The Passage (30 page)
Authors: David Poyer
T
HE machinists stopped talking the second he stepped through the door the next morning. Dan looked around the shop: racks of hammers and mallets, machines for bending and cutting metal. Smells of oil and acid flux and hot coffee surrounded him.
HE machinists stopped talking the second he stepped through the door the next morning. Dan looked around the shop: racks of hammers and mallets, machines for bending and cutting metal. Smells of oil and acid flux and hot coffee surrounded him.
“Morning, sir. Help you?” said a tired-looking first-class; his dungaree shirt said BAKOTIC in Old English script.
“Wondered if you had any scrap wire, strapping iron, anything like that.”
“We got rid of most of our good scrap before we got here, sir. Inspectors don't like a lot of crap layin' around the shop ⦠. Studie, can you help the lieutenant out? What you need it for, sir?”
“I just need some scrap wire, but it's got to be heavy.”
He left the shop with five feet of battery wire, soft copper cable half an inch thick. He twisted its heavy ductility into a coil as he went aft. He stuck his head into the laundry as he passed. Despite fresh paint, the smell of fire still lingered.
He emerged on the afterdeck, into the lingering cool of dawn. The sun bulged out of the sea like a thermonuclear detonation, glinting and winking off glass or metal far down the coast in Cuban territory. Dan rubbed his eyes. He'd been up past midnight fixing the casualty routes; then at 0400, reveille again ⦠.
The
Kidd-
class destroyers, like the
Spruances
from which they'd inherited hull and machinery layout, had a dropped weather deck at the stern. The twin tapered rails of the Mark 26 launcher rose above him, pointed straight up; the tapered barrel of the after gun aimed at the departing land. He stepped over flemished-out mooring lines and around bitts and scuttles. After so long locked inside, in CIC and office and wardroom, he had a moment almost of agoraphobia as he stopped on
Barrett
's broad, open fantail.
Kidd-
class destroyers, like the
Spruances
from which they'd inherited hull and machinery layout, had a dropped weather deck at the stern. The twin tapered rails of the Mark 26 launcher rose above him, pointed straight up; the tapered barrel of the after gun aimed at the departing land. He stepped over flemished-out mooring lines and around bitts and scuttles. After so long locked inside, in CIC and office and wardroom, he had a moment almost of agoraphobia as he stopped on
Barrett
's broad, open fantail.
Back here, at fifteen knots, the rumbling vibration of the screws
was like riding a tractor over a potato field. Twin whip antennas drew circles on the sky. The wake tumbled under the counter, a white-green maelstrom thirty feet across. The sharp-cornered stern dragged little whirlpools after it, then left them spinning and rocking in a sea the color of chrysoprase till they dissolved into a welter of hissing foam.
was like riding a tractor over a potato field. Twin whip antennas drew circles on the sky. The wake tumbled under the counter, a white-green maelstrom thirty feet across. The sharp-cornered stern dragged little whirlpools after it, then left them spinning and rocking in a sea the color of chrysoprase till they dissolved into a welter of hissing foam.
Dan half-trusted his weight to the rail. There was one patch of turbulence about ten feet back from the stern where the sea seemed to be sucked downward, as if into a huge open mouth just below the surface. He nodded to the after lookout, who gave him one incurious glance, then lifted his binoculars again.
Wondering if he was the one who'd spotted Sanderling, Dan took the diary out of his pocket. He wrapped the cable around it tightly, then twisted the ends together till they locked.
He looked out at Cuba, the low hills sinking astern. A dark speck caught his eye above a gleam of white. He frowned, then understood; it was the submarine, following them out.
Barrett
was headed straight out to the operating areas today. As he recalled the chart, the hydrography was fairly steep here. The hundredfathom curve was only about half a mile off Windward Point.
Barrett
was headed straight out to the operating areas today. As he recalled the chart, the hydrography was fairly steep here. The hundredfathom curve was only about half a mile off Windward Point.
Leaning out, he tossed the diary into the sea. It curved out and fell into the vortex and disappeared, sucked down into the continuously beating froth. He shaded his eyes, watching for it to reappear farther aft, but it didn't.
It was gone. When he straightened, it felt like some heavy yoke had been lifted from his shoulders. He should never have kept it, never have read it. Maybe the legal officer, Arguilles, was right. He was too quick on the trigger when it came to taking responsibility.
He turned from the lifeline, to find a man in civilian slacks and short-sleeve shirt watching him from the deck above. He had closecut dark hair and muscular arms crossed over a middle-aged paunch. They stared at each other for a second. Then the man looked around, found the ladder to the afterdeck, and let himself down it.
He held out his hand. “Lieutenant Lenson, I presume.”
“That's right.” Dan met flat blue eyes. “Who are you?”
“Bob Diehl, Naval Investigative Service. Looking into ETSN Benjamin Sanderling, USN, decease of.” Dan looked at the ID card and nodded; Diehl flipped the case closed. “Pretty morning.”
