The JO, who had just gone to his maneuvering board to begin plotting the solution to their assumed station, looked out to Collier for a response. Instead, Carter turned to him from his chair. "Ask Combat what the course to our new station will be." He paused for a moment, then winked at Collier. "And ask him how long it will take to get there, Mr. Stritzler."
"Aye, aye, sir," responded the JO, turning to relay the.captain's query.
"Keeping them on their toes today, sir," Collier said, not expecting his captain to respond. Carter was the finest CO in the squadron for training junior officers, and he never let up on them. It was especially important now when they were in wartime conditions, standing watch on and watch off, Blue/Gold Teams as Carter called them. All stations were manned, including the depth-charge racks, hedgehog mounts, torpedo tubes, and gun mounts. The men were allowed to stand easy on these hot days — their captain was reasonable about comfort, as long as they were ready.
After a moment, "How do I know which direction the wind is from?" came back from the CIC watch officer.
Carter moved from the comfort of his chair into trie pilothouse and switched on the speaker to CIC. "You have a wind indicator in Combat that is in working order unless Mr. Mezey has been gundecking the equipment reports again. I would suggest that you use that and a maneuvering board, if there happens to be one available," he added sarcastically. "And bring your solution out to me on the starboard wing within the next sixty seconds. I would hope the OTC has not already given us the signal by then." He switched off the speaker, knowing that that particular ensign would never make the same mistake twice.
Over the water came the distant roar of piston engines warming up, preceded visually by the puffs of exhaust smoke, which quickly disappeared over the Caribbean. The anticipated signal from the officer in tactical command came over the primary tactical frequency and, after a reasonable period of time to avoid error, it was executed. Lake Champlain required only a change of course into the wind and increase of speed in preparation for the launch, but the little destroyers in her eight-ship screen had to scurry at top speed in a variety of directions to get to their new stations.
Collier allowed his JO to conn the ship into its new position. He knew the excitement within each new ensign when he had the chance to show his captain how he could place the ship exactly where the admiral on that carrier required it to be. Carter nodded to the young officer, acknowledging without words the smooth execution of a complicated ship's movement done well.
After watching the launch of the new flight of trackers, and the return of the previous twelve from their search for Russian submarines, Carter spoke to Collier. "I'm going below to my cabin for a while, Bob. Gonna catch up on a bit of paperwork. I may even take a nap." He looked at his watch, noting there were only twenty minutes left in the current Gold Team watch. "When Donovan relieves you, have him call me if those trackers pick up anything new on those oil traces they found this morning. I wouldn't be surprised if they had something there. The last intelligence reports indicated there were at least two subs in the immediate area, and sooner or later we're going to find one of them."
"Aye, aye, sir," Collier replied, saluting as Carter left the bridge.
Approximately forty miles from the ships of Task Group Alpha, Lieutenant Alexander Kupinsky, skipper of a Russian Foxtrot-class submarine, was listening expressionlessly to his chief engineer's casualty report. It had been a week of malfunctions since they had last taken on fuel and supplies from the cow that serviced them on their Caribbean station. Bearings, batteries, condensers, electronic gear — each had failed during the week that had started so peacefully and ended with alarm when they received the signal that war was imminent with the United States. There had been no further explanation, but the prearranged signal indicated that one more signal would mean that Kupinsky was to open the instructions in his safe. He had told his crew as much as he knew, but it was difficult to know what was happening when you were so far from home and so close to your enemy's coast.
There was a leak in one of the pumps. Oil had escaped into the bilges, but no one had realized the extent of damage at first. When it became necessary to pump the already overflowing bilges, the oil had likely gone to the surface. They all knew of the search planes from the American carrier. They heard the sonobuoys dropped in the water and activated, waiting for them. They had seen the aircraft through the periscope, and they had picked up the tracker's radar many times on their electronic countermeasures (ECM) equipment.
Now there was a telltale noise in one of the shafts, a bearing, the chief had said. He didn't know when it might go, but he recommended surfacing at night. They would have to stop to make the repairs before the sub became a major engineering casualty. Kupinsky didn't think that he would have that luxury. The Americans were everywhere. Half the time when he should have been snorkeling to recharge his batteries, he was diving to avoid those planes. They were invariably in the air, and he honestly didn't know why. But he knew that this was no Cold War game. That signal indicated that the games would soon be over, and he knew his boat must be ready.
Yes, he agreed with his chief, he would try to surface at the end of the day. He must snorkel for a while in case they were driven under again, and then he would stop engines if he could for the repairs. But they must be ready to dive at any time, he insisted.
The Gold Team was relieved by Joe Donovan's Blue Team for the first dog watch, before the evening meal. The late afternoon sun was still high in the sky at that latitude, and Donovan made his customary tour of the ship, leaving his experienced JO on the bridge. His last stop was combat, where he passed the time of day for just a moment with David Charles, the CIC watch officer.
It was quiet back on the bridge. A light breeze was cooling the day ever so slightly, and the gray metal of the Bagley was releasing some of its heat as the sun's rays lessened their effect. The ever-present flying fish offered the only entertainment for the men on the bridge, who quietly shifted their stations every fifteen minutes to avoid the mounting boredom.
"Bridge…" cracked Ensign Charles' voice from Combat, "I've just copied a snorkel sighting to the OTC from Tracker Four. We have the aircraft on radar twenty-six miles on our starboard beam. We're in the best position to head there right now."
"Roger, Combat, wait one." In three strides, Donovan was at the phone to Carter's cabin, punching the buzzer repeatedly. To the captain's answer on the other end, he replied excitedly. "Tracker aircraft had a snorkel, sir. Ensign Charles was following it in Combat. Datum for last known position twenty-six miles" on our starboard beam."
"Call Banker on the pritac frequency, Joe. Tell him we already have datum plotted and request permission to be released to conduct a search. We should be senior on this side of the screen. I'll be right up."
In less than thirty seconds Sam Carter was coming through the rear door of the pilothouse, buttoning the shirt still hanging out of his unzipped pants. There was no need to ask if the Admiral had responded yet. "Banker has rogered your message, sir. They probably have to call down to the Admiral's cabin. No other ships have responded yet."
Carter stepped to the speaker and pressed the button to CIC. "Mr. Charles, this is the captain. What course to datum please?"
The reply came without hesitation. "We want two eight six degrees true, sir. The distance to contact is now twenty-five point six miles. It would take us about forty-eight minutes at thirty-two knots, sir."