Attack of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  There was a door. A way in. The NROTC. He joined it. Got his commission six months after his degree in Electrical Engineering. Then the Navy, a decent wage, and the house he bought for his mother in the Baldwin Hills section of West Los Angeles.

  Brent stirred from his stupor. Something Reginald said did not make sense — no sense at all. He thought for a moment, worked his jaw. Finally the words came. “You wanted the sea, freedom, room to live, breathe fresh air…” He was convulsed by fits of laughter that cramped his stomach muscles. “And you — you chose sub duty? Blackfin?” More laughter. The irony was overwhelming. He finally controlled himself. “Christ — can’t you smell it? Diesel oil, sweat, and when we’re submerged, you’ll smell the heads — the crap.”

  “You think I’m funny!”

  “Better than Rodney Dangerfield.”

  “Whitey can’t understand.”

  “That’s a cop-out.”

  “You think I haven’t taken shit — felt heat because of my color?”

  “No. When you’re six feet tall and weigh two twenty, people are friendly.”

  “I’m six one and weigh two thirty.”

  “Then they’re friendlier. So don’t give me that bullshit. You’ve done all right with your life.”

  Williams rolled to his side and faced Brent angrily. “Someday, we’ll settle this in detail — my terms, my way.”

  “Anytime. Any place.” Brent knew the big black was toying with the idea of coming after him. A sudden alertness pushed some of the effect of the alcohol aside and his muscles bunched, his heartbeat picked up. But Williams rolled back and put his hands behind his head. Brent relaxed again.

  They both lay sullenly and stared at the ceiling. Sleep was long in coming.

  Chapter VIII

  The next day added to Brent’s confusion. With sixty-three men and five officers on board Blackfin, new equipment being installed, stores coming aboard, new guns for the superstructure, the ship’s wiring ripped out amidships, there was little room to walk, to stop and discuss problems. With almost equal numbers of Japanese and American crewmen, each Japanese was assigned an American “buddy” to introduce him to the ship. It did not work. With four Electric Boat engineers trying to install and explain new wiring in the control room, people fell over one another and a fight broke out at the diving station. Finally, in exasperation and frustration, Mark Allen divided the crew into port and starboard sections and sent one section to the barracks for classroom instruction under Ensign Fred Hasse and two chiefs. The effect was immediate and refreshing and there was room enough for a man to walk again and function.

  A surprisingly docile and completely professional Lieutenant Reginald Williams led Brent to the radio room. The big black had been taciturn and distant when they first rose and said nothing over breakfast, which they took in a corner of the small mess hall reserved for officers. By the time he boarded Blackfin, he had shrugged back into his cloak of authority and had resumed the role of the consummate officer.

  Entering the combination radio room and cryptocenter, they found two enlisted men hunched over some new equipment. They came to attention. “This is Lieutenant Ross,” the executive officer said. “He’s your new communications officer.” He waved. “Show him the new gear, Simpson.”

  The PA system blared, “Mr. Williams to the bridge.”

  Williams waved and rushed to the ladder.

  “Cryptologic Technician First Class Don Simpson,” the first petty officer said, a fair-haired young man with a deep, intelligent brow and strong jaw. He gestured to his companion, a squat, dark, barrel-chested youngster with arms so long his huge hands hung almost to his knees as if he were carrying two beef roasts. His wide forehead was narrow, showing as a tan line between his shock of bushy black hair and heavy eyebrows that moved with his moods with a life of their own like huge black caterpillars. His eyes were deep-set and in dark, bony hollows. A black slash of hair protruded over the collar of his skivvy shirt. Simpson spoke. “This is Crog — ah, I mean Radioman Second Tony Romero.”

  “‘Crog?’” Brent said.

  Romero smiled. “‘Crog’, for ‘Cro-Magnon.’” He gave Simpson a playful shove. “Got the name in boot camp, Mr. Ross.” He shrugged. “If it gets too bad, I kick ass.”

  Eyeing the squat, powerful build, Brent had no doubts about the man’s ability to do just that.

  Crog continued, “But you can call me ‘Crog’, sir.” A big smile cracked the wide face. “I’ve gotten used to it, and we’ll be in the conning tower together as part of the attack team, Mr. Ross. We’re short sonarmen so I have the sonar which is back to back with your TDC.”

