"Thanks, David." He turned to Donovan. "Have main control light off superheat. I want flank speed as fast as they can. Go on down and join your boys." He briefly checked the current course and speed. "I'll relieve you, Joe." And to the bridge watch, "I have the conn."
The hum on the primary tactical radio speaker preceded the voice by a split second. "Lucky Strike, this is Banker. You are detached to proceed to datum. Assume command of surface and air units upon arrival. Over."
As the JO acknowledged the transmission, Carter turned to the men at the helm and engine order telegraph. "Right standard rudder. All engines ahead flank. Indicate revolutions for thirty-two knots. Main control cannot answer you immediately until they have superheat. I will speak to Mr. Donovan as soon as he arrives in main control." To the JO, who was hesitantly standing to the side watching the bridge come to life, he said, "Sound general quarters, Mr. Sylvester. Tell me when all stations are manned and ready."
The ensign moved to the speaker on the bulkhead at the back of the pilothouse, depressed the switch, and announced, probably for the first time since he had reported aboard the Bagley, "General quarters, general quarters… all hands man your battle stations.…" At the same time, he pulled down the handle that sent the alarm clanging through every space on the ship.
To the helmsman who had relayed that his rudder was right, the captain replied, "Come to course two eight six degrees true." The Bagley was leaning sharply to starboard as her rudders bit into the blue water. Foam bubbled around the fantail as the propellers increased their revolutions. Men, just awakened from sleep, raced from their compartments to their GQ stations, some carrying their clothes.
"My course is two eight six degrees true."
"Very well," answered Carter as the bridge-talker began to report stations manned and ready. Bob Collier came through the pilothouse door rubbing his eyes, to assume GQ OOD. The bridge watch was relieved one at a time by the special GQ team. Carter briefed his OOD quickly.
"This is Mr. Collier. I have the conn." The new men shouted back the course and speed.
David Charles relieved as JO. He checked off the remaining GQ stations as they reported over the sound-powered headphones he had donned.
Forty seconds had passed, and all reports were to the bridge except for the damage-control people, who were still checking all watertight hatches. Donovan reported from main control that superheat was rising. Thirty-two knots could be achieved within twelve minutes, and damage-control central reported ready.
Bagley was at general quarters. Carter nodded at David Charles. "I owe you a very large drink the next time we're in port, David. We were the first can to report datum on that contact. We're OTC for a four-ship search." He grinned. "You made me look awfully good out here. All we have to do now is come up with that sub," he added thoughtfully.
Twenty-four miles dead ahead of Bagley, Alex Kupinsky had leveled his boat off at 150 feet after their crash dive. He hadn't expected a bomb or torpedo in the water, but he didn't really know what to expect. Only in exercises in the Baltic had he ever witnessed through his periscope the fearsome sight of an aircraft diving at his boat. It was bad for the nerves at any time.
Not knowing how long the aircraft had tracked him, he changed course and speed immediately, hoping for evasion of whatever was to come. Sunset would come within a couple of hours, but he knew he did not have enough air for men or engines to stay under for the entire night. They were still leaking oil, and the bearing on one shaft was hot. He had called his men to general quarters, but neither he nor the crew knew what they could expect now. Perhaps it would be the high-speed whine of surface-ship propellers sent to hunt him down.
The squawk box echoed through the Bagley, "This is the captain speaking again. As I promised when I first told you about this Cuban quarantine, I will keep you informed of your ship's participation. I'm sure the rumors have circulated around the ship pretty fast in the last few minutes, so I want to make sure each of you knows what we're doing. We were sent out here to find Russian submarines, and it seems we may have one now. About fifteen minutes ago one of the tracker aircraft got a good look at a snorkel that we know doesn't belong in the area. We are OTC for a four-ship search commencing at the last point of contact. We'll be at datum in about thirty minutes to join a number of helicopters and trackers. This is an opportunity to make a major contribution to President Kennedy's.challenge to the Russians. He is depending on each ship and each man." He paused for a moment for effect. "I want you to do your best. A lot of us have been together for almost eighteen months now, and I have a feeling we're going to show that Bagley's not ready for the scrap heap yet." He stopped for another moment, then continued, "I want to assure you I will keep you up to date whenever I can."
Four destroyers, each with a bone in its teeth, raced across the blue water in a ragged line abreast, two thousand yards from each other. The plan was to sweep over the sub's last position with the middle of their line. This gave Carter a mile and a half on either side of the datum, plus another mile and a half on the beam of the end ships if sonar conditions were accurate. The fringes of their sweep would be covered by helicopters just now flying by on their way to that invisible point in the ocean. Farther out, the fixed-wing aircraft had already established sonobuoy patterns in case the sub escaped the close-in search that Carter had ordered.
It was deceptively beautiful as the formation charged into a golden sun that was now settling quickly toward the flat horizon. They were too far from land for birds, and their departure had been fast enough to leave the ubiquitous garbage-hunting gulls with the remainder of the task force.
David Charles felt Bagley shuddering under his feet as the screws continued to increase their revolutions. Each motion of the ship was now magnified by its speed, and the helmsman had only to shift the wheel the slightest bit to feel his rudder respond. This was what destroyers were built for. The bridge was comfortable for the GQ team, even in their life jackets. The breeze sweeping across them was now close to thirty-two knots. But David knew from past experience the heat and the stench of the engineering spaces and the human smell of other groups sealed into their spaces until the captain ordered otherwise.
No air moved in CIC. Sweaty faces were outlined in eerie shades by the green reflection from the radar screens., Voices were quiet as each man strained to listen to the sonar pinging from the open compartment to the rear of their own — the sharp sound as the signal expanded from the sonar dome, and perhaps the anticipated response when contact was made.
Carter paced the bridge looking from David, reporting all-important items that came over his headphones, to the overhead speaker in the corner that Frank Welles would use only once when he reported the initial contact. But the speaker remained silent, and Carter had to be satisfied as David reported the distance to datum every thousand yards, and relayed the information from combat as Jerry Burchette resumed control of the aircraft already on station. Somehow, it didn't seem quite right; it was too similar to the exercises they participated in every month. The only real difference was the captain's pacing, which David thought very uncharacteristic of the man. The lookouts swept the ocean's surface on their 360-degree vigil, knowing that any smart submarine would be at least a hundred feet below their line of sight.
"Captain, CIC reports one of the trackers had sighted what they believe to be. garbage off our port bow." All binoculars swept in that direction.
"Ask the pilot if he can identify anything in it," Carter requested.