The Golden U-Boat

by Richard P. Henrick

  The last stack of correspondence that he would eventually get to was that which he un glamorously labeled junk mail. Included in this pile were unsolicited letters from various financial planners, insurance companies, and several mail-order catalogues.

  With the initial job of sorting out of the way, he was now able to actually see his desk blotter. This was a promising sign, and he got on with the task of reading the memos that had been sent to him by an assortment of naval department personnel.

  His only break was for a light lunch of grapes, cottage cheese, and oat bran crackers. He was serious about taking off the extra weight that he had recently put on, and since submariners led sedentary lives while on patrol, he would have to watch his diet most carefully.

  Before getting immediately back to work, his glance caught the framed photograph that he had just mounted above his desk. This photo showed Susan, Sarah and himself during their recent holiday.

  It had been taken by a cooperative deckhand while they were crossing over on the ferry from Oban to the island of Mull. An ancient Scottish castle could just be seen on the shoreline over his right shoulder, and one didn’t have to look close to see that they were having a wonderful time.

  Susan looked especially happy. With her brown, pixie-cut hair style, freckled face, trim figure, and the University of Virginia sweatshirt that she was wearing, she didn’t look much different from the young college girl that he had met and fallen in love with over two decades ago. The proof of the years passing was in the face and figure of Sarah.

  The six-year-old was getting to be quite the little lady now. She could ride a bike, speak elementary French, and had even had her first course in operating a computer. There was no doubt that she was the spitting image of her mother, and like her mom would be a real heartbreaker by the time she got to junior high school.

  Shortly after this picture was taken, while Sarah was playing in the ferry’s game room, Susan brought up the subject that between them they called “the problem.” This hadn’t been the first time that she had talked to him about the difficulties she faced with him gone a good six months out of the year, and it wouldn’t be the last, either.

  Why couldn’t he transfer out of the operational end of his business, and get a position with more regular hours, she asked emotionally? In these formative years, Sarah needed a full-time father. And it was hard on Susan as well. Not only did she have emotional and physical needs that went unfulfilled by his long absences at sea, but everyday life was difficult enough for her. During his last patrol, the refrigerator had gone on the blink. And no sooner did she get a repairman out to get it working again, when the toilet backed up all over their new bathroom carpet. And wouldn’t you know that all of this would occur on the same day that Sarah was to come home from school with the measles?

  Steven listened to her concerns, but really didn’t know how to solve them. He had told her from the very beginning that his ultimate goal was to get a submarine command of his own. And the day he was named C.O. of the Cheyenne was the pinnacle of his long career.

  At forty years of age, Steven was at his prime. To get an attack sub of his own was all that he had ever dreamed of. He figured that he had another five years of sea duty left in him at best. During this time he had hoped to be one of the first to skipper one of the new Seawolf class attack subs.

  The Seawolf was the first new class of attack subs to be produced for the navy since the 688 class entered service back in the late 1970’s. It proved to be an exciting, dynamic warship, and Steven wanted to be one of the first to take it to sea. Only then would he be truly satisfied with his career, and seriously think about stepping aside to let a younger man take over at the helm.

  Meanwhile, Susan would just have to learn to cope with the situation. He even went as far as suggesting that they should both see a family counselor next time he was home. Susan didn’t like this idea at all, and when it became obvious that he was still very serious about remaining in the operational end, at least for the next few years, Susan brought up the idea of having another child. Steven wondered if this wouldn’t make her life even more difficult.

  Yet Susan had apparently given this matter a lot of previous thought, and explained that another baby would help fill the void in her life caused by his naval duty. As to how she would cope at home with another child to care for, she had already talked to her parents about it. They readily agreed to have Susan and the kids move in with them while Steven was on patrol.

  As the only son of an only son, Steven was the last in the Aldridge line. A boy would mean a lot to him, and he accepted her offer with open arms.

