The Passage (35 page)

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Authors: David Poyer

BOOK: The Passage
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“Increase speed, sir?”
“Hell no. We're the Love Boat. Let's cruise on over and play him some marimba.”
 
 
THEY steamed slowly east, burning all their lights, for forty-five minutes. The sonarmen listened till perspiration glowed green on their faces in the light of the screens, but they got nothing. Dan wished again they had a helo aboard. Drop a line of sonobuoys ahead of the sub and nail him. Minute by minute, the lighted rosette of their position neared
Corpus Christi'
s estimated position.
Finally Leighty lifted his eyes. “Are we set to go active?”
“Yes, sir.”
“See if Woollie's on the bridge. Underwater Battery, stand by to simulate firing.”
When the senior observer joined them, Leighty explained what was going on, how he planned to carry out the attack. Woollie nodded noncommittally. “Sound like a good plan?” Dan asked him.
“Anything that works is good. This is a free-play exercise.”
“Sounds fair.” At Leighty's nod, Dan said, “Simulate deploying the Nixie. Go active.”
The sonar sang out. Seconds later, Fowler's voice came through the speaker above their heads. “Evaluator, Sonar: sonar contact! Bearing one-niner-five, range five thousand, two hundred yards. Classification: possible submarine. Confidence value: high.”
“Remember, I want an ID before we shoot,” Leighty muttered.
Dan went over to the curtain. The sonarmen looked back at him. “Hey, can you guys get anything on passive? A turn count, blade count?”
“We'll give a listen, sir. But those six eighty-eights are awful quiet.”
Kennedy plotted the datum as Dan told the bridge to put both engines on the line, come right to 195, and increase speed to fifteen knots. Casey Kessler hovered tensely as his men set up the shot.
“Up doppler. Bow aspect. Contact's increasing speed.”
“Can we get any kind of identification?” Leighty said again.
“They're trying to, sir.”
“Evaluator, Sonar: contact has two props, strong radiated noise level, broadband machinery noise—”
“That's not
Corpus Christi,
” said Shuffert.
“All stop,” said Leighty. “Secure pinging. Come about!”
“You backing off, sir?” said Woollie.
“We've got to. The Agreements for Preventing Incidents at Sea. We're not supposed to ping on a Soviet boat, track it, or harass it.”
“Are you sure it's Soviet?”
“There's no way a six eighty-eight can fake two screws. Dan, make it clear we're departing the area. Come all the way around and increase speed.”
“Range, three thousand yards. Still holding a bow aspect.”
“Bridge, this is the TAO. Come about. Come about—”
“Reciprocal is zero-one-five—”
Leighty barked, “Come to zero-one-five; go to flank speed.
Now!
”
Barrett
shuddered as her spinning props suddenly went to full pitch, chewing into the sea. She rolled as she came beam to the easterly swell.
“Green flare! Two green flares, fine on the starboard bow!”
“Turn toward!” Leighty barked, then, instantly: “Belay my last—do
not
turn toward. Steady on zero-one-five.”
“Sir, that's
Corpus Christi
over there. We've got to evade—”
“Steady on zero-one-five, I said.”
Green flares meant a simulated torpedo attack. Woollie raised his eyebrows, made a note. Dan couldn't help grimacing. That was a major gig, not taking evasive action. “Sir, why are we—”
“That's a Soviet boat astern of us, Mr. Lenson. For some reason, he's conducting a submerged transit. We just snuck up on him and pinged him out of the clear blue.” Leighty swung on Woollie. “Lieutenant, gig us if you like on the exercise, but I don't want a real torpedo up my ass, okay?”
Dan clutched the edge of the DRT, wondering if the next words out of Fowler's mouth were going to be “Torpedo in the water.” A minute stretched by, long as a week, and then another.
At last Leighty sighed. “I guess we're clear. Dan, draft a Firecracker message.”
“Aye aye, sir.” The Firecracker system reported contacts with Soviet and Warsaw Pact vessels at sea.
 
 
THEY resumed pinging twenty minutes later, well to the north, but never made contact with
Corpus Christi.
At 0300, they broke off play and set course for the firing area.
Barrett
ran at flank speed for nearly an hour. Dan sat in Combat as the ship rolled and buzzed.
He had to admit it, he was tense. Would Shrobo's fix work? Or would the system crash again, exposing
Barrett
as a billion-dollar high-tech paperweight? Maybe it would be better just to engage in manual, forget about the weapon direction system … .
Fuck it, he thought then. Let's do like Leighty wants. Take a risk for a change.
When they crossed the border of the firing area, they made radio contact with
Evelyn Kay,
the control tug for the self-propelled targets. Dan told them
Barrett
was ready, that they could start the event at their pleasure. “Attention in Combat!” he yelled. If he'd overlooked anything, it was too late now. “This will be a long-range radar-controlled gun engagement. Mount fifty-one will fire first.”
As the others rogered, he fitted the earphones to his ears and clicked the selector to the fire-control circuit. He made sure all stations understood the revised designation procedures. Then he turned the shoot over to Horseheads, watching the screen anxiously as the glowing pip of the remote-controlled boat drilled inward at them. It wasn't a big target.
“Stand by to illuminate.”
“Intermittent paint. Growing stronger.”
“Designate hostile, priority one. Illuminate,” said Dan. The man at the weapons-control console reached for the track ball before he remembered this was a manual designate, then pressed the button of his phones instead.
“Fire Control, Combat: your target, drone boat, bearing three-zero-eight, range nineteen thousand yards.”
“Designate to forward director, mount fifty-one.”
“Forward director reports acquisition. Lock on.”
“Load fifteen rounds BL&P ammunition to the transfer tray.”
BL&P was an inert-loaded target round that would splash but not explode. “Hold fire,” Dan reminded them, then pressed the intercom. “Bridge, Captain: Request batteries released.”
“Batteries released,” said the captain's voice.
The slam of the five-inch going off shuddered through the deck. Twenty-five seconds later, it slammed again. Dan thought for a second he saw the splash on the screen, but it faded too fast. They were firing by radar, walking the rounds onto the target. But the drone boat was maneuvering, skating back and forth as it drove toward them. “Speed, twenty-five,” Kennedy reported.
“Fire for effect,” Dan muttered, but he didn't press the button. It was up to Horseheads, Glasser, and Adamo now.
“Fire for effect,” Horseheads shouted.
Slam … slam … slam.
A voice shouted over the radio, “Cease fire. Cease fire! Target destroyed.”
The compartment erupted in jubilant shouts. Dan, grinning, punched up the DP center on the intercom. “Computer room, Combat: Good work, guys! Tell Doc he just earned his coffee bill.”
 