  Brent’s confusion was read by the man instantly. “The Torpedo Data Computer. It’s on the new Watch Quarter and Station Bill.”

  “Very well, Crog,” Brent said, embarrassed by his ignorance. He gestured at the new equipment.

  Obviously pleased with the opportunity to show his knowledge, Crog glanced at Simpson and said, “No ELF — extremely low frequency equipment, Mr. Ross.”

  “Then we’re deaf and dumb submerged?”

  “Not completely, sir. We do have a dozen BRT-Ones, transmitting buoys.”

  Brent had heard of the transmitting buoy, but had never seen one. Containing a cassette recorder and radio transmitter, the buoy was released by the submarine with a preset delay before transmitting, giving the sub time to escape the area before the transmission began. “Delay?”

  “Fifteen to sixty minutes, Mr. Ross.”

  Brent ran his eyes over the equipment. “Surface equipment.”

  “I’m afraid so, sir,” Romero said. “Got to have our ‘whip’ above the surface to transmit or receive.” He patted a receiver fondly. “Great stuff. The ICS-Two.”

  “Oh, yes,” Brent said. “The Integrated Communications System, Model Two. Yonaga has the Model Eleven.”

  The radioman nodded knowingly. “You had a much more elaborate and powerful system, sir.” Simpson watched intelligently and silently, absorbing the exchange. Crog continued, “This compact little gem is ideal for a sub. It’s capable of all types of ship-to-ship, ship-to-air and ship-to-shore communications.”

  “VLF, MF, and HF bands?”

  “Yes, sir. VHF and UHF, too. And when we had satellites, it could monitor Satcom circuits, too…”

  Brent scratched his head. “Frequency range?”

  Crog smiled. “Ten kilohertz to thirty megahertz. And, sir, it can handle voice, data, teletype, and morse signals.”

  “Christ, I’m impressed,” Brent said. “Damn near as versatile as the ICS-Eleven.”

  The squat radioman nodded. “Not as powerful. Power output varies with range requirements — up to five hundred watts.”

  Brent was pleased, not only with the equipment but with Radioman Second Class Romero as well. Every officer depended on his key enlisted personnel and, obviously, he had found a polished professional in Tony “Crog” Romero.

  Brent turned to the cryptographer. “You know we’ll be ‘packet switching,’ Simpson,” Brent said, testing.

  “I know, sir. And we have the gear,” Simpson said, smiling confidently.

  Crog looked at Simpson and then Brent in confusion. Obviously pleased with his chance to impress his new officer and Crog, Simpson explained to the radioman, “Packet switching is a new system used for top secret transmissions. A message is broken down into thousands of fragments — packets. Each packet contains a coded address of the addressee and the transmitting computer automatically routes the packets over any free route in the communications network.” He indicated a computer wired to one of the receivers, “A TBC Twenty-Two and the encryption box is there, below the computer and the hot printer.” He pointed to a printer on a shelf below the encryption box. “We’re set up to reassemble and decode both Navy and CIA transmissions.”

  Crog nodded. “Yes, I see.” He scratched his narrow forehead. “But only if we have the codes.”

  Brent smiled. “That’s right, Romero.�
� He patted the printer. “And Crog, you’ll be doing double duty — both of you will. We’re short-handed. Simpson is our only Cryptologic technician. So learn each other’s duties.”

  The men nodded. “We know, sir,” they chorused.

  There was the sound of feet on the ladder and three strange officers passed the radio room. Immediately, Brent heard the PA system blare, “Mr. Williams, Mr. Ross, Mr. Cadenbach, Mr. Dunlap to the wardroom.”

  Brent said, “As you were,” turned, and walked an obstacle course of sweating crewmen and scattered tools to the wardroom.

  When he entered, he saw three new officers standing before Admiral Mark Allen. Within seconds, Charlie Cadenbach, Brooks Dunlap, and Reginald Williams crowded in behind Brent Ross. Mark Allen introduced the officers in the usual descending order of seniority. The new officers were young, two ensigns and a lieutenant junior grade.

