It was at this spot, in 1942, that Admirals Fletcher and Spruance rendezvoused to await the Japanese invasion force headed toward Midway Island. What followed was one of the greatest naval battles of modern times. Eighty-six Japanese warships faced a meager force of twenty-seven U.S. vessels. Amazingly enough, when the smoke cleared not only had the invasion force been turned away, but four Japanese carriers lay on the bottom. Though the U.S. lost the Yorktown, and dozens of brave fighter pilots. Pearl Harbor was avenged and the tide of the war had turned.
On several previous occasions Cooksey had commanded his submarine to stop at this site; after explaining its significance to the crew, he would ask for a moment of silent prayer. Other captains were said to do likewise. Traditions died hard in the navy, and Cooksey was gambling that the admiral in charge of the carrier force would take a few minutes to pay his respects, and in the process, teach his men some living history.
Remaining stationary, submerged one hundred and fifty feet beneath the surface, was no easy task. To accomplish this feat they were currently “riding a layer.” Since it was impossible for a sub to be so delicately trimmed that it could remain indefinitely static, neither rising or falling, it was necessary to obtain Mother Nature’s assistance. In this case, a heavier layer of cooler, more saline water was located. Trimming the sub for a warmer, lighter layer, they were presently balancing on the boundary between the two. The Triton could remain in this strata as long as the sea state remained constant and their equipment cooperated.
Cooksey found himself hoping that they wouldn’t have to stay there much longer. Rigging for ultra quiet only produced an additional degree of tension, which was enhanced by their recently concluded two-month patrol period. In times of war, such prolonged isolation would often be necessary. Yet they were merely playing a war game.
The captain stirred uneasily, realizing that his hopes for catching a cat nap had been frustrated. Not that he was ever a sound sleeper.
While on patrol, he satisfied himself with barely four hours of shut-eye.
That, and an occasional nap, was usually more than sufficient to keep him alert and rested. Lately, though, he had been finding it increasingly difficult to drift off to sleep. Whenever he laid down on his bunk, it seemed that all types of irritating thoughts immediately snapped into his head. When he wasn’t worrying about the day he would lose command of the Triton, a thousand and one trivial technical problems would haunt him. Too often he would find himself rushing through the sub to check the condition of some insignificant valve, which was usually in perfect condition.
Hesitant to discuss his problem with any of the other officers, Cooksey promised himself he would bring it up during his next physical. Though this would be the logical course of action to take, in reality he doubted that he’d ever have the nerve to make such an admission.
Most probably the navy would see his sleeping difficulties as representative of a much deeper psychological disturbance. Such a condition would instantly cost him his hard-won command.
Lately, dozens of cups of extra-strong black coffee had been his savior. When fatigue began catching up with him, a quick caffeine fix had yet to fail. To see him through the watch that would soon follow, the bitter brew would be sorely needed. Try as he could, Cooksey had trouble remembering the last time he hit the sack and had a really sound slumber.
Sitting up with a grunt, he yawned and ran his hands through his brown crew cut. Since he had been dressed in only his sciwies, he reached over and pulled on a pair of dark-blue coveralls. Except for his captain’s insignia, he was now dressed exactly like his shipmates.
Walking over to the head, he took a minute to splash some cold water on his face. Although he could feel a line of stubble on his jaw, he decided against shaving. After brushing his teeth, he evaluated his reflection in the mirror.
Though he was well into his forties, he was certain that he could still pass for a thirty-year-old. His lack of facial wrinkles and full head of close-cropped brown hair promoted this appearance of eternal youth.
He supposed he owed this to a set of inherited genes. His mother, whom he greatly favored, could easily knock fifteen years off her current age and no one would be the wiser. The single feature that divulged his true age were his eyes. It was here that he was beginning to observe a noticeable change. Slowly but surely, the first hints of crow’s-feet were beginning to form beneath his brows. He also noticed that lately his eyes seemed to be constantly bloodshot. And, was it his imagination, or wasn’t the bright, vibrant blue gradually fading from his stare?
