Charles Taylor: Boomer

Pasadena was circling near her position, almost an hour before firing time. “I want to hold us at four hundred feet, stay below him,” Newell said to the diving officer. “He could be running deeper than I’m estimating, but we’ll fire from there.” He had to be dragging an antenna — the boomers were in constant contact with the National Military Command System. Newell struggled to conceal his knowledge that this was a Trident with a communication buoy probably operating at no more than three hundred feet.

The weapons-control coordinator reported ready. The torpedoes had been warmed, the tubes flooded and pressure equalized, muzzle doors opened — anything that would send a warning to their target had been completed beyond the estimated range of the target’s hearing … assuming Newell was correct about their sound gear, he said. The XO claimed it still didn’t have the sophistication of their own; Newell said he could take no chances. What he couldn’t say was that he knew American listening devices were still superior to anything the Soviets made.

The weapons-control coordinator reported that all the presets — target’s course, speed, range, aspect, optimum depth — were good enough to launch an attack … assuming the target made no further maneuvers. Nothing was absolute in the ocean depths, where sound could be twisted in strange ways.

“Range?” Newell’s face remained calm as he asked the same question once again for the third time in ten minutes. Dick Makin knew exactly what was running through the captain’s mind — emergency procedures, in case they’d been detected.

“About eight thousand yards.”

“Any change in the sound?”

“Negative, sir. If they’re preparing to shoot anything at us, they did it a long time ago. They’re just cruising down the highway … not a care in the world. You know how these boomers are.” But they weren’t always like that. Quite often their maneuvers were pure whim, to put off any silent marauders.

“You’d think they might be a little more concerned … what with everything that’s happening on the surface,” the OOD said. This all seemed so easy to him, more like an exercise shot. Combat was supposed to be so much more complex. “You’d think they’d have as much information about the war as we’ve gotten. They have to remain close to the surface for messages.”

“Hell, we’re in the middle of nowhere,” Newell answered. “It’s just like being out in the desert. If there’s a hawk around, you’ll see him almost as soon as he sees you.” He saw by the man’s eyes that he wasn’t completely satisfied. “You worried about the masking technique they’re using?” Newell had heard others talking — whispering, really, because they didn’t want their captain to think they were nervous about this new tactic.

“I guess so, Captain. Sonar’s never reported anything but Alaska’ s signature since we confirmed the contact.” He folded his arms awkwardly. “It’s eerie.” His eyes remained fixed on the control-panel dials before the helmsman as he spoke. “Besides, he’s driving a straight line.”

“You’re damn right it’s eerie,” Newell answered. “I feel the same way. Hell, if we hadn’t been warned about that masking device of theirs, we’d probably be asking them to exchange movies by now.” He moved over beside the OOD and placed a hand on his shoulder. “And if we hadn’t received that message, it’s quite possible that by right this minute one of their torpedoes would have split us open like an egg and you and I would be floating toward the bottom … and we’d already be compressed into a tiny piece of goo that even the sharks wouldn’t touch.”

The OOD’s eyes moved from the dials to settle on Newell, but he said nothing.

“Myself, I’d prefer the Russians got their jocks blown off, Steve.”

“Me, too, Captain,” the OOD answered, his gaze moving back to the dials. “Me, too.”

The silence in the control room seemed overpowering until Newell called out, “Range?”

“Coming up to six thousand….”

“Okay,” Newell interrupted, “one more time. Firing-point procedures, tubes one and two.”

The weapons-control coordinator went through the same reports. The torpedoes were ready.

The fire-control coordinator, Dick Makin, repeated that the solution was ready. Although the target would be crossing Pasadena’ s bow, they would fire before it reached that point. There was no reason to start it out as a stern chase for the torpedoes. The target would turn away instinctively anyway.

They waited — silently — as their target closed, Newell looked over to the diving officer.

“Slight up bubble, sir,” he answered, anticipating the question.

His glance shifted to the OOD.

“The ship is ready, sir.”

“The weapon is ready, sir.”

“Solution ready, sir.”

Newell’s voice boomed out, echoing through the control room. “Shoot on generated bearings.”

A water slug propelled the first torpedo out of the tube.

Ten seconds later, “Tube number two, shoot on generated bearings.”

Every man in the ship was involved in his own thoughts as he felt the shudder of the slugs, yet each also shared a similar thought — this was the first time Pasadena had ever fired in anger, and they desperately hoped everything they had been taught would now save their lives.

“Both units running properly, sir.”

“That woke him up!” the chief sonarman exclaimed a moment later.

“Evading?” Newell called out. So much time seemed to have passed — yet it was no more than twenty seconds since the second torpedo left the tube. There had to be some reaction from their target. There was no doubting your sonar when a torpedo was fired at you. It sounded like a train! Newell wanted to move, too, to evade whatever might be fired back at him. That’s what they taught you. Yet he didn’t want to break the wires that controlled the torpedoes, that directed them right into an evading target.

Another pause. Then, “He’s cranking it all the way up … probably going deep … probably turning….” The voice from sonar was tentative, breaking occasionally to listen, as it also attempted to report on what was occurring at the instant.

The torpedoes shifted from a high-speed pre-enabling run to a slower snake search for their target. The wires had broken. Pasadena could maneuver whenever he wanted to.

“No noisemakers yet … wait one … yeah, there’s one in the water, I think … if I didn’t know different, I’d say it sounds just like one of ours … there’s a couple more of them.” Another hesitation. “First torpedo’s out of search … homing … range gating….” The torpedo’s sonar had locked on its target. Now it would close relentlessly, its speed increasing as it closed for the kill. “Christ, it’s all so close I can’t tell if it’s locked on the target or the noisemaker … same for number two….” The voice was increasing in pitch. The entire process wouldn’t consume much more than two minutes, just one hundred twenty seconds, hardly enough time for an unsuspecting submarine to evade a surprise attack.

“Steve,” Newell’s call to his sonar officer rose over the voice from sonar, “No counterattack … no snapshot?”

“Nothing like that, Captain. I don’t think he’d have had a prayer evading if he tried to shoot. He’s just playing rabbit for us.”

A sharp blast whipped through Pasadena like a lash as the first torpedo exploded.

“Was that a….” Newell’s voice was drowned out by a second, equally vicious explosion, an echo to the first.

“I couldn’t tell, Captain. Too soon after he fired noisemakers. If I had to guess, I’d say that first was a direct hit.”