“Yeah.”
“I like riding the ships. Put in eight years in diesel boats myself,
Carbonero
and
Medregal
, then the old Rocketwolf. Ever heard of her? USS
Requin,
SS-four eighty-one?”
Carbonero
and
Medregal
, then the old Rocketwolf. Ever heard of her? USS
Requin,
SS-four eighty-one?”
“I don't think so.”
“I remember I was the lookout in a hurricane once. Nineteen
hours stuck on the bridge. Couldn't get down. We had twenty feet of green water breaking over the top of the windshield; that fiberglass sail kept shuddering like it was going to break off. Well, I know you have a busy day planned. I thought I'd try to talk to some of the men who knew this fella jumped overboard, in the inbetweens. The XOâhey, what kind of name is Vysotsky? Sounds Russian.”
hours stuck on the bridge. Couldn't get down. We had twenty feet of green water breaking over the top of the windshield; that fiberglass sail kept shuddering like it was going to break off. Well, I know you have a busy day planned. I thought I'd try to talk to some of the men who knew this fella jumped overboard, in the inbetweens. The XOâhey, what kind of name is Vysotsky? Sounds Russian.”
“It is,” Dan said, wondering why every ex-sailor you met had to tell you all about his old ship.
“That so? Well, he said okay. That all right with you?”
“Sure,” Dan said. He gave the guy a second to ask anything else, unsure whether he'd seen him get rid of the diary. When he didn't, Dan added, “Will you want to interview me?”
“I don't think that'll be necessary. Division officer, leading chief, the guys bunked with himâthat's the usual procedure. I don't imagine you saw much of him.”
“No. Not much.” Dan checked his watch. “We'll be going to GQ for a local firing pretty soonâ”
“Sure, Lieutenant. See you later.”
Â
Â
DOORS and hatches slammed as he went through the by-now-mindless motions of donning battle dress. He checked the gas mask, making sure the snap on the cover didn't stick and that the rubber “spider” was prefolded so he could slap it on his face, pull the webwork down, and have an instant seal. The requirement was fifteen seconds from “go” to breathing through the activated-carbon canister.
“Harpoon, manned and ready.”
“SSWC, manned and ready.”
“UBFC, manned and ready.”
“Sonar, manned and ready.”
“AAWC, manned and ready.”
Lauderdale hit the intercom near Dan. “Bridge, Combat; Combat, manned and ready. Can you give me a visual range and bearing to the sub?”
“Roger, stand by.”
“Mr. Lauderdale, I'll be in Sonar,” Dan told him. The CIC officer said, “Aye aye, sir.”
The sonar room was separated from the rest of CIC by a black folding curtain. When he closed it, he found himself in a blue-lighted space the size of a camping trailer, completely filled with the three huge sonar stacks, chairs, safes, racks of pubs and tape reels, and the sonobouy and passive-tracking cabinets. A Barbie doll in a sailor hat, naked legs spread, dangled from an overhead light.
Fowler glanced up as he slid in. “Mr. Lenson, howzit going? ⦠Start a standard beam-to-beam search. Depression angle two.”
Fowler glanced up as he slid in. “Mr. Lenson, howzit going? ⦠Start a standard beam-to-beam search. Depression angle two.”
There was the eerie song of the outgoing pulse, three notes repeated over ten seconds, then a click from the speaker by the port stack.
“What are we doing in active, Chief?”
“They're starting us out in active mode, sir. See how good the tracking team does, I guess.”
Barrett
carried one big SQS-53 sonar. The radiating elements were far below the waterline in the bow dome, a huge bulge beneath the sharp overhanging cutwater. The sonarmen “listened” from up here, but not with their ears. On the number one console a ring of white light expanded slowly from the center to the limits of the round scope, then disappeared. Below it on the B-scan, amber lines marched from the bottom to the top of the screen. The number two console operator sat glued to a jade shimmer like moire silk, fingers resting on a joystick. He looked drawn. Dan leaned against the safe, thinking they were all going to be exhausted before this was over. He noticed the sign on it. NO ONE WILL REMOVE ANY PUB FROM THIS SAFE WITHOUT MY PERMISSION. CHIEF FOWLER.
carried one big SQS-53 sonar. The radiating elements were far below the waterline in the bow dome, a huge bulge beneath the sharp overhanging cutwater. The sonarmen “listened” from up here, but not with their ears. On the number one console a ring of white light expanded slowly from the center to the limits of the round scope, then disappeared. Below it on the B-scan, amber lines marched from the bottom to the top of the screen. The number two console operator sat glued to a jade shimmer like moire silk, fingers resting on a joystick. He looked drawn. Dan leaned against the safe, thinking they were all going to be exhausted before this was over. He noticed the sign on it. NO ONE WILL REMOVE ANY PUB FROM THIS SAFE WITHOUT MY PERMISSION. CHIEF FOWLER.
