Charles Taylor - Show of Force

It was after his first submarine tour, when Alex had returned to Moscow for a few days' leave, that they had one of their few arguments.

"I don't believe that you can extend your Navy throughout the world unless you can adequately service it. Any naval vessel should be able to survive on its own, but only if it is kept supplied. You taught me that yourself when we were reading Mahan!"

"We are ready now," Gorenko had replied. "We are thin perhaps, but our bases around the world make up for our lack of service ships."

"And if our bases are closed?"

"That should not happen again," the older man had growled. "We are too strong now. Our missiles are too much of a threat."

"We also have no aircraft carriers. Remember Mahan said you have to not only control your own seas, you must project your power, and in his time there were no aircraft carriers or even airplanes."

"That will come," was the reply. "I will not be caught like Hitler was. I will go to the oil fields and supply bases, and I will have a service force second to none."

"That is fine to say now. But how do you plan to support our submarines when they cross the oceans?"

At that point Gorenko had risen from his chair angrily. He did not accept criticism easily, especially from the only person that he had perhaps ever loved. The conversation was cut off.

The next morning, the Admiral was his old self. He told Alex he would have him sent to the Grechko Naval Academy for further study after his first sub command. In the spring of 1962, after an early promotion, Alex Kupinsky received his command, a submarine being made ready for a deployment to the Western Atlantic.

Sam Carter stretched lazily in his bridge chair, glancing down at the flying fish leaping gracefully through the air alongside the Bagley. His captain's chair had been returned to the open starboard wing after a brief tropical downpour. He looked across at Lake Champlain, noting activity on the flight deck a thousand yards off his port bow. The mighty elevators had already brought a dozen tracker aircraft to the flight deck, and he could see them being wheeled into position for takeoff.

"Looks like they're getting ready to launch, Bob," he remarked to his operations officer who was standing OOD watch. He looked back over his shoulder to the flag on the Bagley's mast. "I'll bet we come about thirty degrees to port for launch. What do you think?" It was always a mental game.

Collier, looking up at the flag, nodded his agreement. "Can't argue with that, Captain." And to his junior officer of the watch, he said, "What will our course to station be if the carrier turns about thirty degrees into the wind?" Both Collier and the captain knew within a few degrees, from their years of experience, but every junior officer had to develop these same instincts.

"Bridge… this is CIC," came a voice from a pilothouse speaker. "The last flight of trackers is returning to the carrier soon. We just picked it up over their tactical circuit. I expect they'll have another launch before they retrieve. That means they will reorient the screen anytime."

The JO, who had just gone to his maneuvering board to begin plotting the solution to their assumed station, looked out to Collier for a response. Instead, Carter turned to him from his chair. "Ask Combat what the course to our new station will be." He paused for a moment, then winked at Collier. "And ask him how long it will take to get there, Mr. Stritzler."

"Aye, aye, sir," responded the JO, turning to relay the.captain's query.

"Keeping them on their toes today, sir," Collier said, not expecting his captain to respond. Carter was the finest CO in the squadron for training junior officers, and he never let up on them. It was especially important now when they were in wartime conditions, standing watch on and watch off, Blue/Gold Teams as Carter called them. All stations were manned, including the depth-charge racks, hedgehog mounts, torpedo tubes, and gun mounts. The men were allowed to stand easy on these hot days — their captain was reasonable about comfort, as long as they were ready.

After a moment, "How do I know which direction the wind is from?" came back from the CIC watch officer.

Carter moved from the comfort of his chair into trie pilothouse and switched on the speaker to CIC. "You have a wind indicator in Combat that is in working order unless Mr. Mezey has been gundecking the equipment reports again. I would suggest that you use that and a maneuvering board, if there happens to be one available," he added sarcastically. "And bring your solution out to me on the starboard wing within the next sixty seconds. I would hope the OTC has not already given us the signal by then." He switched off the speaker, knowing that that particular ensign would never make the same mistake twice.

Over the water came the distant roar of piston engines warming up, preceded visually by the puffs of exhaust smoke, which quickly disappeared over the Caribbean. The anticipated signal from the officer in tactical command came over the primary tactical frequency and, after a reasonable period of time to avoid error, it was executed. Lake Champlain required only a change of course into the wind and increase of speed in preparation for the launch, but the little destroyers in her eight-ship screen had to scurry at top speed in a variety of directions to get to their new stations.

Collier allowed his JO to conn the ship into its new position. He knew the excitement within each new ensign when he had the chance to show his captain how he could place the ship exactly where the admiral on that carrier required it to be. Carter nodded to the young officer, acknowledging without words the smooth execution of a complicated ship's movement done well.

After watching the launch of the new flight of trackers, and the return of the previous twelve from their search for Russian submarines, Carter spoke to Collier. "I'm going below to my cabin for a while, Bob. Gonna catch up on a bit of paperwork. I may even take a nap." He looked at his watch, noting there were only twenty minutes left in the current Gold Team watch. "When Donovan relieves you, have him call me if those trackers pick up anything new on those oil traces they found this morning. I wouldn't be surprised if they had something there. The last intelligence reports indicated there were at least two subs in the immediate area, and sooner or later we're going to find one of them."

"Aye, aye, sir," Collier replied, saluting as Carter left the bridge.

Approximately forty miles from the ships of Task Group Alpha, Lieutenant Alexander Kupinsky, skipper of a Russian Foxtrot-class submarine, was listening expressionlessly to his chief engineer's casualty report. It had been a week of malfunctions since they had last taken on fuel and supplies from the cow that serviced them on their Caribbean station. Bearings, batteries, condensers, electronic gear — each had failed during the week that had started so peacefully and ended with alarm when they received the signal that war was imminent with the United States. There had been no further explanation, but the prearranged signal indicated that one more signal would mean that Kupinsky was to open the instructions in his safe. He had told his crew as much as he knew, but it was difficult to know what was happening when you were so far from home and so close to your enemy's coast.

There was a leak in one of the pumps. Oil had escaped into the bilges, but no one had realized the extent of damage at first. When it became necessary to pump the already overflowing bilges, the oil had likely gone to the surface. They all knew of the search planes from the American carrier. They heard the sonobuoys dropped in the water and activated, waiting for them. They had seen the aircraft through the periscope, and they had picked up the tracker's radar many times on their electronic countermeasures (ECM) equipment.