Close
Quarters
June 12, 2005
Lunch that afternoon was a celebration, although an ultra-quiet one. Jerry thought the cold sandwiches and canned fruit were a banquet and the thought of going home filled him with possibilities. True, he had a ton of work to do if he wanted to qualify for his dolphins, but compared to their earlier problems, his quals didn’t seem so insurmountable now. He’d make the time.
Especially at twelve knots. Lieutenant Commander Ho had already briefed the Captain, but the entire wardroom needed to know exactly what Memphis’ engineering plant could and could not do.
The Engineer looked tired, and a little shaken. He’d already briefed them on the four men who’d been injured, none dangerously so, but it was clear he’d felt their injuries almost as much as they had. His tone had improved and become steadier when he’d described the casualties to the plant.
The worst was the port main engine. The shock of the depth charging cracked the main throttle valve casing and caused a major steam leak, scalding three men nearby. Another man broke his ankle trying to get away from the jet of steam. The space had immediately filled with vapor, making it hard to see and to breathe. They’d drilled for it, though, and after donning EABs, had secured the steam supply to the main engine.
But now, to run at the same speed, the remaining engine would have to work twice as hard, which would make much more noise.
And the throttle valve couldn’t be repaired at sea. Because it had to hold saturated steam at six hundred psi and 485° Fahrenheit, it was made of thick stainless steel. The ship didn’t have the capability to weld metal that thick, with a crack that large. They couldn’t even patch it while at sea. The only thing they could do was secure the port main engine until they reached a base with the necessary equipment and personnel to effect the repairs.
Their creep speed was reduced from five to three knots. That wasn’t too bad, since nobody ever tried to get anywhere at creep. The point was to be as quiet as physically possible. Their transit speed was now twelve instead of twenty knots and their top speed, at which they’d make more noise than a boiler factory, was twenty knots. “Over twelve knots, I’d have to shift the starboard main seawater pumps to fast speed, and you can’t be quiet with those on the line.
“The oxygen generator fried itself when some of the breakers were rattled around. Fortunately, the oxygen banks are full and we won’t need to make any more before we reach a friendly port. And there are pumps and fittings knocked loose throughout the engine room and the auxiliary machinery space,” Ho concluded. “The only good news is that if we don’t take any further hits, we’ll probably make it back without any more equipment casualties.”
“That was a ringing endorsement,” Lenny Berg remarked cynically. “Would it help if I got out and pushed?”
“I like the ‘getting out’ part,” the XO answered, with only a slight smile.
“I was only trying to help,” Berg complained.
“Jerry, any luck with the torpedo tubes?” Bair asked.
“None, sir. With the preset panel gone, there’s no way to talk to a weapon. The Senior Chief’s been trying to jury-rig something, but he’s not hopeful.”
Dr. Patterson, sitting to one side with Emily Davis, spoke up tentatively. “But you can still fire a torpedo, can’t you? Emily says there’s nothing wrong with the tubes themselves.”
“That’s not quite true, doctor,” answered Hardy politely. “To fire a Mark 48, we need to apply warm-up power to get the inertial nav system up and running, and then we need to tell it where it is, where to go, and when to enable the active seeker. You need the fire-control circuits, or the emergency preset circuits to do those things; we have neither. If we launched a weapon, it would head straight to the bottom. No, ma’am, we have no weapons capability at all.” On that somber note, Bair stood up and announced, “All right, we’re not out of the woods yet and we have a long trip before us. Let’s get back to work.”
* * * *
Slowly, the officers filed out of the wardroom, leaving Hardy to think in peace. As soon as he thought he was alone, he placed his face in his hands, rubbing his forehead with his fingertips. Exhausted, frustrated, and tired of having to act so confident in front of his crew, he tried to think about what he would do if they ran across another Russian.
“Excuse me, Captain,” Patterson said softly.
Momentarily startled, Hardy jerked his head up. “Yes, Doctor. What can I do for you?”
“I... ah ... I need to apologize for some of the things I said earlier. I didn’t really appreciate all the risks you and your men take and, uh, it was wrong for me to call you a bus driver and your sub a piece of junk.”
Hardy smiled weakly. “I believe the phrase was a ‘glorified bus driver,’ Doctor, but then I’m being picky. Apology accepted.” He then stood up and faced her. “And while we’re on the subject of apologies, I believe I made a remark about your political derriere being in a sling that was inappropriate. I know you didn’t just make the environmental threat up, that you do believe it’s a problem. I’m sorry that I implied you had.”
Patterson nodded her acceptance and then looked down at the deck. “Do you ... do you think we’ll make it home?”
“Frankly Doctor, I don’t know,” Hardy said honestly, and then started to walk toward the wardroom door. After a few steps, he stopped and turned back to face her. “I’d like to think we’ll get out of this mess in one piece, but I have nothing but my training to base that on. This is my first time in a combat situation.”
“You and your crew have done very well so far, Captain. It’s obvious that the training they’ve had is paying off.”
“Yes, it is. And Lord knows that I’ve trained them hard. Perhaps, too hard at times. But I’ve found out training only goes so far, Doctor. You have to have confidence that they’ll do the right thing at the right time.”
Patterson chuckled briefly. “We don’t work with trust much in politics, Captain. It’s in short supply.”
“I know that, Doctor. But it hasn’t exactly been plentiful on Memphis either.” Hardy opened the door and motioned for Patterson to leave first. He then closed the door carefully, so as to make as little noise as possible.
* * * *
Memphis continued to creep northward, Ho nursing the battered engineering plant as if it were a sick child. Jerry went back on watch in control with Lenny at 1800. He wished he could’ve slept more than two hours, but Bair made it clear they had to stand watch. “I’ve got to put everyone in the engineering department back aft to hold this old lady together. You two will just have to pull extra time forward.” It made sense. There would be little communicating with the outside world while the Russians were pursuing them, and without a weapons capability, there was little need for an Assistant Weapons Officer.
Memphis would not be out of the Kara Sea until late that evening, but that assumed a straight-line course and a constant quiet transit speed. Especially after the attacks that morning, everyone on the boat was silent and extremely alert. Jerry actually tiptoed in the passageway as he made his pre-watch rounds with Lenny.
In control nobody spoke unless absolutely necessary. Hardy and Bair alternated between the chart, the TMA plot, and the fire-control system, speaking quickly and softly. They ordered frequent depth, speed, and course changes, trying to use the seabed for cover as much as possible, trying to avoid any obvious paths. After all, the Russians knew these waters better than they did. Like a soldier dashing from one piece of cover to the next, Memphis quickly transited the deep spots, then headed back to shallower water, always working her way north and out.
In the early evening Hardy risked exposing the BRD-7 ESM mast to accurately fix the bearing to any radar signals. The ESM stub antenna on the Type 18 periscope could tell him if a radar was radiating in the area, as well as its rough direction, but he needed fine bearing information that only the ESM mast could provide. He found them, all right—three airborne radars covering the exit to the Kara Sea like a quilt. That meant at least three ASW aircraft were overhead.
While the ESM mast was small and covered with radar-absorbent material, there was still a slight risk of detection every time it was raised. So Jerry was surprised when Hardy put the mast up again half an hour later, and then again forty-five minutes later. Each time he lowered the mast, Memphis immediately changed course and “dashed” at eight knots to clear datum, all the while waiting for depth charges to bracket them.
After the third ESM search, Hardy invited Lenny Berg, the OOD, and Jerry over to the chart table. Memphis’ zig-zag course lay crookedly on the chart, well to the east of center. The bearing lines from the ESM cuts all pointed north, ahead of them, and the bearing lines all converged in three general locations.
Jerry could see that the areas were almost on a line. In fact, they straddled a line that marked 77° north latitude. The Russians probably had that same line on their charts as well.
“That’s where the buoy fields are,” Hardy announced. “The planes aren’t stationary, of course. They do figure eights or racetrack patterns over the fields they’ve laid, loitering while they wait for a sonobuoy to make detection. According to intel, they typically lay fields twenty-five miles square, so look what happens if we put in three fields of that size.”
Bair handed Hardy three squares of paper. “These are cut to the same scale as the chart,” Bair explained. It only took a moment to arrange them across the latitude line. Each square lay across the transition from the shallow water of the Kara Sea to the deeper water of the Barents. The line was well placed and made an almost solid barrier ahead of them.
“We can’t be sure of the fields’ positions,” Bair cautioned. “They could be up to five or even ten miles off on any side.”
