Suddenly conscious of a painful tingling in his lungs, he knew that his next hike would not take place until the new world order had dawned.
Chapter Two
Three hundred and twenty-five miles to the northeast of Midway Island, the Los Angeles-class attack sub USS Triton silently drifted one hundred and fifty feet beneath the water’s surface. Longer than a football field, and staffed by a complement of one hundred and twenty-seven highly trained officers and enlisted men, the Triton was one of the most sophisticated underwater vessels ever put to sea.
Packed within its hull was the latest in high-tech machinery.
This included a dual set of supersensitive sonar arrays, a powerful nuclear propulsion plant and a wide variety of offensive and defensive weaponry. Primarily designed to hunt down and destroy other submarines and to protect the boomers (missile-carrying subs), the Triton was also quite capable of striking targets well inland. Such diverse capabilities made it an extremely potent fighting machine.
For two months now, the Triton had been on patrol.
This extensive tour of duty brought its crew to no exotic ports. In fact, not once during the voyage did the sub even break the surface.
Stealth and secrecy were two major elements that guaranteed the vessel’s continued existence. The crew were most aware of this fact and accepted their isolation without negative comment.
Captain Michael Cooksey, commanding officer of the Triton, was well satisfied with the superb operational capabilities of the equipment and the unequalled competency of his present crew. If all continued smoothly, surely their second battle-efficiency award in a row would be waiting for them at Pearl Harbor. They would be arriving there in less than a week’s time.
As usual when a cruise was winding down, Cooksey experienced a touch of depression. After all, these patrols were what he lived for. Having no wife or children anxiously waiting for him in port set him apart from the majority of his crew. Now that he was about to begin his twentieth year of naval service, he knew that the inevitable transfer orders would soon be coming his way. At best, he could hope for command of a destroyer, or even a fleet supply ship. Orders directing him to permanent shore duty would be as good as a commendation to death.
Sprawled out on his narrow bunk, with his hands locked behind his head and his eyes scanning the Spartan contents of his cramped quarters, the captain forced himself to focus on their present mission. The unusual degree of quiet merely emphasized their current situation. Absent was the constant, muted drone of the ship’s turbines. In its place, only the hiss of the Triton’s ventilation system produced evidence that the vessel was operational.
For twelve hours now they had been drifting, rigged in a state of ultra-quiet. During that time all unnecessary activity was eliminated. Water evaporators were shut down, the garbage disposal system was deactivated, and even the soft-drink machines had been shut off. All men not on duty were sent to their cots as the Triton attempted to float noiselessly.
This exercise had a dual purpose. Since anti-submarine-warfare platforms depended largely upon hydrophone listening devices to pick up the sound signature of an approaching vessel, their present state helped to insure their non detection As a formidable ASW platform in their own right, the condition of ultra-quiet allowed their own hydrophone operators to receive an uncluttered signal from any advancing naval units.
Using this tactic, Cooksey hoped to pick up the sounds of the American carrier unit he was assigned to intercept. In effect, they were in the midst of a war game, with the Triton taking the role of the enemy. If possible, they were to record proof of their interception without the surface fleet knowing the Triton was even present. An accomplishment of this difficult task would signal the end of their present patrol.
Since the men were anxious to return to port, they were really putting their hearts into the exercise. The quicker they “tagged” the task force, the sooner they’d be reunited with their long-absent loved ones.
The captain hoped that his decision to remain stationary was correct.
Although this severely limited the territory they could cover effectively, he had a gut feeling that the surface units would eventually be passing through this area.
Their present position was 32 degrees north latitude, 173 degrees west longitude. To the layman, these coordinates seemed unimportant.
Cooksey knew otherwise. No U.S. flagship commander cruising these waters would dare pass up the chance to direct his units over the legendary position know as “Point Luck.”
It was at this spot, in 1942, that Admirals Fletcher and Spruance rendezvoused to await the Japanese invasion force headed toward Midway Island. What followed was one of the greatest naval battles of modern times. Eighty-six Japanese warships faced a meager force of twenty-seven U.S. vessels. Amazingly enough, when the smoke cleared not only had the invasion force been turned away, but four Japanese carriers lay on the bottom. Though the U.S. lost the Yorktown, and dozens of brave fighter pilots. Pearl Harbor was avenged and the tide of the war had turned.
On several previous occasions Cooksey had commanded his submarine to stop at this site; after explaining its significance to the crew, he would ask for a moment of silent prayer. Other captains were said to do likewise. Traditions died hard in the navy, and Cooksey was gambling that the admiral in charge of the carrier force would take a few minutes to pay his respects, and in the process, teach his men some living history.
Remaining stationary, submerged one hundred and fifty feet beneath the surface, was no easy task. To accomplish this feat they were currently “riding a layer.” Since it was impossible for a sub to be so delicately trimmed that it could remain indefinitely static, neither rising or falling, it was necessary to obtain Mother Nature’s assistance. In this case, a heavier layer of cooler, more saline water was located. Trimming the sub for a warmer, lighter layer, they were presently balancing on the boundary between the two. The Triton could remain in this strata as long as the sea state remained constant and their equipment cooperated.
Cooksey found himself hoping that they wouldn’t have to stay there much longer. Rigging for ultra quiet only produced an additional degree of tension, which was enhanced by their recently concluded two-month patrol period. In times of war, such prolonged isolation would often be necessary. Yet they were merely playing a war game.
The captain stirred uneasily, realizing that his hopes for catching a cat nap had been frustrated. Not that he was ever a sound sleeper.
While on patrol, he satisfied himself with barely four hours of shut-eye.
That, and an occasional nap, was usually more than sufficient to keep him alert and rested. Lately, though, he had been finding it increasingly difficult to drift off to sleep. Whenever he laid down on his bunk, it seemed that all types of irritating thoughts immediately snapped into his head. When he wasn’t worrying about the day he would lose command of the Triton, a thousand and one trivial technical problems would haunt him. Too often he would find himself rushing through the sub to check the condition of some insignificant valve, which was usually in perfect condition.
Hesitant to discuss his problem with any of the other officers, Cooksey promised himself he would bring it up during his next physical. Though this would be the logical course of action to take, in reality he doubted that he’d ever have the nerve to make such an admission.
Most probably the navy would see his sleeping difficulties as representative of a much deeper psychological disturbance. Such a condition would instantly cost him his hard-won command.
Lately, dozens of cups of extra-strong black coffee had been his savior. When fatigue began catching up with him, a quick caffeine fix had yet to fail. To see him through the watch that would soon follow, the bitter brew would be sorely needed. Try as he could, Cooksey had trouble remembering the last time he hit the sack and had a really sound slumber.