by M. L. Maki
John, “I have asked for a repair team from Klindt. They’re on their way. Once I brief them, I’ll set up a team to make the preparations. Then, we’ll go hunting, sir.”
“That works. Questions?”
Spike, “Papa, we’re talking about outfitting the two ships for anti-air. We need to start on land-based SAM launchers, too.”
“I like it when you all think outside the box. Spike, send them a launch rail, AIM-7 and AIM-1. Put their engineers and nukes on it. I know topside weight is a consideration, so we need to be careful. Inform my staff of your plans when you figure it out. Remember, slow is fast.”
ABSD-8 FLOATING DRY DOCK, NEW YORK HARBOR
1029, 19 June, 1942 (1529 GMT)
Lt. JG Maki stands on the starboard wall looking over the enormously busy harbor. An ocean-going tug is pulling them. Down below there are fifty keel blocks, tons of wood, two yard tugs, four barges, five trucks, two sedans, three fork trucks, five boats, and 100 tons of steel plate. One barge is a temporary berthing. One is a machine shop. The other two have the vehicles and other cargo on them. Everything is carefully chained down. They have cooking and sleeping facilities in the barge. He has stowed food, water, and fuel for three months. No way the crossing will take that long. It just means they won’t have to scramble for supplies when they get there.
Antonio joins him, “I double checked the lashings, skipper. Do you want Dramamine?’
“Nope. I’ve never been seasick. Make sure we have crackers and ginger snaps out for the guys. How are they doing?”
“A bit nervous. I’m the only one who’s ever taken this thing out to sea.”
“I’ll talk to them. It’s my first Atlantic crossing, but I have crossed the Pacific a couple times. This thing is liable to ride bad given the sail area and flat bottom. Not much we can do about that.”
Antonio, “Once we’re out, they’ll settle down. Why did you get that parachute thing?”
“It’s a sea anchor. If we lose the tow line, we can set it to minimize our drift and put our nose into the wind.”
“Oh. Okay.”
STEWART FARM
1650, 19 June, 1942
Mike builds a window frame on the porch with a hand plane, miter box, and files. It has to fit the glass plates Sheamus purchased. Jean Luc plays with one of the dogs nearby on the porch, “Da, who is that?” A Navy Ford sedan is pulling up.
“I don’t know.” He carefully sets down the tools.
CDR Morrison gets out of the car, “Nice place. Mike, do you have a minute?”
“Yes, sir.”
Laureen comes out, “Commander, please. Welcome to our home.”
John, “Thank you, I don’t wish to intrude, I just need to speak with Mike.”
Laureen, “We have coffee on, and I just put croissants in the oven. Supper is on the stove. Please.”
John smiles, “My stomach says thank you, yes.”
She walks back in the house and John turns to Mike, “I have a special project for you. It involves missing our next underway. I need you to invent something.”
“Sure. What do you need invented?”
“We have a mission coming up that is going to require more shallow water ops in enemy territory. If we had an ultrasonic sonar transmitter and the equipment in control, we could get a good picture of the bottom and navigate that way without using the periscope.”
“Oh, wow. Sort of like a three-dimensional fish finder?”
“Exactly.”
“Let Laureen explode your taste buds. Then, I’ll get started on the problem. I am going to need supplies and stuff.”
“No problem. Submit your requisitions through the Chop. As soon as you figure out how to do it, and what you need, let me know.”
“Yes, sir.”
They sit down to braised French onion chicken and fresh croissants with home churned butter and home-made black berry jam.
John, “Oh, my God. You weren’t kidding. Mrs. Stewart, these are amazing.”
She says, “Thank you. Please, just Laureen.”
John, “Thank you so much. These are really good. I’ve never tasted their equal.”
Laureen beams, “Thank you.”
QA LAB, ELECTRONIC MANUFACTURING FACILITY, RICHMOND WA
1010, 19 June, 1942 (1810 GMT)
Captain Richardson walks into the lab where Lt. Andrew Brown studies a readout as he tests a circuit. “Andrew, we have a short time frame request. Your old boat wants an ultrasonic transmitter that can be picked up by your sonar, or that can be picked up by its own receiver. It has to survive down to crush depth.”