“So we’re not going to go anywhere near them.” Hardy announced. “We’re going to hug the coast off the northern tip of Novaya Zemlya and keep Memphis in shallow water. We should be able to pass the westernmost field at a distance of five miles.”
Lenny Berg looked worried and even the XO looked concerned. Hardy saw their faces. “The shallower we go, the less our noise will carry to the buoys. If we’re lucky we’ll find some biologies to hide in, but I’ll even settle for some wave slap.”
“They’ll be expecting us to try and go around, sir,” Bair cautioned. “They’ll have surface craft patrolling the gaps.”
“Of course, but I’d rather deal with a thirty-knot ship than a three-hundred-knot airplane.”
“How many ships will they have?” asked Lenny Berg. “And how many aircraft?”
“Three planes, all the way out here in the Kara Sea, is a lot,” Bair answered. “They only have one or two understrength squadrons in the entire Northern Fleet and their maintenance is iffy at best. I’m betting this is all they had available to sortie on such short notice. The ships are more of an unknown. We’ve already detected four; it could be two or even three times that number. We just don’t know.”
“Lucky for us,” Berg commented sarcastically.
“More will come, which is why we have to keep heading north,” Hardy said. “Remember, this is the season when the Russians do most of their training. Every available ship from those exercises is heading in this direction. That first group we got past was probably the closest, but there will be more guarding the gaps not covered by the buoy fields. More will arrive the longer we take, and I do not want Memphis to be anywhere near here when they arrive.
“My intention is to get us out of the Kara Sea as quickly as possible. Once we’re in the Barents and we’ve broken contact for a while, the Russians will be reluctant to attack a submarine contact. And we’ll have more maneuvering room.”
Hardy turned to Jerry. “And you’re going to be our pathfinder. I wouldn’t trust these charts even if they were printed in Cyrillic, not for this. We’ll send the Manta out in front, so we’ll know exactly what the bottom looks like and where we can safely navigate. We’ll man Manta launch stations in three hours.”
Jerry looked at his watch and saw that he’d have to head down to the torpedo room just before the next watch rotation. Based on the Captain’s intentions, he probably wouldn’t get any rest for the next twelve hours.
“I know you’re tired, Mr. Mitchell. We all are. But there is nothing I can do about it until we get out into the Barents and away from the Russian ASW forces,” Hardy said apologetically.
“I understand, sir,” replied Jerry, surprised by Hardy’s concern.
“Very well, then. Mr. Berg, change course to three zero zero and increase speed to seven knots.”
“Change course to three zero zero and increase speed to seven knots, aye, sir.”
At midnight Hardy turned Memphis more to the north, to parallel the northern tip of Novaya Zemlya. As the water shoaled, Jerry and his division manned their U-bay stations and launched the Manta, now nearly fully charged.
Jerry felt at home as he guided the Manta toward the sloping seabed. Harry O’Connell, the Navigator, was on the phone circuit this time. He told Jerry where to steer and constantly quizzed him about water depth and bottom topography. Everyone kept a close watch out for uncharted obstructions.
Jerry used the vehicle like a hunting dog, searching for the smoothest, deepest path across the seabed. He’d run ahead and back at five or six knots while Memphis glided behind him, sometimes with only ten feet of water between the keel and the bottom.
Three knots doesn’t sound very fast. It’s three and a half miles an hour. People can walk that fast. Cars in traffic jams move faster than that. But a car weighs a few thousand pounds. A submarine weighs several thousand tons. It doesn’t stop quickly or quietly. As he scanned the seabed in front of Memphis, he was constantly conscious of the submarine’s mass bearing down on him.
Jerry used the Manta’s high-frequency active sonar to look for sudden shelving of the bottom or obstructions. While he still wished for a TV camera of some sort, the sonar provided him with a usable picture of the bottom.
The pathfinder idea paid off almost immediately when the Manta found an outcropping of rock that projected well above the seabed. While Memphis’ keel would have cleared, her rudder projected a couple of feet farther down, and that might have struck with disastrous results.
At three knots, traveling in a somewhat straight line, Memphis would take over ten hours to cover the thirty miles, but Hardy wasn’t exactly sure of where the buoy field was. Jerry flew the UUV for over five hours, scouring the bottom. After the outcropping, he found a ridge that lay across Memphis’ path and also managed to find a deep spot, almost a ravine, that safely hid the submarine for nearly an hour’s travel northwest.
They heard the destroyer’s sonar long before they were clear of the western sonobuoy field. O’Connell told Jerry over the circuit, “Sonar’s picked up a Horse Jaw sonar pinging to the north. It’s most likely an Udaloy-class destroyer.”
That was bad. The Udaloys were the newest class of Russian ASW destroyer. They carried antisubmarine missiles that reached out almost thirty miles. They also carried two helicopters fitted with a dipping sonar and rocket-propelled torpedoes. The Horse Jaw was a big low-frequency set with tremendous power. Actually, the Udaloy class wasn’t the only Russian warship to carry it. If it wasn’t an Udaloy, the other possibility was a Kirov-class nuclear-powered battle cruiser. Jerry decided he’d hope it was an Udaloy.
“U-bay, conn. The Captain wants you to come up to control.” After making sure the Manta could fly safely ahead for a few minutes, Jerry left Davidson to baby-sit while he dashed up to the control room. He found the Captain and the XO huddled over the chart table. They both looked tired and worried.
“At least we know there is a gap,” the XO commented. He tried to sound positive, but it didn’t work.
Hardy didn’t even try. “If that Udaloy spots us, we’re in deep kimchee. Even if we could evade him, his two helicopters would likely pin us down and he’d move in for the kill. Their dipping sonars actually perform better in these water conditions than the Horse Jaw.”
Bair continued. “The only advantage we’ve got is that he has to stay active if he’s going to find us. He’d never get a whiff of us with a passive search, not in water with all this ice.”
“But he’s ideally positioned to block the gap. We either try to slip past him or we’re forced into the buoy field.” The Captain’s conclusion clearly laid out the trap the Russians had set for them.
“So we’re going to take our chances in the buoy field?” Bair asked.
“No, XO, we’re going to cut the corner and run through Russian territorial waters,” Hardy announced matter-of-factly.
Bair and Jerry stood in shocked silence. Hardy’s plan was daring, but also very dangerous. If the Russians found them, there would be no place to hide in the confined, very shallow waters near the coast. Unable to run or fight, Memphis’ chances of survival were nil.
“Captain, I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but are you friggin’ nuts?”
Hardy grinned at his Executive Officer’s unusual outburst. “I haven’t lost all my marbles yet, XO. Look at how they’ve distributed their forces. They’ve covered virtually every path out of the Kara Sea beautifully. Whoever is directing their efforts is a real pro. But, they don’t know how badly we’ve been hurt. They have to assume they’re facing a healthy 688 that can still run—and fight, if necessary. From their point of view, no sane U.S. sub captain would try to navigate the poorly charted coastal waters and risk the excellent chance of running aground. I have a hunch they don’t believe that we’d run the huge political risk of getting caught and sunk in their waters. So, if they’ve covered them at all, I’m betting they’d assign a less capable asset, one that we’d have a better chance of getting past undetected.”
“So to escape, we’ve got to act insanely?” Bair asked skeptically. Then a smile popped up on his face and he waved his right index finger at Hardy. “But there’s a method to your madness. The Manta.”
“Exactly, XO. The Russians don’t know that we have that unique capability. And that’s why you’re up here, Mr. Mitchell.” Pointing to the chart, he traced the new route Memphis would take. “We’re going to turn more to the west and skirt the coastline, within seven miles of land. Any questions?”
Jerry shook his head no. Bair passed as well, although he looked very uneasy. Hardy’s chosen path took them through water that was even shallower than the shoal water they’d been using. The incomplete chart showed some areas along their path as being only one hundred feet deep. Jerry also looked at the length of the route. It was at least twenty-five miles, nine plus hours at their current speed.
“I wish that your Manta could spot sonobuoys for us,” Bair mused.
“You might as well wish it could take them out and clear a path for us as well,” Hardy countered, his impatience starting to grow.
“Actually, I like the sound of that.” But then Bair shook it off. He turned to Jerry. “Mr. O’Connell will give you courses to steer. You will give him constant water depth data and warnings of any obstacles. Can you dial down the power on your sonar?”
“Yessir,” Jerry answered quickly.
“Then use minimum power for our safe navigation. Go.”
