Echo Class (10 page)

“Oh, gee, Oliver. That's just what captains like: sympathetic officers and chiefs. Jesu-Christ. Lord, protect me from naïve sailors and know-it-all officers.”

Oliver slipped the headset back over his ears.

“What else?”

“What else what?”

“What did you tell him about the PMS you did yesterday?”

“I didn't tell him nothing.”

“Oliver, don't make me go back to old navy and beat the shit out of you. What did you tell him?”

“I told him that you had me do the PMS,” Oliver lied, “because you wanted to ensure that everything was working when we reached the submarine search area.”

Stalzer grinned and leaned back. Maybe that senior chief star was in sight after all. “Go ahead,” he snapped. “Put your sound-powered headset back on and do a communications check with the topside and bridge watches. If they see anything, you tell them to make sure we hear about it. You got that?”

“Yeah, I got it, Chief.”

“Good. And don't forget it. It's almost daylight. Can see the horizon already. We'll have sun by six thirty. I'm going to step down to the goat locker and get me a fresh cup of coffee since I've got to stay up here and babysit you.”

“What if the skipper comes back?”

“What if the skipper comes back?”
Stalzer mimicked. “What are you, my mother? Tell him Mr. Burkeet is in Combat, checking on the weapons status.”

“But, Mr. Burkeet said for you—”

“Oliver, shut your trap and do what I tell you. You argue too much. The navy was a nicer place before you draft dodgers showed up in it. You ought to be in Vietnam wearing army green.”

“I tried, Chief, but they told me—”

“I know, Oliver, you keep telling me. Your brother is in the army and they refused to station you two together so you joined the navy. Do you realize how ridiculous that sounds? You think the navy and the army are going to sit down and put you two together?”

“No, Chief, but eventually the
Dale
will pull into Vietnam.”

“Oliver, I hope for your sake this is youth and not stupidity talking.”

Oliver pulled the headset down over his ears.

“You just remember: When I have the watch, you have the watch.”

Oliver lifted up one side of the headset, uncovering his left ear. “But, Chief, I have other things I have to do also. Other things you've assigned me. My watch bill also has me doing a topside watch,” he whined.

“Then I guess you better bring whatever it is you gotta do down here to do it because if I have to do port-starboard watches, you're gonna do them with me.”

 

 

IT
was nice watching the sun breach the horizon. It was always a beautiful sight from the bridge to watch the light speed across the ocean top as daylight surfaced. He licked his teeth. The strong tannic acid from that cup of coffee on the bridge had left its taste.

“Captain off the bridge!” came the shout as he stepped into Combat.

MacDonald weaved through the crowded area with sailors squeezing out of the way as he continued aft. He stepped through the knee-knocker separating Combat from the passageway, turning to secure the hatch before continuing aft through the main passageway.

A few steps and he stood in front of the radio shack. He pressed the buzzer.

Almost immediately the locked door opened. Petty Officer Williams appeared, his every-which-way oily hair looking as if a mighty wind was blowing in from the passageway. “Attention on deck!” the sailor shouted, stepping back, holding the door open.

“Carry on,” MacDonald said as he stepped into the cramped square communications compartment, commonly referred to on every ship as the radio shack. He pulled up the stool from in front of the R-390 high-frequency radio. Nodding at the radio, he looked back at Williams. “Well, Sparks, have you found something to keep the crew entertained after breakfast?”

“Not yet, sir,” Williams replied in a loud voice, rubbing his hands together, “but I had just got started.” Williams's eyes seemed to glance beyond MacDonald.

“I won't be long, Sparks, just want—”

“No, sir, that's not what I meant, Captain.”

MacDonald laughed. “I know, Sparks. Just thought I would read the morning message board. Save Mr. Taylor the effort of bringing it to the bridge.”

Williams grabbed the letter-size metal clipboard off the hanger and handed it to MacDonald. “Skipper, we are still ripping the zero six hundred broadcast, but all the messages to the
Dale
since taps last night are on it.”

