“Aye, aye, sir,” responded the JO, turning to relay the .captain's query.
“Keeping them on their toes today, sir,” Collier said, not expecting his captain to respond. Carter was the finest CO in the squadron for training junior officers, and he never let up on them. It was especially important now when they were in wartime conditions, standing watch on and watch off, Blue/Gold Teams as Carter called them. All stations were manned, including the depth-charge racks, hedgehog mounts, torpedo tubes, and gun mounts. The men were allowed to stand easy on these hot days—their captain was reasonable about comfort, as long as they were ready.
After a moment, “How do I know which direction the wind is from?” came back from the CIC watch officer.
Carter moved from the comfort of his chair into trie pilothouse and switched on the speaker to CIC. “You have a wind indicator in Combat that is in working order unless Mr. Mezey has been gundecking the equipment reports again. I would suggest that you use that and a maneuvering board, if there happens to be one available,” he added sarcastically. “And bring your solution out to me on the starboard wing within the next sixty seconds. I would hope the OTC has not already given us the signal by then.” He switched off the speaker, knowing that that particular ensign would never make the same mistake twice.
Over the water came the distant roar of piston engines warming up, preceded visually by the puffs of exhaust smoke, which quickly disappeared over the Caribbean. The anticipated signal from the officer in tactical command came over the primary tactical frequency and, after a reasonable period of time to avoid error, it was executed. Lake Champlain required only a change of course into the wind and increase of speed in preparation for the launch, but the little destroyers in her eight-ship screen had to scurry at top speed in a variety of directions to get to their new stations.
Collier allowed his JO to conn the ship into its new position. He knew the excitement within each new ensign when he had the chance to show his captain how he could place the ship exactly where the admiral on that carrier required it to be. Carter nodded to the young officer, acknowledging without words the smooth execution of a complicated ship's movement done well.
After watching the launch of the new flight of trackers, and the return of the previous twelve from their search for Russian submarines, Carter spoke to Collier. “I'm going below to my cabin for a while, Bob. Gonna catch up on a bit of paperwork. I may even take a nap.” He looked at his watch, noting there were only twenty minutes left in the current Gold Team watch. “When Donovan relieves you, have him call me if those trackers pick up anything new on those oil traces they found this morning. I wouldn't be surprised if they had something there. The last intelligence reports indicated there were at least two subs in the immediate area, and sooner or later we're going to find one of them.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Collier replied, saluting as Carter left the bridge.
Approximately forty miles from the ships of Task Group Alpha, Lieutenant Alexander Kupinsky, skipper of a Russian Foxtrot-class submarine, was listening expressionlessly to his chief engineer's casualty report. It had been a week of malfunctions since they had last taken on fuel and supplies from the cow that serviced them on their Caribbean station. Bearings, batteries, condensers, electronic gear—each had failed during the week that had started so peacefully and ended with alarm when they received the signal that war was imminent with the United States. There had been no further explanation, but the prearranged signal indicated that one more signal would mean that Kupinsky was to open the instructions in his safe. He had told his crew as much as he knew, but it was difficult to know what was happening when you were so far from home and so close to your enemy's coast.
There was a leak in one of the pumps. Oil had escaped into the bilges, but no one had realized the extent of damage at first. When it became necessary to pump the already overflowing bilges, the oil had likely gone to the surface. They all knew of the search planes from the American carrier. They heard the sonobuoys dropped in the water and activated, waiting for them. They had seen the aircraft through the periscope, and they had picked up the tracker's radar many times on their electronic countermeasures (ECM) equipment.
Now there was a telltale noise in one of the shafts, a bearing, the chief had said. He didn't know when it might go, but he recommended surfacing at night. They would have to stop to make the repairs before the sub became a major engineering casualty. Kupinsky didn't think that he would have that luxury. The Americans were everywhere. Half the time when he should have been snorkeling to recharge his batteries, he was diving to avoid those planes. They were invariably in the air, and he honestly didn't know why. But he knew that this was no Cold War game. That signal indicated that the games would soon be over, and he knew his boat must be ready.
