Man’s knowledge of electronics was more advanced than his ability to silence tons of machinery. Steel had heard those telltale sounds so many times before in sonar. He remembered his tour on Stonewall Jackson when he’d put on the big, soft earphones each day and been patiently taught to discern manmade sounds from those of sea life. He’d even seen what those sounds looked like when displayed on a screen, beautiful—”the visual display of sound cascades down the screen like a waterfall.” Where had he read that? It sounded like poetry. But he’d never gotten to the point where he could identify a sound visually. He understood sound, and he’d learned how adept he could be at using his natural abilities when they’d followed that Russian sub off Greenland. But the technical aspects, the fine points, those were beyond him. They were left to that rare breed called sonarmen.
But there really was no physical sensation of movement, no vibration in the seat of his pants to indicate that Manchester was moving through the ocean faster than most automobiles ever traveled through a city’s streets. She was heading for a rendezvous with the unknown, a mysterious something none of them would ever see, and something Steel certainly hoped she would hear — before being heard.
Undersea battles were an everyday occurrence in the trainers ashore. And whenever you made the mistake of being sunk, the instructors started the game over again, working with the attack team to increase their proficiency. There was always a critique at the end of each day to evaluate why you had been sunk, or what you did to sink the enemy. Then you went out for a couple of beers. That element of schooling was called tactics. You lived or died by tactics in a dogfight — that’s what the instructors hammered home again and again.
And, of course, the commanding officers and executive officers attended their own schools, where they were exposed to a great deal more than simple tactics. They learned how to build and nourish an attack team that might save everyone’s lives in a melee hundreds of feet below the surface. Then, there was strategy, that grand study of the entire ocean battlefield where each submarine and surface ship was simply a number expected to contribute to the common good.
Steel considered everything he had learned over the years — tactics and strategy, all the special schooling, strategy and tactics, everything learned by intuition, tactics and strategy — and he came to the conclusion that there was very little he could apply to his current situation, for he had no idea what to expect. Only intuition could come to his aid on this mission. Some referred to it as imagination, others as luck. He maintained that it was intuition and hoped his own remained as expeditious as it had been in the trainers.
And was the selection of Manchester for this mission just luck?
“I believe it’s a matter of being in the right place at the right time, Captain.” The SEAL, Lieutenant Commander Burch, had been very matter of fact. Being dropped in the middle of the Pacific apparently hadn’t fazed him any more than being asked to run down to the store for a six-pack. After a few hours’ sleep he seemed to be as good as new. “They did seem to have a great deal of confidence in you, but I think it was mostly because Manchester was closest.”
“Who briefed you on this mission?” Steel inquired curiously.
“Admiral Bennett did most of the talking.”
Steel had known Mark Bennett since they’d been together on Stonewall Jackson in Charleston — a solid officer still capable of using his imagination.
“Admiral Larsen mostly listened.…”
Nice to know the Chief of Naval Operations knew who Ben Steel was.
“… and Admiral Arrow and Admiral Newman had a couple of things to say.…”
Ah, yes, the boss of all Pacific submariners — and “the man who would be Rickover,” as they all jokingly referred to Robbie Newman behind his back
“… but essentially the orders were Admiral Bennett’s.”
Burch, Steel remembered with amusement, had sat back with a bored expression on his face and asked, “What could I do to help out here, sir? I really can’t go back where I came from, and I’m not the type to stand still.” The unique challenges of this mission didn’t seem to affect him. SEALs seemed unconcerned with their environment.
Steel remembered that those had been the first words to amuse him that day — I really can’t go back where I came from — and knew why he instinctively liked the SEALs. “Okay, Commander, I don’t know if we’ll have enough time to qualify you for a set of dolphins, but you can do a couple of things. I really was serious when I mentioned over the IMC that the men could talk with you if there was something bothering them about this whole mess. Your first job is to circulate around the boat. Spend time with the enlisted men. Have a cup of coffee with them. Get down to chiefs’ quarters. Talk with my officers, especially some of the younger ones, and tell them exactly who was present when you received our orders and what they expect of us. That makes you the morale officer,” Steel concluded.
“Then,” he continued with a grin, knowing there was so little time, “since you’re a SEAL and a man of action, I want you to get hold of my weapons officer and learn everything you can about those torpedoes we shoot and how we go about it. Don’t take more than a few hours.” Steel laughed. “After that, we ought to be at battle stations, maybe even using some of those torpedoes.”
“I guess you’re right, Captain. There’s not a hell of a lot of time. So it’s a morale officer you’ve won for now.…”
That had been five hours ago. Steel knew from talking to the XO since then that Burch had done a good job as morale officer because a lot of the men did talk to him. And the weapons officer mentioned in passing that the SEAL had already learned enough to shoot a torpedo if they were forced to go to local control during a firing sequence.
Ben Steel glanced at his watch and realized that his musings had taken less than half an hour, but every minute was critical. He had yet to determine a fixed approach pattern, or an attack plan, or whatever it might be called when you were sailing a submarine into harm’s way and you had no idea what that harm might be. He settled once again on intuition as his most reliable guideline. If he found Florida first, he might be able to communicate their mutual problem. On the other hand, he was just as likely to come upon the enemy — if, in fact, there was an enemy submarine — and then it came down to whose ability —
There was a rap of knuckles on the bulkhead outside his stateroom. When it all comes down to the short and curlies, Steel thought as he settled back into reality, you have to depend on your intuition more than anything else. “What can I do for you?” he called to the individual outside.
“Four hours to the limits of Florida’s sector, sir.” The navigator stuck his head through the curtain hanging across the door.
“Thanks. Tell the XO I’ll be out in a few moments and we can all play games with the chart — figure out how we’ll roll the dice,” he added more loudly as the navigator headed back toward the control room.
Steel closed his eyes and imagined he was back at Pearl. It was an exercise — more a mind game, if he allowed his imagination to run — that relaxed his mind whenever sleep wasn’t in the cards. He pictured a trip up to Makaha with his family to watch the surfing championships.
There was Connie handing the picnic lunch to the two girls, who were already in the back of their station wagon. It was a hot, sunny, late-January day, and they would take H1 out past Makakilo City, then head north on the coast highway. The Steel family always started early on those hot days so they could stop for a swim at some of the beaches they hadn’t enjoyed in the past, or browse in out-of-the-way shops that always appealed to Connie and two teenage girls.