“Uh-huh,” MacDonald said as he took it, glancing at the clock on the nearby bulkhead. Zero six forty-five. He had been up all morning. He stifled a yawn as he looked around the spaces. “Aren't you supposed to have two people on watch here at all times?”

Seaman Korun stepped from behind the rack of receivers arrayed across the aft bulkhead of the compartment. “I'm here, Skipper. I was just checking the wiring.” Korun yawned, then realized what he had done and slapped his hand across his mouth.

MacDonald looked back at Williams, frowned, and narrowed his eyes. He looked down at the message board and lifted the metal cover. “I hope the wiring is functioning properly, Sparks.”

“I may have to double-check it myself, sir.”

Without speaking, MacDonald flipped back the top of the read-board and began reading. Every message that came into the
Dale
was on the board. Copies of specific messages like those for Supply, with their legends of naval stock numbers that seemed as cryptic to most sailors as the Japanese ULTRA code of World War II, were the only messages MacDonald banned from the read-board. Otherwise he would have been forced to wade through a roller-coaster series of undecipherable stock numbers with something readable every tenth or twelth message.

“Looks as if we're getting another radioman on board, Sparks,” MacDonald said, holding one of the messages between his fingers.

“Out of ‘A' school, Skipper. It'll take me months to retrain him to how the navy really operates.”

“As long as he doesn't find himself checking the wiring during the mid-watches.”

MacDonald smiled, surprised to see a slight blush on Williams's face. He flipped the message over the two-hole metal brackets at the top and continued reading. Thirty minutes later, he finished the board. He took his pen and initialed the space beside his name on the top sheet before handing it back to Williams.

“Sir, when do we get to Olongapo?” Williams asked.

MacDonald shrugged. “Depends on when we find the submarine and scare him away from the battle group.”

Williams nodded. “Thanks, sir.” The leading petty officer of the radio shack hung the metal board on the bulletin board beneath the word “TODAY.” Another metal board hung under the word “YESTERDAY.” A third empty hanger was beneath the word “TOMORROW.”

In a few days, when the
Dale
tied up pierside at Olongapo, the liberty parties would fight their way down the gangway to the huge cement piers, bolting for the front gate and the sins of the city lying across bridge over Shit River—
American name
.

Williams was a one-port one-drunk sailor.

MacDonald already knew that once they arrived in Olongapo, Williams would amble down the same gangway, make his way to the on-base club, watch the strippers to the wee hours of the morning, and then someone would find his body between the club and the ship and bring him back. For the remainder of the port stay, Williams would remain on board except for a trip or two to the base exchange. Most sailors liked to entertain one another with their “girl in every port” stories, but they also entertained one another with their “one-port one-drunk” stories about guys like Williams. Try as they might—and MacDonald had stood on the bridge wing of the
Dale
and watched them—no one had yet been able to get Williams into Olongapo.

He automatically looked up at the 1MC speaker on the bulkhead when he heard the familiar click of someone hitting the “push to talk” microphone. “Captain to Combat.” He glanced at the clock. MacDonald stepped hurriedly through the hatch, hunched over to avoid the low overhead of the passageway, as he headed toward Combat.

“Captain in Combat!” someone shouted as MacDonald stepped through the watertight hatch. A nearby sailor secured the hatch behind him. He moved hurriedly through the tight maze of equipment, noticing the activity around the target motion analysis table.

“What you got?” he asked as he neared.

“Sonar has a contact, sir,” Lieutenant Kelly replied.

The two officers stood there, watching the TMA team plot the second line of bearing from the plotted location of the
Dale
. The line crossed the farthest-on circle.

“Soviet?”

“Not American.”

“How far out?”

Ensign Hatfield answered. “Can't be more than one hundred twenty-eight nautical miles from us, sir.”

“One hundred twenty-eight?” MacDonald asked.