Yes, he agreed with his chief, he would try to surface at the end of the day. He must snorkel for a while in case they were driven under again, and then he would stop engines if he could for the repairs. But they must be ready to dive at any time, he insisted.
The Gold Team was relieved by Joe Donovan's Blue Team for the first dog watch, before the evening meal. The late afternoon sun was still high in the sky at that latitude, and Donovan made his customary tour of the ship, leaving his experienced JO on the bridge. His last stop was combat, where he passed the time of day for just a moment with David Charles, the CIC watch officer.
It was quiet back on the bridge. A light breeze was cooling the day ever so slightly, and the gray metal of the Bagley was releasing some of its heat as the sun's rays lessened their effect. The ever-present flying fish offered the only entertainment for the men on the bridge, who quietly shifted their stations every fifteen minutes to avoid the mounting boredom.
“Bridge . . .” cracked Ensign Charles' voice from Combat, “I've just copied a snorkel sighting to the OTC from Tracker Four. We have the aircraft on radar twenty-six miles on our starboard beam. We're in the best position to head there right now.”
“Roger, Combat, wait one.” In three strides, Donovan was at the phone to Carter's cabin, punching the buzzer repeatedly. To the captain's answer on the other end, he replied excitedly. “Tracker aircraft had a snorkel, sir. Ensign Charles was following it in Combat. Datum for last known position twenty-six miles” on our starboard beam."
“Call Banker on the pritac frequency, Joe. Tell him we already have datum plotted and request permission to be released to conduct a search. We should be senior on this side of the screen. I'll be right up.”
In less than thirty seconds Sam Carter was coming through the rear door of the pilothouse, buttoning the shirt still hanging out of his unzipped pants. There was no need to ask if the Admiral had responded yet. “Banker has rogered your message, sir. They probably have to call down to the Admiral's cabin. No other ships have responded yet.”
Carter stepped to the speaker and pressed the button to CIC. “Mr. Charles, this is the captain. What course to datum please?”
The reply came without hesitation. “We want two eight six degrees true, sir. The distance to contact is now twenty-five point six miles. It would take us about forty-eight minutes at thirty-two knots, sir.”
“Thanks, David.” He turned to Donovan. “Have main control light off superheat. I want flank speed as fast as they can. Go on down and join your boys.” He briefly checked the current course and speed. “I'll relieve you, Joe.” And to the bridge watch, "I have the conn."
The hum on the primary tactical radio speaker preceded the voice by a split second. “Lucky Strike, this is Banker. You are detached to proceed to datum. Assume command of surface and air units upon arrival. Over.”
As the JO acknowledged the transmission, Carter turned to the men at the helm and engine order telegraph. “Right standard rudder. All engines ahead flank. Indicate revolutions for thirty-two knots. Main control cannot answer you immediately until they have superheat. I will speak to Mr. Donovan as soon as he arrives in main control.” To the JO, who was hesitantly sta
nding to the side watching the bridge come to life, he said, “Sound general quarters, Mr. Sylvester. Tell me when all stations are manned and ready.”
The ensign moved to the speaker on the bulkhead at the back of the pilothouse, depressed the switch, and announced, probably for the first time since he had reported aboard the Bagley, “General quarters, general quarters ... all hands man your battle stations. . . .” At the same time, he pulled down the handle that sent the alarm clanging through every space on the ship.
To the helmsman who had relayed that his rudder was right, the captain replied, “Come to course two eight six degrees true.” The Bagley was leaning sharply to starboard as her rudders bit into the blue water. Foam bubbled around the fantail as the propellers increased their revolutions. Men, just awakened from sleep, raced from their compartments to their GQ stations, some carrying their clothes.
“My course is two eight six degrees true.”
“Very well,” answered Carter as the bridge-talker began to report stations manned and ready. Bob Collier came through the pilothouse door rubbing his eyes, to assume GQ OOD. The bridge watch was relieved one at a time by the special GQ team. Carter briefed his OOD quickly.
