Charles Taylor - First Salvo

On Bodry ’s bridge, her captain took the course recommendation from his leading radarman to close with the American ship on a collision heading.

Stoddert’s officer of the deck remained on the port bridge wing, watching the Soviet destroyer through his binoculars. Occasionally he would take a bearing on the other ship, then check its radar range. There was no doubt in his mind — steady bearing, decreasing range, collision course. He looked in the pilothouse. The captain remained calmly in his chair, reading a western. Once or twice he shifted position to scratch, but never once did he look out on the wing or ask a question.

The captain knew the way to manage naval officers was to give them responsibility. But out of the corner of his eye, he was watching that son of a bitch. He knew after many years when a bearing was steady, and he saw by the change in bow waves that the other captain had increased speed.

“Captain,” the OOD finally called from the bridge wing after one more check on the bearing, “I think we have a problem.” He spoke very calmly, almost matter-of-factly, even though his palms were damp and he could feel trickles of sweat running down his back.

“Just a minute, Jack. Let me finish this page.” The captain never looked up.

The bos’n mate of the watch marveled at the two of them. He’d been watching the Russian and noted the change in the bow wave too, and the steady bearing. These officers were too much, but he was glad they were running Stoddert.

The captain finished his page, turning down a corner so he wouldn’t lose his place, and meandered out beside the OOD. “What seems to be the trouble?” he asked, nodding his head toward the closing ship at the same time. “Does he want to give us a rough time today?”

“Looks like it, Captain,” the OOD answered, his binoculars concentrated on the approaching ship. “No doubt he’s on a collision course. Combat plotted it a couple of times.”

“’Bout six to eight minutes, I’d say.”

“Six is closer to it, sir, but I’ll check combat again.”

“No need to, Jack. Why don’t you sound GQ. Button her up — and make sure you sound collision quarters too, so there’s no doubt in anyone’s mind. I’ll be back in a minute. Going to the head.” Instead, he called the chief radioman and bos’n mate to his sea cabin. The captain was following strict orders not to be intimidated. He was to inform Washington of his situation, then maintain course and speed.

The bos’n mate shook his head and muttered to himself, “Sure glad I’m with them.” Then in a normal voice, “Want me to sound the alarm, sir?”

“Sure, Boats. Might as well not wait till the last minute,” he added casually.

A short emergency message sent by the chief radioman to Washington was about to activate the camera in a “keyhole” satellite 150 miles above them. No human ear would ever hear as it shifted its axis minutely to focus on the scene below.

Bodry’s captain looked up at the ship’s chronometer. Pretty close to schedule , he decided. He knew that at approximately this time three other Russian ships were about to do the same thing.

The commanding officer of the Russian vessel insisted on retaining absolute control of his ship. He had no intention of any orders being mistaken in transition. His radar room reported ranges and bearings of the American every thirty seconds. It became obvious to him early on that the other captain had no intention of changing course or speed. The man must realize our intention , he thought. They have the right of way; the American would be a fool to react any other way.

Stoddert’s captain meandered onto the bridge wing. “Jack, you move inside and stay right there,” he said, nodding toward the pilothouse. “Don’t change your course and speed the least bit. And,” he added, “I’ll have your ass if you take even the slightest peek at him from now on.” The captain took out his pipe, dumped the dead ashes, and set it firmly between his teeth. Leaning casually against the bridge railing, he watched the approach of the other ship, nodding his response as each division reported its section of the ship was sealed.

Bodry ’s course was set to pass barely off the American’s bow. Seafaring law compelled Stoddert to maintain course and speed. The Russian was the burdened vessel and was required to avoid collision.

At five hundred yards, the two captains could make each other out with the naked eye. Neither gave the slightest indication of concern. The Russian ship was slightly shorter and just a bit lighter, but together they represented eight thousand tons of metal hurtling at each other with collision imminent.

The Russian was a superb seaman. At an invisible point in the ocean, he hurled an order over his shoulder, dropping his speed, and wheeling Bodry to port. She nestled in alongside the other ship with about ten yards to spare between them. It was a perfect maneuver, enough so that neither captain had to shift his stance to look the other directly in the face. They remained devoid of expression, waiting for one or the other to make the first move.

The wind remained steady. The ocean chop of their port bows would give Bodry a slight push to within feet of the other ship. Then the reverse action would push her away. The slightest variation in wave size, any hesitation on the part of either helmsman, any change in revolutions in their propeller turns, could bring them together.

Bodry added a few turns to increase her speed ever so slightly, her increase indicated only by a few feet every half minute. Then she eased gently into Stoddert, bumping like two racehorses in the final turn, their bows grinding together. As they rose and fell unequally, the sound of tearing metal rose above the roar of the ocean washing between them. The sea forced Bodry away for a moment, only to bring them back together more forcefully, the contact shaking both ships.

The captains stared at each other impassively.

Inside Stoddert ’s pilothouse, the OOD gripped a stanchion tightly, his knuckles white. He was positioned beside the helmsman, whispering encouragement. Next to him was the bos’n somehow glad that he could finally perceive sweat dripping off the OOD’s brow.

It was no different in Bodry ’s pilothouse. The human reactions were similar, but here they also knew they were responsible for any movements, that the American would not initiate any changes. In addition, the political officer was behind them, leaning silently against the bulkhead, watching each sailor intently.

The two ships continued to bump dangerously into each other, and damage became more apparent with each contact. The Soviet captain finally accepted that there would be no winner; neither would give in. He gave the orders to increase speed. They would pull forward and alter course away from the American. But his order was reversed for an instant, just enough time for Bodry to drop back slightly, then be sucked by the wave action against Stoddert. As they bumped, a swell heeled the Russian over into the American.

Their railings and superstructures touched. The davits holding their motor whaleboats became tangled. With a grinding sound, Stoddert ’s boat was ripped free and crushed against the bulkhead, then the steel davit of the Soviet ship tore through a bulkhead and an American sailor in the compartment behind it was instantly crushed to death.

At the same moment, the torpedo launcher on Bodry was ripped free. The launcher and four torpedoes were hurled into the water. The mistake in direction had been caught and corrected, and the Russian ship surged ahead, scraping the length of Stoddert ’s hull as she hauled away to port.