by Mark Joseph
Fogarty kept his mouth shut. Sorensen looked at him, then broke into a smile and slapped him on the back.
"Hey, okay, lighten up now and get your ass in gear. We have to report to the XO."
6
Netts
The ship buzzed with excitement. The word had been passed that an admiral was coming aboard to give Barracuda a special assignment, and the crew was busily preparing for an inspection. Sailors in freshly laundered jumpsuits executed routine tasks with an extra touch of crispness. Internal communications technicians checked every circuit. Settings on the inertial navigation gyros were adjusted. Radar monitored the traffic in the harbor. Only in the galley was there a note of discontent. The admiral would not dine, and Stanley felt dejected.
Sorensen and Fogarty were passing through the control room when Pisaro called out, "Attention!"
Instantly the control room was transformed into a parade ground.
The quartermaster blew his pipes, and two men passed through the hatch.
"At ease," said Pisaro.
Fogarty saw a short pudgy man of sixty in a flowered Hawaiian shirt, flat black sunglasses and a salt-and-pepper beard that wrapped around his jowls like a mask.
"Who is that?" he whispered to Sorensen.
"Netts," said Sorensen. "Vice-Admiral Edward P. Netts."
"Never heard of him," Fogarty said.
"The Russians have."
The second man was impeccably dressed in custom-tailored tans.
"Who's that?" Fogarty asked.
"His aide, Commander Billings. I expect he'll be with us for a few days."
Netts looked around the control room and spotted Sorensen. Quietly, to avoid being overheard by the other men in the compartment, Netts asked Sorensen about the Viktor they had encountered. "I understand it went below two thousand feet. Is that true?"
"Yes, sir. It did, indeed."
Netts mulled over the unhappy implications. "Is the beacon planted on U-62?" he asked.
"Yes, sir."
"Did you go over the plan with the skipper?"
"Yes, sir. It's going to be a piece of cake. Admiral."
"All right"—Netts turned to Pisaro—"let's get on with it."
The admiral was in no mood to see his special assignment torpedoed—he winced at the unintended pun—by a faulty stern plane, a leaky pipe or a crazed computer. He intended to inspect the ship.
At the navigation console the quartermaster was taking a satellite feed of up-to-date information on tide, current, wind and sea conditions. On the display screen an electronic chart of the Naples roadstead was ready and waiting with Barracuda's course already plotted.
At the attack console Hoek took another satellite feed, which showed Kitty Hawk and her escorts on a radar screen. The fleet was three hundred miles from Naples, fifty miles off the southern tip of Sardinia. Netts stared at the screen. "Do they have company?"
"Yes, sir, they sure do," said Hoek, punching buttons. Two more blips appeared, trailing the rearmost destroyer by two miles.
"Boris Badinoff and Natasha," said the lieutenant.
"What about subs? Any sign of the Viktor you met?"
"So far, nada."
"Well, let's hope it stays that way, but don't bet on it. Can you show me Naples?" asked Netts.
"Certainly, Admiral." Hoek punched more buttons and the screen showed the navigation chart. Netts studied the screen. Scattered among the freighters and ferries that appeared as blips on the screen were the buoys that marked the channel.
"Lieutenant, there's a sub waiting for you out there, probably ten or twelve miles out. There might even be two. I wouldn't be surprised if she's under one of those buoys. I suggest that you plot an attack course for each buoy more than ten miles out, just in case one of them moves."
"Aye aye," replied Hoek as he energetically began to push buttons. Hoek was ready for a fight. His breath was short, his chest felt constricted. He was due for a physical when Barracuda returned to Norfolk, and he knew he would never pass. This was his last patrol, and he wanted some memories to take ashore.
Netts led his party forward through officers' country. In the narrow passageways he paid particular attention to the control cables and pipes that ran through the ship, all open and exposed for instant maintenance and repair. The cosmetic paneling that at one time had covered them was ripped out after the Thresher disaster.
* * *
Sorensen and Fogarty made their way to the mess. The moment they arrived, Sorensen was cornered by Cakes, who asked, "Who's the brass?"
