was listening expressionlessly to his chief engineer's casualty report. It had been a week of malfunctions since they had last taken on fuel and supplies from the cow that serviced them on their Caribbean station. Bearings, batteries, condensers, electronic gear—each had failed during the week that had started so peacefully and ended with alarm when they received the signal that war was imminent with the United States. There had been no further explanation, but the prearranged signal indicated that one more signal would mean that Kupinsky was to open the instructions in his safe. He had told his crew as much as he knew, but it was difficult to know what was happening when you were so far from home and so close to your enemy's coast.

There was a leak in one of the pumps. Oil had escaped into the bilges, but no one had realized the extent of damage at first. When it became necessary to pump the already overflowing bilges, the oil had likely gone to the surface. They all knew of the search planes from the American carrier. They heard the sonobuoys dropped in the water and activated, waiting for them. They had seen the aircraft through the periscope, and they had picked up the tracker's radar many times on their electronic countermeasures (ECM) equipment.

Now there was a telltale noise in one of the shafts, a bearing, the chief had said. He didn't know when it might go, but he recommended surfacing at night. They would have to stop to make the repairs before the sub became a major engineering casualty. Kupinsky didn't think that he would have that luxury. The Americans were everywhere. Half the time when he should have been snorkeling to recharge his batteries, he was diving to avoid those planes. They were invariably in the air, and he honestly didn't know why. But he knew that this was no Cold War game. That signal indicated that the games would soon be over, and he knew his boat must be ready.

Yes, he agreed with his chief, he would try to surface at the end of the day. He must snorkel for a while in case they were driven under again, and then he would stop engines if he could for the repairs. But they must be ready to dive at any time, he insisted.

The Gold Team was relieved by Joe Donovan's Blue Team for the first dog watch, before the evening meal. The late afternoon sun was still high in the sky at that latitude, and Donovan made his customary tour of the ship, leaving his experienced JO on the bridge. His last stop was combat, where he passed the time of day for just a moment with David Charles, the CIC watch officer.

It was quiet back on the bridge. A light breeze was cooling the day ever so slightly, and the gray metal of the
Bagley
was releasing some of its heat as the sun's rays lessened their effect. The ever-present flying fish offered the only entertainment for the men on the bridge, who quietly shifted their stations every fifteen minutes to avoid the mounting boredom.

“Bridge . . .” cracked Ensign Charles' voice from Combat, “I've just copied a snorkel sighting to the OTC from Tracker Four. We have the aircraft on radar twenty-six miles on our starboard beam. We're in the best position to head there right now.”

“Roger, Combat, wait one.” In three strides, Donovan was at the phone to Carter's cabin, punching the buzzer repeatedly. To the captain's answer on the other end, he replied excitedly. “Tracker aircraft had a snorkel, sir. Ensign Charles was following it in Combat. Datum for last known position twenty-six miles” on our starboard beam."

“Call Banker on the pritac frequency, Joe. Tell him we already have datum plotted and request permission to be released to conduct a search. We should be senior on this side of the screen. I'll be right up.”

In less than thirty seconds Sam Carter was coming through the rear door of the pilothouse, buttoning the shirt still hanging out of his unzipped pants. There was no need to ask if the Admiral had responded yet. “Banker has rogered your message, sir. They probably have to call down to the Admiral's cabin. No other ships have responded yet.”

Carter stepped to the speaker and pressed the button to CIC. “Mr. Charles, this is the captain. What course to datum please?”

The reply came without hesitation. “We want two eight six degrees true, sir. The distance to contact is now twenty-five point six miles. It would take us about forty-eight minutes at thirty-two knots, sir.”

“Thanks, David.” He turned to Donovan. “Have main control light off superheat. I want flank speed as fast as they can. Go on down and join your boys.” He briefly checked the current course and speed. “I'll relieve you, Joe.” And to the bridge watch, "I have the conn."

