Attack of the Seawolf mp-2

by Michael Dimercurio

  Pacino looked at the tugboats. Somehow, having to get underway with tugs had always annoyed him. It seemed to announce to the world that the submariners were less than capable ship handlers in restricted waters.

  In truth, they were terrible ship handlers. Single screw submarines handled like ungainly pigs on the surface, especially at slow speeds. And tied up bowin as they were, they would have to back down to get away from the slip, and subs did unpredictable things when backing down, sometimes obeying the rudder, sometimes turning the opposite way from the rudder order. If he were honest with himself, he thought, he would admit that the prudent course of action would be to go with the tugs, let them pull him away from the pier, let them help him avoid embarrassment from banging the sonar dome into the pier or backing down in a complete circle to get into the channel. After all, he had been in combat before — why would he have to prove himself at the pier with cowboy showmanship?

  Besides, the crew would expect him to do the safe thing with an untested submarine. No one would want him to maneuver out into the channel without tugs.

  But a thought nagged at him — if he did the cowboy method, and it came off, the crew would immediately know the sort of commander they were dealing with.

  He expected to return from this OP with the torpedo room empty and a few Chinese ships on the bottom of the bay. The crew might as well get used to the fact that this would be no milk run. Sea trials were over. The mission, the combat mission, started now.

  “Mr. Joseph,” Pacino barked. “What are we waiting for?”

  “The pilot’s still late, sir. A tug is bringing him in now. He should be here in about forty-five minutes.”

  A pilot was someone who knew the channel like his own home, who knew the currents and the tides, the depth of each sandbar, each treacherous rock. Another safe course would be to wait for him. Pacino thought of the Tampa. If his ship were held by an enemy, would Sean Murphy wait for a pilot?

  “Mr. Joseph, tell the tugs to shove off.”

  “Excuse me sir?”

  “Cut the tugs loose. We’re going to get underway without them. And without the pilot. Prepare to get underway.”

  “But, sir—”

  “I have the conn,” Pacino said, taking the bullhorn from Jeff Joseph’s grasp.

  “ON DECK, PASS THE TUG LINES OVER TO THE TUGS.”

  A walkie-talkie in Joseph’s hand squawked: “U.S. NAVY SUBMARINE, THIS IS TUG MASSAPEQUA. SAY AGAIN YOUR INTENTIONS REGARDING TUG FORCES, OVER.”

  Pacino took the radio, seeing Joseph’s surprised eyes on him.

  “Tug Massapequa, this is Captain, U.S. Navy Submarine. Take in your lines and clear the slip, over.”

  “ROGER, CAPTAIN. ARE YOU SURE ABOUT THIS, OVER?”

  “Affirmative. Clear the slip now. U.S. Navy Submarine, out.”

  Pacino handed the radio back to Joseph as the roar of the tug’s diesels sounded over the water of the slip.

  A foaming wake boiled up around the bows of the tugs as they backed down and entered the channel, standing by in case the Seawolf found herself in trouble.

  Pacino clicked the microphone attached by the long cord to the bridge box: “Control, Captain, I have the conn. Lieutenant Commander Feyley retains the deck. We are getting underway. Navigator, log that we have cast off the tugs and are going without the pilot.”

  The navigator’s voice came up from the speaker in the cockpit, confusion plain in his acknowledgement.

  Pacino nodded. He had gotten the crew’s attention.

  “ON DECK,” Pacino said into the bullhorn. “TAKE IN ALL LINES.”

  He watched as the line handlers on the pier passed the heavy lines over, freeing the submarine from the pier. As the last line came over, the USS Seawolf was officially underway, no longer pier bound Pacino smiled.

  “Shift colors,” he commanded. Bill Feyley pulled a lever sounding the ship’s horn, loud and deep enough to be worthy of the Queen Elizabeth, the earsplitting blast sounding for a full ten seconds. At the same time the phone talker hoisted a large American flag on a temporary flagpole aft of the flying bridge, the wind from the north flapping the fabric.

  Pacino watched the ship from his vantage point on the flying bridge. The current from the channel was pushing the stern away from the pier, the distance between the ship and pier opening slowly, now perhaps ten yards. Pacino clicked his microphone.

  “Helm, Bridge, all back full.”

