by Jeff Edwards
* * *
USS Towers:
Chief McPherson listened to Firewalker’s contact report and shook her head. Ingraham was the only unit left that was capable of engaging the sub. But the frigate was not equipped with ASROC. Ingraham would have to close the submarine to within a few thousand yards and conduct a torpedo attack using her over-the-side torpedo tubes. An iffy proposition at best. The last place a surface ship wanted to be was within weapons range of a hostile submarine.
The chief stared at the dark screen of the powerless CDRT as if it still had the capacity to show her something. If she’d been in Commander Culkins’ shoes, she would have launched Gunslinger Four-One. Of course, the launch itself would take about five minutes. Add to that another ten minutes for the helo to get into attack position. Fifteen minutes minimum before the helo would be able to engage the submarine. Fifteen minutes was a long time. The sub could launch more Vipers, or it might disappear again. Commander Culkins wouldn’t want to take that risk. He would go after the submarine himself, despite the risks.
Perhaps thirty seconds later, the SAU Commander responded to Firewalker’s contact report, and all of the chief ’s predictions came true.
“Firewalker Two-Six. All units, this is SAU Commander. Your contact designated Gremlin Zero Four. Maintain track and pass targeting data to all units. Break. All units, this is SAU Commander. Ingraham is detaching from the formation to pursue and engage Gremlin Zero Four. Wish us luck, over.”
Chief McPherson’s eyes stayed glued to the useless screen of the CDRT. “Come on, baby,” she whispered quietly. “You’ve got the ball. Now bring it on home to mama.”
CHAPTER 39
USS INGRAHAM (FFG-61)
NORTHERN STRAITS OF HORMUZ
SUNDAY; 20 MAY
2247 hours (10:47 PM)
TIME ZONE +4 ‘DELTA’
Engineman First Class Donald Sebring, the Engineering Officer of the Watch, stared at a cluster of instruments on the Propulsion and Auxiliary Control Console. “Oh, come on, not now …”
He keyed his mike. “Bridge—CCS. We’ve got high vibrations on the output side of the main reduction gears. In accordance with standard EOSS procedures, recommend slowing one major speed while we investigate.”
The reply came almost immediately, but it wasn’t the bridge; it was the commanding officer. “CCS, this is the Captain. Conduct your investigation but do not reduce speed. You are directed to maintain speed at all costs.”
The captain’s words took Sebring by surprise. Maintain speed? The casualty response was clearly outlined in the Engineering Operational Sequencing System. EOSS called for a reduction in speed while investigating out-of-tolerance vibrations. Didn’t the CO realize that he was risking the entire engineering plant?
Petty Officer Sebring switched channels and keyed his mike again. “Messenger—CCS. We have high vibrations on the output side of the MRGs.”
“CCS—Messenger, high vibrations on the output side of MRGs, aye.” The voice belonged to Fireman Sandra Cox. “Do you want me to walk the shaft?”
Sebring keyed his mike again. “Messenger—CCS. That’s affirmative. Walk the shaft starting at the MRGs and report ASAP.”
“Messenger, aye.”
Walking the shaft was an engineering term for visually inspecting every inch of the ninety-four-and-a-half–foot propeller shaft—from the Main Engine Room, where it coupled with the output side of the main reduction gears—to Shaft Alley, where it passed through the watertight seals of the stuffing box and out through the bottom of the hull into the ocean. With luck, the Messenger’s inspection would turn up something simple, like a broken pipe or a shifted bracket rubbing against the shaft.
On Sebring’s first ship, a mop bucket had gotten loose during a high-speed turn and had somehow managed to wedge itself under the shaft. The metal sides of the bucket had formed a natural resonating chamber, amplifying the vibrations of the spinning shaft until it sounded like the mating cry of a brontosaurus.
The memory brought a flicker of a smile to Sebring’s lips, but any trace of humor was driven instantly from his mind by the angry buzzing of an alarm on the Damage Control Console.
A half-second later, the DC Console Watch shouted, “Smoke alarm in AMR #3!”