  “This is Lieutenant Bernard Pittman,” the admiral said, gesturing to a tall, thin man of about thirty, with shifty blue eyes and a disconcerting look of latent panic on his face. And then in quick succession the admiral introduced Ensign Robert Owen, a heavyset youngster with a friendly smile and Ensign Herbert Battle, a short, wiry-looking young man with bright eager, brown eyes that flitted restlessly over everyone and everything. After hands were shaken all around, the admiral gestured and the officers seated themselves at the table. Mess Manager Pablo Fortuno entered and served coffee and placed a plate of cookies in the center of the table.

  The admiral asked each man about his qualifications. All had served on SSNs or SSBNs, but none on the old diesel-electric boats. Then a quick review of Blackfin’s status of readiness and her mission. Brent saw Bernard Pittman’s eyes widen in alarm. Brent began to feel uneasy about the man.

  “Sir…” Ensign Battle said. “You mentioned sea trials in a week — I know nothing about these boats — absolutely nothing, sir.” The other two officers nodded concurrence.

  “I know,” Mark Allen said. “Four of us have served on diesel-electric boats and the rest of you,” his eyes embraced the entire room, “will learn very fast or the first time we submerge will be our last.” He gestured to Reginald Williams. “Mr. Williams will take you on a quick orientation tour and you will be billeted at a nearby hotel, the Oakmont Suites, until the wardroom is put back together — in about four days.”

  He went over the officers’ responsibilities: “Lieutenant Reginald Williams, executive officer and assistant attack officer; Lieutenant Frederick Hasse, who was absent, torpedo officer; Lieutenant Brent Ross, communications, radar, and the TDC; Lieutenant Brooks Dunlap, engineering; Lieutenant Charlie Cadenbach, navigator; Lieutenant Bernard Pittman, sonar; Ensign Robert Owen, supply; and Ensign Herbert Battle, diving officer.”

  He studied each officer. “Any questions?”

  Bernard Pittman waved a hand. “You have designated me sonar officer.” He clattered his cup on the table nervously. “The equipment I’ve seen on this boat is ancient. I’ve had experience with the SQS-Twenty-Six sonar, sir, on John Adams. It had five hundred seventy-six transducer elements bow mounted, and I’ve had some work with the BQQ-Five on the Los Angeles with a similar array. Both these systems display predicted transmission paths in ambient conditions, take into account salinity, temperature, propagation distortions, and a dozen other factors. These are the best active sonars in the world, sir.” He waved helplessly. “But I know very little about these antiques.”

  Mark Allen drummed the table. “I’m familiar with the new equipment and I don’t need a lecture.” Pittman winced and reddened. Brent had trouble concealing a smile. Mark Allen pressed on, showing his knowledge. “I know you are accustomed to integrated combat systems — active sonar, passive flank array sonar, passive towed arrays, and combat control systems that can give fire-control solutions.” He tapped his chin with a closed fist and stared at Pittman. “We were promised new sonar. However, I have discovered we can overhaul, install new transducers and solid state circuits and that’s it.”

  “That’s it? Then we’ll operate with old WWII equipment?” Pittman waved. “The units I saw in the conning tower and control room?”

  “Remember, Mr. Pittman, although you have worked with highly exotic, glamorous units with colorful displays, high-powered computers and rows of pretty, flashing lights; basically sonar hasn’t changed since the ‘Asdic’ of 1917. It’s still the same. All an active sonar can do is ‘ping,’ bounce a signal off a target and locate and range by measuring return-signal Doppler shift. That’s all they do!” Mark Allen struck the table for emphasis. “That’s all any of them can do on the John Adams, Los Angeles or the Blackfin.”

  Pittman’s sigh was heavy with resignation. “Then I’ll be working with basic, WWII equipment. No integrated systems.”

  “Yes. You will work with WWII units — the Mark Four, both active and passive. No computer enhancement or solutions.”

  “Passive? The old hydrophones, sir?”

  “Yes.”

  “They haven’t changed since 1916.”

  “I don’t make the rules, Mr. Pittman,” Mark Allen said with finality.

  Herbert Battle asked, “Sir, since we can’t make our own automatic comparison checks and have no threat libraries, can we access NATO’s Ocean Surveillance Information System, their sound libraries, seabed listening posts, their automatic computer comparison checks.” He tapped the table. “They could locate and identify subs that could be hunting us.”

