We always prepare to fight the last war, is an over-used cliché that remains ever valid. During the mid-nineteen eighties, the U.S. Navy continued to use the tactic of vast naval forces gathered around aircraft carriers, the same tactics used successfully by the allied naval forces in sweeps through the Southwest Pacific against the Japanese in World War II. If war with the Soviets ever came about, the strategy was to deploy twelve U.S. Navy Carrier Battle Groups over both the Pacific and Atlantic Oceans. These Battle Groups would push Soviet naval forces into their home waters, opening the sea lines of communication, thereby protecting the movement of men and essential war materials.
A flaw in this strategy is the failure to account for improvements in submarine warfare over those subdued by the U.S. and the allies during the Second World War. Nazi submarines patrolling the North Atlantic could submerge for only short periods and spent the greatest part of their time on the surface in transition to assigned areas, therefore they were vulnerable to search and attack by aircraft.
The advent of nuclear power drastically changed submarine tactical operations. Nuclear powered submarines are able to remain submerged
indefinitely, and unlike their diesel predecessors, perform best while submerged. Soviet submarines would soon out-dive and outrun any anti-submarine warfare (ASW) weapon in the U.S. Navy inventory and were not vulnerable to the current search and locating equipment.
The United States pioneered the development and deployment of nuclear submarines, and by 1972 produced the 688 Los Angeles class attack submarines that epitomized the state of the art in underwater warfare. However, ensuring nuclear safety for this complex technical advance began to dilute the long-standing submariner importance on tactical excellence. Officer personnel selected to man the new ships began to be chosen on the basis of academic standards rather than the traditional method of evaluating operational performance.
In the meantime, the Soviet military chiefs became aware of the American progress with nuclear powered submarines via information obtained from John Anthony Walker, a U.S. citizen working as a spy for the Soviets. From this information, the Soviets realized they must reduce submarine radiated noise levels or risk annihilation of their undersea fleet. Then through the illegal sales of propeller milling technology by the Japanese firm Toshiba and the Norwegian firm Kongsberg, the Soviets made great strides perfecting their Akula class submarine design and began building their new underwater armada.
All during those troubled years after World War II, the Americans and the Soviets agreed in principle to resolve their differences using diplomacy to bring about peace. As charter members of the United Nations, they met often to do so, but failure after failure made things worse. During the Kennedy presidency in 1962, the two adversaries came the closest to all out war with what is now known as the Cuban Missile Crisis. The situation took a long time to de-escalate because even though the Soviets conceded to arming Cuba with missiles, they continued to push their ideology elsewhere for world domination.
Two years after being elected as the President of the United States Andrew J. Dempsey ended diplomatic relations with the Soviet Premier saying he would only return to the negotiating table after the Soviets made serious gestures toward peace. He did so without the expressed approval of the United States Congress.
Silent Battleground opens at this juncture in history.
Chapter 1
Neither ship nor man is intended to be comfortable during a United States Navy shipyard overhaul. The vessels are dry-docked where they are deprived of the seaborne grace and agility as intended by their designers. They rest on huge keel blocks with sides ripped open and vital organs exposed for repair and maintenance.
Man, too, is equally out of his element here. The environment is noisy, dangerous and unforgiving of careless acts. In wintertime, no amount of clothing provides adequate protection from the incessant, penetrating cold. Little has changed in the industry since the first Continental Navy, so named before it became the United States Navy, laid up wooden ships for overhaul in the shipyards in New England.
During one blustery winter day, the USS Denver, a SSN 688 class nuclear attack submarine, rested in dry dock basin Number Five in the Puget Sound Naval Shipyard in Bremerton, Washington. Several openings in the ship’s bottom, designed for the rapid influx of seawater, allowed workmen access points of entry to do repairs on the hull. As evening descended, the huge, sleek black hull glistened in a cold rain that began falling in the early afternoon. Reflections from the welders’ torches made sharp points of light over Denver’s entire length.
Beneath the hull, two civilian yard workers, an older inspector and his young assistant, warmed their hands around mugs of black coffee drawn from a thermos.
The younger man spoke. “If I’ve been in any colder places, Darby, I sure as hell can’t remember where.”
“Well, at least half the job’s behind us,” replied Darby Cameron, a veteran inspector of submarine ordnance systems, having worked at the yard ten years before his assistant was born.
After completing inspection of the starboard side torpedo launcher ejection pump and reinstalling the inspection plates Cameron said, “We’ll take a little break here. Not much warmer than outside, but it keeps us out of the drizzle.”
“Sounds good to me,” the youngster replied. “Rain’s made a mess of this damn sandblast grit,” referring to the spent material blasted with a high-pressure air hose to remove the loose paint and accumulated rust on Denver’s under-hull.
The young man looked up at the long narrow concrete stairway leading to the dry dock’s upper rim and continued, “I got mud in my shoes and climbing outta here is gonna blister my feet some, not to mention it’s gonna be treacherous underfoot on the way out.”
“Shift’s nearly over,” Darby said. “We better get started if we expect to get the port side done.”
Darby shared his assistant’s lack of enthusiasm for climbing back into the near frigid bowels of Denver’s hull. This required a difficult entry through the main ballast tank flood ports at the keel line and then through a maze of stiffeners and dividers just to reach the inspection plates.
The young helper asked, “Will the fasteners be as tough to get off as the other side?”
“Afraid so,” Darby replied. “They’re always exposed to seawater so that’s what happens to ’em.”
“We won’t be able to talk in there, Darby. Riggers in the other tank are making too much noise with their knuckle busters,” the young man said, referring to the pneumatic chippers used to remove paint and rust. “Damn, that noise is nerve-wracking. Why don’t we just gun deck this one? We’ve seen a hundred of these shafts and never found a sign of wear yet.”
Gun decking is a Navy term for entering a job as completed into a record without performing the actual work and Darby knew it was the wrong thing to do. He paused for a moment, thinking about a double shot of bourbon and the warmth in Helmsman’s Tavern nearby.
The desire for a drink and a place to get warm persuaded Darby’s better judgment so he said, “Okay, let’s go.”
Both men gathered up their tool bags and left, Darby in anticipation of breaking his body chill with a nice stiff drink while the younger man hoped the new secretary from the shipyard commander’s office would drop by Helmsman’s on her way home.