by Larry Bond
The next command had already been planned, but Jerry waited for Richards to relay Hardy’s order. “U-bay, control. Deploy the Manta and take station.”
“Deploy the Manta and take station, U-bay aye.” Jerry responded, then: “Control, U-bay. Verify speed is four knots.”
Richards replied, “Speed is four knots.”
“Roger, launching Manta.” Jerry checked the procedure book before he did anything, not only because he genuinely didn’t want to forget anything, but because it was standard Navy policy to follow procedures exactly. Retracting the umbilical and the other steps all went smoothly.
Once the Manta lifted off, Jerry relaxed a little. His first task was to sweep out toward the first dumpsite. According to the 1993 Yablokov Commission Report, a small barge loaded with solid radioactive waste had been scuttled here in 1968. The Manta would find the barge, looking for navigational hazards along the way and keeping a passive sonar watch in the area. The ROV, with its shorter endurance, would not be launched until the Manta had found the barge’s precise location.
Jerry focused on the Manta’s imaging sonar. It was a broadband high-frequency set that would be hard for the Russians to detect, but it would show him what the bottom was like, and hopefully spot anything artificial.
The seabed shelved gradually here, rising from just over sixty fathoms where they were, to forty-four at the dumpsite, labeled DELTA ONE on their charts. It lay eight miles away to the west, an hour’s trip for the Manta at cruise speed.
As Jerry carefully flew the Manta to the west, he gradually descended until he was only twenty feet above the bottom. The imaging sonar started to give him a picture. The color display was clear enough to reveal an uneven bottom. Denser material sent back a stronger echo, which looked brighter on the screen, so rock showed as a lighter image than the silt that filled in the crevices and low spots. Metal would provide an even sharper echo, and a correspondingly lighter spot on the display.
Jerry worked on getting the feel of the vehicle, comparing the readouts on speed and depth with the images he was getting. His earlier maneuvers with Memphis had been in open ocean, and with the Manta relatively close. Now he was working at a distance in shallow water and he wanted to find out how much control he really had.
He didn’t have to worry about flying the Manta into the bottom. It was smart enough to automatically avoid the seabed, but he didn’t want to have to depend on the Manta to keep him out of trouble.
It took fifteen minutes before he could predict the interval between sending a command to the Manta and it reacting. Beyond the normal lag between the control surfaces moving and the UUV responding, the acoustic signal, moving at the speed of sound, took longer and longer to reach the Manta as it swam farther and farther away.
It already took several seconds for a signal from Memphis to reach the Manta and several more for the signal from the Manta to return, confirming that it had reacted. The math told Jerry that at maximum range, fifteen thousand yards, it would take about ten seconds for an order from him to reach the Manta—or for information from the Manta to show up on his display.
With his personal time-delay calibration finished, Jerry had little to do but sit back and watch the display screen. According to the digital timer, the Manta was still about thirty minutes away from their first target and he’d just have to wait. Jerry let loose with a wide yawn as fatigue overcame his earlier excitement.
“You look exhausted, Jerry,” remarked Emily. He looked over and saw that semi-frown she always had when things weren’t quite right.
“Yeah, I guess I’m a little tired. I’ve been really busy working on my qualifications.”
“So I’ve noticed. Don’t you ever take some time off? You know, get a good night’s sleep or just goof off. Its not healthy to work so hard.”
Jerry snickered sarcastically and said, “Emily, I would love to take some time off. Unfortunately, I don’t have the time for such luxury. If I’m not working on my division’s stuff or standing watch, I’m expected to be fully engaged with my quals. Besides, I’m way behind my peer group and I have to catch up. I’ll make up for the lack of sleep when we get back.”
“Assuming you don’t hurt yourself in the process,” replied Emily tersely. Her tone caught Jerry off guard and he thought it better to let the conversation die.
After a few minutes of awkward silence, Emily’s angry expression eased. She bit her lip slightly and squirmed about in her seat, as if she were trying to get her nerve up to say something. Finally she leaned against the display, rested her head in her left hand, and asked, “So, Mr. Mitchell, what is involved with this qualifications process that has so thoroughly consumed your life?”
Jerry just sat there, surprised this time by the sarcasm behind her question. At first, he found himself simply staring at her, momentarily unable to say anything. She then raised an eyebrow and gave him a coy look that clearly said, “Well, are you going to answer the question or not?”
Shaking his head slightly, Jerry replied, “Sorry, I guess I’m a little more tired than I thought. But, um, to answer your question, it frankly involves everything.”
Emily’s expression changed to a scowl. “That’s not very helpful, Jerry.”
“No, seriously,” he said earnestly as he tried to defend his statement. “I have to know essentially everything about every system on board this submarine. Where every component is located, its power supply, its normal operating parameters, and what other systems will be affected, and how, should it fail. I have to memorize all the immediate actions for every casualty procedure and know most of the supplementary actions by heart as well. I have to be able to safely balance, push, and drive this boat through vastly different ocean environments, on the surface as well as submerged. And I have to know how to fight this boat should we be called upon to do so. By my own admittedly biased perspective, I need to know how everything works, and how to work everything.”