“You and the chief warrant getting along better these days?”
Fowler molded an invisible snowball. “We got an understanding, sir. He stays out unless I ask him in. He comes in, one of my guys stays with him. Hey! Freeze that, around two-one-six. Tweak your gain up.”
The curtain rattled back and then closed again; Lieutenant Woollie loomed up through the dimness. “Got a track yet?” he asked briskly.
Fowler pulled the mike down. “Evaluator, Sonar: Active contact bears two-one-six, two point five kiloyards, bow aspect, up doppler. Recommend we come left; he's nearly in our baffles.”
“It doesn't do any good if we're the only ones know about it, Chief,” Dan told him. Fowler grimaced.
Woollie quizzed the sonarmen about equipment settings, power out, depression angle, and pulse length and asked to see their sound-velocity profile. Then he left. Dan searched around for a place to perch, and someone handed down a folding chair.
Corpus Christi
dived shortly after that, and they did sonar detection and tracking exercises through the morning. Active pinging went okay, but when they went to passive, to listening, everything fell apart.
Corpus Christi
was a new boat. Everybody expected her to be quiet. But when they passed within five hundred yards of her without a detection, the captain called down and roasted Dan. As soon as Leighty hung up, Dan dialed the computer room. Williams answered. “DP center.”
dived shortly after that, and they did sonar detection and tracking exercises through the morning. Active pinging went okay, but when they went to passive, to listening, everything fell apart.
Corpus Christi
was a new boat. Everybody expected her to be quiet. But when they passed within five hundred yards of her without a detection, the captain called down and roasted Dan. As soon as Leighty hung up, Dan dialed the computer room. Williams answered. “DP center.”
“Lieutenant Lenson, in Sonar. We're not getting shit on passive tracking here. How's the program look?”
“Sir, all you're getting on the fifty-three is straight-stick passive output. I told Sonar that.”
“Are you telling me we're not running any digital processing?”
“Sir, the Doc says we run those programs, we lose them. Until we get the diaphragm in placeâ”
“The
what
?” Dan said to Fowler, “What the hell's he talking about?”
what
?” Dan said to Fowler, “What the hell's he talking about?”
“I don't know, sir.”
“Stand by. I'm coming down.”
When he got to the computer room, he looked around for Shrobo. He was about to ask for him when he came out from behind one of the UYK-7s. His glasses gleamed blankly, filled with light. “Uh, Hank,” Dan said, “I know you're trying to figure out what's wrong, but you can't just shut the computers down till you find out. We've got to keep working with what we've got, okay?”
“Sorry. Can't be done that way.”
“Uh ⦠sir, I'm gonna break the guys for lunch, it's almost time for the mess line to close.”
“Okay, Chief.” When they left, Dan turned on Shrobo. “What is this? You're supposed to be here to help us, not shut us down!”
“That's what I'm trying to do. But if you keep running these computers, there's not going to
be
any system.”
be
any system.”
“What do you mean?”
Shrobo gazed at the overhead for a second, as if receiving divine guidance, then reached for a pencil. “Let me show you.”
Â
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DAN sat in CIC, worrying about what Shrobo had just told him. Things were worse than he'd thought. Everything was affected, not just the fire-control systems but everything that the computers controlled. And it was getting worse.
Finally, he clicked the light on and checked the schedule.
They were well offshore now, fifty miles south of Guantánamo Bay. The afternoon's drills would begin with antiaircraft target designation, followed by tactical antiaircraft exercises. A-4 Skyhawks from Fleet Composite Squadron Ten would simulate attacks on the formation while the ships practiced tracking them and handing off engagement responsibilities. At the same time, an EA-6 over the horizon was testing their electronic surveillance capabilities. On completion of the tracking exercises, the ships would split into two parallel lines and another plane would report on-station with a towed target, making runs on each ship in turn for live firing.
He clicked the light off, slid down, and leaned over the surface
scope. It showed four pips on a line of bearing, steaming southwest at fifteen knots.
Dahlgren
was guide, followed by
Barrett, Manitowoc
, and
Canisteo
. “What's our watch zone?” he asked Lauderdale.
scope. It showed four pips on a line of bearing, steaming southwest at fifteen knots.
Dahlgren
was guide, followed by
Barrett, Manitowoc
, and
Canisteo
. “What's our watch zone?” he asked Lauderdale.
“Port and starboard, thirty degrees to one-five-zero degrees from the bow.”
“And how are we tracking?”
“The usual way, sir, on the UYA-foursâ”
“We'd better practice our manual plotting. Shut down the consoles. Get the guys up on the phones. I want a surface status board, tote boards, and air plot.”
“We can't just shut down the NTDS, sir. They're going to be throwing a lot of targets at us during the battle problem.”
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