Sebring switched back to the bridge circuit and keyed his mike. “Bridge—CCS. We’ve got a smoke alarm in Auxiliary Machinery Room #3. Report to follow.”
“CCS—Bridge. Copy your smoke alarm in AMR #3. Call it away.”
Sebring grabbed the flexible microphone stalk for the general announcing circuit and swung it down near his face. There was a brass bell bolted to the bulkhead to the right of his console. He grabbed the lanyard, pressed the microphone button, and rang the bell rapidly eight times, paused for a couple of seconds and then gave three distinct rings of the bell to indicate that the casualty was in the aft portion of the ship. The sound of the bells and his voice blared from 1-MC speakers all over the ship. “Smoke, smoke, smoke. We have a smoke alarm in Auxiliary Machinery Room #3. Away the Flying Squad. Provide from Repair Three.” He rang the bell again and repeated the message. And then he shoved the 1-MC microphone away.
“DC Console Watch, start your plot.”
“Already started, boss.”
Sebring glanced at the clock. Because of the possible presence of smoke, the Flying Squad would have to wear Self-Contained Breathing Apparatuses to enter AMR #3. Of course, at General Quarters, they would already be wearing their SCBAs. But they would still have to light off their breathing gear and conduct seal checks. Figure one minute for that, plus another minute to haul ass to AMR #3, check the door for heat and pressure, and enter the space. It would be at least two minutes before any damage reports started coming in. By that time, the Damage Control Assistant would have shown up and taken control of the investigation and repair efforts.
Sebring keyed his headset mike again. “Messenger—CCS. Continue your walk down of the shaft, but skip over AMR #3. The Flying Squad will handle that space.”
“CCS—Messenger. Continue my walk-down of the shaft, but skip over AMR #3, aye.”
Sebring looked at the readouts from the vibration sensors. The vibrations were getting worse. This didn’t look much like a runaway mop bucket.
He heard it in the distance at first—a low, slow groaning sound that reminded him vaguely of whale songs. But this sound didn’t taper off to silence the way that whale songs did. It grew continually louder until Sebring could feel it resonating through the very deck plates. And then it grew louder still, loud enough to rattle the glass faceplates of the dials on his console. And he began to realize what the sound must mean.
Sebring looked at his watch. Where in the hell was the Damage Control Assistant? The DCA should have been running this show. Where was he?
“CCS—Flying Squad. Four SCBAs lit off, time two-two-one-eight. Door checks are complete. We are entering the space.”
Sebring nodded unconsciously. “CCS, aye.”
The second report came almost immediately, at a near shout as the Flying Squad leader struggled to be heard over the noise of the strange groaning vibration. “CCS—Flying Squad. We have heavy smoke in AMR #3. We are preparing to scan with Nifty.”
Nifty, or NFTI, was the Naval Firefighting Thermal Imager: a handheld infrared viewer that could spot sources of heat even in total darkness.
“CCS, aye.” Sebring was only half-listening to the reports of the Flying Squad. The groaning was still growing louder, and its accompanying vibration was beginning to rattle the entire ship. He was picturing AMR #3 in his mind now, and he knew what the Flying Squad was going to find.
The door behind him rattled as the dogging lever came up. Lieutenant (junior grade) Mark Wu, the ship’s Damage Control Assistant, came through, dogging the door behind himself. “Sorry I’m late,” he said. “I shouldn’t have had that damned chili. It’s killing my stomach. I can’t seem to get more than fifty feet from the head.”
He walked up behind
EN1 Sebring. “Give me a pass-down.”
He was interrupted by a half-shouted voice over the speaker. “CCS—Flying Squad. The line shaft bearing is smoking! I say again, the main line shaft bearing in AMR #3 is smoking. It’s so hot that it whited out my Nifty. Recommend we rig a fire hose to attempt seawater cooling.”
Sebring keyed his mike. “Flying Squad—CCS. Negative. Do not attempt to cool the bearing. Evacuate the space and wait for orders.”
“Good call,” the DCA said. “If that bearing is hot enough to zap the Nifty, it’ll explode when cold water hits it.”
