Attack of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  “Christ. Left over from the Civil War,” Mark Allen muttered, staring at the barracks.

  “The CIA screwed up on this one,” Brent said.

  “Wait till you see our hotel,” Mark Allen announced ominously.

  The bus jerked to a stop and the doors banged open with a hiss of compressed air. Carrying their own canvas barracks bags, the three officers disembarked and then a sharp command from Chief Torpedoman Masayori Fujiwara and the draft fell out, carrying sea bags and assorted gear. Every man had a camera slung over his shoulder. Quickly, two rows were formed and the ranks dressed, facing the chief torpedoman and the three officers standing in a row behind him. A shouted command and the men dressed right and then mustered, shouting their names and ratings. The bus roared off and a large group of US Navy enlisted men gathered in front of a service building and stared curiously. Brent had not seen a single civilian since they had entered the gates.

  Fujiwara did a smart about-face and reported to Mark Allen, “All present and accounted for, sir.”

  “Very well.”

  Brent felt a pang of pride, real pros, ran through his mind.

  Fujiwara, thoroughly briefed by Admiral Allen on the long flight, turned to the draft and, with a voice strident enough to fill Yankee Stadium, explained the assignment to their new barracks, restrictions from liberty for all hands and the necessity to be ready to board Blackfin at 0800 hours in the morning for their first duty. The sub was not ready to quarter her entire crew and the draft would be temporarily housed in the barracks. He turned to Admiral Allen and saluted smartly. “Anything else, Admiral Allen?”

  The admiral eyed the ranks of rigid seamen. “Yes, Chief.” He spoke to the draft. “According to my orders, two petty officers will meet with the draft this afternoon and hold a briefing session in the barracks. They will provide you with identity tags and papers, and I understand they will bring a VCR, show pictures and try to answer all of your questions.” His eyes roamed the ranks. “Time is of the essence and secrecy is essential — that’s why you’re restricted. Later, liberty may be permitted, but on a restricted basis. I served here before,” he waved to the south, “at the old Brooklyn Navy Yard.” He pointed to a small building next to the barracks. “That’s your mess hall. After you stow your gear, you can report there for a meal. There will be no necessity for any man to leave this base.” He eyed the cameras. “Not for any reason, and stow your cameras — pictures of Blackfin are prohibited.” He nodded to the chief.

  “Draft! Attention! Fall out!”

  The men, led by Fujiwara, shouldered their sea bags and filed toward the barracks.

  “All right, you two. It’s time to meet our new home,” Allen said. He gestured. “She’s moored at Charlie Four — just behind that warehouse.”

  At that instant, a jeep careened around the warehouse and screeched to a stop in front of the officers. The driver, a black man wearing the paired gold bars of a senior lieutenant on his collar and the gold dolphin of the submarine service on his chest, leaped to the ground and snapped out a sharp salute. Not as tall as Brent, he was as broad, his musculature filling his shirt and clearly visible rippling in his sleeve when he saluted. His waist was tiny and his tight belt made this point emphatically. The hair under his cap showed as freshly washed coal, skin black — so black, it appeared blue in the slanting rays of the afternoon sun. His forehead was deep and intelligent, cheeks strong and regal, the broad nose flattened and pugged like a street fighter, black eyes sparkling. Brent saw power, intelligence, and pride there, and an impression of hauteur which was not totally belied when the ominous visage broke into a toothy grin — a forced expression of friendliness devoid of warmth.

  “Lieutenant Reginald Williams, executive officer of Blackfin and temporarily in command,” the big Negro said in a basso profundo that would have shamed Pavarotti. Williams gripped Mark Allen’s hand. “Heard a lot about you, Admiral. It will be a pleasure to serve under you.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant. I relieve you,” Mark Allen said. He handed the executive officer his orders.

  Williams glanced at them and saluted. “I am relieved, sir.”

  Smiling, the admiral returned the salute and pocketed his orders. He quipped, “I’ll be the first admiral to command a submarine in the history of naval warfare.” Everyone chuckled.

  “Colonel Irving Bernstein, Israeli Intelligence,” Bernstein said. Williams took the colonel’s hand and stared at him with a puzzled look.