"Big shot from Washington. Netts."
The steward did a double take. "Cap'n Netts? Ed Netts?"
"Vice-Admiral Netts."
"No shit!"
"Why, Cakes? You know him?"
The steward's eyes seemed to shrink back into his head as if he were trying to hold back a memory that had forced its way into his skull. One hand jerked up to the side of his face and began tugging at his right ear.
A commotion forward signaled the approach of officers.
"Attention!" shouted Sorensen, and everyone snapped to.
"At ease, men," said Pisaro.
Netts immediately walked over to the steward, stuck out his hand and warmly pumped his arm.
"Hello, Cakes."
"Howdy, Cap'n."
"How's the ear?"
"Mighty fine. Ninety-five percent."
"Glad to hear it."
What Netts and Cakes shared happened on August 23, 1944, when Admiral Chester Nimitz pinned the Navy Cross on Cakes Colby for heroism aboard Sargo, Netts commanding. During a depth charge attack in the Sea of Japan, Cakes had sealed himself into a flooding compartment and saved his ship.
With a friendly salute to his old shipmate, Netts descended a ladder and entered the torpedo room. He swept the room with a scowl, taking in the two dummy Mark 45 and twelve dummy Mark 37 torpedoes stacked neatly in racks.
The eight members of the torpedo gang stood at stiff attention, sweating in the intimidating presence of the admiral.
Netts said to Lopez, "Chief, did you run checks on these fish yourself?"
"Yes, sir!"
"You happy?"
Lopez hesitated before answering.
"Out with it, man!"
"Sir! I don't like to go on patrol without no live torpedoes, sir!"
Netts's mood changed. "At ease, men," he said. "I understand your point, Chief, but this is not a patrol, it's an exercise, and it's only for a few days."
"Sir!"
"Yes, Chief."
"What if a war starts during the exercise?"
Netts swiftly crossed over to the attack console and tapped Zapata's cage. "In that case. Chief, you'll go up to the surface and sic this nasty little devil on the Russians."
The admiral then turned abruptly, disappeared up the ladder and headed aft. The Chief had a point, but he couldn't stand there and debate it.
The reactor compartment was divided into two decks. On the lower deck were the reactor vessel and heat exchangers, heavily shielded in a room no one entered while the reactor was operating. The upper deck housed the control rods and a narrow passageway, the tunnel, that led to the reactor control room and engineering spaces. In the reactor control room Netts noted that the reactor was critical and nodded with satisfaction. In the maneuvering room he stood for a moment watching the technicians watch their displays.
Without a word he continued into the engine room, where Chief Wong was running a computer check on the injectors that fed steam into the turbogenerators to provide power for the ship's electrical systems.
"Chief," said the admiral, taking from his pocket a set of electrical diagrams and handing them to Wong, "are you familiar with this setup?"
The engineer bent over the diagrams and clicked his tongue. "Yes, sir. We tested it in transit from Norfolk."
"I know," said Netts. "Well, you had better get busy."
"Aye aye. Admiral."
Netts examined the engineering log, noti
ng that nothing extraordinary had happened to the propulsion plant since Norfolk. He paused a moment to stare at the turbines. "Pretty nice steamboat you have here, Chief," he said, and headed forward for his briefing with Springfield. Damn, he loved these steamboats.
* * *
Sorensen and Fogarty were sitting in the mess with forty other sailors when the loudspeaker piped attention. Sorensen stared unseeing into his coffeecup and gritted his teeth, wishing he were on watch so he wouldn't have to listen to a speech.
"Attention all hands, attention all hands. The captain is going to address the crew."
Springfield's voice resounded throughout the ship. "As I am sure all of you are aware, we have a distinguished visitor aboard. Admiral Netts has come from the Office of the Chief of Naval Operations to give Barracuda a special assignment, and he is going to tell you about it now."
"Gentlemen," said Netts, "today on all the oceans of the world we face a far more powerful and dangerous adversary than even the Fascist powers of Germany, Italy and Japan that we defeated in the Second World War.