As if calling him out of a dream, two soft electronic tones chimed in the background, and Cooksey jumped, startled. Realizing that it was only his intercom, he turned to pick up the plastic handset.
“Captain here.”
The voice on the other end was deep and tinged by a slight Southern accent.
“Sorry to bother you, Skipper, but we’re experiencing some problems with the integrity of our ultra-quiet state. Chief Weaver is reporting an unusual ticking noise in the main engine room. The disturbance is loud enough for Callahan to pick up on the hydrophones.”
“Any idea where it’s coming from?” the captain asked.
“Negative, Skipper. The Chief is currently investigating.”
“Sounds like I’d better get down there and give them a hand. Thanks, Mr. Craig.”
Cooksey knew that his executive officer wouldn’t disturb him unless something serious had developed.
Richard Craig had proven himself to be a cool headed young officer, an XO who could be relied on for quick, precise assessments. Since in times of real combat an unknown noise could jeopardize their safety, the captain was aware of how important it was to find the source of this disturbance and to quickly quiet it.
The engine room was located in the stern half of the Triton, two floors beneath Cooksey’s quarters. Without hesitation, the captain guided his solid, six-foot frame down the cramped hallway, so narrow that two men could not pass shoulder to shoulder. Oblivious to the shining banks of stainless steel pipes and the thick cables of exposed wiring that lined the roof of the corridor, he stepped through an open hatch and began climbing down the metal stairway. Faced with another long hallway, he proceeded with quick strides past the crew’s mess. Here, he couldn’t help but savor the rich, inviting scent of fresh-perked coffee. He noticed at a glance that the majority of green, rubber-meshed tables were empty, then ducked through a pair of open hatchways and descended another flight of stairs.
Down there, the distinctive smell of hot oil and warm polyethylene met his nostrils.
A young machinist’s mate snapped to attention as Cooksey nodded and passed through still another hatch. Turning to his right, he entered a large, spotlessly clean room. Shiny stainless steel, gleaming white paint, miles of snaking copper tubing and dozens of various-sized gauges lined the walls. Six men were seated at a huge console, scanning the hundreds of dials, gauges and meters that belonged to the nuclear power plant. Here neutron flux, steam pressure, flow rates, liquid levels and various temperatures were monitored. Not stopping to bother the technicians, he opened a sealed hatch and stepped into the main engine room.
Dwarfed by the massive turbine generators, Cooksey spotted Chief Petty Officer Samuel Weaver kneeling beside the main shaft. At his side was a figure that Cooksey immediately identified. The muscular broad shoulders and shiny bald pate could belong to no one else but Chief Peter Bartkowski. Both men were completely involved in their work and didn’t notice the captain as he approached them. It was only when Cooksey got within a dozen feet of the two that he realized each man was wearing a stethoscope.
“It’s the toward bushing!” the chief boomed excitedly.
Samuel Weaver was quickly at his side. Carefully, he examined with his own listening device the tubular shaft that the chief had been perched before. While Weaver immersed himself in his study, Bartkowski sat up, removed the stethoscope from his ears and only then set eyes on the captain.<
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“Sorry this took so long. Skipper, but it looks like we’ve got it licked. Damn bushing must of been packed wrong.”
“I knew you’d locate it. Chief. How long will it take you to fix?”
Before Bartkowski could answer. Weaver sat up, noticed the captain’s presence, and nervously saluted.
“Sorry about this. Captain. Believe me, it’s the first we’ve heard of it. It must have been botched up while we were last in refit at Pearl.”
“Easy, Sam,” Cooksey advised cooly.
“I know you run a taut ship back here. We’re just lucky this didn’t fail earlier. Can you fix it?”
Chief Bartkowski grinned.
“Just give us ten minutes, Skipper. She’ll be just as good as new.”
“I’m sure she will,” said the captain, who was distracted by the soft ring of two familiar tones. He reached over to pickup the intercom and listened to his XO’s breathless observation.
