The Golden U-Boat

by Richard P. Henrick

  Deadly serious, the admiral answered.

  “As far as I was concerned, I was already out a damn good ball, so to hell with taking a penalty stroke. But wouldn’t you know that I proceeded to three putt a ten foot shot. And out of all that, I ended up with a bogey.”

  To the roar of laughter, Steven Aldridge closed in on the trio. It proved to be his XO who greeted him.

  “Good afternoon, Skipper. I didn’t expect you back until tomorrow.”

  Aldridge accepted his second-in-command’s firm handshake and that of his base commander.

  “It’s good to see you again, Captain,” added Admiral Hoyt, who realized additional introductions were in order.

  “Brigadier General Hartwell, I’d like you to meet Captain Steven Aldridge, commanding officer of the USS Cheyenne.”

  While the two men shook hands Admiral Hoyt continued.

  “Brigadier Hartwell is with the Scot Guard, and as ranking senior officer in this district, was responsible for today’s ceremony.”

  “I enjoyed your speech very much, sir,” said Aldridge.

  The Scot looked directly into the newcomer’s eyes and curtly replied, “Why thank you, Captain. It was an honor to have been chosen to give it.”

  “Now what’s this about you being back from your leave a day early,” interrupted Admiral Hoyt.

  “I hope everyone is all right in that wonderful family of yours.”

  “They’re doing fine, Admiral. In fact, Susan and Sarah are waiting for me to join them for lunch at the Old Mermaid. We had a great time in the Highlands.

  But since they’ll be flying back to the States tomorrow afternoon, Susan decided to get back early.”

  “Captain Aldridge has a wonderfully precocious six-year-old daughter by the name of Sarah, who loves a proper fish ‘n chips,” said Admiral Hoyt to Brigadier General Hartwell.

  “Or chips ‘n fish, as she calls them,” added Steven.

  The Scot’s expression warmed.

  “I’ve got a six-year-old granddaughter myself, Captain Aldridge, who’s a devout aficionado of your MacDonald’s hamburgers.

  Why, whenever we pass one, no matter what time of day it is, she’s after me to stop and purchase her a sandwich.”

  The sudden arrival of Dunoon’s mayor gave Aldridge and his XO time to step aside and have some words in private.

  “It really is good to see you again, Skipper. I can see in your face that your leave was a relaxing one.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far, XO. Susan and Sarah had me on the go every free moment of the day and night.”

  “Did you have any difficulty driving on the wrong side of the road, Skipper?”

  Aldridge grinned.

  “It was a bit tricky at first. Of course, I figured that if I could pilot a seven-thousand-ton submarine down a foggy channel in the dead of night, driving a Rover on the left hand side of the road couldn’t be that difficult.”

  The two laughed, and Aldridge’s tone turned serious.

  “How is the refit going, Bob?”

  The XO shifted his pipe from one side of his mouth to the other before answering.

  “As far as I can see, right on schedule, Skipper. We’ll be taking on the first of our SUBROC’s tonight, with the final modifications to the Mkll7 fire control system due to be completed twenty-four hours later.”

  “So you managed it without me, huh, XO? I knew you would, especially with the able assistance of our esteemed weapons’ officer. So tell me, did Lieutenant Hartman get much sleep while I was away?”

  “You know better than that, Skipper. From the very beginning, the good lieutenant took on this project like it was his responsibility alone. He’s on it day and night, and nothing gets done without Hartman’s personal okay.”

  “We’re very fortunate to have a guy like Ed Hartman aboard the Cheyenne, Bob. I know that he can be a real pain in the ass sometimes, but his attention to detail can really make the difference if we’re ever called on to launch those fish of his.”

  “I hear you, Skipper. But I still think that the guy has to lighten up some. You know what they say about all work and no play.”

  Suddenly aware of the time, Steven Aldridge grimaced.

  “Speaking of the devil, I’ve got a date over at the Old Mermaid to keep. Would you care to join us?”

  “It sounds like it would be fun, Skipper, but we’re due at a formal reception at city hall.”

  “Well, make me proud, XO,” said Aldridge as he prepared to convey his goodbyes to Admiral Hoyt and their Scot host.

