Show of Force (11 page)

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.”

The contact did not maintain course and speed to satisfy Sam Carter, which was no great surprise since its movements seemed too well planned. Combat was tracking it step by step with a direct feed-in from sonar. As often as Frank Welles noted changes in the return echo, Andy Bradick had a new course for Carter. They had been a team for too long to be fooled by simple evasive tactics. Bob Collier was able to adjust his course and speed in tandem with the recommendations of the others. As they passed astern of the contact, its propellers gave it away and a confirmed submarine was radioed back to Banker. Within a few moments the information would be encoded and sent to the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and they would interrupt Mr. Kennedy's hastily grabbed sandwich to inform him that the first Russian submarine was now being held down by units of Task Group Alpha . . . professionals in the art of sub hunting.

It was obvious to Carter that they had a diesel sub. A nuclear boat would already have raced away from the slower destroyers.

A pinwheel is an insidious scheme in the eyes of a submariner at two hundred and fifty feet. By intuition and a bit of listening, the ships above can be pinpointed, but their constant movement creates confusion. Just like a child's toy pinwheel, the ships move on the four compass points in a circular motion around their contact adjusting their position relative to each other as the sub changes its course and speed. And hovering on the outer perimeter, a couple of miles from the destroyers, were helicopters in a similar circle of their own with sonars lowered into the water below. The submarine that thought it had effected an escape from the ships would be doubly surprised to hear the familiar ping on its hull when no ship's noise was evident. And even farther off, fixed-wing aircraft were sewing lines on sonobuoys that bobbed inoffensively in the water. They relayed the movement from below to their parent aircraft, allowing cross fixes that gave the course and speed of their contact. The forces under Sam Carter's command were formidable, to say the least.

Darkness was beginning to replace the softness of dusk. “Captain,” David reported, “the gunnery officer reports that the men m the gun mounts are awfully hot and cramped . . . request permission to open the hatches on the mounts for a few minutes.”

“Permission granted. And ask damage control to wake up the supply officer. I want coffee and sandwiches for the crew before it's too dark out here . . . and have them bring some milk, too, for some of the youngsters,” he grinned.

The crew ate on station as best it could that evening, and found some relief as watertight restrictions were lifted for a few moments to receive trie food that was passed in to them. Darkness brought an increase in the force of the wind, enough so that whitecaps would have been evident if it had been light. A few times, Carter had sonar relay his request for the sub to surface and identify itself according to international law. He was not surprised by the sub's silence, nor its continuing efforts to evade his pinwheel.

Once again, Carter went to the ship's PA system. “This is the Captain speaking again; As you've no doubt heard, we are circling what we believe to be a Russian diesel submarine. Two of them were reported in the area in the last couple of days. Neither of them was able to refuel from its cow, since our carrier planes were escorting it. Our orders, which have been relayed from Washington, are to stay with the sub until it is on the surface. I do not expect anything other than a peaceful surfacing. We are not at war, and God forbid that we ever have to be. There will be no forceful acts on our part unless we are provoked. Each of us is responsible to Mr. Kennedy in his own way to ensure his orders are carried out peacefully. If it becomes necessary, we will wrap grenades in toilet paper, the same as we've done during exercises with our own subs, to make our point. I don't expect him to get away. As a matter of fact, I hope we'll be steaming alongside him tomorrow morning, though I don't think there will be time to exchange souvenirs.”

He was interrupted by David Charles. “Sub's dead in the water, sir. Wait one . . . funny noises in sonar. Mr. Welles believes he's increasing his depth. He may be trying to find a temperature layer down there.”

“David, tell the gun boss to have some grenades brought down aft. The least we can do is make it uncomfortable for him.”

A few moments later, when David reported the grenades ready, Carter ordered. “Tell them to drop the first one in thirty seconds and then two more after counting to fifteen each time, as we pass over him. And make sure Welles knows when we're dropping them. I don't need an ASW officer or sonarmen with punctured eardrums.” He turned to Collier, “Tell the other units over pritac what we're doing. I don't want to have some other CO trying to deck me in the ”O“ Club the next time.”

The noise of an underwater explosion is compounded since water tends to hold that sound, as opposed to air, which rapidly dissipates it. A grenade going off underwater may sound like a cannon shot to those nearby. Within a submarine, the explosion is magnified to the point that an untrained crew, or one with little experience, will think they have just been hit. The purpose of the toilet paper is to ensure that the sub's crew is kept as nervous as possible. The paper will gradually disintegrate as the grenade floats down until the handle releases, still taking a bit more time before detonation. A light wrapping of paper will bring an explosion at about 100 feet, while a gunner's mate with experience can wrap the grenade so that it might go down as far as 250 to 300 feet, or more. The deeper the water, the greater the pressure, the louder the bang ... all that effect for the price of a grenade! Welles estimated the sub to be at about 300 feet, and the grenade was wrapped by an expert.

It was extremely humid in the cramped submarine. The water temperature outside was cool enough so that heat wasn't the problem. But the combination of humidity caused by the always leaking water, and the increasing closeness of the air, made comfort of any kind impossible. Alex Kupinsky had no concern about his crew cracking under the strain. They were all hand-picked, as was he, and they offered no complaints. The most difficult problem for all of them was the fact that they didn't know yet what had brought about the apparent conflict with the United States, nor were they sure of the intentions of the American destroyers. The unknown was their greatest enemy.

The chief engineer had just reported that the fuel pump was acting up again, and that the air supply was good for a little more than five hours. And the bearing on the shaft was heating up again. He could not guarantee to his captain that it would last the night. If it reached a certain temperature, then they would have to shut down the shaft or risk it warping at 300 feet. Each of those problems were considered separately by Kupinsky. The fuel pump could be a problem later. He would try to keep his speed down except for a couple of rapid changes, especially if he could find a temperature gradient. The air supply was his major concern. While they could stay down for another five hours, the greatest problem was that the men's efficiency would decrease at a certain point, and then he might just as well surface. Since he was the only one aboard the boat with any knowledge of English, he understood the Americans on the underwater telephone saying they would hold him down until he had no choice but to surface. Then the grenades, which were indeed expertly wrapped, began to explode at the same depth as his boat. It was the worst of times to be facing the unknown.