by Larry Bond
It was a nasty situation. Go fast to get away from a sonobuoy field, and you’d make enough noise for the passive buoys to pick up. Creep along, and you’re in the field long enough for them to locate you with the explosive echo-ranging.
“Mr. Berg,” the Captain ordered, “come right to course zero six zero, speed five knots. Mind your depth. I want to keep us as close to the bottom as possible and rig ship for ultra-quiet. Ladies, I need you to return to your stateroom.” Without protest, Patterson and Davis left control.
Jerry only glanced at the chart, but it was clear Hardy was taking them out of the trench, which was the sensible thing to do. The trench was an obvious route for any sub trying to leave the area, so the Russians had laid a barrier across that ten or fifteen miles. Leave the trench, and now their quarry could be anywhere in the Kara Sea. Except the trench, of course.
Lenny Berg repeated the Captain’s course and speed order and ordered Memphis down to eight hundred feet. That left sixty feet under the keel. “Jerry, get over there and watch that fathometer. Report the depth every time it changes more than ten feet.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Jerry answered.
“Conn, sonar, more explosive charges, to the north and the south.”
“Sonar, conn aye,” Berg replied, with Hardy nodding his understanding. The Russians were closing in, bracketing their position, but Memphis was already doing what needed to be done.
Jerry kept his eyes glued to the fathometer. “Depth is eight four zero feet.”
Berg replied, “Understood,” and continued working at the chart. He ordered, “Diving officer, make your depth seven eight zero feet.”
Chief Swanson repeated the depth and double-checked the planesman as he brought the boat up to the new depth. Jerry called out the depth as the bottom sloped upward.
Hugging the bottom, Memphis crept and inched her way northeast into shallower and shallower water. Berg kept his eyes on the chart and made sure the boat was never more than sixty feet off the bottom. “Sir, I recommend coming left ten degrees. There’s a deeper spot at three two zero relative, and it also puts us on a more northerly course.”
“Stay on this course, mister.” Hardy shook his head. “They were waiting for us in one deep spot. Right now, if I could, I’d put wheels on this boat.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Berg replied.
Jerry rapidly called out the depth changes, “Depth is four two zero feet and shoaling.” He tried not to sound worried. So what if the charts were incomplete? So what if the Russians were chasing them?
The sudden call on the intercom shocked them all. “Conn, sonar. Engine noises off the port bow. Multiple contacts.”
Hardy took over. “Mr. Berg, I have the conn. Increase speed to ten knots, right fifteen degrees rudder, steady on course zero nine zero. Mr. Berg, watch our depth.”
“Aye, aye, sir. Our depth is good for the next mile on this course.”
“Right fifteen degrees rudder, steady on course zero nine zero, helm aye.”
“Maneuvering making turns for ten knots.”
“Very well,” replied Hardy to the stream of reports, his eyes shifting quickly between the sonar display, fire control, and the nav chart.
“Sonar, conn. What can you tell me about those contacts?”
“Conn, sonar. I’ve got four surface contacts close aboard. They appeared suddenly and I’m getting high blade rates on all of them. I believe they were loitering in the area and now they’ve increased speed to close on us. They currently bear between zero four four and zero six five.” After a moment’s pause, the sonar operator added, “Conn, sonar. Detecting Bull Horn transmissions. Same bearings as the surface contacts.”
The report was largely redundant, as the acoustic intercept receiver started bleeping its warning tones as soon as the ships above them lit off their sonars.
That would put them right over that deeper spot that Lenny had wanted to use, Jerry thought. The Russians were using the landscape to their advantage. But how had they known Memphis was passing by? And where did those ships come from? We didn’t hear them at all!
Another buoy field, he thought. They knew Memphis would leave the trench once she heard the explosions and flushed her from one trap toward another: toward the hunters sitting in a duck blind.
The Captain continued to work with sonar. “Sonar, conn. What is the bearing rate of the surface contacts?”
“Conn, sonar. Very slight right drift, sir, and their blade rate’s increasing, they’re cavitating. I think they’re building up to maximum speed.”