  “ALL BACK FULL, HELM AYE, MANEUVERING ANSWERS ALL BACK FULL.”

  The pier faded away from the bow as the ship’s main engines pulled the massive ship backward into the channel. The channel current pulled the stern further away from the pier.

  “Helm, Bridge, right full rudder,” Pacino ordered as the ship was halfway sticking into the channel, half into the slip beside the pier.

  The helmsman acknowledged and the rudder, far aft, turned in the white wake of the stern. Slowly the ship’s stern came into the channel. The ship was again parallel with the pier and still turning so that the stern was pulling upstream into the channel current. Finally the ship’s bow, the sonar dome, was clear of the pier.

  “Helm bridge, left full rudder, all ahead full!”

  The helmsman answered, and the ship shuddered as it made the transition from full turns aft to full turns forward. Seawolf responded to the rudder, the nose cone avoiding the pier to the south of Pier 4 as the vessel moved into the channel and a violent white foamy wake boiled up aft at the rudder. Out of the corner of his eye Pacino could see Feyley and Joseph staring at him as if he had gone around the bend. The piers to the west slid by as the Seawolf picked up speed. The tugs soon vanished astern.

  Seawolf was on the way.

  Pacino picked up the bullhorn.

  “ON DECK, LINE HANDLERS RIG FOR DIVE AND LAY BELOW!”

  Below, the line handlers scrambled for the forward compartment hatch, seeing the water of the bow wave climbing the hull. The last one shut the hatch behind him, clearing the deck.

  “Helm, Bridge, steady course one six five,” Pacino ordered.

  “Navigator, recommend course to bring us to the center of the channel.”

  The ship continued to accelerate, the water climbing up the sonar dome until the deck forward of the sail vanished, the water beginning to spray up the leading edge of the sail.

  “BRIDGE, NAVIGATOR,” Keebes’s voice announced from the bridge communication box, his tone sounding nervous, “RECOMMEND COURSE ONE SEVEN TWO TO REGAIN TRACK. DISTANCE TO NEXT TURN, FIVE THOUSAND YARDS, NEW COURSE ONE SEVEN FIVE.”

  “Helm, Bridge, right two degrees rudder, steady course one seven two.”

  Pacino handed the microphone to Lieutenant (j.g.) Joseph, who still looked shocked.

  “Mr. Joseph, you have the conn.”

  Ahead of the ship, in the wide channel that opened south of the naval station, several dozen small sailboats sailed back and forth, as if intentionally blocking their passage.

  “Helm, Bridge, all ahead one third,” Joseph ordered.

  The ship began to slow, the bow wave receding.

  “What are you doing?” Pacino asked.

  “Sir, look at the sampans. We have to slow down, we don’t want to collide with them.”

  Pacino frowned.

  “Order up all ahead full. They’ll get out of the way.”

  “Helm, Bridge, all ahead full,” Joseph ordered.

  The sail beneath Pacino’s feet began to shudder as the ship’s main engines again surged forward, the bow wave again roaring forward of the sail, the wake again boiling white aft. The noise of the bow wave became so loud that the officers would have to shout at each other to be heard.

  Ahead of them, in the channel, dozens of boats, jamming the seaway ahead, caught sight of Seawolfs bow wave and scurried out of the way in panic. A hole opened in the seaway, and the submarine moved through it, the boats bobbing violently in her wake.

  “JOOD, shift the reactor to forced circulation.”

  “Sir, w
e’re at fifty percent power. Shall I reduce speed to ahead two-thirds while maneuvering energizes the pumps?” The Reactor Plant Manual required a power reduction before starting the pumps, or the power surge from the cold water could cause a reactor accident, overpowering the core and melting the fuel.

  The only situation that allowed the requirement to be ignored was a tactical emergency under the orders of the captain.

  What the hell, Pacino thought. It was a tactical emergency of sorts.

  “No power reduction, Joseph. Shift to forced circulation and order all ahead flank.”

  “Aye, sir.” He clicked the microphone.

  “Maneuvering, Bridge, shift to forced circ, remain at all ahead full.”

  The bridge box sputtered with the Engineer’s astonished voice.

