There was no need for darkened lights here. If there was a space on the ship where actual physical action was involved with killing an enemy, it was this one. This was where the torpedoes were loaded in the tubes, the tubes flooded with water and their pressure equalized with that outside, the muzzle doors opened, and the critical dials and gauges read and reread to insure a successful firing. And if an electrical casualty occurred in the miles of cable between the control room and the torpedo room, the tubes could be fired locally.
As soon as that tube was empty, the muzzle door was shut, the water drained from the tube, and the torpedo reload party would position the next torpedo with the hydraulic racks. It was a sensitive process to slip almost two tons of torpedo into one of those tubes without damage to the weapon or the tube itself. There were also myriad critical mechanisms within that tube involved with inserting target information into the weapon and preparing the tube once again for firing. The process was even more precarious when a submarine was maneuvering like an aircraft to avoid a homing enemy torpedo. If the control room was the brains of the submarine, then the torpedo room was the brawn. Makin loved the space as much as Newell.
“Looks like no one in this space has any problems,” the executive officer began.
Newell cocked his head to one side. “Does that mean there’re problems somewhere else?”
Makin had expected a smile of some kind, some friendly expression that came with their special relationship. There was none. “Nothing out of the ordinary, Captain. Everyone’s beat to hell, of course. But I think they’re as ready as ever.” He brushed an imaginary speck off the torpedo next to the one Newell was sitting on. “Looks like we might be able to use some of these soon. Sonar’s working on a contact….”
“Contact? Why wasn’t I informed?” Newell had been relaxing astride the torpedo as if he were allowing it to graze. He straightened his back and placed both hands on the warhead, ready to dismount. “I expected to be notified right away.”
“Nothing to be concerned with yet, Captain. Just picked up something out there, probably at a distance … intermittent … too mushy to classify at all. Computer can’t do anything with it yet.”
“What direction, Dick? Port or starboard bow?” Pasadena had been approaching the boomer’s sector from the southwest.
“It really is intermittent, Captain,” the XO assured him. “Much too early to tell. Somewhere ahead of us. The OOD is manning battle stations.”
“Well, certainly!” Newell jumped off the torpedo. “Just because you have an intermittent contact doesn’t mean they can’t blow you out of the water at any time.” Newell turned to Tim Sanford, who had remained silent. “Hell, Chief, sometimes we can hear an enemy captain fart before his boat makes a sound.”
The space was quickly filling with torpedomen who had been awakened when battle stations were called. They did not arrive on the run. They appeared stretching and yawning. “Come on, gents, get the lead out,” the chief bellowed. “Hopkins, make another pot of coffee and inject some of that into these sorry creatures.”
Newell waved a friendly hand back at the chief as he followed his executive officer up the narrow central pathway between the torpedo racks. “Wish I was going to be down here with you men. Good luck!” The special pleasure Newell now experienced in offering a few words of encouragement to his enlisted men was doubly pleasing. He saw himself as beneficent. These were the men who always supported him no matter what the situation. He appreciated that. In his exalted vision of Wayne Newell as the soul of Pasadena, he almost saw himself blessing these loyal men. He was exemplifying the balance between good and evil. This is what it means to lead! He was at peace with himself.
Newell fairly pushed his XO up the ladders to the middle level, then to the upper level toward the control room. He nodded a brief greeting to the OOD as they entered control but turned immediately left to the entrance to sonar.
There were three receiving units in sonar that could be switched from one mode to another, passive or active. The sonar officer was leaning over the shoulder of one of his sonarmen staring at the visual display when they entered.
Newell placed a firm hand on the sonar officer’s upper arm. “Well, Steve, are we ready to blow away our next boomer?” His voice was as hearty as if he’d just slept ten hours.
Thompson squeezed his eyes tightly shut and gritted his teeth before saying, “Dixon, I missed that completely. How about you?”
“Yes, sir, I picked it out.”
“That could have been what you’re talking about, Captain,” the sonar officer said, his eyes still shut. “I hope we got it on tape.”
“Got it,” Dixon said. “Want me to replay?”
“Do you still have it?”
“There’s something out there, sir,” the sonarman answered tentatively.
“Classification?” Newell snapped.
“No idea yet, Captain.”
“Bearing?” Newell asked quickly.
The sonarman leaned over to the man beside him. “Look like port bow to you?”
“That’s as good as any,” came the muttered answer.
“Port bow is close as we can say, Captain,” Dixon answered.
Newell plugged in a headset. “I want to hear that tape,”
“Dixon,” the sonar officer asked patiently, “will you help the captain out?”
The sonarman turned in his chair and set the necessary switches. “It’s pretty hard to sort out, Captain. Kind of mushy, but there is something out there.”
Makin studied the intensity on the captain’s face. He pressed the headset to his ears as if willing the sound to come to him. There was no change in his expression. Finally, be lifted the earpieces away from his head and asked, “Did you play it?”
“Yes, sir.”
Newell tore the headset off irritably. “Couldn’t hear a goddamn thing. I guess that’s what we pay you experts for. What do you think it is, Dixon?”
“If my neck isn’t on the line, I’d say that’s probably manmade.”
“Submarine?”
“Probably. A surface contact would be giving us a bit more ID by now. But I don’t want you to bank on me, Captain.”
“Port bow,” Newell murmured anxiously. His lips were pulled back from his teeth as he thought. “Okay. Battle stations manned. We could fire a snapshot in an instant if we were surprised.” He glanced over at Makin. “If we can hear him, and if that’s a boomer creeping along as quiet as a mouse, then he ought to be able to hear us at about the same time. Dick, tell the OOD to bring us down to ten knots, maybe a little less to be really sharp. We’re going to creep in until we get a positive ID on this one.” As if he were sure each man in sonar was about to ask him the same question, he announced in a clear voice, “I can assure you all that if this contact is a definite submarine, it will sound just like one of our own boomers when we’re able to classify it. Don’t let that fool you — and don’t let that classification go beyond this space. Anyone who is fooled by a masking device like that is sure to be a dead man.”