Jerry hurried back down to the torpedo room. The instant he was on the circuit O’Connell gave him his first course change, to two eight zero true. Memphis turned slowly, to avoid any risk of creating a knuckle and Jerry used the time to scout ahead.
The seabed started to slope down, away from Memphis. For a change, she wouldn’t head for deep water. Safety lay in the shallows, where sound didn’t carry well and where sea life and wave slap would help hide any noise she was making.
For the first time, Jerry wished they could just fire a pair of torpedoes at the Udaloy. They couldn’t, of course, but even with four fully functional tubes, they’d never do it.
In wartime a single destroyer pinging like that was a sitting duck. But Memphis was the intruder here, and the United States and Russia were not at war. The men on the Udaloy were just doing their jobs, defending their nation from an outside threat. Harming even one Russian sailor would poison the mission.
Even at reduced power, Jerry could still see about half a mile ahead on the sonar display. He turned the confusing screen into an image in his mind and visualized a landscape of rocky hills and ridges pushing up toward the surface. Ironically, the high spots offered the best concealment for Memphis.
There were still risks. The hilltops were not smooth mounds, but jagged, uneven points. A ridge might be indicated by two or three shallow soundings in a line. But a closer, less threatening object could mask a sharp peak, which could suddenly shoot up or, almost as bad, disappear and leave Memphis exposed.
Jerry’s Manta found many uncharted hazards and unsafe spots, where the water depths looked like nothing on their charts. Occasionally, Jerry circled the Manta back to check on exactly how close Memphis was to the seabed. Sometimes Hardy would hug the side of a ridge, dangerously close.
There was no way to know for sure if they were making good their escape. They’d be hard-pressed to detect a drifting warship, because the same noise that hid them would hide it as well. All they could do was hope that they were being quiet enough to pass by any sentry. Aside from Harry O’Connell’s courses and questions about depth, the only other piece of information was the bearing to the pinging Udaloy. It had started out almost due north of them, barring their path like an angry dog. As Memphis circled around the destroyer, the bearing drifted slowly right, like the hour hand on a clock.
Jerry tracked its progress in the back of his mind, and not all that far back. It stood to reason that the Russians wouldn’t station the Udaloy in the sonobuoy field, but along its western edge. Thus, if the bearing changed from due north to due east, it would be reasonable to assume that they’d reached the edge of the field.
Every piece of equipment not needed for the safety of the boat was shut down, from pumps to fans to microwave ovens. Ho’s engineers moved silently through the engine room, making sure that every piece of gear ran as smoothly and at as low a setting as possible. Everyone on board thought hard before he spoke, and even harder before he moved.
* * * *
When the bearing to the Udaloy slid from north to northeast, Jerry called it the halfway point. He didn’t know where they were on the chart, but he was sure Hardy’s detour was as close to a straight line as the terrain allowed. Of course, they were also as close to Novaya Zemlya as they were going to get; O’Connell said the island was six miles due west. If the Russians had a ship waiting for them, this was their best chance to catch Memphis. From here on out, the distance between the island and the Udaloy would start to increase. Fortunately, Hardy’s hunch had been right. The path was clear.
It had taken three hours for them to put the destroyer to the northeast. The last forty-five degrees seemed to take forever and Jerry was thankful for every course change and every potential outcropping of rock. He stopped paying attention to the clock and just listened to O’Connell’s updates.
Then the bottom suddenly dropped out, literally, as Jerry watched the water depth jump from one hundred and fifty-four feet to over seven hundred in a matter of seconds. The Udaloy lay to the east-northeast, at zero seven zero, when what looked like a deep trench turned out to be a series of steep hills.
“The Captain says to stay at your present depth! He doesn’t want to have to dodge those peaks,” O’Connell relayed. “We’re not in active sonar range of the Udaloy, so there is no need to risk a collision. Come to course three zero zero.”
“Changing course to three zero zero, U-bay aye,” Jerry acknowledged. His job got simpler, since Memphis’ new course took them between the hills. Jerry and O’Connell continued to compare notes on their individual interpretations of the Manta’s sonar display over the circuit. From the sound of it, O’Connell was furiously trying to update the charts as they slowly made their way out. Jerry wondered if he liked playing cartographer.
Finally, after nearly thirteen hours of hair-raising flying, O’Connell passed a welcome report. “U-bay, conn, bearing to the destroyer is now one zero five.”
Jerry had become so focused on navigating that for a moment the bearing didn’t register. The Udaloy was past the closest point of approach and was now behind them. They had slipped by the Russian trap.
“Mr. Mitchell, what’s your battery status?” Hardy’s question had a positive sound to it.
“Twenty percent, sir.”
“Then bring it back and let’s get out of here. You’ve done your job.”
As soon as the Manta was secured, Hardy changed course to two eight five and increased speed from three to six knots. They were still moving at a crawl, but they were finally leaving the Kara Sea.
* * * *
When they crossed the 68th parallel, the XO announced their position on the IMC and secured the boat from ultra-quiet. The Udaloy was over thirty miles to the southeast and no longer represented a threat. Although Jerry knew they were still deep in Russian waters, he couldn’t help but smile, and everyone around him wore one just like it. And when he finally flopped into his bunk early that afternoon, he was still smiling.
* * * *
June 14, 2005
Northern Barents Sea
When the alarm went off, Jerry was dragged slowly from a deep sleep. At first, he couldn’t understand what was happening. He remembered he was on a sub and that alarms meant something, but he had to review the possibilities in his head one at a time: surfacing and submerging, collision, general quarters . . .
They were sounding battle stations.
Jerry flew up out of his bunk and somehow managed to climb into his coveralls while still moving down the passageway at top speed. Shaking off sleep, he almost fell down a ladder.
Boyd was on the phones in the torpedo room and filled in the torpedo gang as they arrived. “Sonar’s picked up a passive contact, just off the starboard bow. We’re going to ultra-quiet and try to get around it.”
“It’s a submarine,” Bearden added to Jerry. “I heard the contact report before I gave the phones to Boyd. They’ve got a Russian sub, a nuke, close aboard just off our bow. They know it’s a sub because of the faint machinery noise and no broadband. Can’t be anything else.”
A nuclear attack boat, creeping, and in their path. What orders did he have? More important, had he heard them? Memphis’ sonar suite was better than even a late-build Russian nuke, but they were noisy now, or at least they weren’t very quiet anymore.
Passive sonars could hear lots of things: the sound of propellers as they cut through the water, the sound of a sub’s machinery, even the sound of water flowing over the hull. In Memphis’ case, with her port main engine down, her remaining machinery had to work harder—and that translated into more noise.
Boyd relayed, “Control wants to know the status of the Manta.”
“Fully charged and prepped,” Jerry replied as he checked the status window on the display console. His men had automatically readied the Manta, but Jerry didn’t expect the UUV to be launched. Right now, it was all about moving, getting away. The Manta, useful as it was, didn’t have the speed or endurance of a nuke. Once it was launched, it was a liability, unless they decided to abandon it.
“Control says the contact is close aboard, slow right drift,” Boyd reported.
And if they launched it, the latches would create a transient, a noise that would appear briefly on any sonar display and then disappear. Lots of things could create transients: flushing a toilet or changing depth. They not only made you more detectable, they signaled to the other side that you were doing something.
In control, Hardy was busily trying to get a handle on the rapidly developing situation while Bair got the fire-control party organized. Men moved about hurriedly as they took their seats at the fire-control system, or pulled out fresh plotting paper and began recording the sonar bearings to the contact.
“Now what?” demanded Patterson as she ran into the control room.
“I’m sorry, Doctor, but I don’t have time for a detailed explanation right now. We have a Russian sub on top of us, and I don’t think this is an accident. The best place for you is in your rack,” stated Hardy firmly.
“They wouldn’t attack now. We’re in international waters . ..”
“Doctor! Joanna, please go to your stateroom.”
Silently she nodded and slowly walked back toward her quarters.
“Conn, sonar. Transients from sierra nine one.”
“Sonar, conn aye,” replied Hardy.
“Conn, sonar! Torpedoes in the water! I repeat: torpedoes in the water!”
“Helm, right full rudder. All ahead standard. Launch decoys,” barked Hardy.
Jerry’s heart turned to ice with the announcement and he reflexively grabbed hold of a bracket and spread his feet apart. He needed the handhold as the deck tilted sharply to starboard and the hull vibrated with power. Hang the noise. It didn’t matter any longer.
