Torpedo! (The Silent War Book 3) Page 4

  The Devilfish was one of the U.S. Navy’s new nuclear attack submarines. She had been designed for one purpose, to seek out and destroy enemy submarines. She was equipped with a staggering array of sophisticated sonar gear. Like the predator sharks that prowl the ocean and detect the irregular swimming vibrations of a sick or wounded fish by means of a line of sensory nerves down each side of the shark’s body, the Devilfish had a lateral line of sonar sensors down each side of its sleek black hull. Other sonar sensors were located in the submarine’s bow and stern areas, along its keel, on the decks and on the sail, or bridge structure. All of the sensors and transmitters were connected electronically to computers that analyzed the sounds received and displayed the analyses on video screens and printed the analyses out on paper. Other computers, which were part of the fire control systems of the Devilfish, were connected to the sonar computers so that a target, once detected and identified, could be analyzed, its course, speed, distance, and depth determined and then the target could be tracked and destroyed.

  The armory of weapons on Devilfish was awesome. In her torpedo tubes and torpedo reload racks were torpedoes much smaller and far more sophisticated than the steam-driven torpedoes of World War II. All the torpedoes were fitted with nuclear warheads, and some carried within their afterbodies miles of thin wire that connected the torpedo to the submarine after it had been fired. The wire contained communications circuits so the ship’s fire control computers could guide the torpedo as it raced away from the submarine, change its course, speed and depth, set its search patterns, and explode it precisely at the right time, even though the torpedo might be as much as ten miles distant. In addition to its torpedoes the Devilfish carried SUBROC missiles with nuclear warheads. The missiles, when fired underwater, surged to the surface where powerful rocket motors launched them into the air and toward a target too distant for the torpedoes to reach.

  The message that had arrived the previous evening, addressed to Lieutenant Commander Robert R. Miller, “For the Captain’s Eyes Only,” had been succinct. It ordered Captain Miller to proceed with all possible speed to a patrol area 100 miles west of the Strait of Gibraltar, to report his position every 12 hours and to proceed without being detected. Captain Miller looked at the chart on his cabin table. At normal submerged cruising speed the 2,100 mile trip would take about four and a half days. At 75 percent of the nuclear reactor output, considerably less than four and a half days. He looked up as his Executive Officer stepped into his cabin.

  “The messenger of the watch just told me the OOD reports we’re on course two two zero, cruising at five hundred feet and the reactor is putting out seventy-five percent of its max output, sir. I told him I’d give you the word.” Lieutenant John Carmichael slid into a chair and lit a cigarette.

  “Thank you,” Miller said. “What’s the weather like topside?”

  “Rotten,” Carmichael said. “Rain and some sleet that might turn into snow. Wind’s building up but it won’t affect the current down here. The North Atlantic current funnels up this big trench but it’s rated at only one, one and a half knots.” He looked at his Commanding Officer.

  “Any idea of what this exercise is about, sir? That is, if you can say.”

  “Beats me, John.” Miller took the message out of his shirt pocket and handed it to his XO. “I thought that it would be orders to send us after that Russian missile sub that crossed the SOSUS array between Britain and Greenland. He’s probably heading for home. I was looking forward to a game of hide and seek in the dark with him and then letting him know we’d tagged him. God knows, we need the practice. It’s been months since we’ve had a chance to play tag with one of their missile subs. I guess that Dick Reinauer on Orca will have the fun now that we’re heading south. Read the message and keep it to yourself.”

  “Sort of strange,” Carmichael said as he read the message. “This takes us out of the Holy Loch command and puts us directly under ComSubLant. Why tell us to maintain a state of full preparedness? We’re always that way. Sounds like something big might be cooking, Skipper, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t know what to think because I can’t think of anything big that might be in the wind,” Captain Miller said. “You’d better put orders in the log that we’ll slow down and do a full sonar sweep before we go up to make a position report. When we do go up I want a radar sweep before we begin transmitting.”

  “I’ll do that now, sir,” Carmichael said. He rose and stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray.

