Charles Taylor - Boomer

Before Makin could respond, Newell was on the IMC. “We are proceeding now to attack a Soviet ballistic-missile submarine off our bow. I would caution each of you not to jump to conclusions relating to our just-completed communications period. Any rumors now are dangerous. I consider such silence from shore is most likely equipment problems. So … no worries there.” As the last words were spoken, he knew they were uncharacteristic of him. When he looked toward his XO, Makin’s face confirmed that.

“Since our responsibilities,” he continued, “are to destroy Russian SSBN’s before they can fire, I believe we hold the key to our country’s future in our grasp.…” Even the split-second hesitation was unlike him. It was frustrating! “This target has not, repeat, has not fired a single missile, or we would have heard it. You better believe that.” Why had he said that? “I know you are afraid only for your families, not for yourselves. If you perform as I am now asking you, you will be doing your families and your country a great service.” Thank God, a good comeback.

There was a moment of silence, though Newell’s deep breathing could be heard in the background. “If there is one thing that I deem absolutely critical to exclude if we are to complete our mission, it is rumor … unfounded rumor. These rumors that I have been hearing come from men who have not been able to stand up under the tremendous pressure each of you has successfully overcome. Now we are facing an enemy who knows we are on the attack, and I ask each one of you to forget these rumors, all of them unfounded, until we have successfully sunk him.” There, that should do it.

Dick Makin studied many of the faces in the control room as Newell spoke. Everyone had listened. There was no doubt about that. He could see some faces relaxing, but there were also others that exhibited no change. It was the first time Wayne Newell had failed to convince everyone.

Pasadena was closing to attack a target that was totally aware of them and that would fight back at the first indication of trouble … and there was an obvious loss of confidence.

It was at that time that a voice from sonar reported — “Second contact has increased speed considerably … closing the area.…”

The other submarine was racing toward them, sensing the situation — the hunter had now become the hunted for a second time.

Buck Nelson was on the slightly raised platform between the periscopes in Florida’ s control room, rocking slowly, heel to toe, heel to toe. His hands were folded behind his back. He would have been pacing if there’d been room. But with no more than a few feet to spare in either direction in these tight confines, heel to toe, heel to toe was the next best solution.

Jimmy Cross, whose attitudes were closely aligned to his captain’s, preferred a more relaxed Nelson. Jimmy sometimes played a silent, private game that would ease his tension. He would compare this rather tall, professorial-looking Nelson with rimless glasses to the gaunt, one-armed Nelson — the heroic British admiral astride Victory’ s quarterdeck as she sailed boldly into range of the enemy’s broadside at Trafalgar. After all, he would reason, the military similarities between the two men were many — boredom with trivia, tactical brilliance, introspection, even the egos. Cross preferred the control room, though, to the splinters of the quarterdeck.

Then a voice from sonar shattered the almost mystic aura building around this imaginary Nelson. “Closest contact has increased speed … appears to be on a direct intercept course with us.”

Nelson stopped his rocking and wheeled about to stare at his executive officer as though Cross had called out the report. “What do you say, Jimmy? Who’s fooling who?”

“Shiiit.” This time his favorite expression was purely cover. Nelson never approached him that way, not in front of the crew. “I don’t know what to think, Captain. Chief Delaney seems to be awfully damn sure that’s a 688 out there.”

“Have we heard a signal from her?” Nelson inquired softly, aware that nothing had been heard. It hadn’t occurred to any of them that the two contacts were so close in bearing that it would have been close to impossible to determine which one sent the signal. “Anything that might confirm that suspicion?”

“Not a damn thing,” the XO responded just as quietly. Quite frankly, with Nelson acting the way he was, Jimmy was just as happy any decision would be the captain’s. What the hell was he asking his XO for? This was the type of problem Nelson loved!

“Then what do you say, Jimmy?” Nelson snapped. “What the hell do you think is happening? You know as well as I do that in a situation like this one of our submarines is supposed to identify itself with a coded sonar signal if it can’t avoid transiting a patrol area.” There it was — the first admission that he was as confused as everyone else. Nothing happening fell into an acceptable sequence, at least not according to the doctrine they’d been fed since they were junior officers. It felt good to get it off his chest.

Cross was unsure of what to say. His C.O. was generally even-tempered, never prone to reacting rashly. It was the first time since getting under way that Nelson had shown a flash of temper. “There’s nothing that makes sense, Captain, Maybe he has a sonar casualty.” But that was unlikely, the way the other boat had been maneuvering. It knew Florida was out here, and it gave every indication of closing them for a specific purpose. Nothing was covert about her approach, and there was no such thing as a submarine that appreciated company. “Outside of breaking silence and signaling him, we’ve got to protect ourselves.”

“That second contact’s increasing speed … radically.” Dan Mundy’s voice from sonar was more urgent, an octave higher. “She’s not shy about any of us out here either… all of a sudden it’s balls to the wall.”

“I want all tubes flooded,” Nelson ordered calmly, “pressure equalized. I also want a decoy ready.” His eyes fell on Cross momentarily. “I will sink anything that comes within our envelope of safety, and that first contact is doing just that, regardless of who they are. We’ll prepare tubes one and two now.” There, he’d put into words the decision he’d made fifteen minutes before. There shouldn’t be any doubt in any man’s mind about how it had been made. The contact was neither acting like an American submarine nor following any established precepts. It was just that it sounded exactly like a 688. How the hell are you supposed to react in this situation?

The torpedomen were acting on Nelson’s orders before he’d finished explaining his intentions to his XO. As each step was completed, the report flashed back to the control room.

Nelson’s eyes swept around to the weapons-control coordinator, Lieutenant Sargeant, who had been strangely silent. “You have a good track. Are your presets entered?”

Dave Sargeant licked his lips. It was all entered — speed, gyro angle, enabling run, optimum depth. “Yes, sir. Recommend base course one eight zero, speed ten.”

“Very well.” Nelson looked to his right to Jimmy Cross. The XO was the fire-control coordinator. “Firing-point procedures, tubes one and two.” He had yet to open the muzzle doors. That would be the last step, the one that would tip the scales.…

Florida settled on the recommended course and speed. “The ship is ready,” the OOD said.

“The weapons are ready.” This from Sargeant.

Nelson could sense every eye in control fixed on him.

“Very well. Stand by noisemakers and decoys. Pass the word to all hands the ship may maneuver radically at any time.”