Doctrine said to turn sharply, increase speed and drop a torpedo countermeasure as you go. At close range, you wanted to get outside the acquisition cone, the field of view of the enemy torpedo’s acoustic seeker. But where were they? Had they acquired Memphis? Probably not yet, but would they? Depth charges were different. They were brutal, but you didn’t have to wait. With a homing torpedo, there was time to get really scared as they closed. And they would only explode if they hit you.
Boyd’s next message surprised Jerry. “The Captain says launch the Manta immediately.”
Jerry glanced at the course and speed repeaters as he put on the phones. They were building up speed and were already over ten knots. The safe limit was five. Jerry put on his headset and started the launch procedures.
“Mr. Mitchell,” Hardy ordered over the circuit, “I won’t slow down Memphis, but I need the Manta out there.”
Jerry mentally threw the operations manual into the bilge and started hitting keys on the panel. “Aye, sir. Launching in thirty seconds.”
As he set up the launch, Jerry, along with everyone in the room, heard a rushing roar that reminded him of a jet fighter flying past.
“That was a torpedo,” Foster announced amazingly calmly. “And close, too. The Captain got the decoys out just in time.”
“Tell me when you’re clear,” Hardy ordered over the circuit.
The problem with launching the Manta at speed was Memphis’ upper rudder. It could clip the slowly-moving UUV as it left its cradle on the aft deck. He also wasn’t sure how the fast-flowing water would affect the Manta as it was released. If the latches were slower on one side or the other, the UUV could be rolled or pushed into the hull.
So he dumped as much ballast out of the Manta’s trim tanks as he could and overrode the launch program. Instead of automatically taking station five hundred yards off the beam, Jerry programmed the Manta to immediately climb and go into a sharp starboard turn.
Hoping it was enough, he reported, “Launching,” into the phones and punched the release. The display showed the Manta’s attitude, and he watched it closely as the latches opened, a little more unevenly than usual, and the nose of the vehicle caught the water flow. It rose so sharply that he had to correct with a full down command or the vehicle might have flipped over. It wasn’t designed to do that. Of course, it wasn’t designed to be launched at this speed, either.
Jerry saw the Manta rise quickly and the starboard turn started just as Memphis turned hard to port, separating the two vehicles.
“Current bearing to sierra nine one is two four three degrees true.”
Jerry acknowledged and turned to the southwest. The Manta’s active and passive sonars both saw the Russian sub and the active sonar was sharp enough to see the Russian’s torpedoes. He reported, “Confirm sierra nine one at two four three degrees, range three four hundred yards. The weapons bear one seven zero and one four zero, both appear to be turning.”
“Then get them away from us, mister. Head southeast and drop a torpedo countermeasure.”
“Captain, the Manta only has one Mark 3 countermeasure left and two Mark 4 decoys.”
“Understood. Carry out the order, Mr. Mitchell.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Understanding Hardy’s intentions, Jerry sent the UUV between the torpedoes and Memphis, heading south-southeast at best speed. He wasn’t sure where the Russian torpedoes were headed until he’d tracked them for a minute, but they were still searching for their target. With the Manta’s acoustic intercept receiver, he could hear the Russian torpedoes as they pinged, still at a long-interval search rate.
The torpedoes occupied most of his attention, but Jerry also kept his eye on the Russian sub. It was speeding up, the passive display brightening as the sub made more noise, and as he watched, a huge spike appeared on the boat’s bearing. He could see the Russian sub changing course sharply to port, turning toward the north.
“Conn, sonar, Sierra nine one has released a countermeasure. He’s zig-ging to port!” announced the sonar supervisor. “He’s increasing speed, turning away hard. It looks like a torpedo evasion maneuver.”
“But we haven’t fired.” Jerry protested.
“It’s the Manta’s sonar,” the supervisor answered. “Its frequency is too high to be a normal U.S. active search set, so they think it’s a torpedo seeker.”
“Which means they think we’ve counterfired.” Hardy concluded. “We’ll use the time to get some distance between us. Mr. Mitchell, I’m taking Memphis northeast. Get those weapons away from us and then see if you can confuse the Russian sub some more.”
During the discussion, Jerry had tracked the Russian torpedoes, figuring out their course and the direction of their turn. He had to do it in his head, because the Manta’s displays were not designed to plot and track multiple contacts. Figuring a sixty-degree-wide search cone on the front of each weapon, he’d adjusted the Manta’s course to put it in front of the torpedoes, but not on a direct line drawn from the weapons to Memphis.
He dropped the last Mark 3 torpedo countermeasure and then headed off to the west, at right angles to the torpedoes’ course.
“Conn, sonar, sierra nine one is at speed now and we can hear his propulsion plant. Contact is classified as an Akula-class SSN, possibly an Akula II.”
Wonderful. One of their newest and best, Jerry thought, although any elderly hulk with torpedo tubes would be a problem right now.
He continued to feed ranges and bearings to the contacts up to fire-control party in control and detected the Akula’s turn almost as soon as sonar reported it. “He’s turning and slowing.” For what purpose?
The torpedoes were indeed heading for Jerry’s countermeasure, and Jerry angled the Manta to the northwest at moderate speed to keep clear of their seeker cones. Memphis’ decoy had started to fade, while the Russian’s countermeasure continued to send out a storm of white noise.
The Russian sub was now almost due west of Memphis, heading north. Memphis was going northeasterly, while the Russian torpedoes circled and harried Jerry’s countermeasure behind her, to the south. Once the Russian countermeasure was abaft his port beam, Jerry changed course to due north and increased speed, trying to position himself between Memphis and the Akula.
But where to go next? Hardy wanted him to distract the Russian boat and Jerry realized that would be easy. He put the Manta on an intercept course and ordered it to go to maximum speed. He also turned on the simulator mode. Maybe the Russian would go nuts trying to figure out what an American nuke boat was doing with a forty-kilohertz sonar.
Jerry kept a wary eye on the torpedoes to the south, on the off chance that their seekers might pick up the Manta, but most of his attention was focused on the Akula. What would it do next and how could he screw around with their minds?
He’d kept control informed of his movements, and Hardy had ordered Memphis to slow to creep speed, hoping to disappear from the Russian’s passive sonar.
“Conn, sonar. Sierra nine one is turning to starboard.” Then the supervisor’s voice increased in pitch. “Launch transients! Torpedoes in the water, bearing two nine zero!”
The Manta’s passive display wasn’t as detailed as Memphis’ upgraded BQQ-5E and Jerry wasn’t as skilled as the sonarmen, but he could see the launch noises on his display and his imaging sonar actually saw one, then two torpedoes as they left the Akula. “Control, U-bay. I can see the weapons!” he announced. “Two torpedoes in the water! Bearing three one zero, range two five hundred yards.”
“I’ll wait on evading until you tell me where they’re headed,” Hardy said.
“Understood. Torpedoes showing zero bearing rate. Range, two two hundred yards from the Manta.” That put them on a course away from Memphis, which lay almost directly off the torpedoes’ port side. “Conn, sonar. Weapons are at search speed.” That was good. A typical torpedo searched at thirty or forty knots, then jumped to fifty or sixty to make an attack. The first pair had been fired at attack speed, so maybe the Russian captain wasn’t sure of his target and fired prematurely. At the combined speed of the torpedoes and the Manta, it would take the weapons one minute to cross the distance.
“Conn, sonar. Torpedoes are drawing to the right,” sonar announced.
Jerry answered, “Steady bearing on the Manta.”
Jerry kept feeding ranges and bearing to control, as well as trying to create a mental picture in his head. The Russian sub had slowed down and was heading southeast, toward him. Either the Akula thought he was Memphis or regarded him as a greater threat. Either conclusion suited Jerry just fine.
“They’re headed toward me,” Jerry announced after a thirty-second eternity.
“Concur. Get out of there,” Hardy ordered unnecessarily.
“Doing it,” Jerry acknowledged.
He turned sharply to the east and held that course for a few seconds. He wanted the Russian to see the course change. Then he dropped a decoy, one of the two large Mark 4s the Manta had left, chopped his speed, cut the simulator mode, and dove for the bottom. Hopefully, he’d just disappeared from the Russian passive displays.
Jerry then turned the Manta back northward, toward Memphis. It was too early to rendezvous with the sub, but he couldn’t let the distance grow too great. The last thing he needed right now was a large time lag in the Manta executing his commands. Memphis was now heading due north. The Russian had stopped turning and was closing on Jerry’s last known position, which was conveniently marked by a very loud countermeasure.
