Again laughter, then an abrupt standing ovation as a periscope photo of the attack on Savo Island flashed on the screen, superimposed over the world charts.
“Sherensky … Sherensky … Sherensky.” The chant grew louder and several fellow officers hustled the reluctant commanding officer up and onto the stage. Zhukov’s Captain acknowledged his ovation in the traditional manner of applauding back to his audience. The din settled and the briefer continued.
“It appears our worthy enemy has prepared himself well but for the wrong war. He has bet all on the survival of fifteen attack carriers and has lost. Ten have fallen victim to our submarines and rest forever on the ocean floor.”
Red triangles marked scenes of the related engagements.
“We destroyed two in Navy yards during the initial strike and three are bottled up in NATO ports.” The pointer moved to Nova Scotia. “Two are here and one in the Mediterranean at Naples, Italy. The Americans expected us to fall back into a defensive line, but we came out on the attack. Our enemy believed we would strike with missiles, but we did our work with torpedoes. The balance of his six hundred ship navy, no longer with carriers to protect, is being destroyed as they flee to shelter.”
Again, applause interrupted.
“Our work continues, comrades of the Pacific Flotilla. We learned from the Japanese Great Patriotic War experience. Do not permit an apparently beaten American foe to rise again and steal the victory. Show no compassion. We will shut off our enemy’s supplies and render him impotent. We will destroy his morale by hitting him at every opportunity. We will not stop until the last capitalistic banner in the world has been hauled down and trampled into the dust.”
The auditorium echoed with cheers as the briefer concluded his remarks and left the stage.
A circle of officers surrounded Sherensky, each to add his personal message of congratulations. Sherensky noticed Lieutenant Baknov standing nearby and beckoned to him. He raised the young officer’s right hand.
“Comrade Baknov … comrades. Behold … this is the very hand that launched the torpedo strike against Savo Island.”
The young officer joined his captain and accepted the accolades.
Later Sherensky congratulated young Baknov again. “Vasiliy, you have done your work well. Fortunately, for Zhukov and me this word has not spread far. We need you for our next voyage and can’t afford to have you promoted from under us. That will come soon enough.”
A beaming Vasiliy responded, “Thank you, Captain. I’m honored and indebted to you.”
Sherensky changed the subject. “It is good your mother can be with you these final days before our next mission. I once saw her dance at the Kirov … long ago. I can remember very little but often heard my father and mother sing her praises. It is regrettable what happened. I hope the wounds you may have suffered are healed. You must give her my warmest regards.”
Vasiliy nodded. “I will, Comrade Captain, and thank you again.”
Take away stealth and a submarine’s value is all but eliminated. It must remain undetected or forfeit its raison d’etre.
Reduction of radiated noise thus became paramount to mission success and resulted in new revisions to Denver’s daily operations. A series of five clicks on the 1MC general announcing system would call the crew to battle stations and replace the noisy gong-gong-gong of the general alarm. The clicks plan, quite audible throughout the ship, provided for light sleepers to awaken the heavy ones as a backup measure. Denver transitioned from a peacetime to a wartime footing.
A stewardsman rousted Brent from a sound sleep and shook the dream matter from his head. He reckoned his dreams likely made no sense, so therefore impossible to recapture after awakening. No big loss, but for an unknown reason, he seemed to enjoy this one.
“Here we go again,” groaned his roommate, Dan Patrick, “fifth time today.” Both men, exhausted by lack of sleep, bore deeply traced lines in their faces.
They slept in blue patrol jumpsuits and needed only to slip on sandals, but with the compartment rigged for red, they had to grope for them.
Arriving at the Attack Center they encountered operational activity, plotting tables being set up, fire control systems activated and communications checked among the various combat stations. They used sound powered phones, as loss of ship’s electrical power would render the MC systems inoperable.
Denver made her way westward across the widest part of northern Pacific toward the Sea of Okhotsk. Their orders read: Breach the chain of Kuril Islands, proceed south to the Sea of Japan and conduct hostilities against Soviet naval units afloat and ashore.
Brent took his Battle Station position as attack coordinator and wore a phone and headset to connect him to the torpedo room. He paralleled electrically transmitted weapons orders verbally to insure accuracy. In the Attack Center, he supervised operators of three MK 81 ACCs and a MK 92 WCC, responsible respectively for processing digitally formatted combat data and transmitting directions from the Attack Center to the torpedo room. He conducted transmission checks to insure the various equipments talked to each other accurately.
The executive officer asked, “What’ve we got, Brent?”
“Captain called us to battle stations, Jack. He’s got something down there.”
Jack hit the 21MC press-to-talk button. “Sonar, Conn, report the situation.”
The captain’s voice answered, “Possible contact, Jack. About three-ten, distant.”
Trying to keep the edge off his voice, Jack asked, “Got a make on ’em, Captain?”
Bostwick replied, “Nothing. We’re looking LOFAR and passive narrow band. We’ll let you know.”
Brent said softly, “Recommend come right to two-nine-five, Jack. That’ll put the best part of our sonar array on ’em.”
Jack nodded agreement. “Captain, Conn, coming right to two-nine-five for a better look. Recommend check the baffles.”
The captain’s voice had an edge, “That’s well, Conn. We’ll get the baffles. Don’t want anyone sneaking up on us.”
Silence hung over the compartment for nearly an hour while the crew waited at battle stations. They had secured from all other ship’s activities, including the gaining of much needed rest, and their attentiveness diminished proportionately with time.
Brent considered the vastness of the ocean area where Denver patrolled. If the entire Soviet Pacific Fleet patrolled all routes available to Denver, one in a thousand represented the odds of an encounter. He reckoned distance to be covered and Denver’s slow speed of advance. Provisions would not support a round trip at this rate. Why in hell not race through this part and slow down as we approach the coast where encounters are more likely? Something’s gotta give here.
Captain Bostwick entered the Attack Center. “Secure from battle stations. Whoever he was, we couldn’t find him.”
Everyone thought, but dared not speak out, another false contact.
Dan responded to the captain, “Secure, Aye,” and then passed the instruction to the Quartermaster of the Watch.
Continuing, Dan said, “Looks like you could use some shut-eye, Captain.”
The captain wore the deep marks of his fatigue, circles under the eyes, drawn and sallow complexion and no visible expression on his face. Loss of Utah had hurt him emotionally and a sense of guilt drove him beyond endurance.
Bostwick responded to Dan’s comment, “I’m a little tired, but right now Sonar’s the right place for me to be.”