  In fact, they got to work on it that very evening, in the bedroom of their bed and breakfast, high in the heather-filled hills of Mull.

  When they parted for this current patrol, Steven felt closer to Susan than he had in years. Their deepest concerns and dreams were out in the open now, and a new honesty prevailed between them.

  And, of course, there was always the hope that his seed had already taken, and a new life was forming deep inside Susan’s womb. It was with this hopeful thought in mind that Steven went back to work.

  At 17:00 hours exactly, an enticing aroma found its way into his cabin. Ten minutes later, there was a knock on his door and in walked Chief Howard Mallott with a tray.

  “Sorry to disturb you, Captain. But it’s time for some supper. I heard about that skimpy lunch that you had, and I figured that you’d be wanting to eat early this evening.”

  “You figured right. Chief,” replied Aldridge, who cleared a place on his desk for the tray.

  “I realize that you’re counting those calories, Captain.

  And there’s nothing here that’s going to hurt you,” said Mallott as he picked up the aluminum plate cover and added, “… there’s the turkey stew that you saw me preparing earlier. That meat’s good and lean with half the fat of ground beef. Then there’s margarine for your rolls and skimmed milk to drink. Your dessert is low-fat raspberry yogurt.”

  Wasting no time with formalities, Aldridge picked up his fork and sampled some of the stew.

  “It’s simply delicious, Chief.”

  “I’m glad you like it, Captain. It does my heart good to see someone really enjoy their chow. If only I could stick to a diet myself. It seems that I’m perpetually fighting the battle of the bulge.”

  Mallott patted his pot-belly and turned to exit.

  “Enjoy it, Captain. And if you want seconds, just give me a ring.”

  As the chief left his cabin, Aldridge got down to some serious eating. He found the turkey balls moist and flavorful. The vegetables that they were cooked with complimented them perfectly. He especially enjoyed the combination of cooked carrots, celery, onions, and potatoes. He used the. wheat roll to sop up the excess gravy, and didn’t even have to use the margarine.

  Aldridge polished off his stew, and was well into his yogurt, when his intercom rang. The handset was mounted on the bulkhead right in front of him, and he only had to reach out to grab it.

  “Captain here … I understand, Lieutenant Laird. As OOD I’m going to let you take us up to periscope depth. I’m just finishing dinner, and I’ll be right up there to join you.”

  As Aldridge hung up the handset he looked to his watch and saw that they were right on schedule.

  The Cheyenne’s navigator had just called to inform him that they were rapidly approaching the southern edge of the Odin oil fields. Laird had requested a quick visual scan with their periscope to confirm their position, to which Aldridge readily agreed.

  Since even a routine procedure such as taking the Cheyenne to periscope depth was fraught with many unforeseen dangers, Aldridge hurriedly finished his dessert and proceeded to the control room. Lieutenant Andrew Laird was the ship’s youngest officer and was fairly new to submarines. Though fully qualified, he lacked experience, and Aldridge vowed to give him his fair share during this patrol.

  As the captain crossed the passageway that would take
him directly to the control room, he remembered well his own early days as a neophyte. A decade and a half ago when he first put to sea as a raw ensign, his C.O. had been a tough old veteran, who leaned on him constantly. He was always being put to the test in pressure packed situations, and he emerged a better officer because of it.

  Since that time, he had had the opportunity to break in dozens of junior officers himself, and he always made certain to give them their fair share of responsibility from the very beginning. The Cheyenne ‘s current navigator was no exception, and if he was made out of the right stuff, he’d handle himself like the professional underwater warrior that he had trained so hard to be.

  Aldridge arrived in the control room just as one of the two eight inch thick, steel periscopes rose up from the deck below with a loud hiss of hydraulic oil. Several drops of water could be seen running down the shiny cylinder from its overhead fitting as Lieutenant Laird snapped down the scope’s hinged handles and nestled his eyes up against its rubberized lens coupling.