The Akula’s latest pair of weapons started to range-gate, switched to shorter interval search rate, and increased speed. They covered the last five hundred yards to the countermeasure at what looked like fifty knots. As they pinged, a sharp high-frequency spike appeared on Jerry’s display and so quickly vanished that it merely blinked. Jerry saw them reach the spot and continue onward, heading southeast for another few moments. The ping rate slowed, managing to sound almost plaintive, and the weapons started circling, returning to search speed. They had shifted to a reattack mode. Jerry quickly checked the distance and saw that he was well outside the seekers’ acquisition range.
He watched the Russian sub for any sort of reaction. It had shot at Memphis and she’d evaded. Their second attack had missed as well. Did they still have sonar contact on Memphis? Had Jerry done a good enough job of impersonating a nuclear submarine? The Akula could zig east and south toward Jerry’s old position, or north and east toward Memphis. If they had truly lost contact, then Jerry doubted the Russian would head north.
A new spike appeared on Jerry’s acoustic intercept receiver display, but way to the left, at the low-frequency edge. Almost at the same moment, Jerry heard, “Conn, sonar. Shark Gill transmission bearing two seven zero! Sierra nine one has gone active!”
The Russian captain was tired of being subtle. This wasn’t some pipsqueak little high-frequency set. The Akula’s Skat-3 sonar suite included three large powerful active arrays, one in the sail and one on either flank. It put out enough energy to kill a swimmer if he was near the sub and the low-frequency sound carried underwater for a long way.
“He’s got us,” announced Hardy as he looked at the intercept receiver. “Mr. Mitchell, get in between us and the Russian, max speed. Do whatever you have to do. I’m dumping another countermeasure.”
Jerry had to sandwich his response in between Hardy’s commands to sonar and the other stations. He turned on the simulator mode again and brought the Manta up to the same depth as the Russian sub. He also increased speed to twenty knots. With luck, he could get between the two subs and confuse or obstruct the Russian’s view.
He tried to visualize the Russian’s sonar display. Two echoes. He didn’t know if they looked the same on the Akula’s sonar display or not. One closing at twenty knots, one moving away at a slower speed. The latter had just launched a countermeasure that would show up on both active and passive sonar displays. Jerry told the Manta to eject a decoy, his last. One less difference between the two contacts. He was tempted to turn off the Manta’s active sonar, which the Russians could detect, but decided he needed the information.
Again, Jerry found himself straining to think of ways to attract the Russian’s attention, The Akula’s captain was desperately trying to sort out the situation, evaluating threats, preparing for his next attack, attempting to follow his orders.
The Akula fired again, another pair of weapons. Both Jerry and sonar called the launch to control; after a few seconds it was clear that Memphis was the target. This time, with an accurate fix from the Akula’s active sonar, Jerry knew the weapons would have a much better fire control solution.
He felt the deck shift below him as Memphis turned hard to starboard and dove deeper. Jerry also heard Ho’s protests as Hardy ordered every fractional knot of speed that was left in the plant, but his mind was inside the Russian sub. He imagined the captain sorting out the situation, deciding which of the two contacts represented his real target, and then firing.
So if Jerry couldn’t convince him that he was the real target, then he’d convince the Russian he was a greater threat. He was still on a course that took him between the two subs, but he wasn’t in position to decoy the torpedoes, and probably wouldn’t be until it was too late.
Instinctively, he turned toward the Akula, now about fifteen hundred yards away. He made sure that his speed was set to maximum, twenty knots. At this speed, he’d ram the Russian in about two minutes. Memphis was now headed directly away from the torpedoes, but her best speed was only twenty knots. She couldn’t outrun the weapons even at search speed. She could only prolong the chase.
“Conn, sonar. Torpedoes are range gating! They’re increasing speed!” The sonar supervisor was doing his best to keep his reports professional, but he knew better than most what was heading straight for Memphis.
Jerry called out the torpedoes’ location and also the remaining distance between him and the Akula. The torpedoes would definitely reach Memphis before he could reach the Akula.
“They’re ignoring the countermeasure!” Bair shouted. Then Hardy ordered, “Chief of the Watch, release another Mark 2 countermeasure!”
Then sonar reported, “Conn, sonar. Sierra nine one is zigging. He’s in a hard turn to port and he’s increasing speed. Radical maneuver!”
Jerry could see him on the active display and could tell that he was changing depth. He hadn’t dropped a countermeasure, so the Russian captain knew that Jerry wasn’t a torpedo, but he also knew they were about to collide. The Russian maneuvered to avoid getting hit.
Jerry corrected his course to maintain a closing geometry and to force the Russian to continue maneuvering. The range had dropped to five hundred yards when the Russian increased his turn rate, throwing his rudder hard over, but the Manta was far more nimble than the larger Akula and Jerry stayed with him. The Russian continued his sharp turn and changed depth again, this time rising, and he started to put on more and more speed, gradually pulling away from the UUV.
With the Russian heading away from both the Manta and Memphis, Jerry turned sharply back toward his sub and the pursuing torpedoes. He could see Memphis, now heading east. A few hundred yards away was the counter-measure and the knuckle created by her hard turn. The torpedoes, heading northeast, were a few hundred yards back from that and he could not only see the weapons but their seekers on his display. The Akula was still running away to the northwest.
The torpedoes reached the point of Memphis’ turn and roared past both the decoy and the knuckle. Neither would trigger the warheads, unfortunately. Unlike the first time, though, the weapons did not follow Memphis’ turn; instead, they slowed and their seekers slowed their ping rate. Sonar and the Manta’s displays showed them starting to circle, searching for their missing prey.
“Well done, Mr. Mitchell! They won’t acquire us now,” said Hardy with relief in his voice.
The Akula’s radical maneuvers had broken the guidance wires that connected it to its weapons. Without the Russian sub to guide them, the torpedoes were easier to decoy. “I’m moving in to give them another target,” Jerry reported.
At twenty knots and with his simulator mode still on, the Russian torpedoes picked him up as they circled. He saw the ping rate shift again to a range gate mode and without waiting for orders, he turned northwest, drawing the weapons away from Memphis.
But how many more times could he do this? The Manta’s battery was at forty percent. That meant he could stay at maximum speed for almost an hour, but the Akula was undamaged and had plenty of torpedoes. He could see it starting to turn toward them again. Memphis still had some countermeasures, but the Manta was out.
“Sonar has lost contact on the Akula due to countermeasure interference, but it appears that he’s slowing down. Bearing rate also indicates that he’s zigged again, probably coming back around to reengage.” At his current speed, near maximum, the Russian was blind. As he slowed below fifteen knots, the noise of his engines and the flow of water over his hull would be reduced and soon he’d be able to see, and shoot again.
“Sir, I’m going to make another run at the Akula,” Jerry said over the circuit. As he said it, he put the Manta on an intercept course.
“I don’t think that’s wise, mister. The Manta’s battery won’t last forever.”
“I’m not planning on turning away this time, Captain.”
“What?” Hardy’s shout reverberated over the sound-powered phones. “That Manta’s the only thing that’s kept us alive. Ramming the Russian won’t sink him and we’ll lose our only effective defense.”
“Sir, we are running out of options. I doubt I can fool him again. I’ve got a clear enough picture to tell bow from stern and I have the advantage in maneuverability. I can easily match his zigs with my zags. If I can hit him near the bow, I’ll either take out his tubes or his sonar, maybe both.”
“And a hit near the tail would cripple him, but he still might be able to shoot.” Hardy mused. “All right, Mr. Mitchell, you’ve made your case. Smack the bastard in the face and good luck.”
“Smack the bastard in the face, aye, aye, sir.”
The Russian was only twelve hundred yards away, his rudder holding a hard starboard turn. As the Akula turned to the east, the speed of closure between the two increased to almost forty knots. At that combined speed, they’d cover the distance between them in less than a minute.
“Conn, sonar. Regained sierra nine one, bearing two six five. He’s slowing down,” sonar announced. “Estimated contact speed is twelve knots based on blade rate.”
Jerry tried to guess what course the Russian would steady up on and angled slightly to port. He actually needed to come in from just off the bow. From dead ahead, even an Akula might be too small a target to hit. Nine hundred yards.
“Conn, sonar. Detecting compressed cavitation. He’s increasing speed again. He’s seen the Manta.”
