Ten minutes later, the lookouts and the Exec confirmed that the contact was one of the big automobile carriers. Shaped like a shoebox with a narrow bow, a squat, overhanging stern, 100 foot high slab sides, swing ramps at the stern, two small stacks at the very back, and a pilothouse built into the front of the box over the bow, the 850 foot long car carriers transported over 2000 new automobiles on seven drive-through decks. They were modern, fin-stabilized, and fast ships especially designed and built to feed America’s unrelenting appetite for high quality Japanese cars and trucks.
“Contact is tracking 285 at twenty-two knots,” reported the surface supervisor.
“Pretty good for a single screw ship,” remarked the operations officer.
“Especially one that displaces around fifty, sixty thousand tons,” said Mike. “Leave it to the Japanese to make a ship as modern as their cars. Tell sonar what the classification is, and tell the bridge to keep us in this general area, five knots, random course changes every ten to fifteen minutes.”
As the operations officer passed the word down to Linc in Sonar Control, Mike decided it was time for a tour of the ship. His large body was never meant to sit for hours on end even in the comfort of the Captain’s upholstered chair. He left CIC, and headed down the interior ladder to the 01 level, one deck below the bridge. He walked aft past radio central and his own cabin, and out through the watertight hatch onto the midships deck area. Bright sunlight reflecting off an aquamarine sea dazzled his eyes, and it took him a few minutes to get his full vision back.
He walked aft past the after deckhouse with its gun director perched on top, and came around the corner by the boat decks to Mount Fifty Two. The mount’s two steel doors were open, and the amplidyne motors shut down to prevent overheating. A gunner’s mate was sitting in each door. They got up as the Captain approached, and Mike motioned for them to sit down again.
“How’s GQ treating you guys,” he asked as he walked up to the big gun mount.
“OK, Cap’n,” replied the senior gunner. “We’re just waiting around to shoot somebody.”
Mike could see the brass fuse tips on the five inch shells gleaming in the transfer trays. The big gun’s automatic machinery could load and shoot forty two rounds of five inch diameter shells in one minute, and Goldsborough sported three of these mounts.
“Well, hopefully, you’ll get your chance, if this bad guy comes up on the surface.”
“You really think there’s a A-rab submarine out there, Cap’n?” asked the gunner’s mate.
“We think there’s a chance, gunner, just a chance. All of this may be for absolutely nothing, but as long as there’s a chance, it’s our job to try to get in his face and prevent an attack on Coral Sea.”
The gunners nodded.
“When’s the carrier coming?” asked the younger one.
“We expect the carrier to pass through this area on the way into Norfolk around 1600. But the submarine might be here right now, for all we know. We have to sit here quietly so’s we don’t spook him out to someplace where we can’t get at him; when we see the bird farm come over the horizon, we’ll come up active and go looking.”
“So he could be drawin’ a bead on us right now, for all we’d know it,” observed the senior gunner, looking anxiously at the horizon.
“Well, he could,” replied Mike, “but if he took a shot at us before the carrier got here, it would reveal that he was here, and that would warn off the carrier. He’s only going to get one opportunity, and he’s not here to get a tin can. Way we see it, he has to wait, just like us.”
Both gunners looked around nervously at the calm, pristine sea.
“Sure hope you’re right about that, Cap’n,” said the senior gunner.
“Well, once the carrier comes over the horizon, we’ll probably find out. That’s when I’ll need all the eyeballs that are topside looking for periscopes, feathers, or torpedo tracks. If it stays flat calm like this, you guys will be as valuable as radar.”
Mike left them thinking about that, and headed aft down the ladder to the main deck. He continued aft along the main deck, glancing himself at the horizon, walking past Mount Fifty Three, greeting its gunner’s mates, and stopping at the depth charge racks. The racks were cleared for action, with each of the 500 pound depth bombs fuzed with bright brass fuse rings, and the stainless steel caps of the power supplies and depth sensors inserted. The two sonarmen who operated the rack stood to attention as Mike walked up. They were both dressed out in full battle gear, with one man wearing an oversized helmet to accommodate his sound powered phone circuit.