“Yes, sir. We are estimating max speed of eight knots for the submarine. Any faster he'd be blind. His passive sonar would be unable to detect any signals. Ergo, one hundred twenty-eight nautical miles since the reconnaissance aircraft picked him up.”

“We've had two lines of bearing?”

“Yes, sir. Just two.”

MacDonald turned toward Sonar, stopped, and turned back to Kelly. “What is our course and speed?”

“Sir, we are still on two-two-zero, but speed is eight knots.”

He had ordered the speed reduction a couple of hours ago to increase detection ability. “Well, we can't have this, can we? If the submarine is doing eight and we are doing eight, then we'll never close.”

“No, sir, but if we increase speed, we'll have to restart our time motion analysis.”

MacDonald shrugged. “We only have two lines of bearing. Bring the speed up to twelve knots, so we have some closure rate on the contact.”

Kelly acknowledged the order, and as MacDonald walked toward Sonar, he heard the Combat watch officer pass his instructions to the bridge.

“What you got?” MacDonald asked as soon as his head parted the curtains.

Lieutenant Junior Grade Burkeet was hunched over the shoulders of Petty Officer Matthew Oliver. The two men were watching the display console as sound in the water bounced across the sensistive hydrophones within the bubble bow of the
Dale
. He straightened, but his eyes never left the display. “Oliver has a weak signal directly in front of us, sir. Very weak, but every now and again it grows stronger.”

MacDonald pulled himself all the way into Sonar. He touched the sailor on the shoulder. “Does the signal fade in and out, or does it seem you have two signals: One that is faint but constant and then one that startles you as it overrides the faint one?”

Oliver's forehead wrinkled. “I don't know, sir. I haven't given it thought. I think it is a convergence zone signal. Would mean the contact is at least fifty-six miles from us.” The petty officer ran his hand through his hair. “I think you're right, Captain. Every now and again it grows in strength. That's when I've gotten two good bearings on it.”

MacDonald looked at Burkeet. “How far apart are the bearings?”

Burkeet seemed puzzled.

“Time, man? How many minutes apart between the signals?”

His eyes seemed to light up. “Five minutes—maybe six.”

“Aren't you keeping track?” MacDonald asked sharply.

“Sir, the Gold Team is keeping track of the times.”

“You keep track also,” MacDonald ordered.

“Means we have both a convergence and a direct zone, doesn't it, Captain?” Burkeet replied.

MacDonald nodded. “Most likely. If we do, then the submarine is closer than fifty miles. Most likely not that far if we're getting both signal bounce off the layer and a direct path to the
Dale
. I doubt we have two submarines out here. The TMA team says we are within one hundred twenty-eight miles of it. I don't believe we are that far.”

“I've got another one!” Oliver said, holding his headset tight against his ears as he glanced at MacDonald and Burkeet. “This one is real strong.” Oliver shut his eyes. “Seems almost as if I have two signals instead of one.”

“Convergence zone,” both officers said together. Both officers were wrong. It would take time to reach the contact, but he had a line of bearing regardless of how the signal arrived at the hydrophones located in the bulbous sonar nose on the bow of the destroyer.

MacDonald heard the voice along the outer rim of his doze, pulling him back from the comfort of a near-dream of him home with his wife, Brenda, the joyful sounds of Rachel, twelve, and Danny Junior, eight, in the background. A comforting vision that had accompanied him on this voyage.

Without opening his eyes, he shifted in his chair on the bridge. “What is it, Lieutenant Goldstein?” The warmth of the early morning sun on his face disappeared.

“Sir, radar is showing a couple of contacts that are going to pass close to us—well, at least one of them. Combat recommends we alter course to open up our passage.”

He opened his eyes. Goldstein stood between him and the Pacific sun. “You're blocking my morning sun, Mr. Goldstein.”

The officer shifted quickly to the side. “Sir, Combat—”

“I heard you the first time.” He pushed himself completely upright. The boatswain mate of the watch handed him his cup filled with hot coffee. “Thanks, Boats.” He yawned.