With great pride and anticipation Hansen delivered the resistor to Woody.
“Hey, that’s all right, Hansen,” Woody said as he received the part. “Shows how green I am to think we didn’t have this kind of stuff aboard, otherwise, I would have set this up a long time ago. Now understand, nobody else can be in the radio shack while I work on this. Crypto stuff in there, you know, only officers and radiomen allowed.”
The delighted Hansen replied, “Yes, sir, understand perfectly. When do you think we’ll get some scores?”
Woody furrowed his brow and muttered, “Mmm,” then said, “today is Thursday. By Monday, I should be able to summarize the weekend in the majors. With a little luck, might even have the standings.”
“That’s great, Mr. Parnell. This is the absolute most.”
“Like to do what I can, Hansen. Make sure all the guys know that.”
“I’ll tell ’em, sir. I surely will.”
Word spread throughout Denver like wildfire. On Monday, they would have a summary of the weekend ball scores and maybe standings and records of all major league teams. Spreadsheets developed and pools initiated among the Denver gambling set. During the morning watch on Monday, a grim-faced radioman walked from the shack and posted a sign.
A summary of the weekend baseball scores will be posted on the radio shack door at 1500, compliments of Ensign Parnell.
Ignoring a myriad of questions, the radioman re-entered the cipher-lock door. At 1500, a group of some thirty enlisted crowded into the area immediately adjacent to the radio shack. The same radioman emerged and again, without saying a word, posted a replacement sign.
Scores announcement delayed until 1800. Reason: Failure to take Daylight Savings Time into account and movement into a new time zone to the east.
This elated Gary Hansen, as he’d be off-watch at that time. At 1800, he and fifty sailors struggled for the limited space available. A few of the more serious gamblers stood to win enough to buy a new car when they returned to port.
Again, the stern-faced radioman emerged. He removed the old sign and with dramatic flair, he unfurled and posted a new one.
Weekend ball scores: four to three, one to nothing after fourteen innings, eight to seven, and here’s a real blowout, seventeen to four. The rest are fairly average: four to three, three to two and seven to five and so forth. All that’s needed to get team names and current standings is to douse this sign with a bucket of steam.
— Ensign Parnell.
The crowd quickly diminished as each read the bottom line. Among the last, Lieutenant Commander Jack Olsen turned away only to be confronted by the grinning Parnell.
With a laugh in his voice, Woody said, “C’mon, Exec, not the old baseball score gag? Old hat even before Farragut joined the Navy.”
A series of five 1MC clicks interrupted the ball score gaggle, the new signal established to quietly call all personnel to Battle Stations and the crew scurried off to assigned posts.
Captain Bostwick made the customary demand when he reached the Attack Center. “What’ve we got?”
With Brent on the watch, Bostwick omitted the usual first name address to his conning officer. This had become so routine the young officer scarcely noticed.
“Oscar, Captain. Bearing zero-four-five, closing fast. Sounds like he’s coming home and anxious to get there.”
“Aye, what do you figure the range?”
“Quite a way out, Captain. Can’t believe the racket he’s making. Either no one’s warned him we’re here, or he doesn’t give a damn.”
Despite his adverse feelings toward Brent, the Captain knew no one understood how to fight a 688 better than this young warrior so he asked, “What do you think about letting him have it head on?”
“Terrifies me, Captain. Shortens the range too much and the last few guys damn near ate our lunch at close range. Let’s shoot at his stern. This’ll give us more time to collect data on the evasive maneuver if he uses it. I’m convinced that whatever they’re doing is simple and we gotta figure it out.”
“Okay. Let him go by and we’ll shoot two. One above and one below the layer.”
Brent thought,Damn it! It didn’t work last time so why do we think it will now. But go along. Life’s too short.
The attack party sweated out the final moments. Six of the last seven engagements with the enemy found them running for their lives. All expected a torpedo from the target back down the bearing line. Nonetheless, they did what had to be done.
Brent thought, Damn these kids are tough.
The Oscar passed closer than any previous target, which assured a good estimate of target range and speed. Brent correctly anticipated Bostwick’s cautious nature would result in shooting at long-range. Denver could fire at minimum enable range and make it tough for the Oscar to avoid the ADCAP; but Brent conceded firing at short range also increased danger of a successful counterattack.
Bostwick read Brent’s mind and beat him to the punch.
“We’ll let this turkey open out to six thousand yards before we let him have it.”
Denver launched an ADCAP, ending with the same results identical to all the previous engagements. Sonar detected a torpedo from the target immediately after the attack was initiated and Bostwick ordered the same tactics that had previously saved his ship. Unfortunately, noise from Denver’s ETC jammed the acoustic recorders and precluded gathering further data on the enemy evasive maneuver.
Having reached evasion attitude and assured the Soviet torpedo now expended its remaining energy against the ETC countermeasure, everyone aboard knew Denver once again had successfully evaded an enemy counterattack. A collective sigh of relief went through the ship.
Brent suddenly shattered the Attack Center discipline of silence. “I’ve got it, Captain. I know where the son of a bitch is. The only place he can be. On the surface.”
Bostwick demanded, “How do you know that?”
“He knows we’re attacking him as a submarine so he’s become a surface ship. Why not? The Reds own the surface and air. He’s got nothing to worry about up there. Recommend come to periscope depth for a look.”
“Damn it! Brent.”
“He’s up there, Captain. Trust me.”
The captain made no response.
Jack Olsen said, “Let’s try it, Captain. What’ve we got to lose?”
Captain Bostwick’s face slightly flushed in anger, but he ordered the ship to periscope depth and there wallowing in the seaway, he saw a huge Oscar class submarine, apparently having planed to the surface so his attacker would not hear the ballast tank blow. He had performed a classic airless surface.
Bostwick ordered, “Make ready two TSAMs,” using the acronym for Tomahawk Ship Attack Missile. “We’ll blow the son of a bitch out of the water.”
Brent grabbed Jack by the arm and dragged him to a corner of the Attack Center. “Don’t let him do it, Jack. We’re onto ’em. Knowledge of the tactic is way more important than the kill. This guy can’t hurt us from where he is. He’s going home to get patched up. If we’ve got this thing figured out right, a lot of Soviets will buy the farm.”
Jack said with an exasperated tone, “Damn it, Brent, stop talking in parables. What’re you trying to say?”
“What we’ve just found out is more important than killing a dilapidated Oscar. Shut the old man down. I don’t envy you the job.”
Grinning wide, Jack blurted out, “Think so, Brent? Watch this.”