“At ease, Guys,” said Mike, taking in the dark patches of perspiration in their battle gear. It was hot back here on the fantail in the bright sunlight. “Got these hummers ready to go?”
“Yes, Suh,” replied the petty officer in charge, in a deep drawl. “You git us on top of that gomer, and we’ll open his ass up to underwater southern living.”
Mike smiled, These guys were ready to believe there was a submarine out here.
“That might be hard to do, guys,” he said. “The submarine isn’t going to just sit there while we drive over top of him.”
“We kin allays roll one or two if he’s nearby; guys at school say that sceers the shit out of ’em, and sometimes screws up their machinery to boot.”
“You ready to set fuzes quick-like?” asked Mike.
“Yes, Sir,” said the other petty officer, brandishing the Y-shaped fuse wrench.
Each depth charge had to be set by hand for the detonation depth, which ranged from 50 to 500 feet. The fifty foot setting had to be set twice, because a detonation at that depth would likely damage the ship dropping the depth charge. As a matter of course, the charges were all pre-set for 200 feet; that way, if the men on the fantail were incapacitated, the bridge could operate the release machinery remotely, drop them and get some effect. The rest of the Navy had long since given up depth charges, because they required the destroyer to maneuver right on top of the submarine. With the advent of high speed nuclear submarines, it was now the submarine that could out-maneuver the surface ship, thus making the depth charge attack almost impossible. Most ASW experts, however, still yearned for the depth charge capability, if only for the psychological effects of a five hundred pound bomb going off at depth, down there where the submarine lived. Very few submariners alive had ever been subjected to the sheer terror of depth bombs.
“We may have to do some fancy setting this afternoon,” said Mike. “The water depth here is around 300 to 350 feet, and this is a diesel boat we’re after. He can ride down to the bottom if he wants to, or be operating at sixty foot keel depth. But remember the basic rule, if I say roll one now, I mean now, and don’t take time to change the standard setting—just roll that bastard and assume the position.”
They grinned at him. The “position” was a deep knee bend held in the flexed position—a depth charge at 200 feet could still hammer the stern hard enough to break legs if the ship had not moved far enough away.
“Won’t be using any torpedoes at all, Cap’n?” asked one of the petty officers. He was a sonarman, and thus was privy to the weapons briefing conducted the night before.
“We might,” replied Mike. “Chances are the fish would acquire the bottom and attack that before it acquired the pigboat. But if we set it too shallow, it might acquire us instead of the pigboat—we’re the bigger target in the eyes of its sonar. I know they’ve got the fifty foot lockout but I wouldn’t want to bet my ass on that feature, not after that one jumped out of the water at a helo about ten years back. But I still might use one, especially if he shoots a fish at us —I’d fire back down the bearing of the incoming fish and let him take his chances while I try to get out of the way of his screamer. Either way, you can count on our using these beauties back here to get his attention away from the bird farm, if he shows up. So you guys be ready; from now until about 1800 is the attack window.”
They assured him that they and their de
adly charges would be ready. Mike walked forward up the port side to the forward breaks, the weather shield structure underneath the pilothouse that protected the main decks from waves coming over the forecastle. He climbed a short, vertical ladder to the port torpedo platform, finding it harder to keep his balance with the steel helmet on. On the platform he found two torpedomen waiting for him at attention. He smiled mentally. The word was getting around the sound-powered phone circuits that the Old Man was making a tour; the torpedo decks had obviously been alerted.
The two torpedomen saluted Mike as he climbed through the chains at the top of the ladder. Mike returned their salutes and talked to them for a few minutes, answering questions and exhorting them to be on their toes for this afternoon’s possible engagement. Mike found out that one of the air flasks had a slow leak, and that the torpedo decks were having a problem getting 3000 pound air from the forward engineroom. Nothing beats personal reconnaissance, he thought, making a note of the problem.
