Charles Taylor - Boomer

“I feel the same way. Maybe if the kids were home from school we’d see things differently. There wouldn’t be any time to think about ourselves. It’s almost a depression, and I don’t know why. I’m used to living like this. You are, too.”

“If I knew, honey, I wouldn’t be moaning over the phone like a sick cow.” The dog had curled up beside her, and she bent over to scratch his ears. “You know, outside of you, my best friend right now has four legs and soft, furry ears — and it shouldn’t be that way. My husband should be the object of my dreams. But he’s off somewhere a couple hundred feet beneath the sea playing war games.” Jack Tar began the routine again, rolling over and raising one back leg for the inevitable tummy scratch. “And you know something else, honey?” She could feel her voice was going to crack if she didn’t keep control. “I don’t think I care. Wayne’s last time in port was so rough on all of us that I’m not looking forward to his coming home. Maybe that’s why I had to call. Maybe.…” She could sense that she was about to lose it again and paused, hoping Connie would pick up on it.

There was no response from the other end.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Myra continued cautiously. “It’s a feeling I’ve had all day that he’s not going to come back” — now the words all ran together without emotion—”and I don’t care and I should because if Wayne doesn’t, then none of them will and it’ll all be my fault and oh, I don’t know.…”

Connie heard the telltale sniff on the other end followed by the throat clearing and knew she had to say something. She didn’t feel that way about Ben, not at all, but she’d also had a strange feeling about this latest patrol. It had never happened before. “I think you ought to come over because …” She was searching for something that would make more sense, but there were no words to express it. “… because I’ve had the same feeling all day. Except I want Ben to come back — and I want Wayne to come back, too. Myra, I want you to come over here right now. No arguments, just get your buns in gear and get over here. I’ll put on a fresh pot of — no, I won’t. I’m getting out some glasses and ice cubes as soon as we hang up. There’ll be more days like this before the Navy retires them, but we both deserve a drink. Leave a note for the kids. Maybe we can all have a bite to eat together later.”

It had been quiet aboard Florida during this patrol. Buck Nelson’s drills were the only break from tedium. But exercises at battle stations were too often like football practice. You stuck with it just because of Saturday afternoons. That’s the way they had been educated about submarine warfare, too. Wait for the big game — but that was also the one you hoped never came.

Aboard a boomer there was none of the anticipation of an infantryman, none of those tense periods of waiting as both sides went through all the processes of preparing for battle. Those grunts had to wait, and think, until intelligence would report the movement of divisions of men and artillery and tanks — and then you saw them before the shooting actually started. Or for the pilot, there were ready-room briefings, preflight checks, the flight to meet the enemy, radar contact, perhaps visual sighting, lock on, missile firing, maybe even an old-fashioned dogfight. Even on the surface the Navy had the opportunity for preparation, because spy satellites and sophisticated electronics left few surprises.

But all was quiet beneath the surface of the ocean. Submarines tiptoed around each other on cat’s feet, sometimes moving so slowly, a step at a time, that the prey had no idea they were closing, sometimes remaining dead quiet waiting for the unwary to fall into their trap. There was no long-term preparation, no logistics planning, no ammunition trains, no digging in. You came with your baggage and you either left with it or went to the bottom with it.

When battle came beneath the ocean’s surface, it was all around you, instantaneous, precise, final. There was no room for error on anyone’s part. Each man had to cover the next. One mistake — everyone on the boat lost. There were no foxholes, no flak jackets, no gas masks, no armor. It all came down to reaction timing coupled with technology and each man’s specialized skills.

“Coded sonar signal from farthest contact.” Chief Delaney’s voice rose above all the others.

“What does it—”

“Friendly, Captain, friendly,” Dan Mundy confirmed.

“Closest?” Nelson asked calmly.

“Still nothing.”

“Don’t drop your solution on number two just yet. Do you still have a good solution on number one?”

“Very,” the XO answered.

Jimmy Cross had spent a career being calm and cool. That was why he was XO of a boomer and already recommended for command. Yet right now he was beside himself. The difference in sound signatures between each of their contacts was minute, no more than the oddities of a ship’s personality built in at the shipyard. “Danny, what’s the difference in sound between the two contacts?” It was important that Buck Nelson reassess the situation. A hasty decision and … he closed his eyes tightly and waited for the sonar officer to back him up.

“One gave the right signal, the other.…”

“Yeah, I know. I mean their signatures,” Cross insisted.

“Twins.”

“Captain.…” Cross reached out and touched Nelson’s forearm as one might do in attempting to emphasize a point to a friend.

“Ready noisemakers,” Nelson ordered, cutting through his XO’s words.

“I heard muzzle doors opening!” the chief called out.

“Which target?”

“I don’t know,” Chief Delaney answered. “Maybe the friendly, maybe … no, I’m not sure.”

“Captain,” Jimmy Cross continued, “recommend we reverse course and go deep. That’ll confuse a torpedo if someone makes the mistake of firing.”

Nelson could see it now, see it without closing his eyes. The control room of Florida was as real as could be, but he could also see what was taking place as the three submarines drew closer to each other. He was in no position to run. A fifty-knot torpedo had a damn good chance of catching Florida. No, don’t turn away. Nelson. He’s about to fire — and so are you! “Not now. They’re closing too fast.”

“I have a torpedo in the water,” Chief Delaney said.

It was all taking place so fast. No time to think. No time to lay out all the facts and make a decision.

“Bearing?”

“Just off our bow … from our target … I think. I swear it’s one of our Mark 48’s. On pre-enabling run.” The noise of the screw of a Mark 48 torpedo sounds like a freight train to a sonarman.

“That’s it, XO,” Nelson replied calmly. “Too late to take our marbles and head for the barn.”

“I have a second one … torpedo, I mean … same bearing,” Chief Delaney said.

“Any change in target’s actions?”

“None yet.”

“Noisemakers.”

“Captain, I swear those sound like our own Mark 48’s.” The words, from Dan Mundy, expressed shock, “Forty-eights,” he repeated in wonder. “Piston engine.”

“That’s what a 688 carries,” Nelson said quietly to Jimmy Cross, a touch of surprise in his own voice. He had no more idea than any of the others why a 688 would fire at them. But the lack of change in the target’s motion meant they were maintaining the umbilical wire on that torpedo. If Florida took any radical evasive action, new data would be sent through the wire to the torpedo.

“Now it’s our turn,” Nelson stated in a loud voice. “Tube number one, shoot on generated bearings.”