Charles Taylor: Boomer

“Okay, Wally, go ahead and draft that message now. Put ‘C.O. PASADENA REQUESTS CONFIRM YOUR’ … whatever the date/time/group was, I want them to know it comes directly from me.”

Wayne Newell was more than willing to acquiesce to that request, for he already knew what the response would be. He’d also anticipated each of the messages Pasadena had received since the crisis began. Newell was familiar with their contents beforehand because he knew they had not originated from COMSUBPAC. It had taken years to devise this plan, and its basis was exquisite. Code-named Boomer — since American SSBN’s were the objective — patience became a way of life for those involved. The key to its eventual success was based on two critical points: Wayne Newell’s promotion to command of a nuclear-attack submarine, and that vessel being assigned to the correct patrol area at the correct time.

The message from Pasadena, the one Andy McKown had pressed for, had gone out as an emergency and it came back at the same speed. It confirmed COMSUBPAC’s warning. It also added a not-so-subtle admonition to her skipper: CRITICAL YOU CEASE TRANSMISSION PER GUIDELINES CONDITION ONE. It meant, in so many words, that Pasadena was to follow orders and await target assignment without further questioning.

Twenty-four hours later, what each man feared came as the ultimate message: PROCEED ZONE LIMA ECHO TWO SIX TO PROSECUTE CONFIRMED TARGET PER MY … and COMSUBPAC proceeded to list earlier messages, including the confirmation that the target was imitating an American boomer. But the most ominous part of the message was that the world situation had escalated to a conventional shooting war with employment of nuclear arms anticipated.

Wayne Newell was in the control room when the sonar officer’s initial report concerning their first contact echoed through the speaker. It was Steve Thompson’s voice: “We’ve got machinery noises filtering through all that crap out there.”

The change in the atmosphere was immediate, electric. Each man in control knew that sonar had been analyzing sounds radiating from the assigned sector, but until that moment there had been nothing manmade in the curious natural roar of the Pacific. If a war was indeed in progress on the surface, Pasadena remained blessed with ignorance — neither a hunter nor the hunted.

Quite suddenly that had all changed. According to their captain’s op order, there were no other American submarines in that area. It was their sector to hunt and theirs alone. Any manmade contact would most certainly be the enemy.

“Very well. How soon can you give me a bearing?” Newell’s slightly bored expression while the hours of search progressed had changed to sudden animation. The waiting was over.

“Still mushy, Captain. Port bow to port beam … need to close the contact to confirm.”

Newell turned to his executive officer, “Station the section-tracking party, Dick, Slow to ten knots. We’ll ease our way in. I’m going to put in some sonar time.”

Pasadena had been on a northerly course, “Left ten degrees rudder, steady course three two five.” Andy McKown was the OOD. “Ahead two thirds,” He glanced over his shoulder at the XO, “Any special reason we’re making a slow approach, sir? If we’re so far away we don’t even know what the contact is yet, the Russians don’t have any sonar that can pick us out.”

“Caution, I suppose, Andy. We can’t assume any SSBN out in the middle of the Pacific is by itself any more than the ones they’ve got up under the ice. Those have guard dogs around them because that’s where they figure we’ll attack.” He shrugged. “Only Washington knows. Maybe the logical solution was to stick some of their big boys out here away from the hassle.”

“I guess that makes sense, XO. And I suppose he could have some attack boats protecting him out here in the middle of nowhere.”

“That’s why the captain’s closing in this manner. Their ears get better every day. He said he planned to maneuver once we had a confirmation on the contact. Let him cross our bow and make a pretty target.”

Ten knots was generally a limit for 688s. That was close to their ambient limited speed, which occurred when their own ship’s noise was approximately the same as that of the ocean. The submarine didn’t become any quieter by going slower at that point, and it became more difficult to maneuver at lower speeds.

Pasadena continued to close slowly, silence being close to godliness.

The watch changed. Those who were relieved carried the latest details back to their compartments: machinery noises first … then classified possible submarine … captain maneuvered in an attempt to enhance the sound … contact was still too weak for accurate target-motion analysis … still too much background noise….

Newell ordered course changes, searching cautiously with the towed array — listening for any sound that might indicate their contact was accompanied.

Nothing.

If a watch dog was near the boomer, it should make a noise sooner or later. Dick Makin suggested that if there really were an attack boat protecting this boomer, the logical idea in that vast empty ocean would be to circle the boomer you were guarding. She could, after all be attacked from three hundred sixty separate directions.

“That would require some speed,” Newell agreed, “and that would mean noise. We’d pick up one of their quietest boats, even an Akula or a Sierra, after a while…. ”His voice drifted off as he considered his approach. “Our contact could even be masking a watch dog now, on the other side, just like an eclipse, but sooner or later it’d have to show up.”

They waited. Ten knots meant they were closing the contact at ten nautical miles an hour — that’s if it were standing still. If it were on the same course and speed, there would be no approach, just the same distant unconfirmed sound depending on the condition of the water. On the other hand, if it came toward them, the sound intensity should increase. Sonar would analyze the target….

“Contact is improving … we have cavitation….” This time it was the voice of the chief.

“Any identification?”

“Classified probable submarine, Captain. I’m sure that’s no surface contact.”

“Thanks, Chief,” Tommy Lott, the chief sonarman, had been an instructor before he came aboard Pasadena. He’d taught the fine points of analyzing contacts to hundreds of younger men in the fleet. “Now can you tell me where he’s headed?”

“Give us a little more time, sir.”

Twenty minutes later the head of the section tracking party announced, “Got a generally northwest heading, Captain. Recommend we come back on a northerly course to close — maybe a little east — and I think it would help if we could add a couple of knots.”

“Go ahead, Dick, but not a sound aft. Tell engineering to ease that throttle,” Newell said to his XO. “And let’s man battle stations. If we’re able to classify a probable already, along with a course for that sound, eventually we’re going to be close enough to be heard.”

The process was a quiet one for Pasadena. Her crew was efficient. They’d anticipated being called away to battle stations and looked forward to the order when it came. Until that moment, Newell had sensed a feeling of emptiness among the men. But it wasn’t so much from their understanding that the world was on the edge of a nuclear precipice. Strangely enough, that had been accepted more easily than he anticipated. The past few days had demanded long hours of work from the crew as they prepared for what appeared to be a unique mission, and that was almost welcome.