And he’ll probably continue his turn, try to turn inside me rather than turn away, Jerry decided. He corrected again, anticipating a continued starboard turn. Seven hundred yards.
If he continued the turn, the Akula had the power and speed to outrun the Manta. But the Russian captain couldn’t know how tightly he could turn and he needed time to build up his speed again. Five hundred yards.
Jerry had lost a little distance angling to one side, but was still closing. The rate of closure had slowed, but that was actually working to his advantage. He had a clear view of the Akula’s starboard bow and cut sharply to the left. As he did so, the acoustic intercept display warning lights lit up. The two torpedoes were right behind him. For a moment, the UUV and the submarine ran parallel to each other at no more than a hundred yards, with Jerry pulling ahead. With little time left, he pulled the Manta into a hard right turn and unconsciously braced for impact.
A moment later the display screens went blank, replaced only with a stark, flashing MODEM SIGNAL LOST alert message. The sudden loss of his God’s-eye view was a shock and he kicked himself mentally for an idiotic decision.
“Conn, sonar. Loud noise detected from the same bearing as sierra nine one.” He could have figured that one out. But what damage had been done?
“Blade rate’s slowing and it sounds . . . wait one.” There was complete silence, which stretched on for far too long. “Conn, sonar. Sierra nine one is flooding tubes.”
That was the ball game. Even if he’d successfully destroyed their sonar, they were going to fire again on the last known bearing. Would Memphis be able to pull another rabbit out of the hat?
“Conn, sonar!” exclaimed the sonar supervisor. “One of the Russian torpedoes has started range-gating! It’s accelerating to attack speed!”
“Countermeasure!” Hardy ordered and Jerry braced himself for another hard turn. Sonar reported again, “Conn, sonar. The second torpedo has also started range-gating, but they are not homing on us. Repeat, they are not homing on us. Son of a bitch! Loud explosion, bearing two five six!” It must have been a big one, because Jerry actually heard it though the hull—a distant, low rumble.
“Conn, sonar, second large explosion, same bearing!”
Jerry’s confusion began to fade and was replaced by relief. Sitting at his now-useless console, he processed the sudden influx of information into a likely scenario. The torpedoes had been chasing his Manta. The Akula, blinded or confused, was unable to react as his own weapons homed in on him.
“Conn, sonar. Breaking up noises bearing two five five. Sierra nine one is sinking.”
Jerry powered down the console for the very last time.
* * * *
May She Ever
Return
Moscow, Russia
Admiral Alex Ventofsky saw Kirichenko alone. There was no need for aides or secretaries. They had known each other for twenty-two years and had served together on two different occasions. They were not close friends, but they knew and respected each other and they both served a common master.
Ventofsky was standing, pacing, as Kirichenko was shown into his office. It was large enough to let him go a good distance before turning. Decorated with the flags and pennants and other symbols of the Commander of the Russian Navy, he’d seen the Northern Fleet commander here many times before. This time Kirichenko snapped to attention as soon as the door closed behind him. Ventofsky continued pacing, as if walking could burn up his anger or resolve his problems.
The admiral was short, almost small, and nearly bald. A fringe of white hair was cut short, which only emphasized his round face. Like Kirichenko’s, it was battered by decades of harsh weather and hard service.
Ventofsky stopped pacing long enough to look at Kirichenko, who remained motionless and silent. He took a few more steps, then turned to face the junior admiral.
“Is there any new word from the search?”
“No sir. They’re still analyzing the debris and plotting its possible origin.”
“But it is from Gepard.”
“Yes, sir. Bottles and cushions, other buoyant material, all standard Navy issue.”
“And no survivors in the debris field.”
“Not even a lifejacket, sir. Although they are still looking.”
“And they will continue to look,” Ventofsky said harshly. “But that is no longer your concern. You are relieved. My office will notify Admiral Sergetev to take over, pending selection of a permanent replacement.”
Kirichenko nodded. “Ivan would make a good Fleet Commander.”
Ventofsky’s calm snapped and he almost shouted at Kirichenko, “A few days ago that would have meant something.” He took a deep breath and regained a little control. “The best thing you could do for Ivan now would be to say nothing.”
He walked over to his desk and pointed to a pile of documents on one corner. “It’s all here, Yuri. Did you think we wouldn’t find out?”
Kirichenko’s blood suddenly froze and he fought to maintain control. What had they discovered?
Ventofsky picked up each document in turn as he spoke. “Inflating the threat, sending that incredible message to Gepard. Making up a story about some Western spy. What were you thinking?”
Kirichenko waited half a moment before responding. “I did not wish the American submarine to escape. It was important that the Northern Fleet corner or kill this boat. It would teach the Americans to respect our borders and it would show our own countrymen that the Navy is still an effective force, despite the paltry funding we are given. I want the world to respect us and the motherland!” Kirichenko poured the feigned patriotism on thickly; it was his only real defense and the Slavic Admiral would readily appreciate it.
“And any transgressions you made during that pursuit would be forgiven,” Ventofsky concluded. “Was that it?”
Kirichenko nodded. “I couldn’t let this sub escape. He’d penetrated our waters. He had to be prosecuted. We’d pursued him, attacked him, and may have even damaged him.”
“Which should have been enough of a victory, in my opinion,” Ventofsky argued sternly. “Instead, in violation of every regulation, you sent Gepard to attack a foreign submarine in international waters. Were you trying to start a war?” Ventofsky’s voice rose sharply as he asked the question.
“I was defending our territory.”
“You were trying to get that sub’s scalp to hang on the wall! Glory-hunting is. . .” He trailed off, then sat down heavily on the edge of the desk. “So unbelievable from you. You were one of our best. You would have taken over from me in a year or two when I retire.”
“My intention was to protect the motherland,” Kirichenko lied.
“Everyone has good intentions. We needed your good judgment,” Ventofsky explained, “and you let us down.” He picked up a single sheet of paper and studied it briefly. “All right. You are attached to this office until your trial next week.”
Kirichenko paled, but Ventofsky’s tone was unforgiving. “We’ve lost seventy-three lives and a first-line nuclear submarine. There has to be a public accounting. You will be found guilty of poor judgment and malfeasance: exceeding your authority. In deference to your long service and good intentions, the court will not impose any jail sentence or fine. You will be discharged from the service without a pension.”
The former Commander of the Northern Fleet stood silently for a few moments, then said softly, “Thank you for not sending me to prison.”
“We owed you that,” Ventofsky replied, “but you owe the State for your actions as well. Use the time here to write your report. Do not communicate with Sergetev or anyone in your former command except through my office. I expect you’ll also want to make plans for your retirement.”
Inwardly, Kirichenko almost cheered. The Russian Navy did not want a long, public trial, and neither did he. They’d already finished the investigation, which meant that his secret was still safe, at least for a little while longer. The only unknowns were what did the Americans learn from their intrusion and would they announce their findings to the world? He doubted it, since they would then have to acknowledge their violation of international law and their involvement with the destruction of Gepard. No, they will remain silent, which would give him the time he needed to finish the arrangements.
He did have plans to make.
* * * *
Jerry’s first breath of fresh air almost floored him. Memphis had been submerged since May 13, almost six weeks earlier. It was a cool evening, given an edge by a stiff northerly breeze that also rocked Memphis.
As he filled his lungs with the stuff, he focused on the stern light of the minesweeper a thousand yards ahead of him. Looking at something in the distance helped quiet his stomach. The minesweeper was also his guide to Her Majesty’s Naval Base Clyde, or Faslane in Scotland.
Jerry swept the binoculars around the horizon. For the Irish Sea, it was good weather, with a solid overcast but a clear horizon. In the distance he could see Scotland to port, while Ireland lay to starboard. Looking aft, he could see a British Type 23 frigate following in their wake. Jerry could also see the warship’s helicopters searching on all sides of them, and Memphis’ ESM antenna picked up their radars. It even picked up the radar signals from several fighters, orbiting unseen above the clouds.
Their Royal Navy escorts had met them when they surfaced, just south of the Hebrides Islands. It was a carefully timed rendezvous that not only brought them in late in the day, but when there were no Russian satellites overhead. While it would have been preferable to return in darkness, it just wasn’t possible this far north so soon after the Summer Solstice. The sun was never far from the horizon and twilight lasted throughout the night. But as far as Jerry was concerned, that was just fine. He preferred navigating strange waters when he could see where he was going.
He’d studied the charts well enough to pick out the lights that marked the entrance to the Firth of Clyde. They were getting close to the turn.