One of the men pointed over towards the starboard side. The Toyota car carrier was steaming by, carving a creamy wake some 6000 yards away. Mike decided to get back up to the bridge and CIC. He’d yell at the snipes about the HP air. It was getting on to noon. He wondered briefly what Diane was doing.
SIXTY-FOUR
The submarine Al Akrab, Jacksonville operating areas, Friday, 9 May; 1205
The Captain stood behind the sonarman, his face intent. Everyone in the control room was listening to the sounds of the approaching ship, a steady beating noise coming from the speaker above the sonar console. The Captain shook his head.
“Single screw; this is not the carrier,” he pronounced, and the control room crew relaxed slightly.
“Depth,” he asked.
“Depth is sixty five meters,” responded the Musaid from his chair behind the planesmen. “On course 090; speed is four knots.”
The Captain tapped the sonarman on one shoulder.
“Evaluation,” he inquired.
“Sir, the contact is east of us, bearing 145, exhibits up doppler, single screw, making high speed. A power screw, which indicates a large ship.”
“Could this be a deception?” asked the operations officer from his position near the attack director. “The Coral Sea on one screw?”
The Captain frowned. It was possible, but unlikely. Why would the carrier be operating in a deception mode? If she had been warned of Al Akrab’s presence, there would be a mob of escorts out here, and very likely no carrier at all. He shook his head slowly, still concentrating on the hydrophone effects coming over the speaker. The big ship was going to come fairly close to them; the bearing had been steady and then had begun to drift right only slightly in the past five minutes. But what was it? Who was it? He decided they had to take a look.
“No. This is something else. What is the CPA?”
“Sir. The closest point of approach will be to starboard, approximately 3000 meters, based on passive bearing analysis.”
“Very well. Secure the speaker, Musaid. Go to periscope depth.”
“As you command, Effendi,” replied the Musaid.
He touched the shoulder of the depth control planesman, who nodded and pulled back on the yoke. The submarine tilted slightly up at the bow, and began to rise silently on electric propulsion. The members of the control room battle stations team made way for the Captain as he took his position at the periscope well. The control room was steamy in the heat of the tropical sea; the ventilators fought a losing battle with all the main compartment hatches latched shut. The Captain watched the depth gauge in front of the planesmen as Al Akrab came up to a keel depth of sixty feet. As the bow levelled off and the deckplates returned to horizontal, the Musaid nodded at the Captain, who turned once more to the sonarman.
“Report,” he ordered.
“Sir. The large ship is almost abeam, bearing 195, and passing down our starboard side; I have no estimate of range, but the bearing drift indicates she is not close aboard. There is something else.”
“Yes?”
A sudden silence in the control room, all eyes on the young man siting the sonar stack, as he listened carefully, his hands clasped over his earphones. The silence became prolonged.
“Sir. I think there is another ship. Very quiet, but something I can hear. Also east Bearing 095. Distant. I could not hear it over the noise of the large ship, who now exhibits down doppler—she is going past us.”
“Classify,” ordered the Captain.
“Sir. I cannot classify, other than one screw. I may be wrong. But I think there is something there. East of us, and very quiet.”
The Captain took a deep breath. They had made their approach into the attack zone from the north, slowly and silently, on the battery, well below the acoustic layer. They had detected a couple of fishermen and small craft on the way, and then, an hour ago, the large ship, a steady drumming sound coming from the southeast, headed in toward the Jacksonville approaches. The intelligence report had said Coral Sea was due that evening, but it was only midday. Had there been a change of plans? A warning? And now the report of something else out there. His hackles rose.
“Depth control is stable at periscope depth,” reminded the Musaid.
“Sonar, what is the sea state above?” asked the Captain.
“From the sound, it is flat calm. I hear no waves,” replied the sonarman.
“Up scope,” ordered the Captain. “Hold at fifty five feet for manual control.”