“We’ve got a contact. Captain Looks like we just got hit with a pair of sonobuoys topside.”
Cooksey let out a relieved sigh.
“I’m on my way up, Rich. And by the way, the Chief promises us ultra quiet integrity in ten minutes. Sound General Quarters.
Pass the word by mouth.”
By the time Bartkowski and Weaver had concluded their repair of the improperly packed bushing, Cooksey had already taken his command position in the Tritons control room. From his vantage point, directly behind the sonar console, he had a clear view of the various operational stations. To his right sat the two helmsmen, their hands tightly gripping the aircraft-style steering yokes that controlled the sub’s direction. Beside them were digital consoles reserved for navigation, engineering, weapons and communications.
Each of these stations was manned and ready for action.
At the captain’s side stood the Triton’s executive officer, Lieutenant Commander Richard Craig. The thin, blond-haired Californian looked like he would be equally at home with a surf board in his hands.
Though this was his first stint as XO, he had already gained the respect of the crew. Leaning on the tubular steel railing that separated the two officers from the sonar operators, Craig addressed the redheaded sailor seated to his left.
“What’s AUSEX got to say about those sonobuoys, Callahan?”
Petty Officer First Class Charles Callahan held back his response until he finished typing a request into his computer keyboard.
“We’re still waiting for a response, Mr. Craig. All that we know for certain is that they don’t appear to be active arrays.”
As the current watch officer in charge of the sub’s passive listening devices, Callahan was most familiar with the workings of the so-called acoustic methods of vessel identification. The lightweight, ultra-sensitive headphones he wore were directly connected with the dozens of hydrophone devices attached to the Triton’s hull. Although the majority of these powerful, miniature microphones were implanted permanently, several systems were designed to be either towed or to float away from the hull itself. One such system was labeled AUSEX, for Aircraft Undersea Sound Experiment.
AUSEX was designed around a neutrally buoyant hydrophone tube that was released on a cable and floated up toward the surface. This allowed any nearby aircraft to be sonic ally monitored and analyzed.
Callahan was continually impressed with the sophisticated equipment at his disposal. He couldn’t help but express his admiration of this gear. As his computer screen lit up, his freckled face beamed.
“We’ve got a sound signature I.D.” sir. Those sonobuoys are the property of a U.S. Navy Kaman SH-2F Seasprite chopper.”
“Then we’ve got them!” the XO exclaimed.
“The mother ship has got to be close.”
Cooksey reacted calmly.
“I’ll bet my pension that Seasprite belongs to the carrier task force.
Standard operating procedure would have them saturating the ocean with sonobuoys to tag any unwanted visitors.
We should be picking up the first of the escorts any minute now.”
Not ten seconds passed when Callahan suddenly bent forward and cupped his headphones tightly around his ears.
“We’re picking up twin screws, coming in from the northwest at approximately 10,000 yards.”
“Get us a computer I.D. of the sound signature,” the captain ordered.
Efficiently, Callahan typed this request into his keyboard. Several tense seconds passed before the screen lit up with the desired information.
“Big Brother shows an eighty-five percent probability that we’ve got a Spruance-class destroyer topside.”
“That will be the Eagle,” Cooksey said casually.
“I went to school with her present skipper, Jim Powell.
The reason we didn’t pick her up earlier were those paired LM2500 gas-turbine engines. She’s a silent one all right.”
Catching his XO’s satisfied, boyish grin, the captain wasn’t surprised when Callahan excitedly reported that they had several other visitors topside.
With exacting precision, the computer identified a Knox-class frigate, a combat stores ship, a Cimarronclass fleet oiler, the Aegis guided-missile cruiser USS Ticonderoga, and finally the flagship carrier John F. Kennedy.
“Rich, I want you to stow that sound I.D. tape, plus an exact record of our intercept time. The admiral’s going to want concrete proof that we were really here.”