 
AFTER two more runs, Woollie said he'd sign them off on the exercise. The gunners begged to keep shooting, but Dan told them they still had the helicopter refueling to do before they went in. He called the control ship and thanked them for their services as
Barrett
secured from GQ.
The helicopter reported in as early breakfast was being piped. The air control petty officer relayed it to him. “Mr. Lenson: Mike twenty-eight reports, bustering inbound from homeplate with forty-six hundred pounds of fuel.”
“Ask him what's bingo fuel.” Dan, feeling more cheerful than he had for days, searched the pub shelf for the checklist and wind envelopes.
“Mike twenty-eight says bingo fuel twenty-five hundred pounds.”
“Have we got a true wind, Chief Kennedy?”
“Zero-eight-zero, fifteen knots, sir.”
He looked at their course and came up with five knots of wind, on the starboard bow. The anemometer agreed. It was 0447, still dark outside. After some quick figuring, he hit the intercom. “Bridge, TAO: Make this a port approach. As soon as he's in visual range, come right, steady up at two-nine-five.”
“Bridge aye.”
It was Casey Kessler's voice, not Harper's, but Dan figured Jay was in hearing range. He pressed the lever again. “Let's go ahead, set flight quarters.”
“Bridge aye.”
He called the captain's cabin and told him the helo was inbound for the refueling exercises, that the checklist was complete; they
were within the envelope and had no surface contacts. Leighty yawned as he acknowledged. “Sounds like you got it covered.”
“Yes, sir, he's got plenty of fuel even if we dick up.”
“We aren't going to, though, are we?”
“No, sir.”
“Okay, commence the evolution. I'm gonna get my head down for an hour. Keep a sharp eye out.”
“Yes, sir.” Dan hung up. He had the ship now. He checked the radar and then the chart. Do the refueling as they steamed in, then, when the helo left, steer for the bay entrance for the precision anchoring exercise.
“While
Barrett
is at flight quarters, all hands are reminded to refrain from throwing objects over the side. Remove caps; stand clear of weather decks aft of frame one sixty. Smoking lamp is out topside.”
“Helicopter bears two-seven-two, forty-two thousand yards, radial inbound.”
“Pass it to the bridge. Are we up on—”
“Yes, sir,” said the air controller.
Dan told Lauderdale he was going out on deck for a second.
“Red deck,” said the 1MC as he let himself out onto the 03 level. The night wasn't as black as he expected—moon and stars, and a faint pinkish radiance to the east that presaged day.
Barrett
drove through the sea with a hissing crash. He strolled aft, stopping under the steel web of the after mast, looking down.
Work lights illuminated the refueling party, crouched in colored jerseys along the narrow deck-edge outboard of the hangar. The landing signal officer waited quietly, lighted wands dangling as he watched a distant flashing star.
“Green deck,” said the 1MC. A few seconds later, the flutter of rotors came across the sea.
The pulsing star reached
Barrett'
s stern. Then suddenly it became not flashing lights in the sky but a huge unsteady machine dropping slowly toward the deck. The rotor blast battered at his ears. It veered off at the last moment and dangled unsteadily thirty feet up. It only took seconds before the hose was connected and the huge clattering aircraft, dipping and swaying like a drunken hummingbird, began sucking fuel aboard.
When he let himself back into CIC, nothing had changed. He checked the scopes again, then the coffee situation. He got a fresh cup, and punched the intercom to the helo control station. “Tower, Combat: How's it going?”
“Ninety percent fuel transferred. Six minutes to break and waveoff.”
He clicked the lever twice, acknowledging, and leaned back, thinking about their brush with the Soviet sub. That could have
turned nasty. But what was it doing transiting so covertly? Was it related to the
Kirov
group? Had it known
Barrett
and
Corpus Christi
were out there too, due to operate in the area? And if so, how?
“Refueling complete. Stand by to pop and drop. Mike twenty-eight requests permission to depart.”
“Permission granted. Notify the bridge.”
He dimly heard Kessler acknowledging. The whine and clatter of the rotors increased outside, and he heard it pass to port and decrease ahead. “Give the officer of the deck a course and speed to reach Fisherman's Point at oh-six thirty,” he told Lauderdale.
“Bridge, Combat: Recommend come left to two-seven-eight, speed eighteen.” A moment later, the deck leaned in a turn.
“Alfa Sierra, Mike Twenty-eight: We seem to have a little trouble here,” said the nonchalant voice of the helo pilot.

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