  “Better pass the word to all hands that we’re on a special training exercise,” Captain Miller said. “This is the first time since I’ve had command that I’ve been right under ComSubLant’s thumb and I don’t want any foul-ups. That big Irishman in the Pentagon can cut you off at the knees just by looking at you.”

  Carmichael paused at the entrance to the cabin. “I didn’t know you ever served with the famous Iron Mike Brannon, Skipper.”

  “I didn’t. I was at PCO school learning how to be a skipper and he came over to lecture us on evasive tactics when under attack and how to maintain crew morale on long war patrols. He made quite an impression. He had one hell of a war record in submarines in World War II.”

  “Those were the old days,” Carmichael said with a grin. “Diesel submarines and primitive sonar gear. Things are different now.”

  “This is a submarine, John, and we’re submariners.” Captain Miller said. “Iron Mike is a submariner. He’s also a Vice Admiral and he’s ComSubLant. I want everyone on their toes.”

  The messenger of the watch on the U.S.S. Medusa knocked twice on the steel door of the Captain’s cabin and waited. He heard the command to enter and he stepped into the cabin.

  “Priority message, sir,” he said. Captain Fred Lutz turned in his chair and pushed the letter he had been writing to one side.

  “Thank you,” he said. He opened the envelope as the messenger closed the door behind him. He pulled out two sheets of paper. On the top sheet in the Communications Officer’s neat handwriting were the radio call letters of the Medusa and the call letters of the originating station, time and date. Below it the Communications Officer had stopped decoding after the words “Captain’s Eyes Only. “ The second sheet was the coded message. Lutz stretched over his desk and opened his safe and took out a code book. When he had finished decoding the message he picked up the telephone and dialed the Quarterdeck.

  “Captain here,” he said. “Please give me the status of the liberty party.” He waited, seeing in his mind’s eye the OOD counting the empty slots in the liberty card board.

  “Twenty-six enlisted men still ashore, sir. No reports of any incidents from the Shore Patrol. All officers are aboard. Liberty is up at midnight, ah, two hours and five minutes from now. Last liberty boat should be alongside at zero zero twenty, Captain.”

  “Thank you,” Lutz said. “Please have the messenger notify the XO that I’d like to see him in my cabin at once.”

  Lieutenant Commander Bruce B. “Blighty” Lee walked into Captain Lutz’s cabin and sat down in a chair. “You pulled me out of a four spade bid, doubled and redoubled that I couldn’t have made if I’d had a gun. Old Fuzzface Martin is going to be chewing his beard. He had me set for sure. What’s up, sir?

  “Before we get to that, Blighty, give me a rundown on how ready we are for sea.”

  Lee rubbed his forehead in thought. “We topped off the fuel tanks two days ago. Stores came aboard yesterday. All shore-side repair work was finished day before yesterday. Still some minor stuff, painting, that sort of thing to do. Nothing important. We can go any time you say, once the liberty party comes aboard, sir.” His eyes questioned Lutz, who handed over the decoded message. Lee read it and looked up, his face grave.

  “They don’t give us any reason for their thinking a submarine might be on the bottom.”

  “Probably a matériel failure if there is one on the bottom,” Lutz said. “I can’t think of any other reason.”

  “That
‘Captain’s Eyes Only’ thing makes it sticky,” Lee said. “Harold Hahn and Chief Klinger are probably the two best sonar people in the Fleet but if they don’t know what they’re supposed to be looking for,” his voice trailed off.

  “I know,” Captain Lutz said. “We’re going to have to think of something. Lieutenant Hahn is damned sharp. The Chief, too.”

  “An aircraft, maybe? Could we say that? Say we’ve been asked to search for an aircraft that’s down on that course line? Aircraft are pretty big.”

  “Might work,” Lutz said. “Worth a try anyway. Except for one thing; if we find the submarine we’re going to have to take pictures and the Chief and his people in Sonar and Hahn in Charting and the Bridge crew are all going to know what’s down there.” He shrugged. “ComSubLant wants complete secrecy. Well, we’re at sea so no one can mouth off in a bar ashore. He’s got to know that if we find his submarine the crew is going to know it. After that, it’s his worry.” He reached for the message.