  Admiral Allen explained, “Colonel Bernstein is on a secret mission with us. He will remain with us for security and he has top security clearance.”

  Bernstein handed his orders to Williams, who examined them briefly and then snorted his approval. Turning to Brent, he extended his hand. Brent found the man’s hand big, square, and strong. He was troubled. There was something familiar about the lieutenant.

  “Brent Ross,” Brent said. And then, “Haven’t we met?”

  “Almost,” Williams said.

  “Almost?”

  “Yes, Mr. Ross. I was playing middle linebacker at USC when you made All American at the Academy.” He eyed Brent from head to toe. There was genuine regret in his voice and a challenge in his eyes. “Too bad. We didn’t schedule you. It could’ve been interesting.”

  Brent laughed. “Very interesting, Mr. Williams.”

  Fascinated by the exchange, Allen and Bernstein stared at the pair silently.

  “You’re big, even for a fullback,” Williams noted.

  “I played at two-forty.”

  “Everyone tried to take you low and with your height you could fall forward for five yards.”

  Brent laughed but felt uneasy.

  “I would’ve taken you high — waist high — driven you back.”

  “It was tried.”

  “Not by me.”

  “They took them off — sometimes on stretchers.”

  Mark Allen interrupted with an amused grin on his face. “Sorry to interrupt Old Jocks Week, but there’s a small matter of a war to fight.”

  Williams helped Bernstein and Allen with their bags and then the officers boarded the jeep and roared off toward the docks.

  Brent first caught a glimpse of Blackfin as Williams wheeled the jeep around a warehouse and drove onto a mile-long pier. She was alone, not another vessel moored within a thousand yards of her. A single crane was busy and work parties were loading boxes and crates of canned food stuffs and piles of gear. Marine guards were everywhere. Admiral Allen signaled to Williams to stop near the bow. The officers alighted and then with the admiral leading, they walked the length of the ship.

  “Built by the Electric Boat Company at Groton, Connecticut,” Mark Allen said.

  “Right, sir,” Williams said, with surprise in his voice. “How did you know?”

  “Electric Boat built theirs lower, sleeker than Manitowoc Shipbuilding or the navy yards at Portsmouth and Mare Island — the only other yards that built these boats.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Williams muttered.

  Grinning, Brent and Bernstein eyed each other. Brent was accustomed to the admiral’s incredible depth of knowledge. He studied the long, sleek hull.

  There was an inherent deadliness about the low, streamlined shape of the cruiser. With her bridge set well forward of amidships because of her two huge engine rooms housing the four powerful diesel-electric engines, her deck gun, a stubby cannon, was mounted nearly amidships just abaft a small deck extending from the bridge where two twenty-millimeter guns were bolted to the deck. The bridge was streamlined and rounded, reminiscent of the front of the classic Cord automobile of the thirties with glassed portholes in its forward section. A steel-framed periscope-support tower rose from the center of the bridge and her two periscopes stabbed upward like a pair of shorn saplings. A score of crewmen were visible on her decks and superstructure, most scraping rust and loose paint, leaving large patches of newly painted red lead behind.

  “Lord. She’s all original,” Mark All
en said, awed.

  “Part of the deal with Japan’s Parks Department, Admiral,” Williams smirked.

  “You’re an employee of the Parks Department?”

  “Yes, Admiral. Resigned my commission and went to work for the CIA. Then I was hired by Japan’s Department of Parks. That’s how we all wound up here.” The big black waved at the work parties and the white teeth flashed. “Great benefits. The pay’s good and we get all the rice we can eat.”

  Chuckling, the quartet stopped at the foot of the gangway and Mark Allen said, “They used to call these subs Fleet Boats. They were designed with the speed and range to operate with the fleet. But, of course, that concept was rarely used and they made their reputations as commerce raiders.” He turned to Williams. “Review her specs, Lieutenant. I’m a little rusty.”