“They’re not needing to process the signal, right?”
“No. I think they have that covered.”
Andrew, “Do we understand what they want to achieve?”
“Yes, they want to map out the nearby terrain so they can get into tight areas.”
“Okay. What’s my timeline?”
“Two weeks.”
“Fuck. Okay. On it.”
HEADQUARTERS, WESTERN APPROACHES, LIVERPOOL, UK
0800, 20 June, 1942
Morrison and Backes sit through a briefing of the movements for every convoy in the eastern Atlantic. The briefing breaks down the code system and numbering system. The intel officer conducting the brief asks, “What is your identification code?”
Morrison says, “Yankee Bravo. It’s the code Commodore Holtz chose.”
Admiral Sir Percy Noble, Commander-in-Chief, Western Approaches Command, asks, “Commander, could you brief us on your general capabilities.”
Morrison stands, “Of course.” He goes to the front, “Our submarine has an air independent propulsion system that is extremely classified. All you need to know is we do not need to surface or snorkel. We are faster submerged than surfaced. Our sonar suite is exceptional. If Admiral Klindt approves that technology transfer, I would be happy to share more about it. We can locate and identify vessels by class, and sometimes, individual vessel. In good sound conditions, we can gather all that at fifty or more miles. Conditions can degrade that ability. Also, our torpedoes have their own sonar. We program them to approach the general area of their target. Their own sonar does the rest. We have expended thirty-three torpedoes with thirty-three hits. I certainly do not want to jinx us, but our torpedoes are exceptional. Questions?”
One of the convoy commanders, “What is your top speed?”
Morrison, “Quiet is more important than speed.”
“But what is it?”
“It’s classified. Another question.”
“How could we coordinate out there.”
“We’ve worked with destroyers a couple times when we were out of torpedoes. We can walk you right on the submarine.”
This creates a rumble.
Morrison, “If we can help, we will. Another thing, after each engagement we will check in with Alconbury. If you can keep the staff there informed of where the U-boats are, we’ll try to run from engagement to engagement.”
A destroyer commander asks, “Are you concerned at all that we may engage you by mistake?”
“Frankly, no. When we’re out there, we can track you far better than you can track us. If you’re anywhere within fifty miles of us, we’re already running a track on you and will know your movements. If we’re at periscope depth and communicating, we’ll deconflict in the same manner as any other ship.”
CHAPTER 6
USS SAN FRANCISCO
0832, 20 June, 1942
Laying on his side, Ensign Brown, using a light, studies the wires under the sonar panel. He rolls onto his back and takes notes on a notebook. He shuts the panel and opens another. He takes notes, then draws a sketch. He references a schematic in a book, then takes more notes.
Morrison walks in, “Can it be done?”
“Yes, but there are issues. Ultrasonic signals can be processed, isolated with a chop algorithm, and sent to another monitor. That’s easy. The transmitters they’re making are either going to hav
e to transmit a signal that cannot see the dome cover or be mounted outside with their own receiver. I’m working on that. Do we know who’s working on the transmitter?”
“I’ll find out.”
“Okay. If we had five more of our depth finders in stock on the tender, I could use that signal.” He stands up, “There is physical room in the raceways and places on the processor to land new signals. The chop algorithm is easy. I don’t have a graphic processor.”
“What do you mean?”
“The output of the sonar computer is digital. All our televisions are analog. Our waterfalls are digital, but they’re not optimized for the kind of image you need.”
“So, you need an Atari?”
“You’re right! There are about three on board. Skipper, we have to buy one off someone for what they’re worth today, not in 1990. We can’t run to the store and pick one up.”
Morrison, “I’ll figure out a fair price. Where would you put it?”
“The interior volume in these panels is relatively tight. There’s room in the Maneuvering panels, I think. Where are we putting the monitor?”
“In the overhead near the periscope tilted down at 45 degrees.”