“Man battle…”
Rippling thunder interrupted Hardy’s order. A deep rumble filled the air inside the boat and stopped all activity, every quiet conversation. It was a rough, uneven noise that rose and fell, but as it fell, Jerry felt a mild vibration in the deck and the bulkhead. The Russians were shooting at them.
“Launch an NAE beacon!” Hardy ordered. “Man battle stations. Change course to three five zero, speed twelve knots. Mr. Berg, our depth?”
“We can increase depth to two hundred feet, sir. As long as we’re heading northwest at all, the slope will be downward.”
“Conn, sonar. Multiple clusters of explosions to port and starboard. Evaluated as RBU 6000 fire.” It was old news, but knowing the explosion’s location and identifying the weapon was helpful, if distressing.
Hardy nodded to Berg, then pressed the key on the intercom. “My intention is to run under them and get in their baffles while they try to sort out that countermeasure.”
Berg cautioned, “We risk leaving a wake at this speed and depth, sir.”
“I’m hoping they’ll miss it in the roiled water from the attack. Make your depth one eight zero feet,” the Captain ordered. “That should help as well.”
Lieutenant Commander O’Connell, the Navigator and battle stations OOD, came in and quickly relieved Lenny Berg. That freed up Jerry as well, and he hurried down to the torpedo room.
Most of the torpedo division was already at their stations. Jerry saw Senior Chief Foster fussing with the firing panel. He’d already declared it dead, even cremated, but he wouldn’t stop trying to resurrect it.
The phone talker, TM2 Boyd, saw Jerry and said, “Control wants to man stations for Manta launch, just in case. We’re still at ultra-quiet.”
Jerry quickly put on his phones and started checking the panel. Davidson and Greer were already at their launch positions.
Even before Jerry could report the Manta ready for operations, the control room talker reported, “The Captain wants to know the status of the Manta’s battery.”
Jerry didn’t have to look at the gauge. It was the first thing he’d checked. “Forty-seven percent. Call it three and a half hours at ten knots.”
The phone talker replied, “Forty-seven percent, control aye,” and that was it.
The silence on the phone line pulled at him, demanding to be filled, but Jerry forced himself to be patient. The Russians were close aboard, and all he could do was wait. They might secure in half an hour or they might be here tomorrow morning, still having done nothing. Hopefully having done nothing, he corrected himself.
Jerry checked the space, making sure that everyone was quiet and on the job. The men sat or stood at their stations quietly, speaking in whispers. Foster had several tech manuals out and was leafing through them, being careful to turn the pages quietly.
Another rumble made them turn their heads, automatically trying to locate the sound, which was nearly impossible after passing through both water and a steel hull. Jerry wanted to think it was behind them. It certainly sounded fainter.
WHAAMM. Jerry felt, as well as heard the explosion. It was painful; he couldn’t tell whether from the shock or the intensity of the sound. He looked around the torpedo room in alarm, convinced that water was pouring in somewhere. It reassured him to see that the hull was still intact, but then a second, even stronger explosion rocked the sub.
Jerry had to hang on to the console to stay
in his seat. Objects fell out of their racks. Foster’s coffee cup shattered on the deck. The lights failed and the battle lanterns automatically clicked on, then off a moment later as the overhead lights flickered back to life.
The first explosions, the ones Jerry had felt up in control, had been many smaller charges detonating together, like popcorn. Those were RBU-6000 ASW rockets fired by the surface ships. They had a small warhead, only about fifty pounds of explosive, but each mount fired twelve projectiles.
The last two jolts were hammer blows. Jerry had never imagined anything could be so powerful and not destroy the sub.
“Check the room and the weapons,” Foster ordered, and Jerry automatically looked at his own displays, as well as those of his men. A few were dark, and the Senior Chief ordered Boswell to reset the breakers.
As FT2 Boswell stood up and turned toward the breaker panel, a third explosion sounded, fainter than the first two. Jerry felt the vibrations and heard the rumble, and relaxed because it was so much weaker than the first two.
