An almost too stern faced Hansen said, “Verdigris is what turns the breech doors green. A kind of plant, sir, and only steam kills it.”
Hansen’s explanation sounded plausible enough to Woody. “Why don’t we get one then?”
“Can’t sir. Only officers are allowed to draw steam on field day. Maybe you’d be willing?”
A bucket-laden ensign embarked upon endless treks throughout the ship, met at each destination by alerted sailors, each identified as a source of steam. The sailors would fabricate an excuse and send the confused Woody off to another source.
Eventually, the trail led to a sailor in the auxiliary machinery compartment who told Woody, “Only the exec can approve drawing steam on field days, Mr. Parnell. And it has to be in writing.”
Woody found the executive officer in the wardroom at a meeting with the chief engineer.
Jack Olsen roared with laughter. “My God man, not the old bucket of steam gag. That one predates Nimitz’s Midshipman days.”
With a sheepish grin on his face, Woody Parnell departed for the torpedo room. Number three, he thought, considering the previous two times he had been tricked. Three strikes and out. These bastards asked for it and now they’re gonna get a page out of old Wooder’s book of great ones.
The Friday afternoon watch found the Captain in company with the COB and Exec, inspecting the ship. Bostwick surprised all with his adeptness for one-liners to individual crewmembers.
A young seaman exclaimed, “Wow!” after Bostwick finished with inspecting the Crew’s Mess. “The captain knows my name.”
Excitement mounted as Denver neared the Kurils and elevated the probability of contact with the enemy.
World War III had apparently stripped the seas clear of the many and varied shipping types that normally plied this ocean segment. Denver had nearly crossed the entire Pacific before making her first bona fide sonar contact. Made on Dan Patrick’s watch, he won the conning officers’ pool, all of fifteen bucks.
In keeping with the new look of no hasty calls to battle stations, the crew watch section performed target identification and ranging without officer supervision.
The lead sonar operator reported, “Conn, Sonar, this guy’s on the surface. Lots of cavitation and screws too clunky for a warship.”
Dan replied, “Conn, aye, Sonar,” and then pressed the 21MC button. “Captain, Conn.”
“Captain, aye, Dan. I heard all that. I’m halfway through a cribbage game with the XO. Work on the contact and I’ll be up as soon as we’re through.”
A wave of good feeling surged through Dan. First contact in a possible combat situation and the Captain let him run with the ball.
Half an hour later, the captain entered the Attack Center. “What’ve we got, Dan?”
“Bearing three-two-five, drawing right and closing. Put him at about fifteen thousand yards, making eight knots on a northerly heading. Zero-one-two currently.”
“Zigzagging?”
“No indication, Captain. From what I can tell, it’s a fisherman with gear down. He’s got some low frequency lines likely from vibrating net cables. We’re looking hard to see if the noise isn’t screening another unit lying nearby.”
“Not likely, Dan. Any submarine out here would be guarding the Kuril approaches against guys like us. He couldn’t hear us through that racket. Let’s come to periscope depth and have a look. If your call is right, then we’ve got a ticket for some free distance. Take a thirty-degree lead and let’s do it.”
Dan replied, “Aye, Captain,” and then to the helmsman, “Right full rudder, steady, new course three-five-five.” Dan announced over the 21MC, “Sonar, Conn, unmasking to starboard. Check for contacts back there, we’re coming to periscope depth.”
Denver’s sleek hull responded cleanly to Dan’s direction as the captain took his place at number two periscope.
Bostwick ordered, “Up number two for a look around.”
Immediately after attack scope’s slender shaft broke the surface the captain swung it around in less than five seconds, too fast to see anything at long-range, but enabling him to spot a target close aboard that might have slipped by sonar. Larger ships pointing directly toward the listening hydrophones often masked propulsion sounds with their huge hulls. The quartermaster on watch assisted from the other side of the scope, his left hand locked over the captain’s right to ensure optics rolled to low power to provide the widest field of view.
“Dip scope.”
The quartermaster lowered the periscope enough to submerge the upper optics and left it suspended in the well.
Bostwick demanded, “Bearing to contact?”
Dan replied, “Three-two-eight from Sonar, sir. Still drawing right.”
Nodding his response, Bostwick said, “Observation. Up scope.”
Again, the huge shaft lunged from the periscope well.
“Quartermaster, put me on the bearing.”
The ACC Operator reported, “Three-three-three relative, sir.”
After the scope aligned, Bostwick studied the contact for three seconds.
“Bearing, mark!” The captain signaled for the scope lowered by lifting handles to the stowed position. It dropped completely into the well this time.
The quartermaster responded as he read the numbers from the bearing and range repeater, “Three-two-nine, Captain.”
“Angle on the bow, starboard forty. Estimate range at twenty thousand plus. All I can see are her sticks.”
The ship was hull-down, meaning only her masts could be seen above the horizon.
Bostwick asked Dan, “Distance to the track with a forty degree lead?”
Dan ran some quick calculations. Using target range and angle on the bow, he determined distance to the target’s projected track ahead. “Fourteen thousand, sir.”
“Good. Give me the forty lead. We’ll close at twelve knots. Plan to pass ahead by two thousand yards and adjust speed to stay a few decibels below him. With all the noise he’s making, we oughta be able to go pretty fast without alerting anyone. Be sure you’re well clear ahead, Dan. We didn’t come all the way out here to get tangled in some damn fishnet.”
“Aye, sir,” then Dan ordered Denver to a depth that eliminated propeller cavitation from higher speeds. “Play our cards right and this gambit will buy us sixty or so free miles, Captain.”
“That’s how we’ll play ’em,” said the captain then changed the subject, “the nerve of that guy. Fishing away like he doesn’t know there’s a full-blown war on. Guess he’s still gotta make a living.”
The captain left the Attack Center.
Wonder of wonders, thought Dan, … can this be the same man who a few short weeks ago drove us all to exhaustion?
Brent appeared in the control room to relieve the watch.
Acknowledging Brent’s presence, Dan said, “Good to see you.”
“Can’t say I’m glad to be here.”
“C’mon, Brent. You love this. What better watch to breach the Kurils than Mad Maddock’s?”
Dan referred to the chain of islands that separated the Sea of Okhotsk from the Pacific Ocean, a natural focal point for Soviet defense, but thus far, none encountered.
Brent thought, They probably don’t think we’re capable of offensive missions. He asked, “What’ve we got, Dan?”
“Among other things, the first real contact of the whole damn patrol,” then went on to tell him of the captain’s plan to use high-radiated noise from the contact to mask Denver’s high-speed transit.
Listening intently, Brent had conditioned himself to be suspicious because disaster had a habit of showing up along with peak optimism. He learned playing football at Annapolis to not sit on a big lead with a full quarter left to play. Brent caught a side-glance of Quartermaster Henri who badgered his predecessor for every crumb of detail, a reassuring sight for any watch officer.