“This is Mr. Collier. I have the conn.” The new men shouted back the course and speed.
David Charles relieved as JO. He checked off the remaining GQ stations as they reported over the sound-powered headphones he had donned.
Forty seconds had passed, and all reports were to the bridge except for the damage-control people, who were still checking all watertight hatches. Donovan reported from main control that superheat was rising. Thirty-two knots could be achieved within twelve minutes, and damage-control central reported ready.
Bagley was at general quarters. Carter nodded at David Charles. “I owe you a very large drink the next time we're in port, David. We were the first can to report datum on that contact. We're OTC for a four-ship search.” He grinned. “You made me look awfully good out here. All we have to do now is come up with that sub,” he added thoughtfully.
Twenty-four miles dead ahead of Bagley, Alex Kupinsky had leveled his boat off at 150 feet after their crash dive. He hadn't expected a bomb or torpedo in the water, but he didn't really know what to expect. Only in exercises in the Baltic had he ever witnessed through his periscope the fearsome sight of an aircraft diving at his boat. It was bad for the nerves at any time.
Not knowing how long the aircraft had tracked him, he changed course and speed immediately, hoping for evasion of whatever was to come. Sunset would come within a couple of hours, but he knew he did not have enough air for men or engines to stay under for the entire night. They were still leaking oil, and the bearing on one shaft was hot. He had called his men to general quarters, but neither he nor the crew knew what they could expect now. Perhaps it would be the high-speed whine of surface-ship propellers sent to hunt him down.
The squawk box echoed through the Bagley, “This is the captain speaking again. As I promised when I first told you about this Cuban quarantine, I will keep you informed of your ship's participation. I'm sure the rumors have circulated around the ship pretty fast in the last few minutes, so I want to make sure each of you knows what we're doing. We were sent out here to find Russian submarines, and it seems we may have one now. About fifteen minutes ago one of the tracker aircraft got a good look at a snorkel that we know doesn't belong in the area. We are OTC for a four-ship search commencing at the last point of contact. We'll be at datum in about thirty minutes to join a number of helicopters and trackers. This is an opportunity to make a major contribution to President Kennedy's .challenge to the Russians. He is depending on each ship and each man.” He paused for a moment for effect. “I want you to do your best. A lot of us have been together for almost eighteen months now, and I have a feeling we're going to show that Bagley's not ready for the scrap heap yet.” He stopped for another moment, then continued, “I want to assure you I will keep you up to date whenever I can.”
Four destroyers, each with a bone in its teeth, raced across the blue water in a ragged line abreast, two thousand yards from each other. The plan was to sweep over the sub's last position with the middle of their line. This gave Carter a mile and a half on either side of the datum, plus another mile and a half on the beam of the end ships if sonar conditions were accurate. The fringes of their sweep would be covered by helicopters just now flying by on their way to that invisible point in the ocean. Farther out, the fixed-wing aircraft had already established sonobuoy patterns in case the sub escaped the close-in search that Carter had ordered.
It was deceptively beautiful as the formation charged into a golden sun that was now settling quickly toward the flat horizon. They were too far from land for birds, and their departure had been fast enough to leave the ubiquitous garbage-hunting gulls with the remainder of the task force.
David Charles felt Bagley shuddering under his feet as the screws continued to increase their revolutions. Each motion of the ship was now magnified by its speed, and the helmsman had only to shift the wheel the slightest bit to feel his rudder respond. This was what destroyers were built for. The bridge was comfortable for the GQ team, even in their life jackets. The breeze sweeping across them was now close to thirty-two knots. But David knew from past experience the heat and the stench of the engineering spaces and the human smell of other groups sealed into their spaces until the captain ordered otherwise.
No air moved in CIC. Sweaty faces were outlined in eerie shades by the green reflection from the radar screens., Voices were quiet as each man strained to listen to the sonar pinging from the open compartment to the rear of their own—the sharp sound as the signal expanded from the sonar dome, and perhaps the anticipated response when contact was made.