  “SHIFT TO FORCED CIRC, BRIDGE, MANEUVERING, AYE, COMMENCING FAST INSERTION … BRIDGE, MANEUVERING, REACTOR IS IN FORCED CIRCULATION, ANSWERING AHEAD FULL.”

  “Helm, Bridge, all ahead flank!”

  “ALL AHEAD FLANK, BRIDGE, HELM, AYE BRIDGE, HELM, MANEUVERING ANSWERS ALL AHEAD FLANK.”

  The deck shuddered. The roaring bow wave climbed even higher up the sail, spraying salt and foam on the bridge crew. The flags flapped on the pole aft. The periscopes spun as the navigator took visual fixes on the way out. The scenery slipped by as Seawolfs main engines propelled her out at flank speed.

  Pacino’s spirits seemed to skim the waves with the wind and the bow wave. Damn, he was at sea again, and in command. Hold on, Sean, he thought, we’re on the way.

  Pacino climbed down from the flying bridge into the cockpit, scanned the horizon for contacts, drank a mug of coffee passed up from the galley and watched as the coast of Japan faded away astern. Soon the ship reached Point Alpha, the dive point, and Pacino climbed back down the bridge-access trunk after one last look at the world above, one last breath of fresh sea air, knowing, as always, it might well be his last.

  CHAPTER 12

  FRIDAY, 10 MAY

  0705 GREENWICH MEAN TIME

  WESTERN PACIFIC OCEAN DIVE POINT, 150 NAUTICAL MILES SOUTHWEST OF YOKOSUKA

  USS SEAWOLF

  1605 LOCAL TIME

  The control room crew seemed tense, the room buzzing with the murmured voices of the watch standers

  Pacino stood in the forward starboard corner of the room, near the attack center, and watched the periscope video monitor, the television that showed the view out the number-two periscope. The sea was empty of traffic. The officer on the periscope, Jeff Joseph, was the Contact Coordinator, responsible for keeping them from colliding with a careless supertanker.

  Standing on the periscope stand, the conn, was Officer of the Deck Lieutenant Tim Turner. Turner, an affable young officer, was of medium height and build. His hair was moussed straight up from his forehead, mimicking the style of a current rap star. His eyes conveyed both joviality and confidence. It was hard to imagine him smashing his girlfriend’s new gift sport scar into a dumpster, the way the CINCPAC gossip sheet reported it. Still, he would bear watching — a man who could lose control in an argument with a girlfriend could crack in combat — but then, Pacino reminded himself, he himself had not always been Mr. Tranquility at home.

  “Captain,” Turner now said, “we’re ready to submerge. Sounding is seven hundred fathoms. No contacts. Ship is rigged for dive. Ship’s position is three miles southeast of the dive point by GPS NAV SAT ESGN agrees. Ship’s course is two four two, all ahead two thirds. Request permission to dive.”

  “Offsa’deck, submerge the ship,” Pacino ordered, feeling excited to be giving the order for the first time in years.

  “Diving Officer,” Turner called, “submerge the ship to one five zero feet.”

  The diving alarm sounded — still the OOH-GAH OOH-GAH of Hollywood, but electronically generated and distorted. Then on the Circuit One: “DIVE, DIVE.” The Chief of the Watch opened the main ballast tank vents by selecting one of the electronic options on the computer control system displays of the ballast control panel. Other than a slight hiss, there was no sensation that the ship was submerging.

  Pacino looked at the periscope television monitor.

  Turner had taken over the number-two periscope, now the only mast raised, and had trained the instrument forward to the bow. On the screen, centered in the periscope view’s crosshairs, an angry plume of vapor flew into the sky as the forward main ballast tanks gave up their trapped air and admitted water, making the ship heavier.

  “Venting forward,” Turner called, training the scope aft.

  The aft view showed the same plumes of vapor coming from the cylindrical deck just forward of the rudder.

  As the venting continued, the deck settled into the waves, the white foam climbing steadily higher up the curving deck until the surface of the hull peeked through only every third or fourth wave. Finally, the deck aft vanished in the wake, which slowly calmed from its violent white foam to a light blue.

  “Venting aft. Decks awash,” Turner announced, returning to a slow periscope search, the water’s surface slowly climbing higher in the television monitor’s view.

  “Five five feet, sir,” Chief Deitzler called from the diving officer’s seat.