"In the last decade, under the leadership of Admiral Gorshkov, the Soviet Navy has been built up from a coastal defense force into the second most powerful navy in the world. If the Russians were to attack us today I'm here to tell you we would have a hell of a time stopping them.
"If I were Admiral Gorshkov and I were planning an attack on the U.S. Navy, the first thing I would do would be to sink as many American missile submarines as I could find. In all likelihood, I wouldn't find many, if any at all. Therefore, I would attack what I could find. And that, gentlemen, means aircraft carriers. You just can't hide one of those damned things. An aircraft carrier may be a dandy platform for launching airstrikes against peasants in Viet Nam, but Viet Nam does not have attack submarines like Barracuda capable of shooting back.
"I'm letting my hair down with you people because I think of us as a family. So please indulge me.
"Our navy has spent and spent building aircraft carriers and carrier groups, and intends to spend more. In my opinion, an opinion which I do not share with many people in Washington, this is wrong. Terribly wrong. If war comes with the Russians, those carriers will be sitting ducks. They will be blown out of the water in the first fifteen minutes of the war, and then it will be up to the submarine forces to carry on the fight.
"The Russians will attack with strength and cunning. Their submarines have their problems, no question, but in those first fifteen minutes they will be able to inflict terrible damage. No question about that either. They will destroy the fixed arrays that enable us to track their subs through the oceans. They will render our communications system useless. They will attack our ports, our naval stations, our fuel and supply depots. All that is to be expected. What my superiors do not wish to believe is that at the end of the first phase of the war at sea our carrier groups will be clouds of radioactive dust.
"Why am I telling you all this? Because in the next five days your mission will be to prove the truth of it."
"Now, I'm sure Admiral Gorshkov would be proud to have a ship like Barracuda in his fleet. I know I am, but for the next five days you will be playing the role of a Soviet crew, and Barracuda will act as though it were part of the Black Sea Fleet.
"This ship is going to demonstrate that one attack submarine can penetrate the defenses of an entire carrier group and sink the queen bee. You can't put a live charge into Kitty Hawk, but you can sure as hell smash a pair of dummies into her hull and give everybody on her flight deck a good soaking.
"In my opinion the future of the Navy is at stake here. For the first time ever there will be no restrictions on the operations of the attacking submarine in an exercise of this sort. Captain Springfield will have absolute discretion to go where he wants, as deep as he wants and as fast as he wants. You men will do whatever it takes to sink the Hawk.
"That is all. God bless you."
* * *
When the speech ended a cheer erupted in the control room and swept like a wave through the ship. By the time it reached the mess, the crew was chanting, "Nuke the Hawk, nuke the Hawk..."
Fogarty felt that Netts had confirmed his private feelings about a nuclear war at sea. He raised his voice with the others. It felt good to have something to cheer about.
Only Sorensen kept silent, the muscles in his jaw tightening. He slammed his coffeecup onto the table and stood up. The mess instantly quieted.
"You people are crazy," he said. "This isn't going to be a joyride. The fleet will have six subs looking for us." He looked over the young faces in the mess. "And while half the fucking U.S. Navy is chasing us around in circles, there's still a Russian sub loose out there. Keep it in mind."
He sat down and shook his head. The mess started to clear out.
"What gets me," Sorensen said to Willie Joe, "is that this bullshit could get us killed just so the admiral can boost his career—"
"Cool off, Ace," said Willie Joe. "This is gonna be fun. The fleet doesn't stand a chance."
"I've known about this for two weeks, but I couldn't say anything. It's going to get crowded down there. Seven subs in one tiny piece of ocean, six of them and us." Sorensen sighed. "Okay, Willie Joe, you and Fogarty go up to sonar and start running signature programs for the fleet's subs. Give Davie the word."
"Aye aye. You take it easy there. Ace."
Sorensen rustled up a sandwich from Stanley. By now the mess was deserted. He took a bite of BLT, chewed without tasting, gave up and lit a cigarette.
"That was real cute, Sorensen."