“That’s absurd, Jerry! How can anyone be expected to know everything about this sub?” protested Emily.
Jerry laughed, “Well, the guys who have been giving my systems checkouts sure seem to expect it. Particularly with all the oolies I’ve had to dig around to answer.”
“Oolies?”
“Yup. Consider them to be the submarine force’s equivalent of Trivial Pursuit—little known factoids about different parts of the boat. And they are, without exception, a major pain in the butt.”
“Can you give me an example?” asked Emily with genuine curiosity.
“No problem,” answered Jerry confidently. “Let’s see, which one would you understand and appreciate?” He thought for a moment and then his face brightened. “Yeah, that one will do nicely. During my damage control checkout, I had to list all the watertight doors and hatches on the boat. Seemed simple enough, so I started to rattle off the access hatches, the torpedo muzzle and breach doors, and everything else that was part of a watertight boundary. After I was done, the chief giving me the checkout said I had missed one. Well, I went back over all the doors and hatches again and I couldn’t figure out which one I had missed. He told me to look it up and get back to him before he would sign me off.”
Jerry shifted around in his chair so that he faced Emily directly. “Okay, for two days I walked, crawled, and squeezed behind some pretty tight places searching for this missing door. No matter what I did, I could not find the stupid thing. Finally I was in here poring over the ship’s data book looking for the damn door, and I must have been muttering some obscenities in total frustration, when Seaman Jobin came over with a huge grin on his face and gave me the beckoning index finger. He led me to the ship’s laundry, right past the berthing area back there, and pointed toward the washing machine. And there on the front of this washing machine was a watertight door. I was so pissed, I didn’t know whether I was going to maim the chief for asking the question or Jobin, who was thoroughly enjoying my gross stupidity.”
Emily laughed, imagining Jerry’s face
when the most junior guy in his division showed him the answer to the question that had vexed him for days. But in a more serious tone, she questioned him. “While it’s a funny story, Jerry, what is the point of the question? Other than to drive you crazy, of course.”
“The point, Emily, was that I had studied the drain system and the potable water system without realizing that the washing machine was even there. It’s a little thing, but it is connected to two very important systems in the boat, which means it can have an effect on them.”
The sonar’s auto detect light suddenly came on, drawing Jerry’s attention to a bright spot in the upper left corner of the sonar display. He started to report it to control, but they must have seen the same thing. Richards directed, “We see it. Steer left.” They were still several miles short of Delta One’s plotted position.
“Steer left, U-bay aye,” Jerry responded almost automatically and commanded a thirty-degree left turn.
“More,” Richards ordered. “Do you see that object at about two-nine-zero relative?”
Jerry saw something on the sonar display. It was hard to gauge size, but it was definitely of different material from the seabed it sat on. The Manta’s sonar had a reliable range of three thousand yards, so to see it at that distance meant it had to be sizable.
“Should I head directly for it?” he asked Richards.
There was a pause and Jerry imagined Richards relaying the question to Hardy, who would pass it to Patterson. Then they’d have to discuss the effects of the detour on the endurance of the Manta, whether it would be able to identify it, what would they do if. . .
“Yes. Steer toward it, but keep about a ten-degree offset.”
“Steer toward with a ten-degree offset, U-bay aye.”
“Slow down now,” Richards directed. “Make your speed four knots.”
“Four knots, aye.” They were still five hundred yards off. All he could see on the sonar was a jumble of shapes.
“Circle it. Maybe it’ll be clearer from another angle.”
“Circle it, aye,” Mitchell acknowledged.
With a certain amount of grace, Jerry turned the Manta to starboard and made a quarter circle, with the object at the center. He didn’t bother keeping it in the sonar’s detection cone, since the location was marked on his nav display.
When he turned back toward the object, it was longer, and the jumble had resolved into separate objects lying near and on the large object. It was more than large. Figuring the range and the angle it covered, it had to be almost a hundred feet long.
“Continue to circle,” Richards ordered and Jerry turned the Manta to the right again. The Manta had no camera, in fact, no other sensors besides the sonar. Jerry imagined the discussion in control. What was it? Was it worth finding out? Could this be part of Delta One? Jerry didn’t think so. Large as it was, it didn’t look like a barge, and it was too big to be one of the containers.
“U-bay, control. Launch ROV and investigate this object. We’re designating it Delta One-Alpha.”
Davis got busy, but forgot to respond until Richards prompted her again. “U-bay, control. Did you receive my last?”
Davis quickly pressed the button on the mouthpiece. “Yes, sorry. I’m launching Huey now.”