“Aye, aye, Skipper. Does this mean that we’ll be on our way back to Pearl now?”
Cooksey noticed the hopeful tone in Craig’s voice.
“I guess you’re kind of anxious to know if you’re a new papa yet. Exactly when was Susan due?”
“Sometime this week. Skipper. But if Susie runs true to form, she’ll be late as always. Do you know that she almost missed our wedding?
That girl needs an alarm clock glued to her wrist.”
Cooksey instinctively checked the large, digital clock mounted in the sonar console.
“Give the task force another hour to clear these waters. Then we’ll follow in their baffles, all the way back to port. Well get you back to Hawaii in time, you’ll see.”
No sooner had these words passed the captain’s lips when Petty Officer Callahan said, “We’ve got an underwater bogey contact. Captain! She’s coming in from the south with a bone in her teeth, at nine thousand yards. Awaiting computer verification of the screw signature.”
“Could it be one of ours?” the XO asked as he joined Cooksey beside the lucite target-acquisition map next to the sonar console.
Cooksey didn’t respond. With searching eyes he studied the gridded, three-dimensional cross-section of that portion of the Pacific basin.
The computer-enhanced map clearly showed the Triton’s present position, the six ships of the carrier task force presently passing above them, and the rapidly approaching bogey.
“Screw signature doesn’t appear to be of Western origin,” cried Callahan.
“Big Brother is still crosschecking.”
“Ping her!” Cooksey ordered, his hands tightly gripped around the railing.
“But the exercise,” interjected the XO.
“Using active sonar now will clearly give our position away.
The task force can’t help but know that we’re down here” The captain’s face reddened.
“I don’t give a damn about any friggin’ war games! There’s a bogey out there headed straight for an intercept with six of our top-of-the-line ships. I’ve got to know who they are and what the hell they’re doing here. Ping them, damn it!”
Not willing to further irritate the captain, Richard Craig held his tongue, while the sonar operator seated next to Charlie Callahan sat forward and switched on the active sonar. A large green cathode-ray screen came instantly alive, as a high-speed pulse of energy surged out of the Triton’s huge, hull-mounted sonar transducer. This surge was audible as a quavering note, followed by the plink of a return echo.
After thi
s process was repeated, the excited sonar operator reported, “We’ve got ‘em. Captain! Target is moving toward intercept point at a speed of four-three knots.
Relative depth is nine-five-zero feet.”
With this revelation, Cooksey’s face paled.
“Only one sub class on this planet can accomplish those specs. Damned if we don’t have a Soviet Alfa coming right down our throats.
Engineering, prepare the ship to get underway. I’m going to want flank speed.
Navigation, plot us a course to intercept that Red bastard. Who the hell does he think he’s playing with?”
As the full-throated rumble of the Triton’s long dormant turbines sounded in the background, Cooksey caught his XO’s concerned glance.
Richard Craig looked younger and more vulnerable than he ever had.
Of course, the lad had babies on his mind. Cooksey knew that was a dangerous combination. A lack of total concentration could easily lead to a botched order. The activation of a single wrong valve could easily doom all one hundred and twenty-seven crew members.
If Craig was made out of the right stuff for command, he’d have to get tough fast. Cooksey could think of no better time to see if the young officer was indeed ready. Placing his hand firmly on the lieutenant commander’s shoulder, the captain addressed him directly.
“Mr. Craig, even though all the books say the Soviet Alfa can easily outrun and dive the Triton, I’d sure hate to just sit here and watch them run under our flotilla like they’re doing. I’d like you to take the con and show those Ruskies what the U.S. Navy is all about. We’re not authorized to blow them away, but at least we can chase them out of here by putting the fear of God in them. How about it?”
Although Craig’s first thought, about the Soviet sub was that it would inevitably delay his reunion with Susie, Cooksey’s words redirected his train of thought.
Proud that the captain had chosen him to lead the chase, he silently pledged he would do his best to teach the enemy a lesson.
Counterforce Page 3