  Allen sighed. “Good thinking, Mr. Battle. The SOSUS (Sound Surveillance System) hydrophones strung across the western and northern Pacific will pick up a shark’s hiccup — and it’ll pick us up as well. But it’s been agreed at Geneva, these systems, as well as NATO, are out.” There was a groan. “Sorry, gentlemen, I repeat, we’ll get no information from the Navy’s seabed detectors or towed arrays. I want to make it perfectly clear that help from either the Navy’s SOSUS system, Acoustics Research Center or the Anti-Submarine Warfare Center is prohibited.” The men looked at each other. “But the Libyans will receive no help from the Warsaw Pact and Soviet detectors, either. We’re on our own and so are they.”

  “Do you believe in this Glasnost, sir?” Robert Owen asked bluntly.

  “Do we have a choice, gentlemen?”

  “Ours is to do or die,” Pittman said.

  “That’s what they pay you for,” Brent Ross said suddenly.

  Silence while Brent and Bernard Pittman glared at each other.

  Mark Allen broke the silence. “After your tour, the new officers and Mr. Ross report back here.” He gestured to a stack of manuals. “I want to go over your assignments, and the best thing to do is study your manuals and become acquainted with your stations and your men as soon as possible. And, incidentally, as crowded as things are, we’re ten men short and, apparently, we’ll get no new men — we’ll steam short-handed.” He slapped the table. “Learn the whole boat — every function. All of you will be standing OD (Officer of the Deck) and JOD (Junior Officer of the Deck) watches.”

  The new men looked at each other, their feelings of uncertainty so strong, it was a palpable force that put an edge on the entire room. Mark Allen sensed it. “I know, at this moment, you must be experiencing total confusion. Don’t condemn yourselves. It’s natural. But you’re picked men, will learn fast. The one big difference you’ll find between this boat and a modern nuclear sub is the lack of computers, and consequently, the lack of visual displays at the diving station, sonar, TDC, engine room, the control boards. But Blackfin is still a sub, has all the characteristics and problems of any other sub. She’s slow, can’t dive very deep, but she’s still a descendant of the old Holland, just like those ‘nukes’ you served on. And we can play dead — lie absolutely silent on the bottom while those nukes can never shut down their pressure cookers — boil and bubble like volcanoes. Why, they’re the noisiest things at sea.” The gray-green eyes moved around the table. The old man looked very tired. “I expect no miracles. But I do expect hard wor
k and a willingness to accept new challenges — and one other quality.” His eyes narrowed and the words came as if he were chopping them off with a hatchet. “Resoluteness in the face of the enemy — in the face of danger.” The men nodded. “And remember, we have a long journey ahead of us before we even reach our patrol area. By then, I promise you, you will know Blackfin better than you know your wives — or,” he glanced at Brent, “your girlfriends.” There was a tension relieving chuckle. “You are dismissed.”

  Brent spent the next two hours in the radio room with Don Simpson, Tony Romero, and two middle-aged Japanese radiomen assigned to Brent’s department. The Japanese were Petty Officer Goroku Kumano and Petty Officer Shiro Matsuoka. Kumano, a stubby man with thinning black hair, had spent eight years in the Merchant Marine and ten in the Self Defense Force. Matsuoka, a tough, leathery fisherman’s son from Kyushu, had spent his adult life at sea, including seventeen years in the Self Defense Force. Both men were bright, resourceful and learned quickly, digesting the manuals as if English was their first language instead of their second. They had traded their green fatigues for the blue working uniforms worn by the Americans: blue working cap, blue chambray shirt, black socks, dungaree trousers. Now every member of the crew wore identical uniforms, both dress and working. “They’re members of the same crew and by God, they’ll all look alike if I have to stamp Blackfin across their butts,” Reginald Williams had announced that morning.

  Brent soon discovered all four men were thoroughly versed in Morse code, international semaphore signals with hand-held flags and could recognize flag and pennant hoists. These qualities were absolutely essential because his crew was required to stand signal watches when surfaced in addition to lookout duties. He needed more men, but he knew he might receive two “strikers” and no more. But strikers were seamen aspiring to ratings, would know very little, and would have to be taught by himself and his men. He was just leaving the radio room to visit the conning tower and study the TDC, when the PA called him to the wardroom.