Charles Taylor: Boomer

What bothered them most, Newell learned, was their inability to share two of the most basic human reactions with their families — the fear of devastation and the hope for survival. For all they knew, the fear generated by a clash of the superpowers had become a reality on the surface. All the well-meaning efforts by so many leaders on both sides to diminish cold-war temperaments appeared to have collapsed. Conventional war on any number of battlefields could already be escalating toward a nuclear exchange. Until those orders arrived, they had been able to do nothing tangible, nothing that would justify Pasadena’s existence, nothing that would protect loved ones. Life beneath the surface of the ocean in a tiny tube called Pasadena had left them empty in crisis.

Now, according to their captain, they had an opportunity to become part of Washington’s grand strategy.

The fire-control coordinator, Dick Makin, had been unable to generate an accurate set of cross bearings on the contact. “Captain, request we alter course. I’d like to try to get a better feel for his motion.” Target-motion analysis was the process of obtaining a series of bearings on a sound, then changing course in order to obtain new bearings. The points where these second bearings crossed the first set would display the general direction the target was moving. Once they drew closer, these individual fixes could provide a fairly accurate course and speed for their target.

Ten minutes later, “Captain, I think our friend may have altered course. My old solution isn’t tracking.”

“Right. We’ll hold this course and generate some additional bearings. Then see what you can do, Dick.” Newell remembered the endless days of “the box” on a ballistic-missile submarine. SSBN’s were assigned an operating area, exactly like this Lima Echo Two Six, and that was where they stayed. It was their station and theirs alone. In time of war the Pentagon knew that a particular submarine could be directed to fire if an action message was relayed to it via VLF from land or a TACAMO communications aircraft. The SSBN in that sector would fire its Trident missiles at preassigned targets from that specific point beneath the ocean’s surface. There was a purpose, if one understood missiles and computers and the necessity to saturate an enemy, especially if that enemy was in the process of blanketing U.S. cities with the same nuclear devastation.

“The box” was home for a boomer until they were relieved by a sister ship on a predetermined date. They didn’t move from that box. They might steam around the boundaries just as a fish swam interminably around the glass sides of an aquarium. They also maneuvered in relation to unknown contacts, because invisibility was the price of their mission. Other times, it could be caprice that determined their position within their sector.

Wayne Newell would have loved to bet that the contact would already be on a westerly — or easterly — heading, if it had appeared to be northerly before. Otherwise it would have to leave its assigned box. Perhaps they’d already heard him. But he knew he couldn’t open his mouth. American boomers were the quietest submarines of all. Somehow, someone might begin to wonder why he knew a supposed Soviet boat was acting just like an American one. Did anyone know how a Soviet SSBN patrolled its assigned sector?

“Seems to be heading west, sir. Signal’s no stronger.”

“Dick, what do you think their boomers do? Do they steam around in circles, or boxes? Or do they just do whatever comes to mind?” Better someone else comes upon the answer.

“The Russians are precise,” Makin answered, “If we’ve got one of their boomers here, the odds are that he’ll head to the west for a while and then turn south.”

“Good enough for me.” The XO had answered Newell’s question in front of everyone in the control room. “Since we seem to be astern of him, let’s head in the same direction and kick up our speed again. He’ll have a hard time hearing us if that’s the picture.” Newell was sure that was exactly what that boomer was doing. It was more difficult, almost impossible depending on acoustic conditions, to hear a quiet contact approaching from astern.

The contact did take a westerly heading. The signal did improve in sonar. “Captain … that’s one of ours….” Even on the speaker suspended just above their heads in the control room, the attack team could sense horror in the voice that called out from sonar.

Newell looked over at his XO. “Dick, why don’t you step in there and calm them down. It’s a natural reaction. I can understand. I think they just used someone else to reinforce the situation. I know how tough it’s going to be.” His voice was sympathetic.

“Chief,” Makin beckoned to Tommy Lott as he slid the sonar door shut behind him. “ That’s not one of ours. It would help a lot in the control room if your men could—”

“Listen to this,” a young, still unnaturally high voice, unaware of Makin’s presence, interrupted. “I fed the sound into the computer. That’s a Trident out there. No difference at all. Whatever makes Alaska a bit different from the others, that’s her signature. This computer doesn’t screw up.” The concern that had been evident in his voice in the control room increased in intensity. “Chief, you have to listen to this.”

Lott’s headphones were around his neck as he spoke. “I’ll take care of it, XO. This is his first boat. He doesn’t understand what it’s like in the control room.” The chief slid the headphones back over his ears without another word, and the executive officer returned to his station near the captain. Discipline on an attack boat was often silent, understood by all. A submarine was too small for conflict.

“We’re going to take him on the southerly leg … if he turns to the south,” Newell added. If we’ve gotten this close without being detected, leave well enough alone. “Come left to two two zero,” he said, to the OOD. Then he turned to Makin. “I’m going to get into position and then wait for him, assuming we’re right about the box. I can’t imagine he has a guard dog or we would have heard something from it by now.”

“Sonar would have had to pick up something,” Makin agreed. “How many torpedoes?”

“Two. I don’t care if we’re surprising him. I don’t care if the first one’s a direct hit. I don’t believe everything I’m told about the Mark 48.” It was designed to explode directly beneath the hull, creating a huge air pocket that would theoretically break the target’s back, “Their double hull’s more than likely made out of titanium, and it’s a tough son of a bitch, I want to make sure it sinks the first time.” He turned to Bob Holloway, his weapons-control coordinator. “I intend to fire two torpedoes ten seconds apart. Get all your noise out of the way now. I don’t want him to hear anything beforehand. The first sound’s going to be the water slug sending that fish into his arms. We want everything ready — absolutely perfect — before we shoot.”

Newell considered Pasadena’s current position in relation to the contact. He intended to hit his target on its southerly leg. Why not assume it was going to continue its apparent straight-line maneuvering? He estimated his firing position very carefully. Once he was ready and was completely silent, it would be no different than hiding behind a tree. He’d be invisible. Satisfied, he asked the quartermaster to give the OOD a course to that spot.

When sonar eventually reported the target had turned down the predicted southerly leg, Newell checked his initial firing point again. “I want to be at a point exactly four thousand yards east of his estimated position … right about here.” He jabbed at the chart with a finger. “We’ll maneuver to remain absolutely silent until we shoot.”