Charles Taylor: Boomer

Then he did exactly the same with his attack coordinators. They were a disappointment, but he needed their expertise to prepare the attack. Why was it that the enlisted men were handling this better than some of the so-called highly trained officers? If he could finish off that attack boat with three and four, he ought to be able to take out the boomer with one and two.

He gazed about a chaotic control room outlined by the beams of the battle lanterns and wondered for a moment why no one had bothered to clean up. The OOD remained at the base of the periscope. The diving officer had now slumped over on his side in a pool of blood. His hands had come away from his face, and Newell saw that he must have been hurled against the panel — his face no longer existed. His executive officer lay where Newell had left him. Makin was moaning softly now. Perhaps he was coming around, but blood still flowed from his head.

“Eleven thousand yards.”

Newell stepped over near the control panel. “Come left twenty degrees like I told you and hold your depth until I say otherwise. You’re not going to have any doubts when I say go deep. Just do it.” He took a deep breath. “Firing-point procedures tubes three and four.”

“Weapons are ready,” came Holloway’s soft response.

“You did increase the pitch in number four?”

“Yes, sir.” It was barely a whisper.

“The solution is ready. And Pasadena is ready,” Newell announced proudly to those able to hear him.

“Ten thousand,” David Hall called out.

Everything was ready, the ship, the weapons, the solution.

“Launch transient on the target’s bearing.” Water slug!

Same damn idea! “Tube number one, shoot on generated bearings,” Ben Steel ordered.

There was the familiar thud as the torpedo was propelled away from Manchester.

After a pause, “Unit’s running correctly.”

“David, talk to me about the incoming torpedo.”

“Single torpedo. Enabling run sounds normal.”

“Any change in the target?”

“Not a damn thing I can tell.”

“Tube number three. Shoot on generated bearings.” How long should he hold the wire on these? He had one torpedo left that could be fired right away. Number two was supposed to be ready shortly. He had to protect that boomer.

“Number-three unit’s running smoothly. Wire continuity good on number one.”

Wayne Newell won’t hold forever. Too goddamn cagey. Why the hell hadn’t he fired another yet?

“Status on the target,” Newell called out.

“No change. Must be trying to hold on to the wire on both weapons.”

Okay. If that’s the way it is. “Increase your speed to thirty knots. Come right to course zero zero zero.” Let’s let them think it’s going to be a chase, and maybe they’ll send some conflicting changes down that wire they’re holding. Newell was behind the sailors at the control panel in an instant. “Don’t worry. I’m not changing my mind. We’re just playing a game with that Russian. We’re going to do exactly what I said we would shortly.” He gave each man a squeeze on the shoulder again. “You men are doing one fine job, let me tell you.”

“Our wire’s broken,” Holloway called out mechanically.

“Fine.” That didn’t matter now. “Stand by number four. That’s going to be our baby. Okay, noisemakers now, too.” He’d make a screen out of them, put enough noise between them to cause confusion. Once they were confirmed, Newell called out, “Come back to the old course and speed for me. I’m depending on you while I coordinate this attack.”

A short time later, “Both incoming torpedoes are in search.” They were pinging.

Good. The target was making a textbook attack out of it all.

One of the planesmen sounded off when they were back on the original heading.

“Tube number four, shoot on generated bearings.”

When Wayne Newell heard the report that his second torpedo was running correctly, he fired noisemakers and gave the order to dive to eight hundred feet. Then he turned back toward the boomer. He wasn’t worried about the wire.

Dick Makin came to with a sharply slanting deck beneath him.

“They’ve fired a second torpedo.”

Steel knew when it was time to break the wires. “Make your depth six hundred feet,” he called out, and gave the order to come around to a course that would place him in front of Florida. He also put noisemakers in the water, but they would be useless shortly.

That was when David Hall reported the sound of muzzle doors on a bearing approximating Florida ’s projected position.

“Send the identification signal.”

Not a moment later the sonar officer reported that the other attack submarine had sent the same signal at almost the same time. Wayne Newell has somehow convinced one of his sonarmen that imitating that signal from the Russian submarine might just save them.

“They’ve each fired two torpedoes at each other, Captain,” Dan Mundy reported to Buck Nelson. “And there are noisemakers everywhere. Both have probably taken evasive action by now.”

“Which one do you think is the good guy, Dan?” Nelson enjoyed puzzles. This one was fascinating.

“No idea, Captain. I’d say the one with shaft problems makes a better target right now. His speed’s probably limited. So I hope the other one’s the good guy.”

Both the weapons-control coordinator and the fire-control coordinator had reported they were ready for both targets. Buck Nelson was also. It was a shame that there were no other choices.

“Captain, I have their first torpedo in homing run.”

Ben Steel was uncomfortable. He wanted more speed. But that wasn’t possible. He reversed his course and left more noisemakers in his wake.

“Three-second ping interval.” It had found them!

He called for another three hundred feet to his depth.

“Second torpedo is in homing run also.”

“What about our own units?”

Peter Simonds was surprised. He’d heard the reports. It was the first time aboard Manchester that he’d ever seen Ben Steel this concerned. “They reported both units operating normally, Captain,” he said. “Both of ours were in homing runs, too.”

“Sorry, Peter. My mind’s jumping ahead.”

“Two-second ping interval on both incoming torpedoes.”

More speed. That’s what I really need. More speed. “Increase your depth another two hundred feet.”

“One-second ping interval on that first incoming. Could be on to a noisemaker. Still distant enough.”

Wonderful. That’s the way it was supposed to work .

Dick Makin opened his eyes. His head was a mass of pain. He saw the spotlights of battle lanterns fixed throughout the control room. And a single figure was passing back and forth through the beams — Wayne Newell. He could hear a string of familiar reports that must be.… Oh, God, they must be attacking Manchester again!

“One-second ping interval.”

Whose torpedo? He reached for the periscope and dragged himself to his knees.

“Right full rudder.”

Pasadena heeled sharply to starboard. Makin wrapped his arms around the periscope and held on as tightly as he could. His world was spinning. Don’t lose it again, Makin. A single thought persisted in the back of his mind. That attack boat had fired Mark 48’s at them.… Mark 48’s! Sonar had identified them clearly. Only American submarines carried 48’s.