  “And I’ll see you back on the ranch sometime tomorrow afternoon.”

  By the time Steven arrived at the pub they had picked for lunch, the creamy head on the pint of beer his wife had ordered had long since disappeared.

  Yet the lukewarm lager was tasty all the same, and the thirsty fifteen-year navy veteran managed to empty the pint in three lengthy swigs. Their fish and chips were as delicious as ever, and only after stops at both the bakery shop and the fishmonger’s did they return to their cottage overlooking Hunter’s Quay.

  Later that evening, long after Sarah was tucked warmly in her bed and while Susan was still busy packing, Aldridge slipped on his overcoat and went outside. The wind that had been with them all afternoon had turned icy. Pulling up his woolen collar to counter these frigid gusts, he glanced up into the sky and found a myriad of twinkling stars shining forth from the crystal clear heavens. Pleasantly surprised by this breathtaking sight, he looked around him. From his current vantage point, he could see the entire length and breadth of that inlet of water known as Holy Loch. Having supposedly gotten this auspicious name several centuries ago when a sailing ship bound to Glasgow sunk here with a load of soil from the Holy land in its hold, the loch was currently home to a U.S. Navy submarine base. A major component of the base itself could be seen floating on the choppy waters of the loch. This ship was the sub tender, USS Hunley. Inside the Hunley was stored almost everything that a submarine would need to continue extended operations. This included food, spare parts, fuel, and even weapon reloads.

  It took a trained eye to spot the minuscule red light that lay amidships, near the waterline of the Hunley. Also bobbing with the swells, this light was the only visible evidence of Aldridge’s present command.

  It belonged to the sail, or conning tower, of the USS Cheyenne. During its current refit, the Cheyenne was berthed beside the Hunley, their hulls separated by a line of hard rubber fenders.

  If there was more light present, Aldridge knew that he would also see the upper portion of his boat’s black hull. Three hundred and sixty feet long from the tip of its conical bow to its tapered stern, the Cheyenne was almost as long as the massive tender, though the majority of his command’s mass lay perpetually hidden beneath the inky waters.

  127 men made this vessel their home. Designed primarily to hunt other submarines, the Cheyenne was powered by a single pressurized, water-cooled nuclear reactor that drove geared steam turbines. A single shaft could propel the ship at speeds well over thirty knots, while its specially welded, high-yield steel hull allowed it to attain a maximum diving depth of some fifteen hundred feet. The sub was also fitted with the latest in digital electronic sonar and fire-control systems.

  In addition to carrying a full complement of MK 48 torpedoes, the Cheyenne was also equipped with Harpoon anti-ship missiles, the Tomahawk cruise missile, and with the completion of their current refit, the SUBROC antisubmarine rocket. All of these advanced weapons were designed to be launched from one of the vessel’s four twenty-one inch midship’s torpedo tubes, thus giving Aldridge an incredibly diversified arsenal of firepower.

  Altogether, the Cheyenne was one of the most awesome warships ever built. Proud to have been picked to lead her into harm’s way, Steven Aldridge could visualize his men at work inside its cylindrical hull.

  Only a spartan crew would currently be manning the control room. This space would be completely lit in red to protect their night vision. Th
e majority of action would be taking place in the forward torpedo room, where the modification to their fire-control system would go on throughout the entire night.

  Ever vigilant in this portion of the ship, Lieutenant Edward Hartman would be doing his best to insure that the work was being done correctly. Most likely the bleary-eyed weapons’ officer would be sipping on one of the innumerable mugs of hot black coffee that he had already downed today, counting the minutes remaining until the refit was scheduled to be completed.

  Hartman was a consummate worrier and a stickler for detail, two traits that made him one of the finest young officers in the entire submarine force.

  Back in the Cheyenne’s engineering spaces, a full detail would be on duty monitoring the ship’s reactor.

  This was Lieutenant Rich Lonnon’s exclusive realm. The brawny New Yorker was a graduate of MIT. Highly intelligent, Lonnon was never afraid to get his hands dirty along with the rest of the enlisted men. He also put in his fair share of work hours, and was most likely on the job at this very moment, insuring that all was well with Cheyenne Power and Light.

