“Conning officer, Captain. We’re picking up strange sounds on sonar, sir. Low frequency, very powerful, a long way off to the east. I recommend you come up and listen, sir.”
A slight pause then Bostwick said, “No, but let me know if there are any changes. Pacific Ocean can make weird noises when it wants to.”
“I don’t think these fit that format, Captain. Request permission to proceed to periscope depth and hoist an antenna. Maybe we can pick up some traffic on what’s happening.”
“Alright, Brent, I’m coming up. You and your damn war scares.”
Brent bit his lip. “Hope it’s nothing, Captain, but we ought to be sure.”
“You’re right, it’s nothing.”
Brent accompanied Bostwick to the sonar shack. The captain listened and again classified the sounds as natural.
He said to Brent, “As long as you got me out of bed, let’s go to periscope depth. Should be pretty bright now. At least we’ll get a weather observation outta this.”
“Aye, sir,” and then pressing the 21MC button said, “Sonar, search around, report all contacts.”
The sonarman responded, “No contacts, sir. Just the rumbling.”
Brent ordered the helmsman, “Ahead two-thirds,” and then to Cunningham, “Chief, make your depth one-five-zero feet smartly.”
He turned to the quartermaster of the watch and said, “Henri, based on the last look, give me a good heading away from the troughs.” This measure minimized obscuring the periscope upper optics from wave action.
“Recommend come left to zero-seven-five,” came Henri’s crisp reply. This heading also assured best possible depth control near the surface.
“Level one-five-zero, sir,” reported Cunningham.
“Sonar, Conn, coming left to zero-seven-five. Check the baffles,”
Denver’s main sonar, the spherical array of the AN/BQQ-5 baffles, being mounted forward created a blind spot by the submarine hull. Turning the ship permitted sonarmen to detect possible contacts being masked by the baffles.
Sonar responded, “Baffles. Conn, Sonar, aye,” and a minute later, “Baffles clear.”
Double clicking the 21MC, Brent signaled he heard and understood the report. “Six-three feet smartly, Chief,” Brent ordered.
“Six-three smartly, aye, sir.”
“Very well, Chief, mark at seventy and every two thereafter.”
“Seventy, and the twos, aye.”
Brent ordered, “Up two for a look around.”
Henri reported, “Two coming up, sir.” As the periscope cleared the well, he flipped the handles to the down position, rotated the optics to low power with the right handle and elevated the optics to full high with the left.
Brent fastened his eye to the scope and at once saw florescent plankton speed by the periscope head window. He rotated the scope rapidly for visual contact with the bottom of possible undetected surface ships that might be close aboard.
Cunningham called out, “Seven-two feet, seven-zero, six-eight.”
Brent shouted, “Scope clear,” as the optics broke the ocean surface. “Swinging around in low power. Nothing close. Raise the BRA 34.” Training the scope aft, Brent observed the large antenna break the surface and extend to full length. “Henri, tell Radio the 34 is clear. Monitor all VLF and HF band signals.”
Radio responded to the order relayed by Henri, “Radio, aye. Our ears are on.”
A minute slipped by and the 21MC crackled again. “No joy in Radio, Conn.”
“Well, Brent, looks like no war today,” the captain smirked. “I’m going below and get some—”
The 21MC prevented Bostwick from finishing his sentence.
A shrill and panicked voice cried out, “Captain to Radio on the double!”
No one ordered the captain anywhere and never on the double. As he hurried to the radio shack, he snarled, “This better be damned important.”
A short while later, Bostwick returned to the Attack Center, his face ashen. “Men, we’re about to change our spots from peacetime sailor to full-time warrior. We’ve been attacked by the Soviets. Good luck to us all. We’re going to need it.”
Brent wondered if the other men had detected Bostwick’s lack of conviction. He was not eager to follow this captain into combat.
Chapter 5
Dave Zane and Bea loved their rustic family retreat that sat on a cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean from Washington’s magnificent Olympic Peninsula. The simple, functional, cozy structure included a kitchen and dining-family room combination with a large ocean view window. A nearby cliff looked down fifty feet onto a stretch of sandy beach strewn with large boulders deposited there during the ice age. A rugged switchback trail provided access to the beach for the stout of heart.
Dave built most of the house himself, but his wife Dale drew the line and brought in professionals for the finishing work. Fieldstone collected from the site made up a large fireplace on the family room north wall. A divan and several large chairs formed a semicircle facing the hearth. Two baths, a loft bunkroom, a master bedroom and two other bedrooms rounded out the spread.
Eric Danis had to bow out at the last minute. Dave regretted his friend canceled his visit, but he didn’t let it dampen the good spirits that accompanied each of his visits to what Dale had dubbed the Digs.
Bea wondered if the presence of Eric Danis and her dad might put a damper on her weekend with Brent. But, she had been raised among submariners and knew of their tendency for taking life in stride, so concluded it would have been a fun time.
Dave ate far too much baked salmon, the traditional opening meal established by his late wife. After several games of cribbage with Bea, he turned in then fell into a deep and restful sleep.
Hours later, Bea stood beside her father’s bed wearing one of his old bathrobes. “Dad … Dad! Wake up! Something is very wrong.”
Dave quickly woke. “What, Baby? What’s the matter?”
“Come outside and look. East of the Olympics.”
“East of the Olympics? What are you talking about? You can’t see anything from here. The mountains are too big.”
“Come outside, Dad, and have a look. Unless the sun is rising three hours early, something pretty terrible is happening.”
Dave emerged from the Digs to see the source of Bea’s concern. A red glow probed the black night with such brightness that he could detect the Olympic Mountains’ ridge.
My God! The dumb bastards really did it. “Bea, go inside and turn on the radio.”
Electro-magnetic pulses from detonated nuclear warheads created oscillations in the ionosphere like ripples on a pond, causing distant radio transmissions to fade in and out. Bea finally found a commercial station in western Montana at just the right distance that bounced a sky wave off the ionosphere and reflected it to the Washington coast.
The announcer spoke in quiet, serious tones, “So far, enemy strikes appear limited to just Naval bases and shipyards. On the east coast: Kittery, Maine; Groton, Connecticut; Norfolk, Virginia; Charleston, South Carolina; and Kings Bay, Georgia. Targets on the west coast are the Trident Base at Bangor and nearby Bremerton Naval Shipyard, in Washington State. In California: Mare Island Naval Shipyard, Seal Beach Naval Weapons Station, and Naval Bases in San Diego.
“Pentagon sources advise American response has been limited. Also, other unofficial sources reported a total of seventeen missiles have been launched in retaliation. There are no reports on the extent of damage from Soviet warheads, but it is apparently heavy. Main thoroughfares from the damaged areas are jammed with fleeing survivors, as are those from New York, Chicago and other population centers not yet under attack.”