“It’ll take an hour for the ROV to get there at six knots,” Jerry reported over the phones. “Should I set up a perimeter patrol?” The procedure they’d decided on yesterday was that when the ROV investigated a site, the Manta would keep watch.
“Wait one,” Richards replied, but almost immediately continued, “Negative. If we’ve got an hour, we want you to continue on to Delta One. It’s close by. That way, when the ROV is finished with Delta One-Alpha, it can continue on to Delta One.”
“Understood. Changing course to two nine zero, heading for Delta One, ETA at eight knots eighteen minutes.”
Jerry flew the Manta carefully over the smoothly rolling bottom. It was less rocky here, with more sand and dirt. He’d only been on his new course for ten minutes when he saw the barge on his sonar display. It showed as another hard return on the sonar display and was a little larger than Delta One-Alpha.
Without a camera, he couldn’t be sure, but the location matched the Russian report, and there was nothing else that large visible on the display. Jerry started the Manta in a slow spiraling circle, centered on the object.
Emily had the ROV about halfway to the mysterious Delta One-Alpha and was refusing Patterson’s demands to increase Huey’s speed. Although the ROV had a top speed of twelve knots, its battery charge only lasted a quarter of the six hours it had at its cruise speed of six knots.
“She should know better,” Davis muttered to Jerry.
Patterson, content to relay orders through Hardy and Richards before, now came on the circuit. “Dr. Davis,” she said sharply, “you have to go faster. We’ve got two sites to investigate now instead of one.”
“Which means we’ll be out longer and need to conserve our battery power,” replied Emily firmly. Jerry was surprised by Emily’s sudden defiance. She’d never stood up to Patterson before.
“We don’t have to go to full speed,” Patterson wheedled. “Just increase to eight or nine knots.”
“Which saves us what? A few minutes? Why are we in such a hurry?”
“This is the very first site. We’ve got a lot to do and I don’t want us falling behind.”
“And I don’t want us losing Huey because he has a flat battery. Delta One-Alpha is on the way to Delta One. We’ll hardly lose any time at all.”
Patterson finally gave up, at least in part because the ROV was close to the object’s position. The ring-laser gyros in both vehicles allowed for precise navigation, and there was no need to search again for Delta One-Alpha.
At three hundred yards, Emily slowed Huey and turned on the lights. The camera showed a clear picture, but even with the lights on there was only a dark green image filled with bright swirling specs flowing by the camera. It looked exactly like a light snowfall in a car’s headlights. As the ROV slowed, the snowflakes slowed as well.
The ROV’s sonar, much weaker than the Manta’s, only had a range of two hundred and fifty yards, intended for close-in navigation. It picked up the object right on schedule, but there was still nothing on the TV camera.
At a hundred yards, she slowed Huey again, creeping forward. Jerry’s eyes were glued to the TV screen, although he forced himself to check the Manta, still circling and searching near Delta One.
At fifty yards, a bright green-gray wall suddenly materialized out of the dark water. Davis stopped the ROV without being told to, and then slowly panned the camera left to right, then up and down.
It was a curved wall, then a cylinder, but an uneven one, with lumps— and a couple of portholes?
Davis said, “I’m moving left. I’m a little closer to that end.”
Richards acknowledged her message and after a short pause, replied, “Go ahead.”
Davis hadn’t waited, though, and the image slid sideways as the ROV passed across it. Almost immediately the cylinder’s shape changed, narrowing, and they could see the familiar outline of a cockpit. “It’s an airplane? Did it crash here?” somebody in the torpedo gang asked.
Emily continued past what they now knew was the nose, and then pivoted Huey so they were looking at the craft head-on. “It’s an An-12 Cub,” Jerry reported over the phones. “It’s a cargo plane, a lot like our C-130 Hercules.”
Now that he knew what it was, Jerry could interpret the image, recognizing many details. The plane was partially covered with marine growth, but on an object of that size a little green fuzz couldn’t hide its identity. The underside of the nose was crumpled and several long cracks in the skin showed that the plane had landed on the seabed with some force.
“Did it crash?” Richards’ question echoed the one in Jerry’s mind.
The ROV was now on the other side, the port side of the aircraft, and she passed it down the plane’s length.
&
nbsp; Halfway, Jerry said, “Wait. Stop, please. Can you have the camera point up, toward the top of the fuselage?” Although Emily was nearby, he asked over the circuit so that up in control they’d know what was happening.
Davis moved the ROV up. The image slid down until they were looking at the upper midsection of the fuselage. It bulged and an exposed metal framework marred the smooth surface. “Look, that’s where the wings were removed. It didn’t crash. It was dumped here.”
Jerry’s conclusion was confirmed when the ROV continued aft. One of the plane’s horizontal stabilizers lay next to the fuselage. Its base was a neat line, not jagged. The airfoils had been detached and discarded along with the fuselage.
As she moved aft, the ROV’s gamma detector came off the peg. “I’m getting a reading,” reported Davis. “Just higher than background.”