  “Very well. Dive, get us down.”

  “Six zero … six five feet, sir, sail’s under.”

  At the call of “sail under,” the ship was no longer visible on the surface. Only her periscope protruded above the waves. Seawolf was now officially submerged.

  “Eight three feet, Off’sa’deck,” the Diving Officer called.

  “Scope’s awash,” Turner sang out as the foam covered the periscope view, the lens hitting the waves.

  “Scope’s under.”

  Turner trained the periscope view upward with the left scope grip. The undersides of the waves were silvery, reflecting the light from the deep back down.

  The waves receded, until finally they were obscured by a dark blue haze. The surface high above had vanished.

  As if to acknowledge this Turner snapped the control grips up and rotated the periscope’s hydraulic control ring, lowering the scope into the well. The optic module disappeared and the stainless steel pole of the scope came down and clunked to a halt.

  For ten minutes the Diving Officer and Chief of the Watch pumped and flooded tanks with sea water and transferred the water to variable ballast tanks. Finally the ship had achieved a neutral trim, perfectly balanced, neither heavier nor lighter than the surrounding water.

  “Sir, the ship is submerged to one five zero feet with a good one-third trim. Request permission to take her deep and increase speed.”

  “Offsa’deck, take her down to eight hundred feet, course two four five, all ahead flank. And rig ship for patrol quiet.”

  “Aye, sir, eight hundred feet, course two four five, ahead flank, and patrol quiet.”

  The deck became steep as Diving Officer Deitzler ordered a twenty-five-degree down angle to take the ship to eight hundred feet.

  The hull creaked and popped, responding to the increased sea pressure at the deeper depth. For a moment Pacino missed the clicking of the old bulletproof digital depth indicator of the rust bucket Piranha-class submarines, the ships he had cut his teeth on, but then realized the progress was for the better. After all, hadn’t they happily ditched diesel power for nuclear and moved forward?

  Sure, except Pacino couldn’t help wondering what would happen to the delicate computer systems in battle — would one depth charge make them all useless?

  “Helm, all ahead flank,” Turner commanded.

  The Circuit One announcing system blasted Turner’s voice throughout the ship: “RIG SHIP FOR PATROL QUIET.”

  The ship leveled out, now at eight hundred feet beneath the waves, the speed indicator on the ship control panel showing ship’s speed increasing. Pacino waited for the deck to vibrate with the energy of 52,000-shaft horsepower back aft pushing them through the ocean. But there was no vibration. He watched as the speed numerals steadi
ly increased—36 knots, 39, 41, finally steadying at 44.8 knots. Forty-four point eight, in the inscrutable digital accuracy of the computer, and the deck was as steady as if the ship were hovering, smooth as a Rolls. Amazing.

  Pacino realized Turner was looking at him, realized he was no longer needed in the control room and to stay any longer would violate Turner’s turf as Officer of the Deck.

  “I’ll be in my stateroom,” Pacino said to Turner.

  “Give me fifteen minutes, then send in Commander Lennox, Commander Morris, and Mr. Keebes.” Now that the ship was on her way to Go Hai Bay, Point Hotel, it was time to lay out the mission.

  Even running at flank speed, they would not arrive on station at Point Hotel for another two days, but Pacino wanted his men to be mentally ready for the mission and think about it for the entire two days. That meant two days of intensive periscope-recognition training, in which the officers would learn to tell each class of Chinese ship with just a half-second glimpse from a water-level periscope view, and know by memory each ship’s armament and threat level.

  Pacino rolled the tall-backed swivel chair up to the head of the conference table, the end facing the view of the television monitors. A row of buttons set into the table controlled the televisions on the centerline bulkhead. Pacino changed the aft monitor’s setting from TY-20 to NAV and the end TV screen on the left came to life, a color-coded chart of the sea lighting up the screen, with their track and their estimated position illuminated on the chart, the flashing position showing them skirting the southeast coast of Japan.

  Their future track was also shown, heading around the peninsula of Korea and north into the Korea Bay.

  A knock sounded from the centerline passageway door and Morris, Keebes and Lennox came in. Keebes and Lennox had changed into blue submarine poopy suits. Morris, still unshaven and ponytailed, was in green fatigues and shiny black combat boots.