“Looks like we’re running into some weather,” the diver observed.
“Wouldn’t you know that we’d hit some rough stuff just when we’re getting ready for some sack time.”
Grodsky scooted his tray back in front of him.
“Not even a full-scale typhoon could keep me from wink land now, good buddy.”
He burped with satisfaction, then began working on the other half of the biscuit as the destroyer again plunged through a large swell. This time the ATO’s hand alertly shot out to make certain his tray remained steady. He was just about to polish off his eggs, when he noticed a familiar face dashing into the mess hall.
Lieutenant Bill Payton was their pilot. Since he was a loner by habit, his presence there could only mean trouble. Without stopping at the chow line, he scurried over to their table.
“Let’s move it, gentlemen! The Captain wants us up for one more go at it.”
Grodsky looked up in disbelief.
“Jesus, Lieutenant, if this is your idea of a joke, I seriously worry about your sense of humor.”
“I wish it were a joke, gentlemen, but I’m sorry to let you down. Look, I’m as beat as any of you, but right now there’s nothing we can do but get the lead out of our pants. The old man is going to personally meet us outside the hangar, so let’s move it!”
With this revelation, Wally Simpson pushed away his tray and quickly stood. Payton eyed Grodsky impatiently, but only after the ATO had stuffed the remaining two biscuits into his shirt pocket did he join them.
Struggling to keep their balance, the chopper crew climbed the two flights of stairs that brought them to the tossing deck. Keeping a hand firmly gripped on the guard rail, they made it to the stern launch pad.
Awaiting them was their Kaman Seasprite helicopter and the gangly figure of Captain Robert Powell.
“Sorry to ask this of you, men, but I have no alternative. It’s imperative that we put to use every anti-sub device that we have. It’s the next thirty minutes that will be the most critical. That’s why I’m counting on you to get this SH-2 up and working.”
The Eagle’s captain took in the chopper crew’s disheveled, weary-eyed appearance and explained further.
“I know that this will make your third sortie of the day, but if that Delta isn’t tagged soon, all hell is going to break loose. That Russian survivor you pulled from the Pacific has checked out thoroughly, so you can understand why I’m asking this of you. Find that submarine, men, or God help the planet!”
Stimulated by the sincere force of Powell’s words, the three-man chopper crew saluted and pivoted to get down to work. After the pilot had some hasty words with the burly, cigar-chomping maintenance chief, they loaded into the Seasprite and switched on its dual turboshaft engines. With a high-pitched whine, the rotor blades began spinning.
As they revved up to take-off velocity, the AID peered out of the plexiglass hatch window and viewed the captain, who still stood stiffly beside the hangar, taking the full brunt of their rotors’ downdraft.
Having had little personal contact with the captain before this, Grodsky was impressed with the officer’s forceful character. The ATO held on as the Seasprite lifted, Powell’s somber warning still fresh in his mind. The ship was soon out of sight, replaced by nothing but the surging blue Pacific.
Their course was due south and Grodsky began preparing the various ASW devices that they would soon be deploying. But the ATO’s thoughts remained locked on the nature of their current predicament.
When Junior Lieutenant Andrei Yakalov was first pulled from the downed Soviet relay plane, Grodsky had failed to realize the seriousness of their situation.
He justified the young sensor operator’s mad babblings as being the aftereffects of a trauma-inducing crash.
Though their superiors had yet to brief them fully, scuttlebutt had it that Yakalov’s warning tied in directly with the sub they were presently tracking down. This same rumor hinted that a mutiny had taken place on that vessel. Why the United States Navy had been called in to quell what appeared to be an exclusive Soviet problem was still somewhat confusing.
Grodsky knew that the Soviet people were difficult for Westerners to understand. Although he was the grandson of Russian emigres, he had few insights into the Soviet psyche. What he did understand was their love of the land. This was something his grandfather had expounded upon until his death. Paranoid after centuries of constant invasions, the Russian people wanted only to enjoy their fields and forests in peace.
As it turned out, the first part of the twentieth century offered them little of that most-precious commodity.
With tens of millions slain on battlefields, it was no wonder that they were still so cautious and distrustful.
Grodsky had watched the rapid ascension of Viktor Rodin and had looked to the future with optimism.
With their own candidate of peace in the White House, the time seemed ripe for an end to nuclear madness. That was yet another reason why the current crisis was so completely unexpected.
Stifling a weary yawn, the ATO hoped it would all be resolved with a minimum of bloodshed. After he was certain that his gear was in place, he approached the cockpit.
“When do you want me to get started. Lieutenant?”
From the seat on the left. Bill Payton replied, “We’ll be in a position to take our first hydrophone reading in a couple of minutes.
Everything ready back there?”
Nodding in confirmation, Grodsky looked out at the Pacific. He had no doubts that their task was a formidable one. More difficult than finding the proverbial needle in a haystack, locating a single submarine beneath those depths seemed utterly impossible.
Awed by the challenge, Grodsky ducked back into the Seasprite’s central compartment and sat down in front of the sensor panel.
Barely a minute later, his helmet-mounted intercom speakers activated and he received the okay to begin lowering the hydrophone unit. While the chopper hovered some twenty-five feet over the surging swells, the sensitive transducer slowly descended on a sturdy steel cable.
Grodsky replaced his helmet with a set of bulky headphones. Turning the volume gain to its maximum intensity, he took in the sizzling, crackling sounds that were produced as the device plunged under the water’s surface. It took only seconds more for him to pick up the alien whining sound produced by a submarine’s propeller.
His first instinct was that there had to be some sort of glitch in the equipment. Next, he briefly wondered if he could be imagining the whole thing. Only when the steady whine persisted did he convey this amazing discovery to the cockpit.
“Bingo, Lieutenant! We’re sitting right on top of something! I’ll bet my next dozen leaves that the sucker is a submarine — and a big one, at that.”
The pilot, normally a cool character, answered excitedly “Good work, Grodsky! Are you set up back there to relay this sound signature back to Momma Bird for a definite I.D.?”
“I’m ready when you are,” the breathless ATO returned.
Payton switched on the secure radio line back to the Eagle.
“Mother Bird, this is chick Delta, do you read me?”
A brief crackle of static was followed by a crystal clear reply.
“Go ahead Delta, this is Mother Bird.”
“Roger, Mother Bird. Prepare the nest to copy the sounds of your feeding chicks—” From the Seasprite’s sensor panel, the ATO diverted the hydrophone signal so that it would be transferred back to the destroyer via radio wave. In this manner they could take instantaneous advantage of the Eagle’s massive computer. Their ability to identify the source of the hydrophone signal in a matter of minutes was as important as their ability to find it in the first place.