Dave replied, “They don’t have to. However, word floated around that low class standing is tantamount to lack of ambition.”
“That’s unrealistic. If we applied that policy, we’d never have enough pilots to fly our planes. Why did the top submariners put up with this?”
“Good question.”
Gerry believed Dave’s explanations but could not understand them. “Edmund Burke was right. The only thing needed for an operation to fall flat on its face is for ‘enough good men to do nothing.’ If anyone tried to inflict this on the Naval Aviation community, all hell would break loose. Remember the admiral’s revolt of ’49? Most of the guys who fell on their swords were Naval Aviators.”
“We’re the silent service, Gerry. We take our lumps and don’t whine. Somebody might look on it as sour grapes.”
“So you’re not pissed over this?”
“I didn’t say that. But the rejection dead-ended my submarine career. Turned out I liked it but becoming an EDO was initially a salvage job.”
From inside the house, Bea interrupted their conversation, “Dad, Carolyn’s here.”
Dave’s face brightened and he hurried into the living room.
“Hi Carolyn, meet my friends Eve Danis and Gerry Carter. We just toasted our boss’s big win in the Bering Sea.”
Dave filled a wine glass for Carolyn as Bea, Eve and Gerry greeted her. Slight of build, mid-fifties with wavy light-brown hair that showed a trace of gray, Carolyn vindicated Dave’s enthusiasm. Faded blue eyes twinkled from a face that retained much of its earlier beauty.
Carolyn said, “Thank you, Dave,” taking the glass from him, “and congratulations to all of you. Such wonderful news just when we really needed it. My fourth graders were so excited when they heard I’d be seeing people from the Sub Base this evening.”
“Well that’s good,” said Gerry, and then gesturing toward Dave, “Are they as excited as our fourth grader?”
Dave complained, “See, there you go again. Been a hard afternoon around here, Carolyn. Maybe you can establish some good order and class discipline.”
Zhukov prepared for its strike against the new submarine base on the Washington Coast. They slipped quietly toward the Pitstop to enhance stealth and increase success probability.
Vasiliy said, “Comrade Captain, there is no good reason for why we should not approach to within visual distance. It ensures better accuracy for our missiles and could permit us to see and verify explosions in the target area.”
Sherensky replied, “We must not be too eager, Vasiliy. If we venture too close, we fall within range of ASW aircraft. Our missile contrails point directly to our position, an excellent aim point for aircraft torpedo drops.”
“The ancient MK-46 torpedoes, Comrade Captain. Even the Americans have no confidence in them. They made twenty thousand for use against the four hundred submarines we had at the time.”
“We can’t afford to be cocky, Vasiliy. There are disturbing messages in the recent radio traffic. We’ve changed our code for some unknown reason. By now our submarine numbers in the Pacific should be increased by more than a hundred, yet radio traffic is lighter.”
Vasiliy rationalized, “Perhaps we’ve become more skilled and less guidance is needed from ashore. But, yes, Comrade Captain, what you say is cause for concern. But caution must not deter us from our hard won initiative against the Americans.”
Commander Gerry Carter picked up the phone in his office aboard the commodore’s yacht.
“Got a live one, Commander,” cried the excited voice of the watch officer at the Blockhouse.
“What’ve we got, Todd?”
“This guy’s an Akula. Wrong kind of lines for one of ours and didn’t perform the ID maneuver. Permission to let him have one.”
Gerry thought, Damn it! Where in hell are the submariners when you need them?
The Blockhouse watch officer pressured Gerry for an immediate decision. Gerry pondered, Was this an Akula closing to attack the Pitstop or an errant home comer, who either forgot the identification maneuver or never received it? And Gerry’s advice came from a hotshot fighter pilot with only fifteen hours training.
Considering the facts, Gerry reasoned, Can’t be one of ours. They’re all coming back from the Bering and at least a week out.
“Shoot!” he said, grinding his teeth in a futile effort to release stress then added, “And scramble the birds.”
The watch officer replied, “Will do.” He unlatched and closed the firing key. The missile had been spun up and initialized with target coordinates. He picked up the phone and called Navy Air Hoquiam.
“This is Bottom. Scramble two! Coordinates to follow for live serpent when airborne.”
The array operator checked flashing numbers on the digital timer. “Should see the fish about now, sir … yep, there it is.”
With no speakers, the running torpedo showed up on a computer driven cathode ray display.
Lieutenant Vasiliy Baknov had the Attack Center watch when an excited michman, reported, “Torpedo astern, closing fast!” terror clear in the man’s voice.
Vasiliy ordered, “Ahead full!”
Zhukov’s huge seven bladed propeller bit into the sea and accelerated the giant hull toward its maximum speed of more than forty-two knots.
“Which quarter?”
The michman exclaimed, “Starboard!”
Calmly, Vasiliy ordered, “Left full rudder to course zero-seven-zero, fifteen degrees up, to depth—”
A sharp explosion at the rear of the ship interrupted the order and threw everyone to the deck. The ship’s lighting lost, the crew groped about in darkness. A deafening squeal shattered the customary soft hum of the rotating propeller shaft, telling Vasiliy they had been hit close to the main seal.
He ordered, “Stop engines,” and the noise dissipated as the main propulsion shaft slowed to a halt.
The Blockhouse watch officer reported to the S3A pilot, “Birdman Leader your coordinates grid, zero-four-two-zero for the boomer.”
The sonar operator reported, “Losing contact but he’s not going anywhere. I think we hit him in the screw and he’s shutting down.”
“Boomer away,” crackled the voice of Birdman Leader.
“Okay, get us a good mark, sonar.”
The sonar operator’s excitement mounted as the chase heated. “There it is, sir, mark it!”
The watch officer called, “Leader, boomer two one-one-six Zulu and fourteen. Vector two-one-five, six miles to serpent. Target has stopped. Set Doppler out on the fish.” Removing Doppler from the torpedo acoustic homing equipment enabled it to attack a submarine sitting motionless.
Leader reported, “Roger all, Bottom. Starting the run,” quickly followed by, “Fish on the serpent at two-one-one-eight and thirty-five, Bottom.”
The watch officer ordered, “Watch for the fish, Sonar.”
“Got it, sir, and right on the last serpent position.”
“Another torpedo, Comrade Lieutenant!” screamed the terrified michman, “closing from dead ahead!”
Vasiliy knew they could do nothing. Their best speed would be less than seven knots and to do this would provide a perfect noise source for the weapon to home on. Perhaps the Americans’ lack of confidence in the MK-46 torpedo would be justified. Vasiliy departed the Attack Center for the Sonar compartment in order to gain a better perspective of the tactical situation. He’d nearly pulled his body through the operations compartment watertight door when the second torpedo struck. The concussion slammed the heavy door on Vasiliy’s arm, nearly severing it above the elbow. He fell to the deck and lay motionless.