Final Bearing

by George Wallace

  Ward had to admit to himself the he was fed up with the politics of the senior command in today's Navy. There didn't seem to be anyone left who would risk his butt to do what he knew was right. Nowadays, if anyone had his sights set on getting ahead, it was necessary to do a Pentagon tour. Everyone who came back from one of those seemed to have been emasculated, brainwashed. They were more concerned with "face time" and spin-doctoring and shoving aside competition for the next promotion than they were with the Navy's mission.

  Jon Ward sometimes found himself wishing he had the guts to chuck it. Maybe do like his old college roommate, Tom Kincaid, who risked a promising career in the DEA instead of knuckling under to the political pressure. Ward remembered the animated discussion they had over beers and dinner the last time he was in Seattle. It took real courage to stand up to that kind of pressure and say, "Hell, no!"

  And that’s what Ward had told his old friend. How proud he was of him for standing his ground, even when he knew the costs would be high. Ward had been surprised at Kincaid’s response.

  “Don’t give me too much credit for guts, Jon,” he said, his eyes almost closed as he quietly spoke. “Sometimes it takes something beyond guts or glory or even duty to drive a man.”

  The salmon steaks had arrived and Ward never got the opportunity to ask him what he was talking about.

  Now, facing what he knew was likely coming that night, Ward had to admit that he still felt he was most useful when he commanded one of these graceful boats. When he saw the look of respect and dedication in the eyes of the men he led. When he knew that what he did made a real difference in keeping his country safe and free.

  Sometimes, though, he had to work hard at remembering those things.

  The splash of a gray whale, close off the starboard beam, broke his reverie. The giant tail fin flipped high in the air as the leviathan dove once more for the deep. Ward looked out toward the western horizon and, even without binoculars, he counted more than two dozen whales, blowing, frolicking, or just swimming, all headed south for the winter.

  Not a bad life. Spend the entire winter cavorting off Baja. Nothing to do but eat fresh seafood and chase female whales. Then, when it suits you, swim back north and pass the summer cruising off Alaska. Not a bad life at all.

  "Captain? JA."

  Dave Kuhn was holding out the handset toward Ward. The Commander knew that Kuhn enjoyed this time on the surface as much as he did. The Engineer on the old girl had a hard life just keeping her running. Ward tried to make sure he got him on the bridge as much as possible as something of a small reward for all the dirty work the man did to keep the boat functioning.

  Ward took the handset and put it to his ear. He gazed out toward San Clemente Island, tan and green, low on the western horizon. They weren’t far from port now.

  "Captain," he answered.

  Thirty feet below, in the control room, Joe Glass reported, "Skipper, we have voice comms with Squadron. We have permission to enter port. Berth is north side of November Pier, inboard. The tug will meet us alongside the dry dock as usual."

  Ward accepted the report.

  "Very well, XO. Station the Maneuvering Watch when we are abreast Buoy Sierra Delta."

  The Maneuvering Watch put the best people onboard at all the key stations for the delicate operation of handling the sub in restricted waters. Although supremely graceful in the deep, Spadefish’s round keel-less bottom and single screw made handling tricky in the shallow waters of a port. That was especially true at San Diego where tidal currents could be downright treacherous. Regulations required that the Watch be stationed before they were allowed past the first buoy that marked the entrance to San Diego Harbor. That marker was named “Buoy Sierra Delta.”

  "And," Glass continued, his voice now little more than a whisper, "Captain Hunsucker has been on the radio for the last ten minutes talking to the Commodore. Chief Lyman tells me it has not been complimentary. Better rig for heavy weather, Skipper. Storms ahead."

  "Thanks for the weather report, XO."

  There was nothing he could do about that now. Better concentrate on getting Spadefish into port without putting any dents in her. He hoped Ellen wouldn’t be waiting for him on the pier this time. As much as he longed to feel her close to him, feel her lips on his, that would have to wait. He wouldn’t be getting home until late tonight.