“Okay.”
USS BEAVER
1015, 20 June, 1942
Ensign Brown looks down at his submarine as it is pulled away from the barges. Lt. Simmons waves from the Bridge. He sees Backes talking to him.
He looks up at the tower he and Sheamus have been working on, “Maybe I can take some time, but I got a lot of work to do.”
Kichiro says, “Are you going to miss her?”
Mike, “Laureen?”
Kiche, “What? Who? I meant the boat.”
“Oh. I’ll miss the guys, but it’ll be nice to be home for a while.”
“Who’s Laureen?”
“My fiancé. See the tower under construction up there?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s where we live with her dad and son.”
“Dude, you were a committed bachelor. What happened?”
“I met Laureen and her family. She’s from Marseille France. She married a Royal Navy lieutenant. He went down with the Hood. Do you want to have dinner with us tonight? She’s an amazing cook.”
“Dude, if you’re engaged, she isn’t going to want to see me. Besides, folks are going to be nervous about my tan.”
“No Kiche, not here. Please, come.”
“Okay. Meanwhile, we have no shortage of work to do.”
“Yeah.” He goes below to the controls shop. On board, he has the Atari, a television, a depth finder, and a digital processor. He needs to figure out how to make all the signals work together reliably and produce a usable signal.
USS SAN FRANCISCO, 400 FEET, 75 MILES NORTH OF SCAPA
1717, 23 June, 1942
ST2(SS) Guthrie, “Conn, Sonar. New contact bearing 030. Designate Sierra 1. Twin five bladed screws. It’s submerged with a German flight 1 signature.”
LCDR Cutting pushes the button, “Thank you Guthrie.” He pushes another button, “Submarine contact, Captain.”
“Work it up. There are probably more. Load 1, 3, and 4. I’ll be there in a minute.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Conn, Sonar. New contact, bearing 046. Designate Sierra 2. German flight 2.”
“Very well. Tracking party lay to Control.”
Morrison walks in.
“Captain in Control.”
Cutting joins him at the table. Morrison asks, “How do you read it?”
“Sir, it looks like they’re on parallel courses heading out. We’re kind of crossing their T.”
“I agree. They can hear us when we flood and open. Get us behind them. They shouldn’t hear us in their baffles.”
“Yes, sir.”
CONTROL, U-701, SIERRA 1
Leutnant Zur See Wolf asks, “Sir, why don’t we snorkel and go faster?”
Kapitänleutnant Wolf-Rüdiger von Rabenau, “What is the weather out there?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you suppose a cloud of white exhaust might show clearly against a blue sea?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let us not make our enemy’s job easy.
CONTROL, USS SAN FRANCISCO
Lt. Simmons, Conning Officer under instruction, “Rudder amidships. Steady as she goes.”
“Rudder amidships. She goes 314.”
Cutting, “Sir, we are in position.”
Morrison, “Go ahead, Craig.”
“Yes, sir. Flood Tube 1 and Tube 4. Open doors when ready.”
CONTROL, U-52, SIERRA 2
Lieutnant Zur See Richter, “Sir, with these new changes and new torpedoes, will we not hasten the end of the war?”
Oberlieutnant Zur See. Hermann Rossmann, “Are you in a hurry to be somewhere else, Victor?”
“Well, there is my girl in Bern.”
“No need to worry about her. The Army is no doubt keeping her warm.”
USS SAN FRANCISCO
“Conn, Torpedo. Tube 1 and 4 are open.”
Cutting, “Fire 1. Fire 4.”
They feel the thud, whoosh as the fish launch.
“Conn, Torpedo. Tube 1 and 4 fired electrically.”
“Conn, Sonar. Fish are running hot, straight, and normal.”
Cutting, “Very well.” He consults his stopwatch and starts the count down.
U-701, SIERRA 1
“Captain, I think I hear sonar pinging.”
“Where?”
“Behind us. It is getting close.”
Now they can all hear it. The torpedo explodes against the hull, crushing it and killing the sailors within.