  Obviously pleased by the request, Williams turned and gestured at the boat. His mind and memory worked like a computer’s and he spoke like a machine. “Length, three hundred twelve feet, beam, twenty-seven, displacement, one thousand five hundred twenty-six tons surfaced, two thousand twenty-four tons submerged.” He stabbed a finger aft. “Her four old sixteen-cylinder Wintons were replaced by new engines, the Fairbanks-Morse Thirty-Eight-D, each with six-thousand horsepower and she can do twenty-four knots surfaced, nine knots submerged. Her batteries are new and fully charged.” He pointed at the weapons. “One five-inch, twenty-five caliber, two-twenties, but we’re adding two fifties on the ‘cigarette deck,’” he indicated the small deck just abaft the bridge where the Orlikons were mounted. “And two more fifties and a twenty forward.” The finger pointed to a small platform being welded to the front of the bridge. “She’s of all-welded construction and her designed maximum operational depth is three hundred feet — not much when you consider the depths where our boomers operate.”

  “But she should be good for six hundred feet,” Mark Allen added.

  “She is,” Williams assured him.

  “Range?” Mark Allen queried.

  “Nineteen thousand miles, Admiral.”

  Mark Allen scratched his chin. “Cruising at ten knots, on the surface?”

  “Right, sir.”

  “You’ve increased her range, Mr. Williams.”

  “The Fairbanks-Morse engines are more efficient, sir.”

  “Have you taken her out?” Brent asked.

  Williams shook his head. “We’ve run four dock trials, and the engines and power trains are perfect, but she’s not ready for sea. Her hull’s been checked by Electric Boat and it’s as good as new. We’ve overhauled or replaced every valve and fitting, but we’re still working on her main induction valve, installing our new communications gear and ECM and we only have half of a partially trained crew.” He stared at Admiral Allen. “We need a lot of dry runs, Admiral.”

  “And we’ve got to build an efficient crew that’s half Japanese and half American,” Allen added.

  Bernstein asked, “How many tubes?”

  Williams eyed the Israeli. “Six forward and four aft.”

  “Fish?” Brent asked.

  “Not aboard yet. We should get the new Mark Forty-Eight — we’ll load them at night.”

  “No wires, no terminal guidance,” Brent said.

  “Right, Lieutenant,” Williams acknowledged. “That’s the agreement reached at Geneva.”

  Bernstein stared at the boat, obviously troubled. “How many of these boats were lost?”

  There was a long silence. Finally, Admiral Allen said, “Fifty-two.”

  “Good Lord. All those men,” Bernstein muttered to himself.

  Brent stared at the boat silently. It was long, sleek, lethal, her every aspect was that of a killer. But the exchange had brought to mind a thought that has terrorized generations of men who have served in the silent, black depths. She could also be a tomb — his steel mausoleum. Had been for thousands of others. The realization dropped in his stomach like a cold rock. New risks. Another way to die. Blasted by depth charges and bombs. A hideous shrieking end in collapsing compartments with air superheated by the compression of the depths — roasted lungs, drowning like rats in total darkness. He felt it again. Complete helplessness to control his own destiny. He was a pawn in the games played by other men in the Middle East, Geneva, in Tokyo, Washington — men who did not even know he existed and could care less.

  With Admiral Mark Allen leading, the officers filed past a Marine guard who brought his M-16 to present arms and across the gangway to the sub’s deck. Here a young ensign and a rating, each wearing duty belts and holstered forty-fives, snapped to attention and saluted. A log book and a telephone were on a table next to the enlisted man. Returning the salutes, the four men stepped onto the deck, which was actually a long steel platform built over the pressure hull, slotted and holed for the easy flow of water.

  Williams gestured. “Ensign Frederick Hasse, our torpedo officer,” he said. He said to Hasse, “Admiral Allen has taken command.”

  Brent heard the rating speak into a phone, his words echoed hollowly by the ship’s PA system. “Captain’s on board. Captain’s on board.”

  A year out of the Academy, Hasse was a short, slender young man with dark-brown hair over bushy eyebrows and darting brown eyes that made it obvious the young man was finding it difficult to appear at ease. In fact, he stuttered a little as he grasped hands and exchanged greetings. And then answering Williams’s query, “The chief engineer is in the engine room and Lieutenant Cadenbach is in the forward torpedo room.”

  “Have them meet me in the wardroom, immediately,” Mark Allen said.

