Operation Golden Dawn

by George Wallace

  The submarine rushed onward through the inky black depths. The strait narrowed to a vertical wall of hard lava rock on either side. The slightest miscalculation and they would crash into the rock. Even her two-inch thick HY-80 high-strength steel hull would not withstand the crushing force of seven thousand tons of rushing mass colliding with the solid rock wall. The first indication would be the bone-jarring jolting impact followed almost instantaneously by the inrush of ice cold water compressed to steel hardness by the great depth. In a millisecond, a human being unfortunate enough to be inline with the onrush would be smashed into unrecognizable pulp. The flash fire of compression would incinerate the rest in another millisecond. Incredibly, no one would drown. Everyone would be dead long before that could happen.

  Eyes flicked nervously from the fathometer to the dead reckoning bug on the chart. Driven by the ship’s electro-stabilized inertial navigation system, or ESGN, its small dot continuously displayed the best available estimate of their position on the chart. Both the ship’s chronometer and the bug inched forward imperceptibly.

  The beads of sweat stood on Seaman Osterburg's deeply furrowed brow as he concentrated to hold the rudder precisely on course. The fathometer watch delivered his reports crisply, but in a noticeably higher pitch. The Chief of the Watch's hands crept over the emergency blow chicken switches in vain hope that he could react fast enough to save the ship if anything went astray.

  Hunter did his best to look calm as he leaned alongside the number two periscope. From this vantage-point he could survey the entire control room while sipping his umpteenth cup of coffee. As he had come to expect, his crew was doing their jobs like real professionals.

  There was little for him to do but to watch, wait, and worry. The planning was done; the tactical decisions lay in the future. All that remained was to ponder and second-guess. He knew it was counter-productive, but the temptation was irresistible. Was this the best way? Had he chosen correctly? Was he up to the task? All these questions flashed, unanswered, through his mind. He would know the answers soon enough.

  After an interminable forty minutes, Jacobs called out that the ship was beyond the narrowest neck of the strait and they were entering more open water.

  As if in confirmation, the fathometer watch reported, "Depth under the keel one-zero-zero fathoms and increasing."

  With a nod, Hunter said, “Okay, now to blow past that KILO skipper before he knows what’s happening. Helm, left two degrees rudder, steer two-three-five.”

  “Left two degrees rudder, steer two-three-five, aye,” Osterburg responded crisply as he turned the wheel slightly to the left. The ship heeled over during the turn and then snapped back upright as Osterburg smoothly swung the rudder to stop SAN FRANCISCO smartly on the new course.

  “Sonar, conn, coming left to two-three-five. Heads up for that KILO. I expect him to be to the Southwest and to be shallow.” Hunter replaced the microphone.

  “Conn, sonar, aye.” It was the voice of Master Chief Sonarman Holmstad, the best sonarman in the world as far as Hunter was concerned. If there were a KILO out there to detect, Master Chief Holmstad would find him.

  A long chain of events that had started at an electronics manufacturer in Des Moines, Iowa, three years previously was about to come to a culmination. A switch designed to cause a standby lubricating oil pump to automatically start if low oil pressure was sensed had been improperly assembled by a line worker suffering from a bad hangover. The switch had somehow passed the quality assurance checks at the factory and later testing onboard the ship, when it was installed last year during a shipyard maintenance period.

  It had reached and gone beyond the last cycle that it would operate. Normally this would not be a problem, as the lube oil system was designed to prevent just about any possible loss of the vital lubrication the massive bearings needed to allow the powerful steam turbines, reduction gears and shaft to keep rotating.

  The down angle preceding the race through the straits caused a small nut, left by an inattentive shipyard worker, to shake free from the remote recesses of the lube oil sump. The nut was now making its way slowly toward the operating lube oil pump. The close tolerances of the screw type, positive displacement pumps would not allow a hardened steel nut to pass through. The nut jammed the pump, causing it to immediately halt. The huge current surge tripped open the pump circuit breaker.

  The first indication anyone saw was a rapidly falling oil pressure on a gauge on the throttleman’s control panel, followed by an alarm horn sounding and several alarm lights flashing.