USS SAN FRANCISCO
“Conn, Sonar. Sierra 1 and Sierra 2 are breaking up.”
Cutting, “Very well.”
Morrison, “Good job, Cutting.” He picks up the 1MC, “San Francisco, we just sank two German U-boats. Well done.” To Cutting, “Take us west into the convoy lanes. Once we clear datum, we need to come up to periscope depth and check in.”
“Yes sir.”
BETHESDA NAVAL HOSPITAL, WASHINGTON, DC
0830, 24 June, 1942
General “Hap” Arnold walks into Captain Ashley “Rose” Thorne’s room.
Ashley salutes, “Sir.”
“I’ve read your chart. How are you?”
“I’m getting better. Once they let me out of here, I’ll work myself back into flying trim.”
He sits down and looks at her, “I’m sorry, but there’s a problem. The Secretary isn’t opening up the Army for females in the way the Navy has, but we have a role for you. Once you are good, we’ll put you in charge of the Women Airforce Service Pilots.”
“Sir, that’s Jackie Cochran’s job.”
A nurse comes in to check her chart and take her blood pressure. They wait until the nurse leaves.
Arnold turns back to Thorne, “Not anymore. She resigned to join the Navy.” He watches as disappointment washes across her face. “Look. It’s an important job, and I need you to do it.”
“I’m a fighter pilot, not a bus driver.”
“It’s important. The men on the front lines need aircraft ferried up.”
“So, you’re taking away my commission?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yes, sir. So am I. I’m the only trained jet fighter pilot in the Army Air Force and you are throwing me away. You don’t even want to use me as an instructor.”
“It’s not like that, Captain. We just think it’s too dangerous for a woman to fly combat.”
“Why, sir? Because I might get captured by the enemy? Been there. Done that. Because I might die? Do you have any idea how many women and children you are responsible for killing in Europe and Japan? I can fight. I can teach. I…I could make you proud.”
“I’m sorry. The secretary has already decided.”
“Are you taking away all my awards? I mean those I earned before?”
“We have no record of
them.”
“So, I don’t fucking exist.”
“Watch yourself.”
“Yes, sir. I wouldn’t want to hazard my career.”
“I’m sorry. Please take care.” He leaves. She stares at the door, fighting tears.
She hears, “Hey, Captain Thorne.”
Pulled out of her thoughts, she realizes there is a man in a wheelchair, with both legs in casts, sitting in the doorway.
“Yes?”
“The nurse got me. I’m Lieutenant Truman Walker.”
She looks him over and blurts, “Not now.”
His laugh sparkles and fills the room, “You’re a pilot, right?”
“Yeah, the Viper.”
“The F-16. Cool. My call sign is Johnny and I’m a turkey driver.”
“Mine is Rose. What happened?”
“MiG-29 got the best of us over Cornwall. We were 2 V 34. Between us and Spike, we downed eleven. But they got us.”
“Then you’re an ace?”
“In our squadron, we don’t brag on kills. We just don’t.”
“I’m not asking for a brag. Just for information.”
“Between Japan and Germany, Rascal and I have fifteen.”
“Who has the most?”
“Our commander, Spike. Never ever ask her about her kills. It pisses her off.”
“Her?”
“Yeah, Commander Samantha Hunt. She commands VF-154, the Black Knights.”
“How many does she have?”
“I’ve been in the body shop for a while. She is north of fifty.”
“Holy shit. And I’m being sidelined.”
Walker says, “Did they take your commission away?”
“Yeah. I’m losing everything.”
“Raise your right hand.”
“What?”
“Raise your right hand. I’m speaking English, right?”
She raises her hand and he takes her through the commissioning oath. He concludes, “Congratulations, Lieutenant.”
“Just like that?”
“Yep. I’ll let Vice Admiral Lee know. I’m on his staff.”
“What am I going to do?”
“Get better. Once your better, you’ll transition to the Tomcat. You can instruct or, if you would rather, you can transfer to the Knights, or one of the other squadrons, for front line service. It’s up to you. If you could put up with it, I would really like you to instruct.”
