Radio silence had been imposed, again for security reasons; hence, Jim would wait for Dutch to return with the full results. The monitor would show the running torpedo sounds blended with the sound source if all went well.
Buchanan and Dutch had joked about the peacetime amenities for safety, once ironclad but now dispensed because of wartime urgency. The Federal Aviation Administration would not be notified and the missile had no provisions for command destruction in the event it miscued and headed in the wrong direction.
Dutch complained, “Now, what will I do if it hits us, Jim?”
“Cheer,” said the ever-flippant Buchanan. “If it does, we’ll have succeeded beyond our wildest dreams.”
“Look closely,” Dutch warned. “It should be coming in any time now.”
He would know within a few seconds when the Sealance MK-50 Torpedo payload impacted in his area. He had six pairs of eyes in binoculars, each scanning sixty-degree segments of the horizon.
The men searched diligently then heard the most terrifying words to be spoken during a naval operation. “Oh shit!”
Someone yelled from the flying bridge. The entire crew hit the deck, each making his own separate thud but combining into a single loud one. An explosive CUSH preceded the crew being doused with seawater as the Sealance payload knifed into the water a scant twenty-five yards astern.
Dutch thought, Missed us but think I’ll cheer anyway.
He raced to the passive monitoring equipment, turned up the speaker and monitored the display. The MK-50 ran into its search pattern. Abruptly the pitch increased as the torpedo made passive detection on the noise source and shifted to high speed to attack the target.
The weapon continued re-attacking until its endurance expended and then sank. Later came the sound of an explosion as the weapon struck bottom and detonated.
Dutch quipped, “Even the warhead works.”
Ashore, cheers erupted in the blockhouse where positions of the exploding warhead blended perfectly with the noise source.
Next day, data sets collected afloat and ashore melded to show the ‘Meyer-Buchanan one-two punch’ would provide a lethal welcome to any submarine approaching the Pitstop with hostile intentions.
The time had come. Jack Olsen took a deep breath and knocked on the captain’s stateroom door.
Bostwick grumbled, “C’min.”
Stepping inside, Olsen replied, “Afternoon, Captain.”
“Yeah, Jack. What’s up?”
“Got the plan for the land strike, sir. We need to move it up a few days. We’re down to two ADCAPs and ought to get out of here before they’re used up. There’s no reason for us to hang around.”
Bostwick spoke as though he’d give the matter some thought and already discussed it with his executive officer, but in reality, he hadn’t. “Damn it! Jack, I already told you we’re not doing this.”
A fragment of the captain’s ability to intimidate him remained so Jack set his jaw and stood firm. “We have to, sir.”
“We have to die and pay taxes. And frankly, I’m not sure about the latter.”
“Here’s the plan, sir.”
The captain snapped, “How much longer do you expect me to put up with this mutinous bullshit?”
“It’s not mutinous, Captain. It’s our orders. We have no cause for failing to carry them out. And our country needs the good news.”
Bostwick resisted, “We won’t make it out of here to give it to ’em if we conduct that strike.”
“I disagree, Captain. We’ve been shot at six times and always evaded. Only thing that can reach us quick enough after the launch is an aircraft. Their air dropped CP-45s are useless against a 688.”
“You’ve been talking to Maddock. That son of a bitch thinks he knows everything. He’s got it in for me and he uses you to pull my chain.”
Jack’s voice remained steady and firm. “He doesn’t, Captain. He feels you’re a very capable officer. He considers his recommendations to be the best expression of his loyalty. He’s sorry you misconstrue—”
“Damn it, Jack! Knock off the bullshit? You know Maddock hates my guts and nothing would make him happier than to see me go under.”
“I know nothing of the kind, Captain, but that’s not the issue here. We’ve got to decide about the land attack.”
“What the hell option do I have? If I don’t go along, I’m stuck with the threats you’ve laid on me about what happens when we get back.”
“Put it in any terms you like, sir. Anything I’d say back home is invalid if you’ve got sound logic behind your position. I’m the one at risk if you do.”
“Okay, you bastard let me see the damn attack plan. But remember and you pass this along to that arrogant running mate of yours. The Navy lasts a long time and if we survive this, I’ll be well positioned enough to make you both damn sorry.”
The last of the new anchors hit the sandy bottom, this time arranged to hold things in place against the next Sou’wester. Eric Danis had assembled Dave Zane, Phil Reynolds, Dutch Meyer, Darby Cameron and several Newport engineer officers for a final run through of the Newport’s reduction gear repair plan. Gerry Carter and Jim Buchanan, Danis’s advisors-at-large, rounded out the group.
Commodore Danis began, “Gentlemen, your time is too valuable to be wasted in meetings just to keep me informed so we’ll make this brief. However, I want to take the opportunity to express how pleased and impressed I am with Gerry’s inventive and decisive action during the big blow. It saved our bacon or at least prevented a disastrous set back of six months or more.
“Congratulations, Gerry. I want you to hold school on these guys to see if you can load them up with that kind of initiative.”
All laughed.
Jim Buchanan said, “You’ve got your work cut out for you, Gerry. Submariners fit into the spectrum somewhere between Louis XIV and Attila the Hun. Some pretty hard heads to crack.”
The men laughed again.
Danis added, “And while we’re giving out kudos, the ‘Meyer-Buchanan one-two punch’ is a show stopper. I want a tight report to pass off to the other refit sites. Make it crisp, hard and no windows for some damn vested agency to poke a stick through.”
Jim smiled at his boss and said, “Yes, sir.”
Turning to his weapons officer, Danis asked, “Dutch. How are the Sealance reloads coming?”
“Four more rounds on station and eight ready as soon as the crew gets back with them.”
“I don’t want to know how he did it but Dave Zane got Newport’s new reduction gear.”
Dave replied, “Commodore, are you saying I’m devious?”
Not fully recovered from the bad feeling brought on by his error on the initial anchoring plan Dave had self-medicated with humor.
Danis asked, “How else could we have gotten this place set up?” signaling no intention to wallow in what might have happened. He went on, “Mr. Cameron has the experience needed to fix Newport’s main bearings. You’ve all met him so let’s drop formalities and get on with it. Darby?”
Standing before the very men that Brent Maddock once declared would not permit him ever again to work on submarines, Darby Cameron set up a homemade easel with briefing sheets attached. War has a way of neutralizing such pronouncements. He opened with a plan view of the Pitstop with marked locations for positioning Newport, the crane and the bearings.
A little nervous at first, Darby quickly settled down. “Here’s the materials flow. The locations are spotted within the crane’s reach, Newport and the repair parts.”