  The throttleman yelled "Loss of propulsion lube oil!"

  He spun the Ahead throttles shut with a giant heave. As soon as the Ahead throttles shut, he opened the Astern. The only hope of saving the engines from catastrophic destruction was to immediately stop them by using astern steam.

  The engine-room upper level and lower level watch-standers rushed to find the cause while Chief Turston tried to restore the flow of oil to the bearings before they became red hot and welded themselves to the shaft. When that happened, the shaft would suddenly lurch to a halt.

  An electrician ran to the operating propulsion lube oil pump switches and punched them on in a vain effort to start the standby pump. The Des Moines factory worker’s hangover was now in the chain of events. No amount of effort would start that pump.

  “Loss of propulsion lube oil, stopping and locking the shaft,” the EOOW screeched over the 7MC Announcing System.

  At the same time, the throttleman rang up All Stop on the engine order telegraph.

  “Answer the ordered bell, do not stop the shaft,” Hunter immediately replied. “Engineer, lay aft and see what you can do. If we stop now, we are a sitting duck for that KILO.”

  Stuart leaped up and darted out of the back door of the control room. He slid down the ladder to the mess decks, colliding with Petty Officer Swain. Not even delaying to apologize, the Engineer dashed to the engine-room.

  Stuart and his team tried frantically to restore oil flow as the temperature of the bearings inexorably continued to rise.

  “Conn, maneuvering, high bearing temperature port high speed pinion bearing,”

  “Conn, aye. Continue to answer the bell.”

  “Conn, maneuvering, high bearing temperature starboard high speed pinion bearing.”

  The temperature-monitoring panel was lit like a Christmas tree, red alarm lights blinking madly. Still the bell had to be answered. Their lives depended on it. The only hope was to get past the KILO before the shaft seized.

  Then, the inevitable happened. One of the bearings, manufactured slightly closer to the tolerance limits and subjected to higher heat, reached its material limits. The red hot bearing metal welded itself to the shaft. With an awful grinding noise and a powerful lurch, the shaft came to a halt. The sub would race no further.

  “Rig out the outboard and shift to remote,” Hunter ordered. “We still might have a chance." Ten miles to the boundary, and the outboard could only push them at two knots. But the noise of the outboard might sound enough like a fishing boat to confuse everyone.

  "Shift reactor coolant pumps to reduced frequency. No sense in letting the pump noise advertise we're here.”

  Fast speed reactor coolant pump sound was distinctive. No matter how much the outboard screw might sound like a fishing boat, the reactor coolant pumps would be a dead give-away. Reduced frequency did away with that problem. SAN FRANCISCO would look like a tiny diesel fishing boat to any sonar operators in the area. At least, Hunter prayed, close enough to confuse them.

  The race had slowed to a two-knot creep. Everything now depended on who detected and shot first. The tactics had been reduced to an old West gunfight, but both with gunfighters blindfolded. The basic rule was, ‘He who shoots first, lives’.

  15

  11 Jun 2000, 1326LT (0426Z)

  Chief Holmstad yelled into the microphone, “Conn, sonar, KILO bearing two-six-seven. Designate sierra six-three. He is opening his outer doors!
”

  Even with his years of experience, this was the first time someone was really shooting at him.

  Hunter barked, “Snapshot, sierra six-three, tube three!”

  Fagan said, “Solution ready.”

  “Weapon ready” from the Weps.

  “Ship ready” from the Nav.

  Hunter ordered “Shoot tube three.”

  Weps threw the large brass knob first to the left, “Standby”, and then to the right, “Shoot.”

  The ship lurched as four thousand pounds of high-speed death impulsed out of tube three. The roar of high pressure air venting through a muffler drowned out everything as the large air powered piston forced water to literally flush the Mark 48 ADCAP torpedo out the tube. Ten seconds after Holmstad's report, the torpedo raced toward the KILO.

  “Conn, sonar, indication of outbound weapon running normal in high speed.”

  Weps reported, “Captain, normal wire clearance maneuver, weapon running in high speed.”

  Hunter asked, “Sonar, what is the KILO doing?”