“Bridge, Navigator. Mark the turn,” squawked the speaker on the bridge suitcase.
“Helm, bridge, left standard rudder, steady on course zero five zero.”
“Left standard rudder, steady on course zero five zero, helm aye.”
As Memphis swung to port, Hardy’s voice rang out from below, “Captain to the bridge.” Jerry and Al Millunzi moved out of the way as best they could to allow Hardy and Patterson up onto the flying bridge.
“Good evening, Captain, Doctor,” said Jerry.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” replied Hardy, in good spirits. “What’s our status?”
“We’re on track, Captain, and we’ve just entered the firth,” answered Millunzi. “We have good seas, good visibility, and lots of that hearty highland air.”
“Splendid! I was hoping to show Dr. Patterson some of the sights as we come into Scotland. Can you see Ailsa Craig yet?”
“Yes, sir,” Jerry responded. “You can just barely make it out, twenty degrees off the starboard bow.”
A craggy ocean pyramid, Ailsa Craig shoots up out of the sea to a height of over one thousand feet. It’s a small, barren volcanic island, only three-quarters of a mile long, in the middle of the Firth of Clyde. A spectacular sight, it is a favorite of mariners as they return home from the sea.
“Thank you, Mr. Mitchell. Dr. Patterson and I will be up here for a couple of hours, so carry on.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” replied Jerry and Millunzi.
As Memphis plied the firth, the clouds broke to the west and an incredible sunset greeted them. Patterson gasped and murmured about its beauty. Al Millunzi and Jerry shared small talk as they conned the boat toward the Cumbrae Islands, with the MPA regaling Jerry with tales of a great fish ‘n’ chips place in Glasgow that served huge fillets boiled in lard.
* * * *
Lowell Hardy felt content, for the first time in a very long while. His boat and crew had done everything he had demanded of them, and more. He looked forward to when both he and Memphis could finally rest. Looking over at Joanna Patterson, he saw that she seemed a bit gloomy. He’d seen that face once or twice before in the wardroom, usually after long hours spent on the patrol report.
“All right, Dr. Patterson. What’s with the long face?”
“Huh? Oh, sorry. I was just thinking about what I was going to tell the President. He’s leaving for the conference in a couple of weeks and I don’t have anything for him. I’ve failed in my mission to promote him as a champion of the environment.”
“Nonsense,” said Hardy sternly. “We’ve done more for him than you realize. I mean, we’ve successfully pulled off what the Jennifer Project back in the 1970s failed to do. I think that counts for a whole hell of a lot.” His reference to the attempted recovery of nuclear warheads by the Hughes Glomar Explorer from a sunken Soviet ballistic missile sub was not lost on her.
“I know, I know. It’s just that I told him there was a huge problem off the coast of Russia that could threaten prime fishing grounds and that the Russians couldn’t be trusted. Now after all this, I find out the Russians were telling the truth about the dumping of radioactive waste and he can’t even mention what we did find at the conference,” lamented Patterson.
“So you tell him the truth about what we found and that you were wrong. What’s so hard about that?”
“Lowell, you’re being naive. You just don’t do that in politics.”
“Argghh,” groaned Hardy in exasperation. “Look, there are two ways to champion a cause. One way is to identify a problem and bring it to the attention of others. That’s the route you’ve tried to take. But there is another route and that involves finding a solution to the problem. Now I’m sure you can come up with some pretty flowery phrases where the President can acknowledge the Russians’ honest efforts and then offer them money, technology, and international support to begin cleaning the mess up. There are plenty of precedents of previous administrations funding similar activities in Russia.”
Patterson’s mouth dropped open and she stared at him.
“You could even suggest trying out the cleanup procedures in a remote northern bay, you know, just in case something should go wrong, the impact on the environment would be minimized. Who knows what you’ll find when you start mucking around?” Hardy’s unspoken reference to the warhead barge was unmistakable.
A look of admiration lit up Patterson’s face. Awed, she said, “Oh, you’re good. Real good! I... I need to go below and do some typing. Thank you for your remarkable insight.” As she started to climb down from the flying bridge, she stopped, stood back up, and gave Hardy a peck on the cheek. “Thanks also for the beautiful evening.”
“Ohhh, don’t thank me yet, Doctor,” said Hardy with a playful glimmer in his eyes.
“What are you talking about now?”
“You’ll see.”
Confused, Patterson shook her head and started climbing down toward the control room. As soon as she was in the access trunk, Hardy sat down on the top of the sail, his legs hanging into the cockpit.
“You know, gentlemen, the human sense of smell is grossly underappreciated. Its powers of recovery from long-term abuse are simply astounding. She should be finding that out. . . right about now.”
Jerry looked perplexed, while Millunzi tried desperately to suppress his laughter. Then from below came a cry that could barely be heard by Hardy and the others. But it was unmistakably Dr. Patterson’s voice: “Oh my God! Ugh, it smells worse than a locker room in here! Hardy, you did that on purpose!”
Everyone on the bridge, Hardy included, roared with laughter.
As Memphis rounded the peninsula near the Scottish town of Gourock, they met a Royal Navy tug. Jerry, Millunzi, and the pilot stood elbow to elbow as Jerry made his approach. The breeze now worked for him, pushing Memphis onto the pier. The landing went smoothly, with Memphis lightly bumping up against the pier’s rubber camels. Bair gave Jerry a thumbs-up as the line handlers scurried about the deck, working feverishly to make Memphis fast to the pier.
Their reception committee filled the pier. Several military trucks, vans, and cars lined one side. Jerry could see Royal Marines scattered along the pier, establishing a security perimeter. Some blocked the access to the pier, while others took up positions along the seawall.
A medium-sized crowd was also waiting and started to file aboard as soon as the brow was put over. A knot of high-ranking naval officers and civilians led the way.
Jerry could see Hardy on the aft deck, nervously waiting to meet the first of the visitors, a vice admiral who saluted the ensign and then answered Hardy’s salute. “That’s the Director of the Submarine Warfare Division,” Bair told Jerry. He was smiling broadly as he greeted the Captain, so Jerry took that as a good sign. Jerry recognized the Squadron Commander following the Admiral, and the two senior officers were followed by a gaggle of aides and attendants.
Half a dozen armed Royal Marines, led by a junior officer, came next. They quickly took up stations in pairs, fore and aft on the hull and next to the Manta cradle. The officer tried to look fierce, but the rest managed the effect without effort.
They were followed by a group of workers in radiation suits. They headed aft toward the now-empty docking skirt, and even before they reached the aft deck, a wheeled crane rolled down the pier, lifting tackle already in place.
Jerry managed to observe all this as he finished supervising the rigging of Memphis’ mooring lines, hooking up shore power, and securing the bridge watch. Lieutenant Commander Bair nodded approvingly as Jerry finished the checklist and transferred the watch to the Command Duty Officer. “Nicely done, mister. Now get your butt down to the engine room. Mr. Ho’s waiting for you.” Mitchell badly wanted to watch as their hard-earned prizes were unloaded, but he had to work on his qualifications.
The engineers secured the plant, with Jerry serving as assistant Engineering Officer of the Watch. Like his stint on the bridge, he’d prepared by memorizing the many commands and procedures. He wasn’t perfect, but he managed to satisfy Lieutenant Commander Ho’s requirement to actually locate many of the controls and describe what had to be done with them to safely secure the propulsion plant. Ho was delighted when in the middle of the process, a pump bearing started running hot. Jerry dealt with the minor casualty correctly, if not swiftly. Both Ho and Jerry smiled as the Engineer signed off another section in his qualification book.
Once the maneuvering watch had been replaced by the inport reactor watch, Jerry hurried topside, planning to get his first look at the Manta cradle since they left New London. He stopped momentarily at his stateroom to drop off his qualification book and grab his jacket before heading up to the control room. There, he found Emily Davis, with a rating standing by to take her bags.
“They want us on the same plane as the weapons,” Emily explained hurriedly.
“And you’re okay with that?” asked Jerry, smiling.
“It’s got to be safer than being on this sub,” she retorted, but she was smiling.
Jerry was glad to see their mission finished successfully, but knew he’d miss them, even Dr. Patterson. It was hard to put his feelings into words, though. After a moment’s awkward pause, he asked, “How long until you have to leave?”
“Now,” Emily replied.
“We’ll take good care of Huey and Duey.” Jerry grinned. “I’ll read them a bedtime story every night.”