  “Aye, aye, sir.” Hasse turned to the rating. “Pass the word. Mr. Dunlap and Mr. Cadenbach to the wardroom.” The rating picked up a phone and spoke hurriedly.

  Admiral Allen gestured and Williams led, climbing up the side of the superstructure and stepping down into the bridge, a curved platform in the front of the superstructure protected by a steel windscreen. Brent saw a wheel, annunciators, a rudder angle indicator, and mounts for heavy binoculars. Williams gestured at an open hatch. “The only access to the pressure hull when under way.” He slipped down through the round opening that was much like a manhole with a hinged cover. Brent noticed the cover was convex in shape to withstand pressure and it had a locking wheel in the center. The wheel had a crank for fast “dogging” and a short rope wrapped around a wooden handle hung from the outer rim of the cover. Speed. It was all built for speed.

  They dropped into a cylindrical compartment about eight feet in diameter and about sixteen feet in length. It was jammed with a stunning array of equipment; gauges, meters, cranks, dials, scopes.

  Brent was overwhelmed and depressed by the mass of unfamiliar gear. While in the Academy, he had had two orientation cruises on the George K. Polk, a nuclear powered SSBN of the Lafayette class that carried sixteen Trident missiles. Compared to Blackfin, the SSBN had been enormous and it had been completely computerized. He saw nothing that even remotely reminded him of a computer, all of the equipment surrounding him dating from the early forties. He felt a harsh wave of frustration and self-doubt rise, but remained silent.

  Allen nodded and Williams gestured at two periscopes mounted in the middle of the room. “This is the command center of the boat and the captain makes his submerged attacks from here.” He looked at Bernstein. “We’re just above the pressure hull — in a sense, the conning tower is an extension of it. In fact, the control room is under our feet and the captain can shout commands down that hatch.” He pointed to another open hatch. “He can con from there.”

  Allen looked around at the mass of equipment crammed into the tiny compartment. “Jesus Christ, she hasn’t changed much.” He stabbed a finger as he pivoted around. “Attack scope, speed indicator, depth gauge, water pressure gauge, engine-room controls, rev counter, telephone circuit board, sonar, radar, TDC, helm.” His moist eyes revealed the emotion he felt. “It’s all the same — it’s all here, after all these years.”

  “We’re getting new radar and
sonar, sir,” Williams said. “Even ECM.”

  “Approved at Geneva?” Allen asked.

  “All wrapped up, sir,” Williams said.

  “Then the Russians must know about this ship — her true purpose,” Bernstein said. “And if they know, Tass Pravda and Izvestia will broadcast it to the whole world. I can guarantee that.”

  Williams said to Bernstein, “Not really, Colonel. The US Navy is refitting six more of these boats — all museum boats. With all of our satellites destroyed and a shortage of AWACS, the Navy’s desperate for reconnaissance and these old boats can do the job and they’re a lot cheaper than ‘nukes’ — they’re running a billion a copy. And it’s been agreed that the old boats can be equipped with the latest sonar and radar. The Russians are doing the same with a half-dozen Whiskies and Zulus.” Williams’s white teeth glared against his black skin as he smiled. “We’re kind of sneaking Blackfin through. ‘Ivan’ will never suspect.”

  Allen, in obvious high spirits, chuckled his approval. Brent was not convinced. Bernstein maintained a skeptical silence.

  The four officers dropped through the hatch, down a ladder into the control room. Descending the ladder, Brent became conscious of a smell that he had barely detected in the conning tower, but now it became much stronger and seemed to permeate everything. He wrinkled his nose and sniffed the stuffy, humid atmosphere. Diesel oil and sweating human bodies. The universal smell of the diesel-electric submarine — and he knew it would become much, much worse with extended cruises, long dives, and the lack of water.

  Stepping off the last rung, he found himself in a room, perhaps twice the size of the conning tower. With controls duplicating the controls in the conning tower, the control room was jammed with even more equipment and gauges, the overhead crisscrossed with pipes and valves. Four young ratings working on a variety of equipment came upright to attention.

  “As you were — at ease,” Admiral Allen said. The men returned to their work.