The overture had barely finished when Woody Parnell hobbled into the wardroom for the first time since being wounded. “Hi, Brent.”
“Hi, yourself, hero.”
Recognizing the music, Woody exclaimed, “Ah ha! Peter Ilyich Tchaikovsky. Did you know he only wrote the ballet? The actual story is by E. T. A. Hoffman. Wanna hear all about it?”
Brent replied, “You bet your ass,” and thought, Dan absolutely gets no more from me.
Chapter 13
Jim Buchanan thought, It’s sure good to be at sea again, even on a tugboat. He stood on the tiny bridge of a yard craft converted to a cable layer by the resourceful Dutch Meyer. Slight of build, his face in its apparent perpetual pleasant expression, Jim’s pale blue eyes squinted through the black rims of his navy issue glasses. Under normal circumstances, failing eyesight would have precluded his command tour but war changed that. Three years ago, he believed his career as a seagoing officer had ended.
A superb teacher, his value to the Navy continued in a different vein and the best and brightest among submariners benefited from Buchanan’s able tutelage. His knowledge and passion for tactics combined did much to prepare embryo warriors for the grim days no one realized lay ahead. Although unplanned, Jim’s path choice proved to be the exact medicine needed to mend his career. War generated a vital and immediate need for his expertise in the conflicts that now raged in the silent battleground.
Evening neared and golden sunrays brightened the final hours of a beautiful spring day off the Washington coast. Underway for nearly twenty-four hours, the snowcapped ridges of the Olympic Mountains had fallen below the eastern horizon.
Jim said, “Looking really good, Dutch. As long as we use the same Loran-C rates you planted the hydrophones with, we’ve got no worry about geographical position error. All we need is the location of the missiles relative to the phones.”
Both men nursed hot cups of coffee. War shortages be damned, black coffee is the lifeblood of seaman; and sailors always find ways to get it.
Even the inscrutable Dutch Meyer found it difficult to contain his excitement over the impending test.
Jim said, “This oughta give you some empathy for women, Dutch. Now you know how they feel when they’re about to give birth.”
Dutch chuckled at the analogy. “That’s new ground for me, Commander,” he said then got back to the business at hand. “There’s a crew ashore listening on the phones. They’re marking our position hourly. I’ll check for deltas when we get back and that should be the frosting on our cake.”
A small barge astern on a bridled towrope yawed from side to side in the moderate seaway. Behind it, a cable paid out connecting it to the shore-based test equipment. A canvas tarpaulin covered its deadly cargo of four encapsulated Sealance missiles.
Jim asked, “How long to station?”
“About an hour and a half. It’ll be totally dark. I’m glad as hell you thought about satellite surveillance. I’d never have covered the missiles. Think they saw me plant the hydrophones?”
“Maybe they did, but figured you were a fishing boat. From all appearances, both would look like the same thing and there are plenty of them out here.”
Two hours later, Dutch and his small crew made final equipment adjustments on the barge. They communicated with flashing lights because radio transmissions were almost certain to be intercepted.
The quartermaster signalman reported, “Message from the barge, Commander, READY FOR TRANSMISSION CHECKS.”
Jim replied, “Aye, send it.”
Dutch Meyer ordered the shore-based test team over the trailed wire, “Spin ’em up and enter test coordinates.”
The system reacted perfectly and Dutch reported to Jim, again via flashing light.
Jim exclaimed, “Damn! Absolutely no reason they won’t do the same thing sitting on the bottom.”
Returning to the bridge, Jim directed the quartermaster, “Send the following message, EXCELLENT. COMMENCE SINKING OPS, then said, “and add to it, AND GET YOUR FAT ASS BACK HERE.”
The astounded youngster asked, “Really, sir?”
“Really, sailor.” Denver’s prospective commanding officer had a good chuckle then went below for another well-deserved cup of coffee.
An hour later, the barge rested on the bottom armed with four tactical Sealance missiles at the ready. With target data provided by hydrophones on the seabed, they could place a deadly MK 50 Torpedo quickly upon an unsuspecting target. The tug and its elated occupants made its way back to the Pitstop.
Captain Sherensky squinted as the briefing officer pointed to a spot on the Washington coast. His aging eyes were troublesome, but he would not reveal this to the medical division until his tour as Zhukov commanding officer ended.
“Satellite surveillance shows naval activity here. Based on the amount of equipment being moved in, it is likely a refit facility. We shall permit the Americans some time to make substantial investment then knock it out with an SS-N-21 land attack missile. We will permit their hopes to build then dash them again. Several days ago, the Americans towed a disabled 688 class SSN, likely dragged from Bremerton yard on the eve of the war and hidden until our attack abated.”
Immediately, thoughts came to Sherensky’s mind. Does not sound good. The Americans must have expected the attack and competent submariners took action. They are a force to be reckoned with. Better such thoughts not be spoken aloud in the presence of so many zampolit.
The briefer’s pointer indicated the position of Bremerton then he continued. “There may have been others as our satellite is unable to discern submarines among the rubble here. Perhaps they evacuated all of them. The one we have found appears without propulsion and it is not likely the cautious Americans will permit such extensive repairs at a temporary base.”
More thoughts by the Soviet captain, American writers make much of Soviet problems with submarine nuclear propulsion systems and conclude this an indication of poor combat readiness. He did not consider the flawless American peacetime reactor safety record an intimidating factor in the current fight.
Vasiliy Baknov also sat in the audience, equally unnerved over the briefer continually finding no significance to new findings on the Americans. The Briefer apparently ignored the lessons of World War II. Admiral Yamamoto’s prophecy given the day after Pearl Harbor, ‘We have succeeded only in awakening a sleeping giant and filling him with a terrible resolve.’ He thought, Surely we will not let that happen again.
Many questions ran through Vasiliy’s mind. Where were the surviving submarines? How did they know to leave? Had they cracked the most closely held secret in Soviet history and knew of the planned attacks? Also, why wait to hit the replacement bases? Surely, the Americans recognized the Soviet submarine land attack capability and prepared accordingly. Why not dispatch Zhukov to hit these bases before suitable defenses can be installed instead of diverting her attacks on dispersed merchant ships in the Southwest Pacific? How many days have passed since the Tango went missing? How do we explain her fate?
Warned by his captain, Vasiliy would withhold his concerns lest the shortsighted zampolit interpret them as more evidence of his disloyalty to the Party.
The briefer continued, “Our submarines of the Northern Fleet have denied allies use of the Atlantic. Materials and personnel must be flown, thus draining resources of the United States Air Force. And the shipments fall well below the allies’ needs. Our fighter-bombers further impede this effort and our superior numbers take their toll. The Americans are unable to replace losses without replenishing strategic materials by sea and they are not likely to recover this capability. Time is a comrade for our cause, but to exploit it, we must maintain control of the sea. Our submarines are pivotal in this endeavor.