Charles Taylor: Boomer

“One … possibly,” the CNO finally murmured. “But two … highly unlikely.”

“Two … almost impossible,” the Navy Secretary concurred.

Silence once again dominated the room.

Then the Secretary spoke up again. “How many boomers do we have on patrol in the Pacific right now?”

“Including Alaska and Nevada, there are four,” Bennett responded. “We have two in transit right now, four alongside the pier.”

“I’d better inform Harry Carpenter now,” the CNO decided. “He’s going to fight me on this one.” Carpenter was the President’s Chief of Staff.

“The hell with him,” the Secretary interrupted. He knew much more about the workings of the White House than he did about the Navy. “This is for the President directly. I don’t want us wasting a second with Carpenter’s bullshit … just in case….”

Long-range strategic bombers and intercontinental ballistic missiles, the other two elements of the country’s triad, were more fragile. They could be shot down, destroyed in their silos, possibly sabotaged, but the SSBN’s were supposed to be invincible, impregnable to Soviet intelligence efforts. They were the single element of the triad that kept the balance, and they carried almost half of the U.S. strategic weapons. One missing boomer was critical to United States security. But two of them gone left a gaping hole in American strategy — especially if they had been sunk — for the country was essentially on its hands and knees, at the mercy of its enemies.

How many more?

And how…?

The American 688-class attack submarine (SSN) is slightly longer than a football field but only thirty-six feet wide, a sleek, silent hunter. Since she is nuclear powered and designed exclusively to deliver torpedoes and surface-hugging missiles, creature comforts are respectable but secondary, unlike the immense SSBN’s more than twice her size. The wardroom of this smaller submarine is the size of a dining room in a comfortable suburban home, perfect for a party of perhaps eight to ten people, a little tight for more. It is the place the captain meets with his officers.

With the exception of those on watch, all of the officers of USS Pasadena were now assembled in the wardroom at the captain’s request. As a result, the most junior officers were unable to be seated, and leaned, arms folded politely, against the bulkhead.

Wayne Newell sat in his normal place at the head of the table as Pasadena’ s commanding officer. This was his second tour on a boat of this class, and he exuded confidence in every aspect of his job as a result. Since he had already put in his necessary time on a ballistic-missile submarine, he assumed squadron command might come with his imminent promotion to captain.

Newell looked Navy. Even in the working khaki uniform worn at sea, he was immaculate. His shirt was starched and pressed knife sharp, like a Marine’s, his commander’s silver leaves and submariner’s dolphins reflected the overhead light brilliantly, and three rows of service ribbons accounted for his successful career. His brown hair, cut once a week, was never ruffled. With his hands folded on the green-felt table cover, his blue eyes fell on each of his officers as he spoke. “Navy regs don’t require a speech at a time like this.” A slight, comforting smile displaying even white teeth appeared — a casting director’s dream come true. “I’m sure the rumor has already hit every compartment, and the answer is — no, we’re not involved in a nuclear war, at least none that I’m aware of.” More smile to put his officers at ease. “But, yes, there appears to be a definite possibility.”

This was one of a number of such wardroom gatherings over the past week. Newell, aware that it was vital to keep every member of Pasadena’ s crew well informed, had insisted that the contents of each critical message be known to his men. From that initial warning — this is not a drill, repeat, this is not a drill — every man had known that international problems were escalating. They had also learned that Pasadena might serve a critical role in the coming days. Pride, instilled by their captain, had a great deal to do with their performance since that first moment. They were ready … committed … completely under his control.…

“We are approaching our assigned station, which is a point approximately fifteen hundred miles south of Adak and three thousand miles east of the main Japanese island.” It was something they already knew, but Newell was repeating exactly where they had been ordered so no man could possibly doubt anything during this patrol, literally a voyage into the unknown. “We will shortly stream our antenna for one hour in anticipation of our next set of orders. From what little we have been able to gather, diplomacy is still in effect — Washington and Moscow are apparently talking … common sense, I hope,” The captain smiled again and glanced around a table of comfortable officers. He sensed that they knew they were well led.

“Captain?” The engineer officer raised his hand.

“Don’t tell me we’re running out of gas, Kirk.” Newell chuckled. It was a joke that had continued between the captain and Kirk Wolters for the better part of a year.

“Not yet, sir … filled up at the last pit stop.” Wolters had learned to enjoy the banter. His sense of humor had been almost nonexistent until Wayne Newell learned that his engineer needed to be drawn out. Kirk was the most serious of the officers, and his lack of imagination would eventually hurt his career pattern. But now Wolters, thanks to his captain, was even willing to have a few beers ashore with the other officers, something he’d been hesitant about previously. “It’s just … well, how do we know this isn’t an elaborate scheme to test our readiness?” He was as loyal as an officer could be, dedicated totally now to serving Wayne Newell.

“At this point, it would be one hell of a dirty trick, something I’d take right to CNO if it turned out that way. That’s why I’ve had the XO right at my side since about thirty seconds after that first message was broken.” He nodded at Dick Makin, his executive officer. “He agrees with me that they might have yanked our chains for forty-eight, maybe even seventy-two hours, but no longer than that.”

“And there’s no pattern to it,” the XO added. “I’ve been through these things before on other boats. After a while you get to anticipate what comes next. Not this time,” he concluded grimly. “Plus the first message, the one before they shifted us to another broadcast, was directed to every military addressee in the Pacific Fleet. It wasn’t something designed to test just Pasadena .”

Each American attack submarine on patrol rose close enough to the surface at least twice every twenty-four hours to stream a floating wire just below the surface or raise an antenna in order to copy any messages directed to them and take a satellite fix. Soon after that first directive establishing an increased readiness condition for all American military units, Pasadena was requested to shift to another broadcast for operational purposes. From that moment on she appeared chosen to become a vital cog in an American plan to avoid a nuclear confrontation. On the fourth day, in the presence of his executive officer and department heads, Wayne Newell sliced open a packet he’d carried aboard just moments before Pasadena departed Pearl Harbor. They were informed that Pasadena’ s operating area was in the vicinity of known Soviet SSBN patrol boxes. Her mission would be to intercept and destroy them if the order was given.