Charles Taylor - Boomer

There was dead silence in the control room for almost five seconds before Newell glared at Makin. “Well?”

“I have a solution again,” he answered, expelling a deep breath.

Newell clapped his hands together. “Tube number one, shoot on generated bearings.” The air-operated ram ejected the water slug and the first torpedo. The sensation could be felt throughout the ship.

“Unit’s running correctly, sir.”

“Tube number two, shoot….” Newell’s voice cracked perceptibly but the order was understood.

The second torpedo leaped from its tube.

The only sound that could be heard in the control room was the low moaning of the planesman, Stirling, still lying on the deck.

The silence was not broken by the standard after-firing reports on the second torpedo.

“Well?” Newell inquired angrily.

“Doesn’t sound right.”

“Wire continuity on number one still good.”

“Number two?” Newell shouted. “Number two?”

“Something’s wrong.”

“Number one still good.”

Steve Thompson’s voice shattered the coordination of the control room. “I heard muzzle doors. Target number two must be preparing to shoot.”

“See,” Newell said to Makin, as calm now as he’d been loud a moment previously. “See, that’s no friendly. He intends to shoot at us. They all do. We’re at war,” There was a light tremor in his voice. “This is what it’s really like,” he said for the control room’s benefit. “Now you know why they couldn’t fool us,” he concluded with a dramatic sweep of his hand.

‘Torpedo in the water on the boomer’s bearing. They’ve fired on us.”

“Cut the wires,” Newell shouted. “Come right for target number two. Noisemakers in the water. We’re going to take out this Alfa before we evade. Firing-point procedures, tubes three and four.”

“The ship is ready,” Andy McKown, the OOD, reported mechanically. Then he wondered why he’d spoken. They hadn’t settled on their new course yet. At the same time, he realized that his voice was hollow, and he wasn’t sure why. The idea of a torpedo racing at Pasadena had no effect on him, and that was equally puzzling.

It was strange to realize that what really concerned him was this preparation to fire on the next target. McKown had been following the entire sequence of events — and I know this is a 688, not a Soviet Alfa! Yet he couldn’t understand why he’d brought the ship onto a new course. But he had — I don’t have the guts to counter Captain Newell’s orders! None of us do … not even the XO!

“Weapons are ready.”

“Do you have a solution?” Newell demanded, “No … we need a.…” Makin never had a chance to finish.

Newell understood instantly. “Steve, go active. I need an accurate range.”

In a split second the giant bow sonar emitted a powerful sound wave to mark the second sub. The silence in control was eerie until the sonar officer reported, “Ten thousand five hundred.”

“You got that?” Newell asked irritably.

There was another pause, until Makin replied, “Solution is ready.”

“Tube number three, shoot on generated bearings.”

No sooner was the first torpedo on its way than Newell fired the second. There was no concern about the wires this time. They had a perfect range on the target. The boomer already had fired on them. “Go deep,” he shouted to the OOD. “Right full rudder. More noisemakers.”

Pasadena lurched sharply as she responded to the rudder and the planes biting into the water. The men in control grabbed for support as the deck fell away and she heeled to starboard. The clatter of loose gear broke the silence that had descended through the space after the final torpedo was fired. Now Pasadena was running for her life.

“Those bastards in the torpedo room better be on top of it.” Newell’s voice was shrill. “We’re going to get both of them.”

“Torpedos on target two’s bearing.”

No one noticed Dick Makin slip into the sonar room.

The telephone rang once … twice … three times.

“Screw it,” Myra Newell sobbed to herself. “Screw it … I don’t want to talk to anyone.” She stroked Jack Tar’s ears. They were damp from her tears, “How about you? Do you want to talk?” The big dog raised his head and licked under her chin.

Four rings … five … six, “We’ll take care of each other, won’t we?”

Jack Tar tired of licking Myra. He sat down and swiped a paw at his muzzle as if he were swatting mosquitoes.

Seven … eight … nine … ten. Ten — that was the magic number for the caller. The phone stopped ringing. The Newell house was once again deathly quiet. Jack Tar cocked an ear to the sudden silence, realized the only sound now was his mistress’s sniffling, and climbed into her lap with that strange sense of comforting that dogs have for humans. She made no effort to push him down.

Who could it have been? Who was so insistent that they’d let it ring that long? Perhaps it had been SUBPAC calling. Something about Pasadena? An emergency? Perhaps someone had been hurt and they needed her to visit his wife? That had happened before. It was something the captain’s wife should do. It came with the territory. Oh, hell, maybe she should call Neil Arrow’s office. No. If it were that important, if it were worth ten rings, they’d call back.

Myra knew this wasn’t just unhappiness she was experiencing. She was lonely, lonely as hell. Another voice would help, a kind one, an understanding one. Maybe Connie Steel. They’d known each other for so long, even before the kids. And their conversation the other day at lunch — that was it! Myra remembered running on about Wayne … and Connie really had understood. Even if Ben Steel wasn’t like Wayne, Connie knew so many of the other C.O.’s. And everyone’s wife talked at one time or another. It was just natural for them, what with their husbands away for so long. Connie’d understand.

Myra wiggled her hips forward to get up off the couch but the dog was a dead weight. She nudged him. “Come on. Move it.”

Jack Tar looked up. He was comfortable, and immovable.

“Come on, old fellow. Time to move.”

The dog dropped his head to one side and rolled on her lap until one rear leg was lifted high in the air. He wanted his tummy scratched. It was an old Jack Tar trick — never move until rewarded. That was one of the first things Wayne had taught him as a puppy.

“Nope, not this time. We’re going to make a phone call. Come on, up and off to greater things.” She pushed until the dog rolled onto the floor. Then he stood up, shook, and tagged along when his mistress went to the phone and dialed.

Connie picked up her phone before the second ring. “Steel residence.”

“It’s me. You busy?”

“Talk about extrasensory perception, Myra. I don’t know what it is, but I was just about to call you. It must be ESP.” Connie’s voice had a strange, almost false, lilt to it, as if she wasn’t as happy as she sounded. “How’re you doing?”

Myra paused. How am I doing? “Not so hot. Rotten, to be honest. I’m not even sure why.”

“ESP, ESP. It must be.” Now there was more confidence in Connie’s voice. “I’ve just got a feeling — I don’t know what it is, but it’s been developing all day. And it’s not female problems, believe me. I know that.”

“Me, too. I’ve been chewing on things since we last got together — you know, that nice lunch back in the hills — and….” Somehow the words weren’t coming, or couldn’t come, as easily as she thought they would. “Aw, I don’t know what to say.”