  The ship’s galley would also be open at this late hour. By its very nature submarine duty could be boring, tedious work, and Petty Officer Howard Mallott and his devoted crew made meal times something to look forward to. Right now the Cheyenne ‘s brightly painted mess would be rich with the scent of perking coffee. A variety of fresh sandwiches would be available, along with an assortment of other suitable late night snacks. Only recently, Mallott had managed to bring a corn popper on board, and was proud of the fact that he could serve the crew piping hot popcorn at fifty fathoms. This snack was also greatly appreciated when the Cheyenne’s very own movie theatre was operational.

  One of the few compartments that would most likely be empty at this hour would be the sonar room, or as it was affectionately called, the sound shack. Recently the Cheyenne had been lucky enough to get the services of one of the best sonar men in the business. Petty Officer First Class Joe Carter had previously been an instructor in his arcane art at the San Diego Naval Facility. Blessed with ultra sensitive hearing and an uncanny degree of intuition, Carter was versed in every aspect of their BQO, — 5 sonar suite. Such a system was incredibly complex, and the twenty-six-year-old, black St.

  Louisan made the most out of its large active passive spherical bow sonar, conformal passive hydrophone array, and PUFFS fire-control system. He was also responsible for the boat’s BQR-23 towed sonar array.

  Designed to allow pinpoint spotting of the enemy, without having to be distracted by the inherent sounds of the Cheyenne’s own signature, the array was housed in a prominent fairing that ran almost the length of the hull. The winch that deployed it was located between the bow itself and the forward end of the pressure hull. Thus the Cheyenne was equipped with the state-of-the-art when it came to the critical sonar functions, that were, after all, the eyes and ears of the boat whenever they were submerged.

  Twenty-four hours from now, Steven Aldridge would be dressed in dark blue coveralls and be an integral component of this team. But right now he had other responsibilities. A familiar voice broke the silence around him.

  “Penny for your thoughts, sailor.”

  Thus brought back to dry land, Aldridge turned and set his eyes on his beloved wife. Susan was wrapped in her ski parka and carried two steaming mugs of herb tea in her gloved hands.

  “My guess is that you were thinking about another woman,” added Susan as she reached her husband’s side and handed him a mug.

  “And I bet her name is Cheyenne” “I confess. You’re right. Do I still get to keep my tea?”

  Susan flashed a warm smile and cuddled up to him.

  “You know I’m not the jealous type.”

  “No, come to think of it, you never were,” reflected Steven fondly.

  As they stood there silently sipping their tea, Steven’s thoughts returned in time to the day they first met. Twenty years ago, both of them had been aspiring sophomores at the University of Virginia.

  As a participant in the school’s excellent Naval ROTC program, Steven knew from the beginning that his goal was a career in the Navy. He therefore made certain to take a full curriculum of mathematics and science courses, in which he excelled. It was basic English that proved to be his downfall. A tutor was therefore suggested, and into his life walked Susan Spencer, a bright-eyed, vivacious, English major from Norfolk. Steven got that peculiar feeling in his stomach from the first time he laid eyes on her. She was petite, with dark eyes, curly brown hair, and a figure kept trim with daily aerobics. She seemed cool to his ardor at first, though when Steven learned that she was a Navy brat like himself, the two found a common bond.

  In an incredibly short period of time, Steven’s English grades improved to the point where the tutorial sessions were no longer needed. They had never gone out on a real date, and as their professional relationship came to its end, Steven summoned the nerve to ask her for dinner and a movie. Miraculously enough, she accepted readily.

  They saw each other regularly after that, and by the time summer vacation rolled around, Susan felt comfortable enough to invite him to meet her folks.

  The Spencers lived in Virginia Beach. Her father worked nearby, at the Oceana Naval Air Station. He was a Viet Nam veteran who held the rank of commander and had over 400 carrier landings under his belt. When Steven learned that he was currently involved with the P-3 Orion program, his nervousness quickly faded into a barrage of questions relating to the science of antisubmarine warfare. The two talked for hours, and Susan and her mother actually had to pry them apart just to get them to the dinner table.