The hum on the primary tactical radio speaker preceded the voice by a split second. “Lucky Strike, this is Banker. You are detached to proceed to datum. Assume command of surface and air units upon arrival. Over.”

As the JO acknowledged the transmission, Carter turned to the men at the helm and engine order telegraph. “Right standard rudder. All engines ahead flank. Indicate revolutions for thirty-two knots. Main control cannot answer you immediately until they have superheat. I will speak to Mr. Donovan as soon as he arrives in main control.” To the JO, who was hesitantly standing to the side watching the bridge come to life, he said, “Sound general quarters, Mr. Sylvester. Tell me when all stations are manned and ready.”

The ensign moved to the speaker on the bulkhead at the back of the pilothouse, depressed the switch, and announced, probably for the first time since he had reported aboard the
Bagley,
“General quarters, general quarters ... all hands man your battle stations. . . .” At the same time, he pulled down the handle that sent the alarm clanging through every space on the ship.

To the helmsman who had relayed that his rudder was right, the captain replied, “Come to course two eight six degrees true.” The
Bagley
was leaning sharply to starboard as her rudders bit into the blue water. Foam bubbled around the fantail as the propellers increased their revolutions. Men, just awakened from sleep, raced from their compartments to their GQ stations, some carrying their clothes.

“My course is two eight six degrees true.”

“Very well,” answered Carter as the bridge-talker began to report stations manned and ready. Bob Collier came through the pilothouse door rubbing his eyes, to assume GQ OOD. The bridge watch was relieved one at a time by the special GQ team. Carter briefed his OOD quickly.

“This is Mr. Collier. I have the conn.” The new men shouted back the course and speed.

David Charles relieved as JO. He checked off the remaining GQ stations as they reported over the sound-powered headphones he had donned.

Forty seconds had passed, and all reports were to the bridge except for the damage-control people, who were still checking all watertight hatches. Donovan reported from main control that superheat was rising. Thirty-two knots could be achieved within twelve minutes, and damage-control central reported ready.

Bagley
was at general quarters. Carter nodded at David Charles. “I owe you a very large drink the next time we're in port, David. We were the first can to report datum on that contact. We're OTC for a four-ship search.” He grinned. “You made me look awfully good out here. All we have to do now is come up with that sub,” he added thoughtfully.

Twenty-four miles dead ahead of
Bagley,
Alex Kupinsky had leveled his boat off at 150 feet after their crash dive. He hadn't expected a bomb or torpedo in the water, but he didn't really know what to expect. Only in exercises in the Baltic had he ever witnessed through his periscope the fearsome sight of an aircraft diving at his boat. It was bad for the nerves at any time.

Not knowing how long the aircraft had tracked him, he changed course and speed immediately, hoping for evasion of whatever was to come. Sunset would come within a couple of hours, but he knew he did not have enough air for men or engines to stay under for the entire night. They were still leaking oil, and the bearing on one shaft was hot. He had called his men to general quarters, but neither he nor the crew knew what they could expect now. Perhaps it would be the high-speed whine of surface-ship propellers sent to hunt him down.

The squawk box echoed through the
Bagley,
“This is the captain speaking again. As I promised when I first told you about this Cuban quarantine, I will keep you informed of your ship's participation. I'm sure the rumors have circulated around the ship pretty fast in the last few minutes, so I want to make sure each of you knows what we're doing. We were sent out here to find Russian submarines, and it seems we may have one now. About fifteen minutes ago one of the tracker aircraft got a good look at a snorkel that we know doesn't belong in the area. We are OTC for a four-ship search commencing at the last point of contact. We'll be at datum in about thirty minutes to join a number of helicopters and trackers. This is an opportunity to make a major contribution to President Kennedy's .challenge to the Russians. He is depending on each ship and each man.” He paused for a moment for effect. “I want you to do your best. A lot of us have been together for almost eighteen months now, and I have a feeling we're going to show that
Bagley's
not ready for the scrap heap yet.” He stopped for another moment, then continued, “I want to assure you I will keep you up to date whenever I can.”