Charles Taylor: Boomer

Wayne Newell and his officers were familiar with the objective. It had been established years before with the Navy’s Maritime Strategy. Seize the initiative: wage war aggressively against the enemy’s undersea capability — sink their ballistic-missile submarines to limit their desire to escalate to a nuclear exchange. And it was all based on the theory that Moscow would not employ nuclear weapons if there was a distinct possibility that the Soviet Union might trigger the nuclear devastation of their own homeland as a consequence.

“In any situation where the future of mankind is at stake, there are inevitably a chosen few. They essentially save the world.” Newell had used this same message over the ship’s P.A. a couple of times before to explain why he expected each member of the crew to do his duty, even if that meant sacrificing themselves and their ship. “ Pasadena has been selected, I’m sure, because we have brought a new meaning to the term excellence ” — and he seemed to give an almost religious symbolism to the word—”in every phase of our operations.” Pasadena had won the E for excellence in each segment of competition for the coveted award. She was the top attack submarine in the Pacific Fleet.

“What the captain and I are assuming is that Pasadena deserves this mission.” Dick Makin was as fond of his commanding officer as any man in the fleet. It was a privilege to serve under a man like Newell. If Makin never received another billet, if the Navy chose to overlook his potential for command, he was secure in the fact that he had served with the best. The XO still looked like the football player he’d been fifteen years earlier, broad-shouldered and thick-necked. But his face remained youthful even with a premature lack of hair. He was popular with the junior officers who kidded him about leather helmets and single-wing football. His dark eyes generally twinkled good-naturedly, and there was always an even smile, as long as things were going his way.

“It’s possible one or more additional boats were switched to another broadcast also,” Makin continued. “We could go back and copy one of the other circuits again, but the captain and I decided not to because of the danger that the enemy could compromise that frequency and broadcast conflicting orders,” It was true. Newell was able to explain the critical nature of communications so that a child would appreciate the situation. Makin’s eyes settled on the engineer. “You can imagine what a disaster that could be, Kirk. Believe me, the captain has involved me in every single decision. We’ve considered every possibility. This isn’t a drill.” He glanced at Newell for confirmation. “We are an integral part of Washington’s strategy.”

“Which brings me to the purpose of this little cocktail party.” Newell grinned. “This is the toughest pill of all to swallow, and I’m going to give it to Wally to read.” He removed a sheet of paper from his breast pocket and handed it to the communications officer. “You broke the message, Wally, so you win the dubious honor of reading it to the boys around the bar.”

Lieutenant Junior Grade Snyder was one of those standing. He had to reach over the XO’s shoulder for the piece of paper. The color drained from his face as he glanced down at the words he’d typed out so neatly after breaking the coded message for the captain. “All the messages on this broadcast are designated for Pasadena,” he began haltingly. “It’s our very own … ah, broadcast, as a matter of fact. It’s from COMSUBPAC.” Snyder looked over to Newell for support.

“Go ahead, Wally. Your boys copied it. You broke it. You checked it twice to make sure there were no mistakes. You have the honors.”

“Intelligence reports confirm existence of Soviet submarine masking device. Equipment imitates exactly American SSBN signature. Repeat, American SSBN signature. No means exist to break through device. Coordinates of

Pasadena

targets will therefore be designated by this command only. Regardless of apparent target identity, coordinates issued to

Pasadena

will be Soviet SSBN only. You are ordered to open envelope Bravo Delta Two Zero. Orders to follow Zero Nine Zero Zero Zulu.”

Lieutenant Snyder’s face mirrored the inherent doubt that existed in his mind. He would follow Wayne Newell to the gates of Hell, but he maintained a healthy suspicion for any wisdom emanating from Washington.

“Gentlemen, if you’re ready for another round, you may serve yourselves.” The captain waved in the direction of the coffeepot. “I’ll wait until you’re comfortable, since the rules of the game have just been altered drastically.”

No one moved. The import of COMSUBPAC’s message was simple enough. It was quite possible they would actually be ordered to sink one or more targets. War — so swift and sudden in its impact — was evidently at hand. It was possible that their entire attack could be conducted against one or more targets that gave every indication of being sister ships — fight up until the moment they were sunk! But what if….

Their silence was ominous. No matter how long a man made a profession out of preparing himself for the possibility of war, the reality of the situation was still a shock. “Your message is received, gentlemen, and understood. The XO and I have been doing a bit of soul searching ourselves on this one.” There was no effort at humor. Newell understood how each of them were reacting. You learned pretty quickly on a submarine how your people responded. That was an essential of command.

The executive officer was the first to react. “The captain has expressed his reservations to me already. That was shortly after he asked me to read that Bravo Delta Two Zero. I agreed with him that each of you should have your say because we could be ordered at any moment to sink a boat that sounds just like one of our own Tridents. I, for one … I might have a hard time giving the order. So I know how the captain feels at this point.” Dick Makin was as assertive as an XO could be, and he’d been the one to insist Newell open the discussion to his officers.

The navigator was the first to speak. “Captain, if you have no objections, I’d like to ask for confirmation the next time we go to periscope depth. I know it’s remote, but don’t you think there’s a chance that our crypto could have been compromised? Or maybe it was just a freak of nature, a weird something in the atmosphere that allowed them to interfere with that broadcast for just a short time.” He shrugged. “I don’t know, sir, maybe I’m shooting in the dark. But … but if we ever made a mistake, none of us could live with ourselves.” He was the first since Pasadena got under way to exhibit signs of a new mustache, and he was habitually smoothing it with his fingers.

“That was my first idea, Andy. But we all know we’re not supposed to be transmitting at all. If we’re already involved in even a limited war on top, someone could intercept that signal of ours and have our position in no time.”

Andy McKown was persistent. “We don’t have to send a long one, sir, just a burst transmission, an interrogative referencing COMSUBPAC’s message. You’re talking seconds then. What are the odds of someone getting our position in that time? A million to one? A thousand to one? Even with a hundred to one, I’d much rather take that chance than sink one of our own.”

“You’re right, you know.” Newell nodded in agreement. “We could never go back to Pearl again if we’d done something like that.” He looked around the wardroom. “It’s almost impossible that anyone’d ever pinpoint us. But I want to make sure there’re no other arguments.” By the expression on his face, they knew Newell had already made up his mind, but each of them also knew he enjoyed opening the discussion to them.