Carter paced the bridge looking from David, reporting all-important items that came over his headphones, to the overhead speaker in the corner that Frank Welles would use only once when he reported the initial contact. But the speaker remained silent, and Carter had to be satisfied as David reported the distance to datum every thousand yards, and relayed the information from combat as Jerry Burchette resumed control of the aircraft already on station. Somehow, it didn't seem quite right; it was too similar to the exercises they participated in every month. The only real difference was the captain's pacing, which David thought very uncharacteristic of the man. The lookouts swept the ocean's surface on their 360-degree vigil, knowing that any smart submarine would be at least a hundred feet below their line of sight.
“Captain, CIC reports one of the trackers had sighted what they believe to be. garbage off our port bow.” All binoculars swept in that direction.
“Ask the pilot if he can identify anything in it,” Carter requested.
David relayed this to Combat, waited for a moment, listened, spoke into the headset, listened again, and turned to Carter with a grin. “Trojans, Captain! Pilot says he can identify them from any height.”
There were just a few amused snickers, and then the bridge burst into laughter when Carter stopped his pacing to say, “Tell him it must be from Bagley. We passed through this area last night, and we're a very happy ship.”
The ice was broken. The unknown for the last couple of days had been put in its place. Carter stopped pacing and moved over to his chair. The team was ready for a real target. Their captain had been put at ease by a pilot with a sense of humor.
A few moments later, David reported, "Passing over datum, sir. Combat recommends we begin a wider sweep to the northwest since the sub's last course seemed to be to the west. Mr. Bradick says the sub wouldn't keep the same course and he wouldn't reverse it. He may head toward the northwest hoping he can find some temperature gradients if he can get close to the Gulf Stream tonight.
Carter paused for a moment. “Okay. Tell Mr. Bradick to pick a course for us and have Mr. Welles recommend a speed that will maintain a good sonar range. I want to open the distance between the cans to three thousand yards. I also want to have helos dipping
well ahead of us. Maybe their pinging will scare the son of a bitch right down our throats.”
The four destroyers opened their formation, with Bagley the farthest ship to the southwest. The sun was about to touch the water's edge, preparing to evaporate in a cloud of steam. It would leave them with another two hours of light but without the blinding glare. The breeze was picking up from the south, not enough to raise whitecaps but enough to further the cooling that would gradually seep into the hidden metal recesses of the Bagley. A bit less than five minutes had passed before the speaker over the captain's head erupted with Frank Welles's voice. “I have a solid contact bearing thirty degrees to port, approximately four thousand yards. No classification yet, but there's something more than a school of fish there.”
There it was. Contact. Perhaps not the submarine they were looking for, but whatever it was, it was close to where Bradick had anticipated.
Each man aboard the submarine heard the pinging of the Bagley's sonar on the pressure hull. Even before they had been found, the approaching high-speed noises of the destroyer's screws were evident. In advance of that first ping, Kupinsky gave orders to change course 110 degrees, increased his boat's speed to its maximum, then took it down another 150 feet, hoping against hope for the miracle of a temperature gradient that would deflect Bagley's sound beam.
Within moments, Welles classified the contact as a probable submarine, and he and Andy Bradick concurred on the submarine's course and speed at almost the same time. “Both sonar and Combat report the contact has turned almost due south, Captain. They have a port-quarter aspect. . . contact moving at .eleven knots... he seems to have picked up speed.”
“David, ask Andy for a course to pass astern of the contact. Tell him my rudder is left . . . left standard rudder.”
“Combat recommends two-zero-five at fourteen knots, sir.”
“Come to course two-zero-five.” Carter turned to his OOD. “Bob, I want you to set up a pinwheel around that boat with us as guide on the western edge. Add the others according to their current positions. When you're all set, I'll give the word to execute.” To David, “Tell Mr. Welles that we will shortly be passing astern of his contact. When we're close, I want him to listen in the passive mode for just a minute. I want to try to classify screw noise if we can. Tell Combat to explain to all the aircraft in plain language what we're doing. As soon as we have a better classification, we'll assign them stations.”
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