  “Write down the latitude and longitude co-ordinates and lay out the course line of the Sharkfin and her last position report. We’ll start the search there. Notify the Port Authority and the SOP that we’ll be getting underway at zero two hundred. Set the sea detail at zero one hundred. It shouldn’t take us very long to get on station.”

  The sonar compartment on the Medusa was located deep in the bowels of the ship. The compartment was large and crammed with the sophisticated electronics needed to probe and chart the bottom of the oceans. Set into the Medusa’s hull were dozens of sonar transmitters and receivers to send out directional sonar beams from the ship and receive them when they bounced back off the bottom. The returning sonar signals were fed into audio circuits and video screens so the sonar operators could see and hear them and into computers that analyzed the sonar echoes and printed out the depth and configuration of the sea bottom.

  The four walls of the sonar compartment, or bulkheads, as walls are called at sea, were covered with a maze of dials, switches, and controls. Against one bulkhead there was a long desk with swivel chairs bolted to the deck in front of it. In the center of the desk there was a large video screen that was flanked by smaller screens on either side. Along the desk top were sets of controls that enabled the sonar operators to mass all of the sonar transmitters to send out simultaneous sound beams at one time, to use selective banks of transmitters or a single transmitter. The compartment was kept dimly lighted with red lamps for the convenience of the sonarmen on watch who sat in their swivel chairs studying the video screens.

  Chief Sonarman John Klinger, a heavy set man with seventeen years of service in the Navy, sat in front of the large master video screen. He sensed rather than heard Captain Lutz walk into the compartment and he half turned in his chair. He pushed one of the big mufflike earphones he wore up on his temple.

  “Nothing yet, Captain. I’m using a bank of transmitters up forward in a wide angle scan. If they pick up anything we can go to concentrated scan. I’ve got a scan going amidships, one hundred and sixty degrees to each side from the keel to give us a fan over the bottom.”

  “What’s the bottom look like?” Lutz asked

  “We’re getting a mushy return, sort of, sir. Lot of sediment down there on top of solid rock. We’re in deep water now, eleven thousand feet and getting deeper.”

  “A plane fuselage would show up, you think?”

  “Oh, hell yes, Captain. The metal fuselage would give off a bang in the earphones like you hit a dishpan with a hammer. If the pilot was on course when he went down we should find the plane. Provided he didn’t lose a wing when he went into the water and went skewing way off to one side.”

  “Very well,” Captain Lutz said. “The minute you get anything inform the Bridge and Charting.” He touched the Chief Petty Officer on the shoulder and left the compartment.

  In the middle of the afternoon watch on the second day of the search the telephone on the Bridge rang. “Sonar reports a solid metal return at fourteen hundred twenty hours and seven seconds, sir.” The Quartermaster of the Watch turned to the OOD.

  “Notify the Captain,” the OOD said. He made a small X on the course line on the chart. Captain Lutz, breathing hard after running up the steep ladders to the Navigation Bridge, bounced into the Chartroom.

  “Right here, sir,” the OOD said. He pointed at the X on the chart.

  “Reduce speed to four knots if you can maintain steerageway,” Lutz said. He picked up the telephone and dialed the Sonar Compartment.

  “We’re slowing to four knots, Chief. Use the after scan as long as you have contact. We’ll go ahead on this course until we can make a turn and then come back down along the reverse course. I’ll let you know when that is. As soon as you get contact again we’ll drop sonar buoys.” He turned to the OOD.

  “Tell the First Lieutenant I want sonar buoys ready to drop when we come about on the reverse course. I want the paravane rigged for a camera and floodlight drop, deep drop, about thirteen thousand feet. Tell Mr. Hahn in Charting that I want a bottom charting and analyses as soon as we come about on the reverse course. Get Mr. Lee up here on the double, we’ve got some tricky navigating and ship handling ahead of us.”

  “Has Sonar found the plane, sir?” the OOD asked as he reached for the telephone.

  “I don’t know,” Captain Lutz said. “They’ve got something down there and we’ve got to check it out.”