They weren’t prepared for the one that came next. It felt like the hammer — a giant’s maul — had hit the hull directly outside the torpedo room. Jerry only heard the beginning of the explosion; the ringing in his ears that followed was like church bells.
Boswell was thrown into the port torpedo stow and every man in the torpedo room was knocked to the deck. The lights failed again and sparks flew from cable junctions in the darkness before the circuit breakers cut the power.
21. BREAKOUT
The battle lanterns cut in again and Jerry waited for moment, taking inventory of his bodily appendages before attempting to stand up. He’d struck something — or someone — on the way down and he hurt. From the moans and complaints surrounding him, he wasn’t alone.
The phone talker had been knocked to the deck with the others, but he still had his headphones on and said, “Control wants all stations to report.”
Jerry stood up slowly, favoring a sore knee, and looked around. His division looked battered but unbloodied as they resumed their stations. Boswell reached the breaker panel. “Can’t reset it,” he reported. “No power to the panel.”
“Petty Officer Boyd, report no casualties, but no power either.” As Jerry gave the order, Foster staggered over to the breaker panel, double-checking Boswell. He nodded, confirming the diagnosis.
After he repeated Jerry’s message, Boyd said, “I can hear reports from back aft.” The talker shared the circuit with the other stations on the sub and could hear their reports to control. “There’s a short in the main switchboard and a steam leak in the engine room. There are injuries.”
Before Jerry could ask for more information, Boyd added, “The Captain wants you and Senior Chief Foster in control, ASAP.”
Jerry and Foster moved as fast as they could in the dim illumination up the two decks to control. Jerry smelled the smoke and ozone as he approached the space and coughed as he stepped into the murky darkness. The beams cast by the battle lanterns, instead of illuminating the control room just reflected off the smoke, forming cones of bright white vapor, while the rest of the space seemed pitch black in comparison.
His eyes smarting, Jerry looked away from the lights, feeling his way through the crowded space. He found Hardy and the XO near the chart table and threaded his way over to them.
“Reporting, sir.”
Hardy and the XO both turned to face him. “Two things, Mr. Mitchell. First”—Hardy pointed to one corner of the control room—”we’ve lost the Emergency Torpedo Preset Panel. Second, there is a problem in the engine room.”
Behind Jerry, Foster turned and headed for the panel, as Hardy continued talking to his division officer. The Emergency Torpedo Preset Panel was just that, an emergency backup that allowed the fire-control party to set a torpedo’s course, speed, depth, and enable run in the event the fire-control system was damaged. Unfortunately, the earlier fire in the torpedo room had disabled the receiving circuits, and the Emergency Preset Panel was the only way they could talk to a Mk48. With it gone, Memphis had no weapons capability at all.
As Foster approached the panel, maim lighting came back on and the panel, along with several other pieces of equipment, crackled to life. Showers of sparks flew wildly about and new smoke started pouting from cabinet vents.
“Trip the breaker!” Foster shouted. “Trip it!” Two ratings standing near the control room switchboard dove toward it. The two quickly turned a number of barrel switches and plunged the control room into darkness once again.
Slowly, cautiously, the technicians re-energized the equipment in the space, leaving the preset panel’s breaker open. Two other pieces of gear, the BPS-15 radar display and the TV repeater for the periscope, also sparked until their breakers were opened as well.
As they were bringing the control room’s power back on line, Hardy spoke. “Mr. Mitchell, as soon as you’ve got power in the torpedo room, launch the Manta. Lead the Russians away from Memphis by any means you can think of. We’re dead in the water right now, and will be until Mr. Ho secures the port main engine. We had a bad steam leak and even after we get propulsion, we’ll be noisy and slow. And with the preset panel gone, we can’t fight. Our only hope is to have them looking somewhere else.”
The control room intercom carried Ho’s voice. “Engineer, sir. We’re ready to answer bells, but only up to ahead standard. The best we’ll be able to make on the starboard main engine alone is twenty knots at full rpm. We can creep at five, tops. We’ve secured steam to the port main engine and that’s stopped the leak. It’s been isolated from the reduction gear so it won’t drag. We’re investigating the cause of the steam leak.”