  “Sixty-five feet and holding,” called the diving officer from his console.

  The submarine began to level out and Aldridge watched as the young OOD began silently twisting the scope in a full circle. Halfway through this scan, Laird halted.

  “We’ve got an oil platform in sight, bearing zero-two-zero,” he eagerly observed.

  “It’s lit up out there like a Christmas tree.”

  Instead of continuing on with his circular scan, Laird’s line of sight seemed to be locked on the platform. Steven Aldridge was about to instruct him to reinitiate his full recon of the waters above, when the young OOD did so on his own.

  As he reached that portion of the sea’s surface that lay immediately behind them, Laird once again briefly hesitated. Yet this was all too soon followed by a frightening cry that emanated from deep within the OOD’s throat.

  “Emergency deep! Surface contact headed straight toward us.”

  Steven Aldridge’s pulse quickened as he watched his crew snap into action. With a lightning movement, the OOD slapped the scope handles to the vertical and reached over to hit the switch that would lower the periscope back into its well. Meanwhile the helm could be heard ordering, “All ahead full!”

  “Full dive on the fall-water planes!” commanded the diving officer, who next instructed that the stern planes be likewise engaged.

  The captain didn’t have to say a thing as the chief of the watch began flooding the depth control tank, as the OOD’s emergency deep order was relayed to the rest of the crew over the P. A. system.

  They had rehearsed this very same drill hundreds of times before, allowing them to proceed like a well choreographed dance number.

  As the submarine pitched over and began its way toward the protective depths, the grinding sound of the surface ship’s screws rose to a deafening crescendo, yet back in sonar this roar was soon replaced by the sound of the Cheyenne own propeller as it frantically dug into the frigid seas to move them out of harm’s way.

  Less than a minute later, it was all over. Having no idea how close it had come to ramming them, the surface ship unwarily continued on its northward course, and gradually the sounds of its screws dissipated.

  Sweat lined Steven Aldridge’s forehead as he scanned the compartment, his gaze finally resting on the OOD. The young navigator looked badly shaken, and Aldridge knew very well that he was in the process of blaming himself for this near tragic incident.

  “That was too close for comfort, Lieutenant Laird. But it’s not unusual for these things to happen.

  That’s why we repeat those drills over and over until you can practically perform them in your sleep.”

  “I … guess I should have completed my initial scan quicker,” stuttered the navigator.

  “That you should have,” returned Aldridge.

  “But the boys down in the sound shack deserve their share of the blame also. They should have heard that contact long ago, and warned you to be on the look out for it. But we’ll hash this whole thing out in detail later. Right now, how about taking us back up and taking a closer look at the vessel that almost deep-sixed us?”

  Buoyed by the captain’s trust in him, Andrew Laird took a deep breath and called out firmly.

  “Secure from emergency deep. Bring us back up to periscope depth, chief.”

  A sense of normalcy quickly returned to the Cheyenne as the control room crew pulled the sub out of its dive and guided it back toward the surface. This time though, Laird waited until sonar had the surface contact firmly fixed in the waters in front of them before raising the periscope. Only after a complete 360 degree scan with the scope was completed did the OOD concentrate his gaze on the stern of the ship that lay off their bow.

  “I’ve got them, Captain,” said the navigator, a hint of newfound confidence edging his tone.

  Aldridge quickly replaced Laird at the scope to take a look for himself. Lit by the bare light of dusk, the gray seas slapped up against the lens, and the Captain had to wait until they were in between swells to spot the square stern of a yellow-hulled ship up ahead. This vessel had twin stacks set amidships, and a large crane dominating its after deck. Yet it was only after increasing the scope’s magnification that he was able to read the ship’s name and port.

  “It’s the Falcon out of Haugesund,” he reported.

  “Looks to me that she’s a diving support ship that’s probably involved with the offshore oil business.

  She sure appears to be hauling ass, completely heedless of that sea-state topside.”