  This was what they had spent years training for. Everyone was working at the peak of their abilities. In one part of his mind, Hunter reflected on how proud he was of these men. The rest of his mind was devoted to getting them through this in one piece.

  “Conn, sonar, he is being masked by our weapon now.”

  “Wait! I’m hearing something over our weapon! Torpedo in the water! In-bound torpedo bearing two-six-five.”

  “Launch the MOSS from tube four,” Hunter ordered. “Launch evasion device from the forward signal ejector and reload. All stop.”

  Blackness started to close in around the edges of Hunter's consciousness. Not now! He fought it with every ounce of his being. The whirling sensation was overpowering. He reached out to grab the chrome handrail and steadied himself.

  Bill Fagan yelled fearfully, “Captain, we're dead in the water! We need to get some speed on!”

  Running clear of the torpedo’s acquisition cone was the normal torpedo evasion tactic. Everyone knew that. But there was no way to do it.

  Fagan's voice filtered through the misty blackness. With pure raw will power, Hunter forced himself back from the edge. He glanced around, hoping they hadn't seen. All the crew saw was the Skipper calmly, nonchalantly resting against the rail.

  He managed to keep his voice normal. “I know that, XO. I’m banking on him shooting with a doppler enabled torpedo this close to shore. If that's true, that torpedo won’t even see us. It will go for the MOSS because it's moving.”

  Doppler is the frequency shift that sound makes as it comes from a moving object. By sensing and tracking only sonar returns that show doppler, the torpedo could sort out the moving submarine from the stationary erroneous returns. The MOSS was making ten knots almost directly toward the incoming torpedo.

  Hunter queried, “Sonar, bearing to the torpedo?”

  “Still bears two-six-five. Zero bearing rate.”

  Weps yelled out, “Detect. Detect. Acquisition. Our weapon has acquired the KILO!”

  Feedback along the hair thin copper wire connecting the ADCAP to the SAN FRANCISCO showed that the torpedo had found its prey.

  Sonar reported, “Indication of our weapon acquiring. Weapon in close-in re-attack. Incoming torpedo still bearing two-six-five.”

  The incoming torpedo was coming straight at them. There was no bearing drift.

  The control room was absolutely silent. The normal bustle of men working had stopped. All eyes were glued on the sonar repeater watching the trace, praying for the slightest change in bearing.

  “Shit, this is going to be close” Fagan groaned.

  Hunter glanced over to see his XO, pasty white and shaking uncontrollably.

  Everyone else bent intently to their tasks, mentally willing the incoming torpedo to accept the bait.

  “Loud explosion on the bearing of the KILO. Breaking up noises.”

  The sonar report was superfluous. The noise of the explosion came through the hull. It was a terrible sound to hear. Death had reached out and touched their adversary. Now it was dancing with them.

  “Torpedo bearing two-six-five. It didn’t go for the MOSS. I think it has us!" Holmstad shouted, fear thick in his voice.

  There was nothing between them and the incoming torpedo. Was there a way out? Hunter was stymied. Could he fool the torpedo or get out of its acquisition cone? The tendrils of uncertainty were starting to envelop his thinking. There had to be a way out. What was it?

  Then it hit him. They couldn’t out race it horizontally, but if they timed it right, maybe they could out race it vertically. He would need to let the torpedo get close enough so that it did not have enough time to react and chase them to the surface. If he waited too long, the sub would not have enough time to get out of the acquisition cone before the torpedo hit.

  "XO, range to the torpedo?" Hunter asked.

  He expected immediate response and didn't hear it. Looking over at Fagan, he saw that the XO was clutching desperately to a pipe stanchion with tears streaming down his face, oblivious to everything except his fear.

  Fagan was not going to be any help. Hunter would have to do this on his own. He figured that he had about two seconds of leeway. Not much at all.

  What was it his old Skipper on WILSON always said? "Better lucky than good."

  Looking at the sonar trace of the incoming torpedo, he waited stoically. Couldn’t let the crew see the emotions seething inside. That was the path to panic. Just a second longer, wait. Wait. Now!