He turned around and saw Pisaro leaning against the bulkhead, arms folded across his chest.
"Evening, Commander."
"You trying to put the fear of God into those boys, or what?"
"We're supposed to be pros down here, sir, not a bunch of jerkoffs."
"What about esprit de corps? Isn't that worth something?"
Sorensen smiled. "Tell it to the Marines, sir. No disrespect intended. My only concern is the safety of this ship."
"I know that. And we both know that on this exercise the safety of the ship will be in your hands. If you're a little edgy, I need to know."
"I'm all right."
"You lay off the amphetamines."
Sorensen raised his eyebrows and stared at the XO.
* * *
In the sonar room Fogarty said, "Willie Joe, what's with Sorensen?"
"He figures anything but chasing Russians is a waste of time."
"Do you?"
"I just put in my time, man. It don't make any difference to me."
Hoek stuck his face into the room. "Willie Joe. run a signature program for Swordfish, Shark, Seawolf, Mako, Dragonfish and Stingray."
"Aye aye, sir."
"What's in the log?"
"Just local traffic. Lieutenant. A small ship is approaching the channel."
"Okay, sign it and that's it."
"Aye aye."
Sorensen came in, muttering something unintelligible. "All right," he said. "If we're going to do this, we're going to do it right. Willie Joe, beat it. Take your white suit. Fogarty, check your bottom scanners. We ain't gonna nuke the Hawk if we can't make it out of the bay."
All over the ship, division heads were logging in the first watch. In the control room the captain went through the departure checklist.
"Maneuvering room, report."
"Steam, twenty percent. Turbogenerators on line."
"Very well. Engine room, report."
"Engine room standing by on number one turbine."
"Very well. Sonar, report."
"Sonar reports screws on the surface bearing one niner zero, range two two five zero zero yards."
"Very well. Radar, report."
"Radar reports a ship entering the channel, bearing one niner zero, range two two five zero zero yards."
"Very well. Navigation, report."
"Navigation reports gyros set, course plotted, standing by."
"Ve
ry well. Helm, report."
"Helm standing by."
"Very well. Stern planes, report."
"Stern planes standing by."
Springfield turned to Pisaro. "This is it, Leo. I'm going up to the bridge. Quartermaster, sound General Quarters."
Throughout the ship loudspeakers heralded the quartermaster's voice. "General Quarters! General Quarters. Prepare for maneuvering. All hands man battle stations."
Two sailors were standing by on the deck near each hatch, their eyes on the bridge. Springfield ordered them, "Deck party, stand by to cast off lines."
He spoke through the intercom to the control room. "Bridge to navigation, how is the tide?"
"Navigation to bridge, going out at one-quarter knot."
"Very well. Cast off the bow line."
The crew of the Tallahatchie County appeared over the gunwales, smiling and waving.
"Bow line away."
"Cast off the stem line."
"Stern line away."
"Steer left three degrees."
"Left three degrees."
"All ahead slow."
Fogarty began feeding the signature programs of the six subs into his compter. The captain and lookouts came down from the sail.
"Prepare to dive," sad the captain. "Take her down, Mr. Pisaro."
Pisaro gave orders to retract radars, and the diving officer went through his panel.
"Mark three degrees down bubble."
"Mark three degrees down bubble, aye."
"Flood forward and main ballast tanks."
"Flood forward and main ballast tanks, aye."
"Flood forward trim tanks."
"Flood forward trim tanks, aye."
"Maintain slow speed."
"All ahead slow, aye"
The bow sank quickly under the surface of the bay.
"Stern planes down ten degrees."
"Ten degrees down, aye."
The game began.
7
Turbo-electric
On the stroke of midnight an inbound tanker passed a large red navigation buoy eleven miles outside the Naples breakwater. The sailors on the tanker's bridge scarcely glanced at the revolving light buoy, and no one noticed a much smaller float that had attached itself magnetically to the buoy. Eight inches in diameter, the float had a two-foot-long antenna extending into the air and a thin wire descending into the depths. At the far end of the wire, 150 feet down, USS Mako hovered in ambush.