“You’d better. I’ll meet Memphis when she gets back to New London and I’ll take them back to Draper.”
“I’ll look forward to seeing you, then.” Jerry realized he might have put more meaning in that than he’d planned.
“And I’ll look forward to seeing you and Memphis again,” she replied.
Jerry started to lean toward her, then quickly pulled back. Hardy’s prohibition still loomed over him. “Ah, where’s Dr. Patterson?” he asked.
Emily nodded toward Hardy’s stateroom. “She’s going over the mission report before we leave.”
As she spoke, the door opened and Patterson stepped out, followed by Hardy. “Mr. Mitchell, please find the XO and tell him I want all officers and chiefs on the pier—and anyone else who wants to say good-bye to our guests.”
Jerry found the XO in the wardroom, talking to the submarine warfare director and the squadron commander. Bair immediately pulled him over. “Admiral Barber, this is Lieutenant Mitchell.”
He couldn’t salute indoors, of course, but Jerry instinctively braced. Some of his anxiety must have made it into his expression, because Barber laughed warmly and offered his hand. ‘‘Relax, Lieutenant.” As Jerry shook it, the admiral said, “It sounds like the aviation community’s loss is our gain. Well done, mister.”
“Thank you, sir. I’m glad it worked out.”
Barber, still smiling, asked, “Which one: you or the mission?”
“Both, sir.”
“And both appear to have succeeded beyond our expectations. As I said. Mr. Mitchell, I believe the submarine community has gained a valuable member. Expect to be put to use.”
All Jerry could say was, “Yes, sir,” as unformed possibilities ran though his mind. He remembered the Captain’s message and passed it on to the XO. Bair dismissed him after that and Jerry hurried up and onto the pier.
Jerry got topside in time to see the second warhead case being lifted across to the pier. A forklift then placed it into one of the trucks, where it was quickly tied down and covered. As soon as the warheads were loaded, the marines and technicians piled back into their vehicles and the entire convoy drove off, headed for the military terminal at Glasgow Airport.
A car and driver remained for the ladies, and with more room on the pier, Memphis’ crew filed off the deck and waited in the summer twilight.
Emily Davis, followed by an enlisted man with her bags, was first, and crossed the brow to scattered applause. “Are you that happy to see me leaving?” she asked, smiling. She came over and stood with the several of the officers, including Jerry.
The XO came next, just a minute later, carrying a folded seabag. He stopped at the quarterdeck for a moment and Jerry heard the word being passed on the IMC. “Dr. Patterson and Dr. Davis are departing.” A few more sailors hurried off the boat, and Jerry saw that almost every sailor not on watch was on the pier.
It was another few minutes before Captain Hardy appeared, followed by Dr. Patterson, and then two ratings with her luggage and instruments.
Bair didn’t form the crew into ranks. He did call, “Attention on deck” as Hardy stepped onto the pier. The Captain immediately ordered, “At ease,” as he waited for Patterson and then escorted her over to the group.
Hardy said softly, “Gather around,” and the crew formed a semicircle, with the Captain, Bair, and the ladies in the middle.
The Captain was silent for a moment, even after everyone had settled into position. Finally he spoke, and Jerry was amazed to see him smiling. “I’m sure everyone remembers that I was not enthusiastic about women aboard Memphis” That got a laugh, and he waited, then continued. “I’m still not convinced it’s a good idea, unless it’s two very special women.”
Jerry could see both Patterson and Davis blushing, even in the darkness, as Hardy continued to speak. “Doctors Patterson and Davis—Joanna and Emily—have shown us that skill, bravery, and dedication are not peculiar to the male sex. They have become such a part of our crew that it will be hard to image Memphis sailing without them. But I think the XO will nonetheless be happy to get his stateroom back.”
“Hear, hear,” shouted Bair enthusiastically.
Hardy nodded to the XO, who opened the seabag he was holding. Bair passed a pair of ball caps and jackets to Hardy, both of which were emblazoned with Memphis’ seal and name. Both ladies quickly put them on as Hardy said, “Although Memphis will soon be decommissioned, I hope you will always think of yourselves as part of her crew.”
Bair then passed two large, flat plaques to the Captain. Hardy held one of them up.
Hardy explained. “The photograph in the middle was taken during the Bluenose ceremony and shows you two ladies during the meal. It’s not the most flattering image, but as far as we’re concerned, beauty runs deep.” He pointed to the area surrounding the photo. “Each member of the crew has signed these. We hope you will remember us with the same warm feeling we will always have for you.”
Jerry was amazed. He didn’t know Hardy had it in him. Both of the ladies were crying as they took and hugged their plaques. The crew applauded and Emily quickly handed her plaque back to Bair, then hugged him and kissed him on the cheek. Then she started working on the crew, and everyone in the front row received a public display of affection. He might have imagined it, but Emily seemed to take a little longer with him than Lenny Berg or Master Chief Reynolds. Jerry hoped Hardy’s warning was now moot.
Dr. Patterson, also sniffling, waited for the applause to end and then spoke haltingly. “I am so proud of knowing all of you, of what you’ve done.” She had to stop, then continued, “I will always remember what I’ve learned on this mission, especially about the wonderful people that serve on our submarines.”
She handed her plaque to Bair and then turned to the Captain. Embracing him, she kissed Hardy passionately, deeply, and to Jerry’s surprise, Hardy returned it. In fact, as Jerry watched, he realized Hardy didn’t look too surprised. And as they continued to embrace, Jerry began to wonder if this was the first time they had kissed.
The crew, at first as stunned as Jerry, applauded, and if their kiss had gone on any longer, might have added a few comments, in spite of Hardy’s rank. The applause ended as they separated, but Jerry noticed that they remained close, with Hardy’s arm around Patterson and hers around him.
“We have to go,” Patterson said, “but we’ll be waiting for you when Memphis comes back to New London. And there will be a brass band and some of my friends to meet you.” Jerry didn’t have to wonder who those friends would be.
As the crew applauded again, she turned to Hardy. She spoke softly, but everyone in the front rank heard her. “I’ll see you on the sixteenth, then. I’ll start looking for a place the minute I’m back. Remember, we’ll have to establish residency in the third district.” Hardy nodded reassuringly and said something back, but too softly to be heard.
It took Jerry a minute to process what he had just heard. While he did, Patterson hugged and said good-bye to Bair, Master Chief Reynolds, and many others. She reached Jerry and bussed him heartily on the cheek. “Thank you for everything,” she said happily.
She remembered her plaque and then, with Emily following, headed for the waiting car. The crew was applauding and waving and Jerry wandered over toward the XO. Lieutenant Commander Bair had a strange expression on his face, and Jerry realized he’d been as surprised as everyone else.
“Don’t stare, XO, it isn’t polite,” Jerry said softly, with a hint of revenge.
Bair, without blinking an eyelash, elbowed Jerry in the ribs and replied, “Don’t be a smart ass, Mr. Mitchell. You’re not the Bull Ensign.” Bair had a huge grin on his face.
“Happy news, eh?” said Jerry and Bair nodded. Then, as if rousing himself, Bair turned to the Captain, who was watching the car drive off into the twilight.
“Congratulations, skipper,” Bair said, offering his hand.
Hardy took it briskly and smiled. “Yes, yes. Thank you, XO.”
Jerry grinned and added his congratulations. “I hope you and Dr. Patterson will be very happy together.”
Hardy, still smiling, took Jerry’s hand. “She’s an extraordinary woman, Mr. Mitchell.”
“Indeed, sir, she’s a fine catch.”
Hardy laughed, an unusual sound, and said, “I’m not sure how much ‘catching’ was involved.” Then his expression changed, as if a mist was clearing from his eyes. “And I think we’ve spent enough time talking about Dr. Patterson.”
“Yessir,” Jerry answered quickly.
“I’ve already spoken to Captain Young. As squadron commander, he has to observe your final qualifications for dolphins, and he’s agreed to meet us on the thirteenth, three days before we arrive back in New London.”
Jerry was impressed. That would mean a helicopter ride and an at-sea transfer.
“Now, we don’t want him to fly out to Memphis and have you not be ready, do we?” Hardy’s voice was stern and his expression matched. “You’ve made progress over the past ten days, but there’s still a tremendous amount to do. We’re here for about a week while we make repairs and then nine days underway before Captain Young arrives. Will you be ready?”
“The whole crew’s been helping me, sir. I’m sure I can make it.”
Hardy nodded. “Yes, Mr. Mitchell, I’m sure you can.”