Hardy nodded to Bair, who was standing next to the intercom. The XO answered, “All right Eng, thanks for the report. How are your guys holding up?”
“Final casualty count is four injured, three with burns and one with a broken ankle. I’m waiting for a report from the corpsman. I’ll pass the word to you as soon as I get it.”
“Understood,” Bair answered.
Ho added one final comment. “Sir, the plant took one hell of a beating. If we take many more knocks like that last one, we could lose a lot more than the port main engine.”
Hardy stepped up to the intercom. “Do your best, Mr. Ho. Without you, we don’t get home. Control out.” He turned back to Mitchell. “Get going.” His face softened and he said, “Get them away from my boat, mister.”
Jerry answered, “Aye, aye, sir,” as he left control and headed below. Foster was up to his elbows in the preset panel, calling for tools, but Jerry didn’t need the Senior Chief to launch the Manta.
They had already started the sequence by the time he got to the torpedo room. He rushed through the procedure, as familiar to him now as getting out of bed in the morning. By all his indications, the Manta had come through the attack without a scratch. There was one bad moment when Jerry fretted about how well the docking skirt and latches had weathered the shock, but the display showed them all releasing, and the Manta automatically lifted off and away from its dock.
With the UUV now clear, Jerry suddenly found himself at a complete loss about what to do next. He’d been so focused on the launch he hadn’t thought about tactics.
Lead them away from Memphis. All right. I can do that. He ordered the Manta to turn west, back toward the trench, and punched the speed to fifteen knots. He also enabled the Manta’s simulator mode. A set of transducers in the vehicle would emit the acoustic signature of a Los Angeles-class sub. The Manta wouldn’t be quiet at that speed, and combined with the simulator mode, he hoped it would attract the attention of the Russian pursuers.
To help get their attention, he also sent a command sending the Manta to shallow depth. The surface wake would show a live contact leaving the scene of their latest attack at a brisk pace. Hopefully, they’d be busy repositioning for another attack and wouldn’t notice Memphis creeping in the general direction of away.
But was it working?
It had only taken a few moments to send the commands. How long before he knew if the Russians were fooled? He was afraid that the way they’d find out it wasn’t working was another battering.
He felt like waving a flag or broadcasting insulting Russian phrases. Instead, he told control what he’d done. Hardy came on the line. “I’m taking Memphis northeast at a creep and we’re hugging the bottom. Will you turn north once you’re in the trench?”
“Yessir. I’m going to stay noisy, drop a countermeasure if they attack, and then break away.”
“Approved, but don’t break away too quickly. I want them to have a solid contact, so that everybody is completely focused on you.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Jerry started to mention the range limit on the acoustic modem, but held his fire. Hardy knew about it and reminding him wouldn’t help. It was Jerry’s job to figure out what to do.
He checked the nav display and adjusted the Manta’s course slightly. He wanted it to pass through the buoy field Memphis had encountered. He also sent the Manta deeper, not because it would make him easier to find, but because that’s what a real sub would do.
He checked the battery gauge and tried to do the math. Fifteen knots wasn’t flat out, but it would burn more of the Manta’s battery endurance than he’d like. Every minute he spent at fifteen knots now was good for eight or ten at creep speed.
But dammit, he had to know if it was working or not? Where were those four patrol boats that had attacked them earlier? He requested control to ask sonar for their status.
“U-bay, sonar. We’re on the line with you now. The four boats are astern of us, maneuvering and pinging. Our guess is they’re executing a search pattern at the site of our last attack. We think those were S3V depth charges, by the way. There was no torpedo noise at all before the explosions. They’re dropped from an aircraft, probably a Bear or a May patrol plane. They’re also passive homing, so we’ve got to stay quiet.”
“Sonar, U-bay aye. And if the Manta makes too much noise, it will be an easy target for them.” Jerry then added, “Thanks for the update.”
