Brent shouted into the 21MC Box, “Bridge testing.”
Henri’s voice called back, “Loud and clear, Bridge.”
“Heading and distance to the anchorage?”
Very much on top of the situation, Henri reported, “Two-eight-two and we’re steady on it. Estimate four thousand yards to drop, sir.”
“Good, have the anchor party stand by in the torpedo room.”
Ahead of the game again, Henri said, “They’re standing by with phones manned.”
“Very well. All ahead one third, give a mark every five hundred yards till a thousand and then every hundred.”
“Five till a grand, then hundreds. We’ll monitor for ten below the keel,” he repeated.
Brent felt as though he should commend Henri on the spot. Why waste my time telling that smart-ass what he already knows?
“Captain up!” Bostwick announced as he climbed onto the bridge. He focused his binoculars and looked on the damage. “Doesn’t seem to be too bad, Brent. The hole’s about three feet in diameter with all the edges turned in so we won’t have to cut them off. The engineers are cutting and bending enough plating to cover the damage. They estimated they’d need about three hours.”
“Plenty of night left for that, Captain.”
“I’d feel a lot better about the night in a World War II scenario. Too damn much technology around now to help the Reds find us.”
Hesitating Brent said, “It’s the hand that’s dealt us, Captain. We’ll play it best way we can.”
Bostwick didn’t acknowledge Brent’s remark. “Going below,” he said and left the bridge.
Brent warned the bridge watch to keep a sharp look out as Denver proceeded toward her anchorage. Henri had started on the hundreds when the captain’s voice interrupted him on the 21MC. “I’m going in to ten below the keel, Brent. Keep a sharp look out ahead. I don’t want to hit anything.”
Denver stopped engines at fifteen feet and began backing. She had just a bit of sternway when the anchor let go. The current and a little bit of wind kept them off shore; a perfect situation. To get the hole fully above the waterline the ship had to be rolled slightly to port by partially counter-flooding the ballast tanks. The engineers already began welding the preformed plating to the upper side of the hole. Their makeshift blanket tent did an excellent job of screening light from the arc torches.
An hour passed, two hours and then three.
Brent thought, So much for the optimistic engineers.
Quartermaster Henri broke the silence with his 21MC transmission. “Thirty minutes on the outside is the latest estimate on repairs, Bridge.”
“Bridge, aye, conn,” Brent replied then asked, “Tracks laid out for getting back to deepwater?”
Henri gave the expected reply. “That’s affirmative, sir.”
“Aye, pass the word on to the cap—”
The topside port lookout interrupted, “Contact, sir! One-nine-five and closing.”
Turning around, Brent spotted the running lights of a small ship. A simultaneous view of both sidelights meant the ship headed directly toward Denver.
He ordered through a megaphone to the repair party, “Secure the work topside, all hands lay below on the double!” Then on the 21MC, “Captain to the bridge. Closing visual contact true bearing one-eight-zero, six thousand.”
Henri replied, “Captain has the word, Bridge. We’re securing the deck hatch when the work party is below.”
Bostwick called out, “Captain up,” the edge on his voice apparent. “What’ve we got, Brent?”
Brent pointed aft. “Whatever he is, he just came around the point, sir. This close to the field, my guess is a mine layer.”
The captain asked, “Can we get him with a torpedo?”
“Too high risk of missing, Captain, and it would alert him to our presence. Shallow water and tight gyro angles. Even if we did hit him, he’d radio the whole damn Soviet Air Force and they’d be on our backs before we reached deepwater.”
His voice betraying both anger and fear the captain snapped, “What do you recommend?”
Brent calmly replied, “Sit tight, sir. He’s not looking for anything and doesn’t expect us to be here.”
The captain said, “Why the hell did I ever let you jackasses talk me into this?”
Once again, Bostwick proved not equal to the pressure.
“Port sidelight beginning to mask, Captain. He’ll pass astern, but not very far.”
The captain exclaimed, “Listen! The son of a bitch is so damn close we can hear him.”
The rum, rum, rum of the ship’s single diesel engine could be heard clearly and the bearings abruptly drifted quickly left.
“Shsssh,” Bostwick hissed.
Tension levels mounted. Although no one aboard the unidentified ship could possibly hear voices from Denver’s bridge, its closeness made silence a psychological factor. The ship passed a scant half-mile astern then its propulsion sounds stopped. The vessel began to drift slowly away with the current. Next, the red glow of her port sidelight reappeared, followed quickly by the green starboard sidelight. She pointed directly toward them again.
Bostwick said, “Oh shit, they’ve found us.”
“No, sir,” Brent replied, “I think we’re just too good at selecting an anchorage. We must be in her favorite spot.”
At that instant, the sound of the ship’s anchor splash and the running of chain through her hawse pipe rang through the still night. Brent estimated the range to be a thousand yards astern and blocking Denver’s escape to sea. She’d likely run out fifty yards of chain and give Denver a little more breathing room. But daylight would come in a few hours and illuminate the trapped Denver.
An irate Bostwick said, “Okay, Mr. Smart-ass tactician, what the hell do we do now?”
Chapter 10
Dave Zane demanded of Dutch Meyer, “Now what the hell does that commodore of yours think we can do with that mess?”
They watched a 688 being towed around the breakwater, one of the partially overhauled ships Eric Danis had turned out of Bremerton on the eve of the attack.
He continued, “I told him yesterday it would be at least a month before we’re ready for work and already he loads us up. That thing is in such pitiful shape, you have to be an expert to tell it’s a submarine.”
Dutch replied, “You really want to hear what he expects? He wants it fixed and sent to sea. That’s what.”
“Damn it, there’s nothing we can do to fix it now. It’s only gonna be in the way and delay us from doing more important jobs so let’s anchor it outside.”
The old mustang indulged himself a grin, “You tell the skipper that, Dave. He’s been sitting on the bottom of Puget Sound for the past month, bailing out water from a leaky patch; his crew has no idea of what’s happened to their families, and the only thing keeping them going is a desire to get their ship into action. If you’re gonna tell him he has to anchor out, give me half an hour to draw a crowd, ’cause I can collect fifty bucks a ticket for this show.”
“All right then, what do you suggest?”
“We both go down to the berth, welcome him to the facility and ask what we can do for him.”
Grinning, Dave asked, “Am I really getting that old, Dutch?”
“Yeah, and twice as ornery. Let’s go.”
Mooring USS Newport showed the crew’s lack of practice since arriving at Bremerton more than six months ago. The ragtag gang assembled by Dave had no experience at all. Both ship’s crew and Dave’s men sensed the other’s problems and therefore performed the operation devoid of bickering and catcalling as the gap closed between the ship and dock.