Charles Taylor - Boomer

“The weapon is ready,” the weapons-control officer whispered, his lower lip held tightly between his teeth.

Both captain and executive officer turned to each other. Steel stared back at his executive officer with an expression of inner pain. The XO nodded slightly two or three times, as if searching for the correct words before saying tentatively, “The solution is ready.” His eyes were tightly shut before he uttered the final word.

Manchester was ready to shoot.

“David,” Steel called toward sonar, “my target,” emphasizing the my as he spoke.

“Heavy machinery noise. Picking up speed.”

Steel glanced over at Peter Simonds. Yes, he’d heard. Nothing needed to be said. The solution was still good.

The XO answered with another slight nod. Yes, that increase in speed had definitely been covered. The weapon knew about the target also. That was an automatic.

“Wind her up,” Steel called out to the OOD. “Let’s make the best target they’ve ever heard.”

If they wouldn’t shoot, he would!

Newell had heard the familiar words in the background as he delivered his final pep talk over the IMC to the crew — warm the torpedoes … flood the tubes … equalize pressure — and Dick Makin’s responses as each evolution was completed and reported to him.

The presets had been entered. The torpedoes were ready to respond.

“Firing-point procedures, tubes one and two.…” Makin’s voice was steady even if his face radiated an inner turmoil. He was balanced on the needle point of an enigma. His faith in the Navy — in his captain — had been challenged as never before over the past few days. It was too easy to overlook the reality of a war on the surface when the real battle, the one that he could see and smell and touch, was taking place in front of him. It had been so easy to accept everything that naval intelligence provided, especially when Pasadena’ s, captain had been briefed by SUBPAC himself. But the Wayne Newell he’d known was evaporating before his eyes … had he already disappeared? The man had been gradually consumed by the war, the devastating necessity of destroying submarines and human beings that gave every indication of being their brothers. It was forcing Dick Makin to question everything he’d ever accepted.

Wayne Newell had interrupted himself on the IMC to call over his shoulder, “Designate the boomer target number one. And his bird dog number two.” And then he’d continued his announcement to the crew in a frantic effort to keep his now fragile team from breaking apart.

“Captain, Mr. McKown reports the ship is ready.” Makin relayed the fact with an unusual solemnity as the IMC clicked off. The snap of the switch was magnified through control.

“Good, Dick, great … terrific.” His eyes darted about the control room, never once settling on anyone. “What about the other? Must be an Alfa designated to protect the boomer, I’d say.”

The executive officer stared blankly at Newell. The corners of his mouth were turned sharply down and the lines at the corners of his eyes had expanded as he prepared to speak. This was the time he had to say it. “Captain.…”

“The weapons are ready.” The weapons-control coordinator barked out his report in an exaggerated voice.

“Very well.” Makin, momentarily sidetracked by the report, continued, “Captain, that’s no Alfa out there.…”

“Must be,” an irritated Newell interrupted. “That’s what I’d use if I was a Russian. Stick one of those high-speed, hard-shelled suckers out there and—”

“The solution is ready.” The OOD was acting as fire-control coordinator for Makin.

“I’ll take it now,” Newell said loudly, his voice excessively high-pitched. He winked at his XO. “With all the problems some of these guys have with their wild imaginations about these targets being something other than Russian—”

“Captain,” Steve Thompson’s shout from sonar interrupted, “the other contact — the one we said sounded like one of our 688’s — it just went active, some sort of signal an her sonar. It was definitely some type of code.”

“Mr. Thompson, that is a method of baiting us.” Newell looked quickly around the control room, then back at Makin. There was a frantic look in the XO’s eyes, no different from any of the others’. “The Russians are trying to draw us away from their boomer. They are our enemy. They’re deceptive. That’s no 688 out there. They know that if we get this next boomer, it’s all over for them. They’ll do anything to stop us, and right this minute they’re fooling all of you.”

“But it could have been an ID for one of our own. You remember, entering a boomer’s sector?” Makin’s voice echoed an increasing sense of urgency. “They do that, you know. You were on one, Captain.”

“That’s for something entirely different,” Newell retorted. “They’re trying to fool us, but we’re not going to be fooled … no, sir.”

“Target number two is accelerating, fast .”

“Watch your depth!” The diving officer’s howl of rage lashed through the control room to draw everyone’s attention. “Watch it, damn it,” he snarled. His face was contorted in rage as he grabbed the back of the bow planesman’s neck and shook him. “You’re going to lose it.”

Makin’s eyes moved quickly from one man to the next, his gaze darting back to the officers. He’d never seen a submarine officer treat a man like that. They were on the edge. They were losing it.

The OOD reacted at the same time. “Get the bow up. Get it up or I’m going to have to re—”

Newell grabbed the OOD by the shoulder and spun him around. “Get that man off the bow planes. Now! ” He whirled in the direction of the planesman. The sailor was rigid in his chair, his aims straight, hands pushing forward on the wheel. “Look at him,” Newell howled.

“Stirling,” the diving officer shouted frantically, now more frightened than angry. He reached forward to shake the man again. “For Christ sake, bring her up.” He grabbed the sailor by the shoulders as if pulling back on the man would bring the planes back up.

“Why isn’t he off that control? Who’s his relief?” Newell shouted. In the next breath he said, “I don’t care who takes it.”

A sailor appeared beside Stirling, to help the diving officer. They had to pry the planesman’s hands from the wheel.

Dick Makin’s voice was sharp. “I’m getting a problem with the solution, Captain. We have to steady up.” He was trapped between two worlds. Whether it was instinct or training, he was struggling to keep an accurate solution in the torpedo. Yet he didn’t want to shoot!

Newell was beside Stirling’s relief, pushing him bodily into place. “Get that bow up … get us level if you ever want to.…” But Newell had already turned away to shout to Dick Makin. “You call down to the torpedo room and tell them that they’re going to set a record in reloading or I swear no one down there will ever see land again.” He licked his lips. “We are going to hold the wires as long as possible before we turn on that Alfa and blow that son of a bitch out of the water. After that we’ll finish off the boomer, if we don’t get him the first time.” He waved a hand at the executive officer. “You tell Chief Sanford that,” he added.

Stirling, the planesman who had been pulled from his chair, lay on the deck rolling his head from side to side. Then, as if he had been stung, he opened his eyes and leveled a finger at Newell. He tried to speak. His lips moved and his tongue worked but the words he was trying to speak ran together until his hand dropped, then his head, and finally his voice.