  The traffic grew even thicker as they sailed closer to Point Loma. The large merchants and the squatty tugs with their barges in tow had been about all they had seen on the deep blue waters farther out. But now, they gave way to a myriad of sailboats, sport fishermen, and runabouts. It seemed every weekend sailor in Southern California was out and that every one of them wanted to see a real live submarine up close.

  Kuhn was growing exasperated, doing his best to dodge the sightseers or try to warn them away. He had apparently invented a rather animated new hand signal to add to the Coast Guard’s "Rules of the Nautical Road". It involved an upright digit on one hand accompanied by the vigorous waving of the other arm.

  Ward caught the attention of the young engineer. He said, "Eng, smile while you’re waving at the taxpayers. I don't want to have to answer some letter to the editor in the San Diego Union-Tribune from an irate citizen-sailor."

  "Yes sir," Kuhn replied a bit sheepishly, but he turned quickly to frantically wave another close-by launch out of their path.

  Buoy Sierra Delta was festooned with the normal herd of sleeping sea lions as it passed down the starboard side. Kuhn reached for the 7MC mike and ordered, "Helm, left full rudder, steady course three-five-six." Both officers glanced over their shoulder to watch the rudder swing over, just to double check.

  They could now make out, through their binoculars, the range markers up on Shelter Island beside the entrance to the yacht basin. They were giant white signboards with a vertical orange stripe down the middle of each. The optical illusion presented by the markers enabled those entering the channel to see where they were in relation to the centerline. One marker was positioned a few hundred feet in front of and a little lower than the other. When a ship was in the center of the channel the orange stripes lined up, one right above the other. If the ship was to the left of center, the upper stripe was to the left of the lower or, if it was to the right of center of the shipping channel, the upper stripe was to the right of the lower.

  As Spadefish steadied up on the new course, they could see that they were just a little to the left of the center of channel. The ebbing tide was doing its best to push them over that way.

  "Helm, bridge. Steer three-five-five."

  In the narrow confines of the shipping channel, barely a hundred yards wide, there wasn't room for any major course corrections. It was usually a slow, iterative process to correct for the tricky, ever-changing currents.

  The 7MC speaker came alive again.

  "Bridge, Navigator. We are in communication with a large outbound ‘ro-ro’ just making the turn at North Island Point. We have agreed to a port-to-port passage. You may have to wait a little before turning into the piers."

  Ward could just see the giant “roll on- roll off” ship, designed to haul new automobiles from the Orient. It was now coming out from behind the Nimitz, where the massive aircraft carrier was tied up over at North Island Navy Base. The cargo vessel was outbound from the San Diego Terminal down beyond the Coronado Bridge, headed back to Korea for another load of cars. Looked like the Nav was right. They should pass just beyond the dry dock at Ballast Point, when they needed to make the turn across the channel into the piers. The channel there was tight for such a big ship to pass them.

  "Eng, slow to one-third. Let him pass us out here where the channel is wider. Get well over to the right side of the channel. He'll need a lot of room."

  Kuhn nodded, "Aye, sir." He spoke into the mike. "Helm ahead one-third. Steer course three-five-six. Rig out the outboard, test and shift to remote. Make the anchor ready for letting go, snubbing scope thirty fathoms. Have line handlers la
y topside."

  That set of rapid-fire orders called a host of people into action. Down in the bowels of the auxiliary machinery room, just aft of the reactor compartment, an electrician used a series of controls to lower a small electric motor-driven outboard from the ballast tank. The little outboard, like a trolling motor on a bass boat, projected below the keel. The motor could be trained through 360 degrees to help nudge Spadefish in any direction. The electrician checked to make sure the equipment was operating and shifted control to the helmsman.

  Seaman Cortez saw the "Remote Control" light come on and tested to verify he had control of the outboard.

  "Bridge, Helm. Outboard lowered, tested and shifted to remote."

