Larry Bond - Dangerous Ground

The battle lanterns cut in again and Jerry waited for moment, taking inventory of his bodily appendages before attempting to stand up. He’d struck something — or someone — on the way down and he hurt. From the moans and complaints surrounding him, he wasn’t alone.

The phone talker had been knocked to the deck with the others, but he still had his headphones on and said, “Control wants all stations to report.”

Jerry stood up slowly, favoring a sore knee, and looked around. His division looked battered but unbloodied as they resumed their stations. Boswell reached the breaker panel. “Can’t reset it,” he reported. “No power to the panel.”

“Petty Officer Boyd, report no casualties, but no power either.” As Jerry gave the order, Foster staggered over to the breaker panel, double-checking Boswell. He nodded, confirming the diagnosis.

After he repeated Jerry’s message, Boyd said, “I can hear reports from back aft.” The talker shared the circuit with the other stations on the sub and could hear their reports to control. “There’s a short in the main switchboard and a steam leak in the engine room. There are injuries.”

Before Jerry could ask for more information, Boyd added, “The Captain wants you and Senior Chief Foster in control, ASAP.”

Jerry and Foster moved as fast as they could in the dim illumination up the two decks to control. Jerry smelled the smoke and ozone as he approached the space and coughed as he stepped into the murky darkness. The beams cast by the battle lanterns, instead of illuminating the control room just reflected off the smoke, forming cones of bright white vapor, while the rest of the space seemed pitch black in comparison.

His eyes smarting, Jerry looked away from the lights, feeling his way through the crowded space. He found Hardy and the XO near the chart table and threaded his way over to them.

“Reporting, sir.”

Hardy and the XO both turned to face him. “Two things, Mr. Mitchell. First”—Hardy pointed to one corner of the control room—”we’ve lost the Emergency Torpedo Preset Panel. Second, there is a problem in the engine room.”

Behind Jerry, Foster turned and headed for the panel, as Hardy continued talking to his division officer. The Emergency Torpedo Preset Panel was just that, an emergency backup that allowed the fire-control party to set a torpedo’s course, speed, depth, and enable run in the event the fire-control system was damaged. Unfortunately, the earlier fire in the torpedo room had disabled the receiving circuits, and the Emergency Preset Panel was the only way they could talk to a Mk48. With it gone, Memphis had no weapons capability at all.

As Foster approached the panel, maim lighting came back on and the panel, along with several other pieces of equipment, crackled to life. Showers of sparks flew wildly about and new smoke started pouting from cabinet vents.

“Trip the breaker!” Foster shouted. “Trip it!” Two ratings standing near the control room switchboard dove toward it. The two quickly turned a number of barrel switches and plunged the control room into darkness once again.

Slowly, cautiously, the technicians re-energized the equipment in the space, leaving the preset panel’s breaker open. Two other pieces of gear, the BPS-15 radar display and the TV repeater for the periscope, also sparked until their breakers were opened as well.

As they were bringing the control room’s power back on line, Hardy spoke. “Mr. Mitchell, as soon as you’ve got power in the torpedo room, launch the Manta. Lead the Russians away from Memphis by any means you can think of. We’re dead in the water right now, and will be until Mr. Ho secures the port main engine. We had a bad steam leak and even after we get propulsion, we’ll be noisy and slow. And with the preset panel gone, we can’t fight. Our only hope is to have them looking somewhere else.”

The control room intercom carried Ho’s voice. “Engineer, sir. We’re ready to answer bells, but only up to ahead standard. The best we’ll be able to make on the starboard main engine alone is twenty knots at full rpm. We can creep at five, tops. We’ve secured steam to the port main engine and that’s stopped the leak. It’s been isolated from the reduction gear so it won’t drag. We’re investigating the cause of the steam leak.”

Hardy nodded to Bair, who was standing next to the intercom. The XO answered, “All right Eng, thanks for the report. How are your guys holding up?”

“Final casualty count is four injured, three with burns and one with a broken ankle. I’m waiting for a report from the corpsman. I’ll pass the word to you as soon as I get it.”

“Understood,” Bair answered.

Ho added one final comment. “Sir, the plant took one hell of a beating. If we take many more knocks like that last one, we could lose a lot more than the port main engine.”

Hardy stepped up to the intercom. “Do your best, Mr. Ho. Without you, we don’t get home. Control out.” He turned back to Mitchell. “Get going.” His face softened and he said, “Get them away from my boat, mister.”

Jerry answered, “Aye, aye, sir,” as he left control and headed below. Foster was up to his elbows in the preset panel, calling for tools, but Jerry didn’t need the Senior Chief to launch the Manta.

They had already started the sequence by the time he got to the torpedo room. He rushed through the procedure, as familiar to him now as getting out of bed in the morning. By all his indications, the Manta had come through the attack without a scratch. There was one bad moment when Jerry fretted about how well the docking skirt and latches had weathered the shock, but the display showed them all releasing, and the Manta automatically lifted off and away from its dock.

With the UUV now clear, Jerry suddenly found himself at a complete loss about what to do next. He’d been so focused on the launch he hadn’t thought about tactics.

Lead them away from Memphis. All right. I can do that. He ordered the Manta to turn west, back toward the trench, and punched the speed to fifteen knots. He also enabled the Manta’s simulator mode. A set of transducers in the vehicle would emit the acoustic signature of a Los Angeles -class sub. The Manta wouldn’t be quiet at that speed, and combined with the simulator mode, he hoped it would attract the attention of the Russian pursuers.

To help get their attention, he also sent a command sending the Manta to shallow depth. The surface wake would show a live contact leaving the scene of their latest attack at a brisk pace. Hopefully, they’d be busy repositioning for another attack and wouldn’t notice Memphis creeping in the general direction of away.

But was it working? It had only taken a few moments to send the commands. How long before he knew if the Russians were fooled? He was afraid that the way they’d find out it wasn’t working was another battering.

He felt like waving a flag or broadcasting insulting Russian phrases. Instead, he told control what he’d done. Hardy came on the line. “I’m taking Memphis northeast at a creep and we’re hugging the bottom. Will you turn north once you’re in the trench?”

“Yessir. I’m going to stay noisy, drop a countermeasure if they attack, and then break away.”

“Approved, but don’t break away too quickly. I want them to have a solid contact, so that everybody is completely focused on you.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Jerry started to mention the range limit on the acoustic modem, but held his fire. Hardy knew about it and reminding him wouldn’t help. It was Jerry’s job to figure out what to do.

He checked the nav display and adjusted the Manta’s course slightly. He wanted it to pass through the buoy field Memphis had encountered. He also sent the Manta deeper, not because it would make him easier to find, but because that’s what a real sub would do.