It was not.
Leer came into control, without his EAB so he could hustle faster.
“Put that fucking thing back on,” ordered Jabo.
“Turn right!” said Leer. “We are driving bearing rate on Sierra Six!”
The captain came over to the CODC, he and Jabo both saw that Leer was right. The Sonarmen could actually listen to the contacts with their headphones, didn’t have to wait for the data to accumulate in visual form on the screen, and what Leer had heard was very, very close. By “driving bearing rate,” Leer meant that the Alabama’s own motion was causing the change in bearing rate, as opposed to any motion by the contact — which meant they were dangerously near.
“Right full rudder!” said Jabo.
“Right full Rudder aye sir…my rudder is right full…”
The big ship swung right, and the bright band of Sierra Six’s noise bent away from them, but it was so close now…
“We’re going right under them,” said the captain calmly. “Rig the ship for collision.”
“Rig for collision!” said the navigator into the 1MC, and the chief of the watch sounded the collision alarm. Not even the hull of a giant freighter could hit them at a depth of 160 feet — that’s exactly why that depth was chosen to prepare for periscope depth. But these were fishing boats, and there were a lot of things they might be dragging: nets, chains, maybe even an anchor. And that’s if they’d correctly guessed about the nature of the surface boat. It could be even worse if it was dredging, laying cable, trawling…there were a great many reasons to avoid driving your submarine underneath a surface ship.
“Go deep, captain?”
He shook his head. “No point now. We’re already under them.”
They continued to swing right, but the noise of sierra six was a bright band that had consumed the display. The captain toggled one of the display’s switches, changing the scale so they could see more. Jabo was amazed at his calm.
As they passed under Sierra Six, they could hear a pinging through the hull, a watery, high pitch ping as regular as a metronome.
“Their fathometer,” said the captain, still watching the display. Sierra Six was behind them now. The captain waited… “steady here.”
“Steady as she goes!” ordered Jabo.
“Steady as she goes, aye sir,” said the helm, as he swung the rudder left to steady the ship on the bearing at which the ship was heading at that moment. They were pointing almost due north. “Sir, ship is steady on course zero-zero-five.”
“Very well, said Jabo.
“This is it,” snapped the Captain. “Let’s go up.”
Jabo stepped back and put his hands on the orange ring over his head. “Raising number two periscope.” He swung the ring to the left and the scope smoothly and quickly rose until the eyepiece came into view. He put his right eye to the scope and was now looking into the ocean.
Still spinning slowly around, searching 360 degrees around them, he twisted the handles toward him so that he was also looking up, looking for anything that was too close. He couldn’t see Sierra Six, the visibility underwater was not that far. Had he seen anything, he would have ordered emergency deep without hesitation. But it looked clear after three complete circuits around. Getting up briskly was crucial now, this was when the ship was at its most vulnerable. While no ship on earth could run into them at 160 feet, the same was not true as they ascended to periscope depth. Once they got to PD, they would actually be able to look around with their eyeballs, see the types of ships around them, the course and speeds they were on — it would be easy to make smart decisions. But the journey from 160 feet to PD was fraught.
“Dive make your depth seven-eight feet.”
“Make my depth seven-eight feet, aye sir.”
As they were trained, the control room instantly went silent with that order. The ship pointed up slightly, and they began to rise, as Jabo spun slowly around, continuing to verify that nothing would obstruct their trip to the surface. A lone fish swam frantically in front of the scope, trying to get out their way, a trail of tiny bubbles in his path. The water lightened as they rose, turning from a dark, almost blackish green to a lighter aquamarine. Jabo could see the sun through the water as they rose; he was somewhat surprised that it was so bright out. They’d kept the boat on Pacific Time, and he’d lost all track of what time it was in the world above them. The scope broke through the water as Jabo continued to spin. The only sound was a slight hiss every time Hurd unplugged and replugged his EAB, which kept him from wrapping the hose around the scope as he spun. It was a sacred rule — between 160 feet and PD, no one but the OOD was allowed to speak, and the entire control room awaited to hear one of two reports from him once the scope was clear: “no close contacts,” or “emergency deep!”
“Scope is breaking…” it was momentarily obscured by a splash. Then it was out.
“Scope is clear.” Jabo turned three complete times, noted all the contacts right where he thought they should be, but none were on top of him, none had the narrow profile of boats on a collision course. He counted them as he spun, counted nine, one more than they’d seen in sonar. But after three complete revolutions he was certain that they were not going to run into anybody.
“No close contacts!” Jabo said.
The control room watchstanders breathed a collective sigh of relief, and began filling the silence again with their orders, comments and recommendations. Jabo kept his mask pressed to the scope. “Sonar, conn, mark surface contacts on the following bearings…” he pressed the red button the scope handle each time the crosshairs in his scope hit the center of one of the fishing boats. “Mark…mark…mark…mark…” Nine times he marked a contact, and each time Hurd called out the bearing as he pushed the button. After a complete revolution, satisfied he’d marked all the visible contacts, he switched the scope to high power and began a search of a ninety-degree arc of ocean. He let Hurd work on the contacts’ solutions in fire control. While satisfied that they were safe at their current course and speed, he was concerned that they had somehow missed one in sonar, one that was close enough to see.
“Sonar conn — which contact is the one we missed?”
There was a pause, the Leer’s voice on the mike: “Designate Sierra Nine. About zero-four-five relative.”
Jabo swung the scope to the starboard beam and rolled the handles forward to put the magnification in high power. Yes, there it was, another fishing boat. His heart raced for a minute as he discerned a narrow angle on the bow — it was pointing right at them. Then he saw the black ball hanging from the front super structure: the day shape for a boat at anchor. Out of the corner of the control room, by the navigator’s chart, he heard an unusual whooping alarm that took him a second to identify: it was the ESM alarm. ET1 Daniels, the ESM operator, spoke up.
“Sir, we have a Siren Echo surface radar, bearing zero-five-zero.”
“Siren Echo?”
“Soviet-era military shipboard radar.”
“Soviet military?”
“Yes sir.”
Jabo stopped rotating a minute, took another long hard look at Sierra Nine. It sure looked like a fishing boat. But he could now hear the rhythmic whine of the radar on their ESM antenna, in time with the rotation of the radar antenna he could see atop the little boat’s highest mast.