The periscope came up swiftly, but stopped short of its full height, its bronze tip remaining five feet beneath the surface above. The Captain took a switch cable in his hand, and lowered the periscope control arms, squatting down on the deckplates to meet the eyepiece. He pushed his forehead against the eyepiece headrest, and then closed the trigger switch. The periscope started up again, but very slowly. The Captain took little duckwalking steps around the compass as the scope came up. At first he could see nothing, and then light, a blue haze everywhere, and then a lighter blue as the optics neared the actual surface. He released the button for a moment.
“Make minimum speed,” he ordered. If there were no waves, the periscope would be visible to the naked eye, and even more visible to a surface search radar.
“Minimum speed,” acknowledged the watch officer. “Setting for three knots.”
“Can you hold depth at three knots, Musaid?”
“Yes, Effendi. I must pump two trim tanks, but we can hold depth control.”
“Permission granted to activate trim tank pumps. I’m breaking the surface—now,” he declared, pushing his forehead tightly against the headrest, revolving the scope quickly, and then pulling it back down one meter below the surface.
“Some kind of large merchant ship,” he announced. “Not the Coral Sea.”
There was a collective sigh of relief in the control room from everyone except the weapons officer, who was staring at the Captain, aware of the pained expression on the Captain’s face.
“Sir. How big a merchant ship?” he asked the Captain.
The Captain gave him a slight nod, acknowledging the weapons officer’s acumen in asking the important question.
“Very large, weapons officer,” replied the Captain in a tight voice. “Very large indeed.”
The Deputy, who had been watching this interchange intensely, suddenly figured it out.
“The mines,” he said.
The Captain turned to stare at him, and then trained his cold eyes around the control room.
“Yes,” he sighed. “The mines. Now it is up to us. If that ship is going to Jacksonville, it will eat the mines. Now it is entirely up to us. Prepare yourselves.”
“Sir,” called the sonarman. “I have heard it again. Bearing east, by a half south. Something is there, Captain.”
The Captain rotated the periscope to 120. He waited. Two minutes later the swell made by the passing car carrier began to gently rock the submarine.
“His wake is passing by; I will expose the
periscope,” the Captain said.
He squatted again, and pushed the control button at the end of its wire, timing the periscope to come up out of the sea coincident with the passage of the merchant’s wake. To a radar, the sudden return would be taken for the wake. He hoped.
He turned the periscope to high power, and stared as it neared the surface, the image of the turbulence right at the surface causing him to blink. Then daylight, bright sunlight, flashed through the optics. He drew back reflexively, and the control room crew could see the bright ring of sunlight around his eyes for an instant. He pressed his face against the optics again, and stared, rotating the scope right and left ten degrees. Again. Nothing. Right and left twenty degrees. And hold.
There. On the horizon. The unmistakable shape of a warship’s top hampers, the dark, lattice masts and the multiple radar antennas. Hull down. A destroyer. Not moving, keeping quiet. A chill filled his belly.
“Periscope down,” he ordered. “Make your depth sixty meters, course 180, speed five.”
He looked up at the faces of the control room crew as the periscope sank into its well, the deckplates pitching forward and down as the Musaid took her below.
“It seems,” he announced, “that we have company.”
SIXTY-FIVE
Atlantic Fleet headquarters, Norfolk, Virginia, Friday, 9 May; 1430
Captain Larry Desantes, the staff intelligence officer, was standing in front of Vice Admiral Bennett’s desk. He was not having a particularly good afternoon. The Admiral was reading a secure telefax obtained from Washington ten minutes ago. Admiral Bennett was shaking his head from side to side, as if to will away the information in the fax. He looked up at the staff intelligence officer.
“According to this, N2, the senior photoanalysis committee has met in emergency session and are now saying that one of the six subs tied up at Ras Hilal may not be a real submarine.”
He pitched the piece of paper down on his desk, and swivelled his chair to stare out the window, where he had a fine view of the Navy Exchange across the parking lot.
Scorpion in the Sea Page 51
