Charles Taylor - Boomer

Now, after also polishing it with his handkerchief, he placed it next to the other. Why not show off? Hell, maybe one of those youngsters would see it and ask who those girls were.

There was a sharp knock on the bulkhead outside.

“Come,” Nelson called out huskily.

The curtain was pulled back and Delaney, the chief sonarman, a young man still under thirty, stepped inside. “Good morning, Captain, I—” He stopped in midsentence. “Wow, sir.” His eyes were on the photo of the girls. “Who are those lovely young ladies?”

“My daughters. Chief,” Nelson answered. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so proud before. Not only did he command a boomer, but he was surrounded by three of the most beautiful women in the world.

Pasadena cut through the ocean depths at flank speed but there was little sense of mobility. One grew accustomed to the sounds of a submarine under way — the comfortable noises from the engineering plant aft, the creaking of the hull, the everyday hum of auxiliary equipment, even the muffled buzz of the men at their stations. Only hours after getting under way it all became an accepted part of each individual’s integration with this huge machine; the only way that sound would ever be noticed was if something suddenly stopped. Then, that sudden silence, that unorthodox change in the submarine’s rhythm, would be noticed by each man. If they were asleep, they would awaken quickly. That alteration in the ship’s sound, her rhythmic heartbeat, would be no different than a rapid change in one’s own bodily functions. It demanded instant attention to this great body that encased your own.

Wayne Newell’s crew was tired; he could sense it. They were an integral part of him, and their weariness was akin to a numbness in his fingers or an itch between his shoulder blades that he couldn’t reach. The men were scared and … no, they weren’t scared. They were too well-trained. It was their families they feared for. No man who qualified as a submariner could be too frightened for his own life when he knew he was doing his duty — as long as they continued to work together, they figured they’d get each other back home.

It was home they were worried about. Home, hearth, whatever you wanted to call it. If there were a shooting war going on up on the surface, even if it was still limited to, say, a European land war between NATO and the Warsaw Pact, how long would it be before the first tactical nuclear weapon was used? Perhaps it would be an eastern front in Germany that collapsed, or Soviet forces pouring through the Fulda Gap so rapidly that only extreme measures would halt them. It might not even be that threatening, just something that the NATO commander acceded to when a hysterical field general saw his forces crumbling. Then the use of theater-sized nuclear weapons could lead to strategic threats followed by a decision to beat the other side to the draw.

It wouldn’t take much to get to that same point of frustration about your home when you were six hundred feet below the surface of the ocean in an attack submarine. Not when you were racing at flank speed toward a newly designated sector to sink another Soviet ballistic-missile submarine … another one that sounded exactly like an American boomer. Not when you were increasingly terrified that your captain — or someone — could be making a terrible mistake and you were actually murdering your own people. And on the surface, perhaps that very moment … was someone murdering your wife and kids?

Wayne Newell understood the not-so-subtle element that was increasing the tension in his submarine. He also accepted the fact that it was solely up to him to make his crew as comfortable as possible with their terrifying responsibilities. They must be made to understand that there was absolutely no doubt in their captain’s mind that they were doing the right thing.

Of course it was the right thing! In theory, the entire plan was working flawlessly. No … no … no — not theory … those had not been American boomers they’d sunk. It was not an elaborate masquerade to convince Wayne Newell or Dick Makin or Pasadena ’s crew that they were facing a cruel new device that was intended to deceive them into believing they were approaching one of their own boats. Those really were Soviet boomers! Wayne Newell now believed it in his heart … with all his heart … with his very being … and he closed his eyes and concentrated on that fact. You must believe in your killing if you are to do a good job of it — and we are killing the enemy!

He no longer acknowledged that their communications system was under the control of anything other than SUBPAC. He’d never heard of any SSV-516 — it would have meant nothing to him anyway — any communications satellite, any blue-green laser. When the messages were brought to him, they were actually issued through the normal system, relayed by satellite transceiver to ensure secure communications between SUBPAC and Pasadena. Pearl Harbor had warned him beforehand, even issued the op order to cover this unique situation. It was in black and white, and his own executive officer, Dick Makin, had watched him open the secure envelope — sealed by COMSUBPAC in Pearl and handed directly to Newell as the commanding officer of Pasadena. That’s how it really happened….

Those really were Soviet boomers! Those really were … those really were.…

Newell’s eyes clouded over as he considered each of their attacks — picture-perfect attacks! Cat and mouse! But the mouse never had a clue where that cat came from. Imagine the Russians trying to fool them like that. Perhaps they might have fooled another submarine, but not one with a superb crew like Pasadena. Wayne Newell had seen through their charade. With the help of an executive officer like Dick Makin, the best XO in the business for damn sure, he’d been able to warn his crew. He’d been able to convince them that they’d matured from America’s first line of defense to a superb fighting machine able to breach perhaps the most sophisticated ruse the Soviets had ever attempted.

That was it! That was the way it was unfolding. It would be impossible to reinforce this … this undeniable truth for his men if their captain didn’t believe it completely himself.

But he did.

Those boomers at the bottom of the Pacific deserved their fate. They’d attempted to imitate American SSBN’s in order to prepare to launch their deadly missiles at the United States. But Wayne Newell … SUBPAC … American intelligence had seen through it. His heart beat more quickly with the realization that he had acquired a new level of understanding in this complex game where nothing appeared as it really was.

It was critical to reinforce this understanding with his men. They — or at least some of them — were, he knew, faltering in their resolve. His executive officer had explained that some of them even wondered if Pasadena was the victim of a deadly hoax, or intelligence deception.

It wasn’t that they mistrusted their captain. Nor was it the horrible responsibility of their mission. No, it wasn’t that easy. It was a case of not knowing whether their families were alive or dead, of not knowing if there was a United States or simply a command post deep underground issuing orders — and the end result was gut-wrenching suspicion when the sonar told them they were about to fire on one of their own, even when they had been warned beforehand.

He picked up the phone and had almost touched Dick Makin’s button before changing his mind. It had only been a few hours since their last discussion. As always, that implicit trust between them had been evident, but they had been unable to determine how to put the crew at ease. Maybe Dick had talked with some of the men by now. What the hell….