  In the Sonar Compartment Chief Klinger was staring at the computer readout, a puzzled expression on his heavy face. “Damned computer says the target on the bottom is over four hundred feet long. We hit it with a wide scan but there’s no indication of any wingspread on the aircraft. Either he lost both wings or else,” he rubbed his chin, “maybe we got the hull of an old freighter down there, something that was sunk in World War II.” The telephone by his elbow rang and he picked it up.

  “Aye, aye, sir.” He turned to the men on watch.

  “The Old Man’s swinging around to run back down the course. They’re standing by to drop sonar buoys as soon as we give them the word we’ve got the target again. I want all you clowns to sharpen up.” He settled in front of his video screen and pulled the big earphones down over his ears.

  The Medusa made a long sweeping turn and came back on the reverse course, steaming slowly as the sonar beams probed the ocean bottom. The forward scanning beams picked up the target to the port side and Chief Klinger snapped crisp instructions to the Bridge to alter course slightly. As the Medusa passed over the target the sonar buoys were dropped to go arrowing down to the bottom and begin their steady beeping. With the sonar buoys in place the target was marked, easy to find for the camera run.

  On the After Well Deck a Chief Boatswain’s mate and his crew of seamen had rigged a paravane on a long boom that would be swung over the side of the ship. The paravane would swim out to one side of the ship as it moved through the water. The camera platform, studded with powerful floodlights, would be lowered from the paravane. The Chief checked the maze of rigging cables and spoke into his telephone.

  “Ready to make the camera drop, Bridge. Camera and floods have been checked out. Everything four oh. We’ve got enough cable rigged for a thirteen thousand foot drop.”

  In the Chartroom on the Bridge Blighty Lee worked with his dividers and parallel rulers, guided by Chief Klinger’s reports on the sonar buoy bearings. The Medusa’s helmsman spun his wheel in response to Lee’s quick orders and the Medusa came about in a turn and steadied on course. Lee turned to Captain Lutz.

  “We’re far enough to the east of the target to make the camera drop, sir. We can hold a steady course at four knots in this sea. Camera drop should take twenty-five minutes.” He pointed to the course line on the chart. “We can have the camera in position when we’re about a half mile from the target. We can start taking pictures then, just in case there’s any debris along the course line that might be important.”

  “Very well, Blighty,” Lutz said. “It might be a dummy run. Chi
ef Klinger said the object on the bottom shows a length of over four hundred feet on the computer readout but he saw no evidence of aircraft wings. He thinks we might have an old freighter that was sunk in World War II down there.”

  The Officer of the Deck, a young Lieutenant, shook his head. “Awful lot of work for the deck force if it’s only some old wreck down there.” Lutz and Lee looked at each other. Lee picked up the telephone and ordered the Chief Boatswain’s Mate to make the camera drop.

  A sonar device on the camera platform beeped steadily as the camera and light platform dropped into the sea. A sonar operator who was ranging on the camera platform studied his video screen and computer readout. The long minutes went by as the cable unreeled and let the camera platform and the floodlights drop ever deeper into the sea. The sonar operator who was watching over the camera platform’s depth turned to Klinger.

  “Camera platform is at one one zero feet from the bottom, Chief.”

  “Belay lowering the camera platform,” Klinger said into his telephone. “Bridge, camera platform is now one one zero feet from the bottom.”

  “Very well,” Lee answered. “We’re making a camera run now. Floodlights are on. Camera is on. I want a full analysis and a bottom charting white-line printout, Sonar and Charting, keep in contact and report anything you see.”

  Far below the Medusa’s keel the bright glare of the floodlights illuminated a world that had never before seen light. Small fish with great gaping mouths full of teeth charged at the lights and then turned away. On the sea bottom vast areas of tube worms unfurled in the light, writhing in the slow bottom current. Chief Klinger watched his video screen intently, his whole being concentrated on the pictures the camera was sending back.

  “That’s a ship’s screw!” Klinger rasped into his telephone. “That’s got to be a submarine, Bridge! You getting the picture I’m seeing? I’m seeing a submarine with its screw bent off to the port side and I’m damned sure there’s a big hole in her stern! That’s the sail coming up now, Bridge. That’s a submarine!”