  All the way aft in the engineroom, beside the massive spinning shaft, Bill Ralston struggled to make the anchor ready to drop. It was a piece of gear that was almost never used. In all his years on the boats, Ralston had never seen it dropped except when it was being tested alongside the pier. The anchor windlass on Spadefish, like a lot of her equipment, was old and cranky. Ralston muttered under his breath as he fought the stubborn gear.

  "I hope this damn thing works if we ever need it," he growled, but no one heard him.

  Finally, he had it lined up so that only the chain-brake had to be loosened and then the anchor would drop from its position in the ballast tank below him. He reached over and set the out-haul windlass so it would pay out only thirty fathoms of chain. Contrary to what most people believe, it isn’t the anchor itself that holds a ship in place. The mass of chain lying on the bottom of the ocean does most of the work. With ten feet of water under the keel, they needed thirty fathoms of chain to hold Spadefish firmly in place.

  Ralston grabbed the 7MC microphone.

  "Bridge, anchor. Anchor ready for letting go. Snubbing scope three-zero fathoms. Skipper, we need to lower the anchor and walk out the chain once we're in port this time so we can loosen her up. She's getting real sluggish."

  "Okay, Chief,” Ward answered. “We should have plenty of time to play with it this time."

  "Skipper," the engineer was saying as he looked up at Ward. "Request permission to open the weapons shipping hatch and send men topside."

  Ward acknowledged and looked back and down at the main deck, just behind the sail. He saw the large hatch swing up and the COB hop up onto the deck. He immediately attached a hook into a groove on the deck. That hook was attached to a harness he was wearing and connected him to the boat. The round deck was treacherously slick. Maneuvering the boat to rescue a man who slipped and fell overboard was dangerous in these tight waters. The COB watched as each man through the hatch attached his safety harness to the track before going to his assigned task.

  Ward leaned over the side of the sail and called down, "COB, rig out the cleats and both capstans. Take the tug alongside at the port number three cleat to bring the pilot onboard, then cast him off so he's clear before that ‘ro-ro’ gets here."

  Master Chief Lawskowski yelled back up, "Aye, sir," and turned to his team of line handlers, telling them what the skipper had ordered. They were going to get the harbor pilot off his tug and aboard Spadefish before the hulking cargo ship and its wake got too close.

  It was only a few moments before the large orange-and-mustard-yellow commercial tug pulled alongside and tossed over a light head line. The civilian pilot leaped over to the main deck of the submarine and scurried up the steel ladder rungs to the bridge.

  "Afternoon, Captain! Glad to see you back," he said cheerfully, a warm smile on his face as he shook Ward’s outstretched hand.

  "Thanks, Captain. Always good to be home.” Ward’s voice was sincere. The pilot didn’t know why they were back in port on such short notice. “Mr. Kuhn, have the Navigator enter into the deck log that Mr. Sorensen is the pilot."

  "Understand you’re going to the north side of November pier, inboard. Let's tie the tug up with split head-lines to starboard cleats one and two, quarter line to four as soon as this ‘ro-ro’ is clear."

  Ward nodded his agreement.

  These new commercial tractor tugs were enormous and powerful, easily able to shove Spadefish where she needed to go. It would be lined up with its bow pointing right at the starboard side of the sail so that it could gently push or pull the sub toward the pier as need be.

  As they were discussing the arrangement of the tug, both men looked up to see the outbound freighter bearing down on them, coming right down the very center of the shipping channel. Ward picked up the bridge-to-bridge radio.

  "Outbound ‘ro-ro’ abreast Ballast Point, this is inbound submarine. Suggest a one-whistle passage. Captain, request you move a little to right of center channel. I need a little more room."

  The "Rules of the Nautical Road" that all sailors obeyed were based on ships communicating with whistle signals. Ships still use their whistles, but the usual method nowadays was by bridge-to-bridge radio. A one-whistle passage meant that they agreed to pass port side to port side, like two cars meeting each other on an American roadway.