Sebring switched circuits and keyed up again. “Repair Three—CCS. Set primary fire boundaries around Auxiliary Machinery Room #3.”
The repair locker phone talker acknowledged and repeated back his order.
The groaning sound was a roar now, and the entire ship was rattling like an old car on a dirt road.
Sebring pulled off his headset and handed it to the DCA. “You’ve got to talk to the captain, sir. He won’t listen to me.”
Lieutenant (jg) Wu pulled the headset on and keyed the mike. “Captain—DCA. The main line shaft bearing in AMR #3 is burning. Recommend we stop engines and lock the shaft immediately to prevent serious damage to the engineering plant.”
The CO’s voice came back immediately. “DCA—Captain. Negative. We are in pursuit of a hostile submarine. You are ordered to maintain speed.”
The DCA keyed his mike again. “Captain—DCA. If that bearing locks up while the shaft is still turning …”
The captain cut him off. “I know we can wreck the plant, Mark. I also know what can happen if we don’t sink this damned sub. Two minutes, Mark. That’s all I need to get within firing range. You give me two more minutes of speed, and then you can trash the whole plant.”
Wu keyed his mike. “DCA, aye.”
He looked down at Sebring. “What do you think? Will that bearing hold together for another two minutes?”
Sebring shrugged. “I have no idea, sir. I’ve never even heard of anyone running flank speed with a burned line shaft bearing. I’m amazed that it’s held this long.”
* * *
For a little while, it seemed as if the captain might actually get his two minutes. But suddenly, there was a brief but harsh metallic scraping sound, followed immediately by the shriek of tearing metal.
In AMR #3, the burning bearing seized up, grinding the spinning propeller shaft to an abrupt halt.
In the Main Engine Room, Ingraham’s gas turbine engines continued to crank forty-one thousand horsepower of torque into the input shaft of the main reduction gears. But the reduction gears couldn’t turn, because the output shaft was locked in place. The transverse frames that supported the reduction gear housing began to buckle under the strain, as the howling turbines attempted to turn the entire main reduction gear, housing and all.
The monstrous stress ripped open welds between plates of the ship’s hull, and the sea came flooding in. The MRG housing cracked, spraying lubricating oil all over the engine room, and throwing off hot steel shrapnel like a bomb.
A fist-sized chunk of broken gear caught the Upper-Level Watch in the left cheek. Moving at the speed of a meteor, it tore the side of his head off without even slowing down. His limp body fell off the catwalk and into the rapidly flooding bilge.
* * *
Ingraham drifted to a stop and wallowed at the mercy of the waves. The chase was over. The submarine was gone.
CHAPTER 40
OVAL OFFICE
WASHINGTON, DC
SUNDAY; 20 MAY
4:03 PM EDT
“Just a second, Bob,” President Chandler said. “Let me go secure.” He inserted the magnetically coded encryption key into the slot on his STU-6 secure telephone unit and gave it a half-turn clockwise. The key clicked as it locked into place, and a brief series of warbling tones came out of the earpiece while the phone synced up with the encryption algorithm in a twin phone on the desk of the Chief of Naval Operations. The red “clear” lamp went out, and the green “secure” lamp came on.
“Okay, Bob,” the president said. “We’re in the green. I assume you’re calling to give me an update on the sub hunt. How are we looking?”
“It’s the old joke, Mr. President,” Admiral Casey said. “Good news and bad news.”
“What’s the good news?”
“We have clear battle damage assessment. Towers took out one of the submarines. Her helicopter took out another one.”
“So there’s only one hostile sub left?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Excellent,” the president said. “What’s the bad news?”
“Towers and Benfold are both shot up pretty badly, and Ingraham is totally out of the picture. Somebody is going to have to write a bunch of those ‘The
U.S. Navy regrets’ telegrams, sir. Quite a few of our young men and women out there are coming home in body bags.”
“We’re paying a hell of a price,” the president said. “But we can still win this thing, can’t we?”
The CNO sighed. “I don’t know, sir. Towers has already restored her electrical power, and Benfold should be back under way within an hour or so. How much speed they can make still remains to be seen. Maybe they can catch that sub. Then again, maybe not.”