  Hunter shouted, “Shoot evasion devices from both signal ejectors. Chief of the Watch, emergency blow to the surface,”

  The Chief of the Watch squeezed the releases and threw the two large brass handles up. A rush of high-pressure air deafened all other sound in control. The ship began to rumble. The diving officer reached up and sounded the diving klaxon three times, the signal for an emergency surface. The roar of high-pressure air drowned out all possibility of conversation in the control room. At first the depth gauge barely moved, then it began to accelerate, then accelerate more, as more 4,500 psi air dumped into the ballast tanks, forcing the water out. The depth gauge was going so fast that the numbers were a blur. The sub’s up-angle grew to forty degrees up when the bow finally jumped free of the surface and splashed back down with a stomach-churning crash.

  No sooner were they on the surface than they felt an explosion beneath them. The sub jumped and shuddered.

  “What happened? What was that?” could be heard around the boat.

  To quiet the rising panic of the crew, Hunter announced over the 1MC, “The jolt you just felt was the incoming torpedo detonating on the evasion device below us. When we emergency blew to the surface, we came up fast enough to get out of the torpedo’s vertical acquisition cone before it could react. It went for the only target left, the evasion device. We are now on the surface with only the outboard for propulsion. We will establish communications with Alpha Xray on the NIMITZ and with the P-3s that are incoming. The engineers will be repairing the main engines so that we can continue on our mission. We're OK."

  Loud cheers answered his words.

  But the fight was not over yet.

  Hunter directed in rapid-fire sequence “Raise number two scope and number one BRA-34 mast. Energize the IFF to squawk mode 4. Raise Alpha Xray on SATCOM secure voice. Officer of the Deck, man the scope and report any contacts. Be on the lookout for any low flying aircraft.”

  Hunter replaced the microphone and stepped over to where Fagan was standing. Fagan was attempting desperately to regain his composure, tears streaming down his face while his whole body convulsed uncontrollably. Hunter quietly told the XO to go to his stateroom. Hunter would talk with him later.

  Warran Jacobs jumped to the periscope, reached up and rotated the large red overhead ring to raise the scope. It slid smoothly upward. As soon as the handles cleared the deck, he snapped them down and glued his eye to the eyepiece.

  Chief Tyler
reported that the IFF was operating and had today’s crypto installed.

  Warran Jacobs reported, “No close contacts."

  There were no surface ships inside four thousand yards.

  He spun the scope around more slowly, carefully searching the horizon, “No contacts on initial low power search.”

  The afternoon sun beat down on the calm blue waters. A few white, puffy clouds danced across the sky. Everything was peaceful.

  “Wait, I have an airborne contact. High power. Low on the horizon. Bearing three-one-zero. Shifting to twenty-four power. Looks like a P-3 down low. Estimated range thirty thousand yards. He is headed this way.”

  Chief Tyler reported, “Captain, I have Alpha Xray on Satcom. Patching it to the conn.”

  Hunter picked up the red telephone handset and noted that the green light was lit, signifying that it was operating in the secure mode. “Alpha Xray this is SAN FRANCISCO. Status report follows. Over,” he said in the curious flat tonality that seemed to be reserved for military radio communications.

  “SAN FRANCISCO, this is Alpha Alpha. Jonathan, this is Admiral Smith. What the hell is going on out there?”

  The NIMITZ battle-group commander, Alpha Alpha, had pre-empted his ASW commander, Alpha Xray, to get a direct report. He wanted to know what was going on and fast.

  “Admiral, presently on the surface. Have sustained a loss of propulsion lube oil and seized main engine bearings. Unable to make way on the mains. Initial inspections in progress.

  “We took out the KILO. Have a P-3 closing us rapidly. Request you have him mark on top and then take station to provide us some air cover. Also, sure would be nice to have a surface escort,” Hunter reported.

  “Jon, the P-3, call sign Xray Papa Three, has your mode four squawk. He holds you visually. He has sighted an oil slick about 10,000 yards from your position and has a stationary magnetic anomaly below the slick. We will confirm your KILO. Good work,” Admiral Smith replied