  Even at a depth of sixty-five feet beneath the sea’s surface, the Cheyenne found itself rolling in the under-currents produced by this swell.

  “I guess those rough seas kind of take the boys in the sound shack off the hook,” observed the Captain, as he backed away from the scope.

  “In this agitated layer, sonar would be practically useless. With all that wave action to contend with, a contact would have to be practically on top of us before they’d hear it.”

  “I guess that lays the blame squarely on my shoulders, Captain,” offered the OOD.

  “It was up to me to spot that contact the second our scope broke the surface.”

  “That’s what the responsibility of command is all about, Lieutenant. But don’t be too hard on yourself.

  You spotted that vessel in time, and that’s the bottom line. Yet to make up for any guilty feelings that you might still harbor against yourself, you can wipe the slate clean by being the first to tag that West German sub that we’ve been sent out here to locate.”

  It was obvious that the Captain was giving him a second chance, and Lieutenant Andrew Laird quickly rose to accept the challenge.

  “I’ll try my best, Sir.”

  “That’s all I’m asking,” returned Aldridge, who noted that his XO had just entered the control room.

  “Now I’d better go and console the XO. From that stain on his coveralls, I’d say that Lieutenant Commander Stoddard was in the midst of a little turkey stew when our little crash dive came down.”

  In an adjoining portion of the Norwegian Sea, yet another submarine was securing itself from periscope depth. The Lena was well on its way to the waters off of Karsto where its recon mission would take place, and so far their sprint down the coast of Norway had been without incident.

  “She appears to be a diving support vessel of some sort,” observed Captain Grigori Milyutin as he peered into his video monitor.

  Looking over his shoulder, Admiral Alexander Kuznetsov also watched as the bright-yellow hull of this ship crashed into a large swell.

  “I still can’t get used to the idea of not having to peer through the customary cylinder-mounted viewing coupling to see such an image,” commented the white-haired veteran.

  “Such obsolete equipment doesn’t even exist on the Lena” boasted its Captain.

  “Don’t forget, we don’t even carry a traditional hull-penetrating periscope.

  Our viewing device is m
erely mounted into the Lena’s sail, where it’s extended by a single push on my computer keyboard. A fiber-optic cable then relays the signal straight to this video monitor, where I can see what’s going on topside from the comfort of my command chair.”

  “This ship continues to astound me,” said Alexander.

  “As she does me also, Admiral,” admitted Grigori Milyutin.

  The Lena rolled as a result of the rough seas topside, and the captain added, “It’s time to return to the calm depths beneath us. Comrade diving officer, take us down to two-hundred meters.”

  “Two hundred meters it is, Captain,” repeated the alert diving officer.

  There was a slight shifting forward as the boat’s plane’s were engaged and the Lena nosed downward.

  Alexander tightly gripped the back of the captain’s chair to keep his balance, yet soon they were running level once again, and Alexander let go of his handhold.

  “I guess that I should be going to my stateroom to complete my speech for tonight’s Komsomol meeting,” remarked Alexander.

  “I do hope that this speech isn’t too much of an imposition on you,” whispered Milyutin.

  There was a conspirial tone to this statement, and Alexander responded accordingly.

  “The Lena’s Zampolit certainly appears to take his position on this vessel most seriously, doesn’t he, Captain?”

  “It’s the nature of the beast,” offered Milyutin.

  “Why such individuals are still assigned to warships such as this one is beyond me,” said Alexander quietly.

  “The days of political instability in the Rodina’s fleet are long gone. The political officer is an anachronism.”

  “I agree, Admiral. Having Felix Bucharin aboard the Lena is a complete waste of precious space, especially with a crew of this limited size. Now if he had some sort of operational skill that we could utilize, that would be different. But as it stands now, he knows absolutely nothing about running a warship.

  All he does is eat our food and fill our heads with useless, boring political theories that have no practical value whatsoever.”