“If they catch it, can they kill it?”
“I think so, Mr. President. I damned sure hope so.”
“You aren’t exactly filling me with confidence here, Bob.”
“With all due respect, sir, if you want more confidence you’ve got to give me more assets. It’s not too late to get a couple of P-3s out there. Then I could pretty much guarantee you a kill.”
“I can’t do that, Bob,” the president said. “We’ve got to show that we can go toe-to-toe with the best the Germans can offer up and still come out on top.”
“I understand that, sir. But what if that sub gets by us? Why risk losing when there’s still a chance to guarantee a win?”
“Goddamn it, Bob! Can’t you see what this is about? In the minds of the people, perception is reality. Shoernberg is making a power play here, and he’s only thrown a few cards on the table to do it. If we have to call up the militia, the Boy Scouts, and the Air National Guard to catch one lousy German submarine, he wins. Shoernberg will have successfully demonstrated that the United States cannot win in a fair fight against German military hardware and tactics. He’ll come out of this flexing his muscles, and we’ll end up looking weak. And about twenty minutes after the dust settles, every pocket Napoleon in the developing world is going to start wondering if the U.S. is really so tough after all.
“We’ve only got one choice here, Bob. We’ve got to take Friedrik Shoernberg’s little power play and shove it so far up his ass that he can’t remember what he had for breakfast. He sends out four submarines; none of them get through. Not one of them! Then he only has two choices: escalate the conflict or back down. And I don’t think he’s stupid enough to escalate.”
“Mr. President, if what you say is true, then we need to guarantee a kill on that last submarine,” the CNO said. “And, if you need a guaranteed kill, you’ve got to let me throw some more assets into the hunt.”
“No, Bob. How we kill that submarine is every bit as important as whether or not we kill it at all.”
“That’s what you keep telling me, sir,” the CNO said. “But I’ve got two ships out there that have already had the shit shot out of them, and I’m asking them to take on a killer submarine without backup.”
The president sighed. “Okay, Bob. Let’s try it this way … In a one-on-one fight between a surface combatant and a submarine, who wins?”
“Whoever shoots first, sir.”
“Exactly. And who shoots first?”
“Whoever gets contact first.”
The president chuckled. “You’re going to make me drag this out of you, aren’t you? All right, you stubborn bastard, who gets contact first?”
“Three times out of five
, it’s going to be the submarine, sir.”
“So, if a surface ship mixes it up with a submarine, three times out of five, the ship gets its doors blown off. Would that be a safe assumption?”
“Pretty much, sir.”
“And anybody who has a clue about Undersea Warfare knows this?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay, how many of our ships have the Germans sunk so far?”
“One, sir, if you count the Antietam.”
“I do not count the Antietam,” the president said. “She isn’t sunk, and she isn’t going to be. In fact, we’re going to repair her and keep her in service.”
“With all due respect, sir, that doesn’t make any sense. We can build a Flight-Three Arleigh Burke with every bit as much firepower and a thirty-year service life for what it would cost to put Antietam back together. Why waste that kind of money on a cruiser that’s over twenty years old?”
“Perception,” the president said. “Perception. The political value will be tremendous. Think about how it will look to the man on the street … Submarines kill surface combatants three times out of five, but not when they take on the United States. We go one-on-one, ship-to-sub, and we kill everything. The Germans lose every single unit they send out, but all of our ships make it home. Every single one of them lives to fight another day. In a fight where the Germans have the inherent advantage, Shoernberg loses it all. He comes away with no military victory, no propaganda coup, no bragging rights. Nothing.”
“And you think he’ll tuck tail and go home?”
“If he does, maybe we can stitch NATO back together for a few years,” the president said.
“What if he doesn’t, sir? What if Chancellor Shoernberg comes out with guns blazing?”
“Then we teach him a lesson that his country has already learned twice.”
The line was silent for nearly a full minute before the president spoke again. “Bob, we can’t afford to lose this one.”
The CNO’s voice was very quiet. “I know, Mr. President. I know.”
