Brent nodded, took a breath to speak, but remained silent.
Later he relieved Dan as conning officer before reaching Denver’s rendezvous point three hours early. Bostwick, determined to be on time, ordered the high speeds needed to sanitize the entire area.
Exactly on time, the faint whir, whir, whir of Utah’s propellers marked the mighty ship’s passage overhead.
Denver initiated the rendezvous signal with three short pings on her secure depth sounder. Utah received the signals reflected off the ocean floor and replied with three of her own. Denver fell into trail five miles astern of the Trident submarine; an excellent peacetime tactic to detect an adversary lying in wait with intentions to trail Utah to her northern Pacific patrol area, but not a good one if an attack is in the cards.
Reluctantly Brent complied with the captain’s orders. “Ahead one-third,” he directed the helmsman and to the chief of the watch, “Chief, ease us down to three-fifty.”
Chief Cunningham answered, “Ahead one-third, ease to three-fifty.”
Brent said, “Left full rudder, steady two-eight-zero, belay the headings.”
Helmsmen, while executing turns, usually announce the ship’s heading every ten degrees unless ordered to belay them.
“Left full to two-eight-zero, belay headings, aye, Mr. Maddock.”
“Sonar, Conn. Here we go, Hansen. Give me a report on anything that remotely sounds like a target.”
“Good move, Brent.” Captain Bostwick provided the young officer with a rare, but sincere vote of confidence, though to be short-lived.
“Conn, Sonar! Torpedo in the water bearing two-eight-five!”
Brent ordered, “Collision alarm!” A shrill signal made its piercing whoeee, whoeee throughout the ship. Henri, the quartermaster of the watch correctly anticipated the order and its follow-on. He initiated the gong, gong, gong of the general alarm and announced over the 21MC, “Man battle stations!”
Brent ordered, “Torpedo Room, Conn. Make tubes one and two ready in all respects.”
Instantly, Brent knew he had made a mistake. The sound of water blown from WRT tank to the launchers deafened the sonar at the most critical moment. The background noise masked the torpedo’s running sounds. For what seemed an eternity the torpedo tube blow subsided forty seconds later.
“Bearing to torpedo, Sonar!”
“Two-eight-four, drawing left.”
Brent surmised correctly, They’re shooting at Utah.
Wanting to acquire a bearing and range to the attacking Soviet with a pulse from the ship’s sonar, Brent turned to Bostwick, and requested, “Permission to go active, Captain.”
Silence ensued.
Brent demanded, “Captain!”
Bostwick made a stern and well calculated reply, “Not granted.”
The sound of two distant explosions rattled Denver’s hull.
Brent pleaded, “Captain … for chrissake. Permission to go active and get the sons of bitches.”
“Not granted, Brent. It’s too late. Let’s not give ’em another aim point and another scalp for their belt.”
“Let me shoot down the bearing line, then.”
“No. They’re out of range and they can outrun anything we throw at them. Secure the tubes and save the bullets. We’re going to need them later.”
Anger surged through Brent’s chest but mostly at himself. He knew the captain had it right. They had blown their first mission, but better not to make matters worse by striking out in stupid anger.
Get above the layer, Brent thought then said, “Chief, five degrees up bubble, make your depth six-zero feet.”
No response from Chief Cunningham as he sobbed uncontrollably. At that instant, sounds from a collapsing compartment in Utah rattled over the underwater telephone receiver speaker. The sinking Titan yielded to the sea and gave up the lives of Cunningham’s former shipmates.
Calmly, Brent ordered, “Henri, relieve the chief of the watch.”
The authoritative voice of the black quartermaster responded, “Aye, sir,” and then ordered the helmsman, “Full rise on the fairwaters, five up on the angle, smartly to six-zero.”
“Messenger of the watch, call the chief’s relief,” Brent said. Then he put his arm about Cunningham’s shoulder and guided him to the ladder leading to the crew’s quarters.
Doing what he could, Brent tried to comfort the COB. “Chief, I can’t say I know how you feel. I’ve never been there. But I hurt for you, Chief, and for your buddies. I hurt goddamn bad.”
Captain Bostwick hunched his shoulders and with no expression showing on his face, walked to his stateroom.
The 21MC crackled, “Conn, Sonar. Distant suppressed cavitation bearing two-eight-five, range opening.”
The message described the distinct sound of an escaping submarine. Her work done the victorious Soviet sped off into the vastness of the Pacific Ocean.
Chapter 6
Eric Danis looked out his office window onto a magnificent view of the Mojave Desert. Though a seaman, the expanse and serenity of this intriguing land overwhelmed him. He made a mental note to find time to look into the many secrets that had attracted man to find an abode here over the past ten millenniums. He held a phone to his ear and heard the ring at the other end, twice, three times.
“Hello, Dave Zane speaking,” came a distant voice.
“Hello, yourself. Eric Danis, here.”
“I know that. I’d recognize that sandpaper voice anywhere. How are you, old buddy?”
The relief in Dave’s voice said much. His friend had survived. A custom of their generation precluded emotional pronouncements.
“Figured I’d find you at the Digs, Dave.”
“You figured right. If you believe the newsies, it’ll be five years before we can go back to Bainbridge. The Soviets made a damn mess of it. Too hot for at least the time being.”
Eric assured Dave. “Eve’s here with me. The last we heard Sean got arrested for laying down in front of visitors at a Trident submarine commissioning ceremony. But he’s still with us and I’ll take having him alive any way I can get him. How about Bea? I trust she’s well.”
“Bloomin’, Eric, just bloomin’. Since young Maddock showed up, things have gotten a lot better for her. She’s a mite worried about him. I keep tellin’ her a 688 at sea has a better chance of making it than us poor souls on terra firma. She’s a woman, Eric, and needs assurances.”
“Tell her I’m certain he’s well and that’s more than just a gut feel.”
“Thanks, Eric. She’ll be grateful for that, especially since it came from you.”
“Least I can do for my favorite godchild.”
“How we doin’, Eric? Papers say we’re gettin’ our butts kicked.”
Eric said with a grim voice, “We’ve lost just about all the hardware we needed to successfully carry out the Maritime Strategy. Add to that some serious casualties ashore, both military and civilian. Most of this is on the coasts. We don’t know how they did it, but the areas attacked are dirty enough to keep us out for quite a while. Apart from facilities ashore, submarines seem to be holding their own … just barely, but hanging in there.”
“Guess the Maritime Strategy turned ’round and bit us submariners square on the ass. We went along ’cause it got us outta battle-group escort and freed us up for the forward areas where the good hunting is. Just didn’t believe the Soviets would do what they did.”
“Hindsight is 20/20, Dave.”
“Well at least we saved something, Eric. The damn I told you so flakes from the candy-ass peace crowd piss me off. If we do get taken over, wait till they hear what the KGB has to say about their damn intellectual pontificating.”