Charles Taylor - Boomer

Manchester was hurled sideways by a close, violent explosion, A noisemaker had barely saved them. A near-miss!

“Second incoming on continuous range gate.” Locked on! “Torpedo room reports severe flooding.”

“Left full rudder,” Steel shouted. “Increase your angle.” There was nothing from sonar to indicate the incoming torpedo was hung up on a noisemaker.

The explosion that followed was not a near-miss. The blast penetrated directly upward into the engineering spaces. To those who were not killed instantly, it seemed to be everywhere in Manchester at once. Each man in control was aware for an instant that there was darkness as the emergency lights went out. She was on her side. A constant roaring sound overwhelmed their screams. There was no chance for the battle lanterns to blink back on. They were plunging out of control.

They were very deep when the bulkheads crashed in on top of them.

Manchester continued on its last dive.

“Target number two is breaking up.”

“Very well,” Buck Nelson answered. “Target number number one … tubes one and two … firing-point procedures.” Buck Nelson’s voice was steady, as if there weren’t the slightest doubt in anyone’s mind about the target.

“Captain,” Jimmy Cross interrupted. “How do we … isn’t there some way we…?” How did one explain it?

“We don’t. We have to survive.”

“The ship is ready.”

“The weapons are ready.”

“The solution is ready.”

Buck Nelson closed his eyes. As soon as he opened them, he would be committed.

A torpedo detonated well beneath Pasadena. It wasn’t close enough to sink her, but it did lift her bow toward the surface and shake her like a rabbit. That was followed by a second explosion crashing all around them at once. Instantly her bow was driven down at an incredibly steep angle. Both Newell and Makin could hear the frantic shouts as the planesmen fought their controls. There must have been water in the control surface hydraulics.

“I can’t bring the bow up.”

Wayne Newell’s voice bellowed above the chaos, “Emergency blow the forward group. All back full.” Got to get the bow up! There are still weapons ready for that boomer, his mind screamed, and your boat is running out of time. We can still destroy that boomer. Pasadena was beyond saving, but he knew that he could take that boomer to the bottom with him.

“No response, Captain. Still diving.”

The sailor on the stern planes was the first to realize there was no chief of the watch. He ripped off his safety belt and lunged for the chicken switches on the ballast control panel to initiate the emergency blow.

But Dick Makin was there first. He knew the C.O. would do everything humanly possible to sink Florida. He grabbed the sailor by both shoulders, dragging him back from the panel. Pain surged through his head, through his body — the control room seemed to be spinning away from him. As he turned, he saw Wayne Newell staggering against the slant of the deck in his direction, rage contorting his features, “Those are Mark 48’s… American torpedoes … American submarine,” Makin screamed. There was no reaction from Newell as he inched closer. With his last ounce of strength, Makin heaved the sailor at Newell. Both men went down, tumbling forward into the planesmen’s chairs.

The helmsman’s eyes were wide with fear as he saw what was happening. He was frozen in position, pulling back desperately on the planes, when Dick Makin’s fist slammed into the side of his head. He slumped sideways.

As Wayne Newell struggled against the steep angle of the deck, Makin pushed the control forward as far as he could, the entire weight of his body falling across it. The bow seemed to aim straight down. Newell slid against the forward bulkhead, unable to climb back up to the controls.

Dick Makin watched Newell’s frustrated attempts to rise, heard the shouts of rage with a strange satisfaction. Pasadena would never fire another torpedo.

She was well past her test depth before the bulkheads imploded.

Buck Nelson was about to open his eyes and give the order to shoot when Dan Mundy called for him. Together they listened in sonar until the last of the tearing, grinding sounds disappeared.

Nelson stepped back into control. “Secure from battle stations. Prepare the communications buoy.”

No one aboard Florida was able to speak as she rose to stream her communications buoy. Two 688-class submarines lay at the bottom of the Pacific, victims of each other. One had attacked Florida. The other had come to her aid. They’d fought twice at close range, apparently wounding each other initially, killing the second time. It was a shattering experience. Not a soul aboard the boomer could ever have imagined that such a battle would involve anyone other than the Russians. Each man would carry this searing event to their graves.

Buck Nelson had left the control room without a word to anyone else. He’d known Manchester and Pasadena. He’d known Ben Steel and Wayne Newell. He’d known too many of the others. And he would have sunk the survivor — if there’d been one.

Before they could initiate their preliminary message, the ship received a single communication, a coded message for Nelson’s eyes only.

Buck Nelson did not call his executive officer instantly after reading the message. Instead, he very methodically removed all the extraneous paperwork from his desk and placed it neatly on his bunk. He lay the message exactly in the middle of his desk and smoothed it with his hands until it was perfectly flat. Then, removing his glasses and tucking them in his breast pocket, he propped the photo of Cindy and his daughters on top of the message. He stared very hard at each one of them — Cindy, Jenny, Beth — as if his concentration might bring them to life right there. You are a very lucky man, Nelson, to have been so blessed.

Tears formed at the comers of his eyes as he thanked someone, something, anything beyond his own powers, that had allowed him such joy. I would gladly sell my soul to be with the three of you once more.

Then he lifted the phone and pressed the button for control. “Will you please ask Commander Cross to join me in my stateroom.”

When the executive officer appeared in the entrance, Nelson pointed at the clear end of his bunk and said, “Sit down … please.”

Jimmy Cross stared at Nelson’s reddened eyes. He’d never seen his captain look that way before. Then he noticed the family picture set in the exact middle of the message smoothed flat on the desk.

Without a word Nelson slipped the piece of paper from under the picture and handed it to his XO.

Cross read it twice, the second time word by word, until he was sure he understood it completely. Quite simply, that piece of paper said that there was much more to the events of that day than they would likely ever understand.

The executive officer rose slowly and, after studying the picture of the Nelson family for a moment, squeezed Buck Nelson’s shoulder and left.

Nelson picked up the photo and, after studying each face closely, neatly placed it in one of his drawers under some shirts. Then he bent down and peered at the tiny numbers on the dial of his safe. No matter how much he squinted, they remained a blur. He removed his glasses from his breast pocket, polished them unconsciously on the front of his shirt before placing them on his face, and spun the dial back and forth until the safe opened. He removed the ominous target-assignment list without looking at it and slipped the sheaf of paper under his arm while he shut the door of the safe and spun the dial.