  Ward watched closely as the giant wall of pale blue steel inched over to the far side of the channel, giving Spadefish a little more breathing space. Ward could read the name painted high up on the massive bow: Inchon Moon. The main deck was fifty feet above his perch, with the huge bridge another fifty feet higher. He could see his counterpart out on the ship’s bridge wing, looking downward at the diminutive submarine. The two captains exchanged salutes as the knots of current pushing directly against the side of Spadefish, shoving her into the pier, was a lot of force, maybe even too much for this powerful tug to overcome.

  Sorensen seemed to be reading Ward's mind.

  "Don't worry, Captain. Cherry Two can handle a hell of a lot more than that. Just let her hold you off while the current pushes you toward the pier and it’ll be like putting your honey to bed."

  They passed the large floating dry dock at the south end of the submarine base. One of the Los Angeles class boats was up on the blocks, being repaired. Must be Houston. Ward had been XO on her at one time. It had been nice to have a boat with all that speed and one that was so much easier to maintain than Spadefish. But this old girl really had a way of growing on a sailor, too.

  A pair of F/A-18 Hornets roared off the end of the North Island runway just to the starboard, as if they were putting on a show for the sub crew. The planes were barely a hundred feet overhead as they turned out to sea and were quickly gone.

  Nice welcoming party, Ward thought. And once again he felt a surge of pride at being a part of it all.

  Spadefish eased past the three long piers of the sub base. It seemed empty somehow now that the huge gray mass of the sub tender no longer jutted out from the end of November pier. All the tenders had fallen victims to Washington's budget cuts a couple of years before. They had likely been turned into razor blades by now. The functions that a tender once provided were now performed by shore-based facilities, usually manned by civilians.

  "Captain," Kuhn shouted. "Time to turn."

  They were now abreast of the old dolphin-training facility where the intelligent mammals had once been taught to do special, top-secret tasks. It was almost time to turn toward the pier, placing them broadside to the racing current. Ward looked over at the channel buoy. It was leaning over heavily, and the ebb tide made a large wake around it, pointing out to sea. It was really surging, probably more than the seven knots that Captain Sorensen predicted.

  Ward yelled down to Kuhn.

  "Just a few more minutes. Give us a little more room."

  "Aye, sir."

  The skipper could see that a sizeable crowd had gathered on the pier, wives, kids, sweethearts, tourists, all there to welcome them. Some had already recognized the sub and were waving at them.

  Ward waited until he guessed they had moved far enough up the channel to compensate for the racing ebb tide.

  "Now, Mr. Kuhn, left full rudder."

  The captain looked over his shoulder to see the rudder swing over the
n watched as the bow pivoted around to point toward land. He immediately felt the tide pushing the sub down onto the pier. He looked to see the foam churning under the stern of Cherry Two as the tugboat strained to pull the sub back, against the current. He could hear the groan of the lines as they protested the strain.

  The sub and tug eased out of the channel and descended slowly toward the pier, everything going according to plan. Some of the crew on the sub’s deck were looking toward the welcoming crowd, trying to pick out particular faces.

  Suddenly there was an ugly gray-black belch of smoke from Cherry Two's stack. At her stern, the frothy white churning stopped. The tug had lost power!

  Ward braced himself. He could feel Spadefish picking up speed as she continued to slide toward the pier. Forty-seven hundred tons of steel being pushed inexorably toward the wood and concrete pier, crowded with families waiting to greet them.

  It was too late to back out into the channel and there was not enough room to control the boat with that tug tied up alongside even if they could. Ward knew he had to somehow fight the racing current and prevent the mass of the sub from crashing into the pier. At this speed, it would crush the structure, killing or injuring those people who were standing there happily waving at them, unaware of the sudden danger they were in.

  Ward grabbed the 7MC.

  "Train the outboard to zero-nine-zero. Start the outboard. Let go the anchor."

  "Outboard trained to zero-nine-zero and running," Cortez replied immediately.

  Down below, Chief Ralston shook his head in disbelief. Had he heard that right? Had the skipper ordered him to let go the anchor? No, couldn't be. He grabbed the 7MC.