Charles Taylor - Boomer

They knew only what they had been told. The captain of a submarine not only holds each man’s life in his hands, he also controls the minds of his crew. Their information comes at his sole discretion. Wayne Newell was both their leader and Pasadena’ s propaganda minister. Whatever he chose to tell them had to be accepted, of necessity, as gospel.

He had told them that America was in danger. He had told them that Pasadena had been selected for a vital mission that just might save their country and their loved ones. One hundred thirty of them had functioned as one for him, sinking two Soviet boomers — even though they gave every indication of being American — because he had released classified information to them about a horrifying masking device the Russians had invented to confuse them. And he had accepted the lonely responsibilities that came with his position when challenged by members of the crew — Newell placed those who questioned his absolute authority as captain under ship’s arrest and confined them before they could contaminate the rest of the crew with their mutinous ideas.

With each fearsome dollop of knowledge that came to them, they continued to hold together as one, accepting the fact that “they must face a lonely challenge with bravery, as so many of their seagoing forebears had done through the centuries.” Those words had been a bit much for some of them, especially the older ones, but they were willing to be led. Their captain had successfully inspired his crew with that tradition, and they were proud of themselves in facing such adversity. Their minds were controlled by one man, and they had to place their trust in him. They had no other choices, no options.

Until this moment, they had been the hunter in a chaotic world. But now the situation had changed radically. They were closing another contact, ordered to sink one more boomer that sounded just like one of their own. But a second submarine — a “bird dog,” their captain had called it — was out there, and its job was to protect the boomer, to sink them before they could hit their target. It could be nothing other than a fast, highly maneuverable submarine like their own, a lethal threat that could not be overlooked.

Now they were facing an unseen enemy — if it was truly an enemy … for fear spawned doubt — with the knowledge that there no longer was any contact with their country. Had there been a nuclear attack on the U.S.? Were they now fighting for what had been, rather than what once existed? Had their families perished in a nuclear holocaust?

Was there anything worth fighting for at this point? Whatever the answer might be, their training dictated that they see their mission through to the end, whether the ultimate result was protection of their country or revenge for its destruction.

Newell discerned this attitudinal change, subtle at first in its implications, almost instantly. Makin sensed it, too, as did the department heads and chiefs and leading petty officers. It could be seen in the eyes of each man. And smell — the nose revealed a great deal about men in conflict. Even today’s nuclear submarines with their complex atmosphere control systems could not erase that unique aroma arising from tension and fear. This was uniquely different from the hard-earned sweat of a working man. It was musky, oily, and its source could be discerned simply by looking into a crewman’s eyes. They told what a man was thinking even if he kept it to himself, and they explained why the scrubbers could never cleanse the air completely.

A kill was essential. Every single man understood that equally as well as Newell. Without a successful attack, and one executed very soon, Pasadena would be on the defensive. He knew the boomer must know he was out there. She’d gone strangely silent, or at least slowed enough so that sonar no longer had a contact. That meant any fire-control solution at this stage would be based on what the computer had developed up to the boomer’s last known position. The advantage had been lost!

The mouse was now tracking the cat — the boomer must have its sonar array streamed aft — developing its own target analysis. That would be accurate, much more so than his own. Would they be suspicious enough to fire first? Although Wayne Newell was now convinced in his own mind that he was facing an enemy submarine, he remained able to discern the fact that his crew might be confused by his approach.

It all depended on who got the first shot.

How much time had passed since he was last in sonar? Newell wondered. He’d given Steve Thompson thirty seconds to straighten out that sonarman, Dixon. That shit about the boomer’s signature had better be taken care of. He glanced about control quickly for his executive officer. Where the hell was Makin? Then he remembered he’d told him to make sure Wally Snyder was secured in his quarters. Don’t let stress twist your mind from your mission, Newell. There was so much going on.…

For a moment, eyes closed, he was back at the Charm School outside Moscow. The KGB instructors had stayed close to his group for just a few weeks before turning them completely over to the Americans. For a few days he’d been suspicious of the Americans attempting to gain control of him. But it never happened. It was months later that it came out in a discussion with his comrades that the Americans had been so brainwashed that they’d given up completely. They were no longer even capable of the desire to convert the Russian students, nor did they seem interested in escaping. Many of them had acquired Russian wives and were raising families within the bounds of the Charm School. The will to resist had been torn from their minds. And, he now wondered, had Wayne Newell been so brainwashed that he was incapable of going over to the Americans? Was that why, after all those years, after the family he’d sired, that he still remained loyal to a country he left over twenty years ago?

His eyes were suddenly wide open. Had anyone noticed? No — not a soul.

In the background he heard the diving officer cautioning the stern planesman about his bubble. A rumble of voices came from sonar, then an angry shout, then silence. They were tight. Every single one of them was tight to the breaking point.

How long could he control them?

How much time?

Once again Newell became aware of the eyes. The word moved quickly. Pasadena had turned north and increased her speed to close her target. They were attacking. But what the hell was going on? There were no communications with the outside world … if one still existed! The XO was absent from the control room, placing an officer in hack. There were angry voices in sonar arguing about the contact … the target that had gone silent. The word … the word … said that target sounded like Florida !

Newell had heard that name uttered outside of sonar already. How the hell does the word get out so fast? The eyes … no, not the eyes — it was the smell that bothered him the most. It hadn’t been present in their first attack at all. This crew had total faith at that time. They were going to save the world. But during the second one, now that he thought back on it, it was recognizable. Now it was pervasive. Why the hell couldn’t the scrubbers cleanse it from the air, for Christ sake!

Dick Makin reappeared in control. “Captain, I—”

“Later, XO. No time now.” Don’t let this thing get any worse … don’t lose control of the situation! Newell fully comprehended the need to maintain full control. “Our target is still dead in the water. I want you to coordinate the attack while I talk to the crew.” He was speaking rapidly now. No time to allow anyone to interfere. “Don’t worry about the second target. Just figure that the Russian boomer is probably tracking us. I want to fire on his estimated position, then take evasive action. Once he hears something in the water, he’s not going to sit still any longer. Then we go in for the kil l… maybe even go active sonar for a perfect position on him.”