  One month later, Steven asked Susan to marry him, and she immediately accepted. One thing that they both agreed upon from the outset was that they would wart until Steven’s career was well online before having children. It was on the day that he was promoted to the rank of Lieutenant Commander that Sarah was conceived. And they were currently working on a brother for her.

  “Finish with the packing yet?” asked Steven dreamily.

  “The last trunk is nearly full,” said Susan with a sigh.

  “Then how about going in and giving little Andrew one more try,” offered Steven.

  Susan squeezed his hand and purred.

  “I’d like that very much, sailor. I truly would.”

  The dawn was all too soon in coming. With the bare light of the new day filtering into their bedroom, they once more made love, this time with an urgency that hinted at their inevitable parting. With the warm aftereffects of their shared passion still fresh on his mind, Steven reluctantly rose from their bed. As he stepped from the steaming hot shower, the aroma of strong coffee greeted him, he dressed himself in the freshly pressed set of khakis that he found hanging on the bathroom door.

  Breakfast was a sad affair, with Sarah rattling on about her desire to go hiking with a flock of sheep once again, and the forlorn lovers silently staring at each other from across the kitchen table. Time seemed to fly by, and all too soon the suitcases were securely stowed inside the Rover’s boot. And the last thing Susan saw, as she left her home of the past two months, was the barely discernable, black upper hull of the USS Cheyenne, as it floated on the calm surface of the nearby loch.

  “Be good to my man,” she whispered to the wind, as she ducked into the Rover, feeling almost as if she were handing Steven over to another woman.

  The ferry that would take them to Gourock, the first leg of their long trip to America, was faithfully waiting at Dunoon’s main dock. Sarah was an avid sailor and couldn’t wait to board the sturdy vessel.

  As she ran ahead to begin her exploration of the ship, Steven loaded their suitcases onto a trolley, which he handed over to a grizzled deckhand. He included a five pound note and strict instructions that once the ferry reached Gourock, the deckhand would make certain that both his family and their baggage found its way onto the train to Prestwick airport.

  Steven Aldridge took his wife in
his arms, and as sailors and their women have done from the first time that man went away to sea, they kissed, and cried, and parted, each to go their separate way until the fates willed them together again.

  Steven waited on the docks until the ferry was well across the waters of the firth. He could still see images of Susan and Sarah gathered at the stern railing waving their goodbyes as he heavily turned to get on with his duty. His own sea bag lay in the Rover’s boot, and he sped through Dunoon, proceeding directly to Hunter’s Quay.

  Two serious-faced Marine sentries, who most likely were participants in yesterday’s parade, thoroughly checked his I.D. before allowing him entry into the base itself. Aldridge returned their salute, and drove to the parking lot reserved for officers. He was fortunate to get down to the dock just as a launch was getting set to leave for the tender.

  With thoughts of his family already slipping from his consciousness, Aldridge seated himself in the whaleboat’s bow and peered out at the massive tender that they were rapidly approaching. The USS Hunley’s distinctive squared hull was packed with equipment and dominated by a large crane. Sailors scurried over its deck, their efforts focused solely on caring for the needs of the partially submerged, black-hulled vessel that lay floating close beside it.

  Several individuals could be seen gathered in the top of the Cheyenne’s relatively small sail, and Steven Aldridge felt as if he had been gone from his command for months, instead of a mere seven days.

  Security concerns forced him to be dropped off on the Hunley, instead of right onto the Cheyenne’s deck.

  As he climbed onto the tender, he had to pass the inspection of yet another duo of no-nonsense Marine sentries. One of these leathernecks held a German shepherd on a short steel leash. Stationed here to detect tect illegal drugs, the canine nonchalantly sniffed Steven’s seabag then backed away, signalling that he was free to continue on.

  To get to the gangway leading to the Cheyenne,” he traversed a passageway that led him past a cavernous storeroom packed with spare parts, and a compartment holding one of the Hunley’s many fine machine shops. To the hiss of a welder’s torch, he climbed down a ladder, traded salutes with a trio of enlisted men, and began his way down an exterior corridor, whose ceiling was lined with snaking electrical cables.