USS Goldsborough, 1615
The Captain stood at the head of the plotting table, surrounded by his ASW battle team of officers, plotters, and phone talkers. The plotting table looked like a surgical suite, with the team bent down over the backlighted NC-2 plotting table, its stark white circle of light projected up on the glass top depicting the ship in relationship to all other contacts, the light reflecting into the part of their faces visible through the flash hoods. The plotters muttered into their telephones, and reached out onto the plot with different colored pencils, making their marks to indicate Goldsborough’s own track, the track of the carrier, and, almost as an afterthought, the two fishing boats away to the southwest. The submarine target plotter, who would mark any sonar contacts with a red pencil, stood idly by the table.
Mike eyed the plot and reached for the bitch box talk switch.
“That carrier still coming on, XO?”
“Yes, Sir, Cap’n; I guess they’re having trouble understanding a don’t-come-home message.”
“Probably wondering if somebody isn’t pulling their chain, and I can sympathize with that.”
He punched out the button to the bridge, and punched in the one to sonar control.
“Linc, how’re the conditions?”
“Standard Jax opareas, shallow water, some reverberation, a sixty foot layer, but not too much marine life, and a lot better than along the Stream, Captain. The bottom comparison program is working four-oh. If he’s out here, we ought to get onto his butt pretty soon.”
“All right. We’re keeping the courses random to maximize your chances for looking through a hole in the layer. Keep your powder dry, Linc. And listen carefully for hydrophone effects.”
“Roger that, Cap’n.”
There was a stirring in the CIC. “Hydrophone effects” was Navy parlance for the sound of incoming torpedoes.
Mike looked over at the operations officer. “How far away is that bird farm? And did we ever get comms with him on fleet common?”
“No, Sir. I guess we could try channel 16, bridge to bridge. They must have secured everything over there for coming into port. And he’s into thirteen miles now.”
“OK,” said Mike.
He keyed the bitch box again.
“XO, try bridge to bridge with Coral Sea, see if we can get comms, and see if he has anything to say to us.”
“XO, aye.”
There was a pause. The Exec came back on the bitch box. “Cap’n, I got her, and her CO wants to talk to you ASAP.”
“Shit,” muttered Mike.
He headed out for the bridge. The bridge to bridge radio was a VHF circuit set up for collision avoidance by the international rules of the road. In theory, any ship could call any other ship on channel 16 and get an answer, and settle any uncertainties about which way they were both going to maneuver to avoid collision.
Mike winced at the afternoon sunlight streaming in through the windows as the ship swung through a westerly heading. There was almost no sea breeze and it was stinking hot in the pilothouse. He felt for the watch members, who had to wear flak jackets in addition to all the other paraphernalia of general quarters. He walked over to the chair and picked up the microphone for bridge to bridge.
“Coral Sea, this is Goldsborough, Charlie Oscar.”
“This is Coral Sea, Charlie Oscar. Captain, did you receive a high precedence message about thirty minutes ago?”
“That’s affirmative, Captain. We are, uh, working that problem right now. Recommend you turn around ASAP, Sir.”
There was silence on the circuit, interrupted by a distant
conversation in Spanish which clobbered the net for a full minute. Then Coral Sea came back.
“You mean this isn’t some kind of a joke?”
“Sir, we’re not positive, and I can’t explain it on this net. But you need to get your ship out of here, preferably to the east. At max speed. Now. I say again, now. And there’s been some kind of disaster at the river entrance, so I don’t think you can get in for a while, anyway. I strongly recommend you turn around now and buster out of here, Cap’n.”
“OK, I hear you. Request you meet me secure on 256.1 and maybe you can cut me in on what’s going on here. And I have no traffic on any problem in the river.”
“Roger that, Captain. We’ll come up 256.1 secure and I’ll have my XO brief you.”
Mike put his binoculars up to his eyes and trained them on the carrier. As he feared, the flight deck was empty except for what looked like a pair of SH3 anti-submarine helicopters. The carrier was also not yet turning. Mike decided to prod him.
“Coral Sea, this is Goldsborough, we have sighted what I believe to be floating mines ahead of you, over.”
There was a three second silence. Then the carrier came back.
“Did you say mines, over?”
“That’s affirmative. Strongly recommend you turn now, over.”
“Roger that. Message understood. Turning now. Out.”
“And, Captain,” Mike continued, “I desperately need an SH3 if you’ve got one on alert, over?”
There was another short silence before the carrier responded.
“We flew everybody off this morning at first light. I’ve got two heloes on deck; I can get one airborne with some buoys, but if you want him fast, he’ll have no weapons.”
“I’ll take anything I can get, Cap’n.”
“Roger that, and we’ll scramble him ASAP. I’m gone.”
“Captain,” called the Officer of the Deck, peering through his binoculars at the horizon. “Carrier’s coming left and making a bunch of smoke.”
“Very well, and about frigging time,” said Mike. “I’m going back into Combat. XO, I’ll have them patch that secure circuit out here; you give them what we know, and emphasize that they haul ashes AND get us a helo right fornicating now!”
“Aye, Sir. They know it’s a submarine problem, then?”
“The message warned them of a sub, but since he wanted to talk instead of maneuver, I gave him the mine story. That did it. But you brief the sub problem.”
Mike turned to the rest of the people on the bridge.
“And you guys who aren’t doing anything, get out on the wings and watch for torpedo tracks. If this guy is out here, we’ve just spoiled his whole show and made ourselves the only available target.”
Mike hurried into CIC, and instructed the communications console operator to patch the secure circuit into the bridge. He called for an anti-submarine air controller to set up shop on a radarscope and wait for a helo.
“When you get one, I want an active buoy pattern put in 5000 yards ahead of and to the west of wherever we happen to be at the time.”
“Active, Sir? Without contact?” asked the air controller.
“Yes; I want to add another distraction to this guy’s picture, hopefully before he shoots something.”
Mike stared down at the plot, noting the absence of the red lines that would indicate contact. He now had a stone cold, certain feeling in his gut that there was a submarine down there, and that they were very close to getting some proof of that.
“Ops, exaggerate the course changes from the search pattern; I want big, wide changes from here on out. And activate the fanfare noisemakers,” he ordered.
“Aye, aye, sir,” said the operations officer, turning to the ASW phone talker.
“Talker, tell sonar to activate the fanfare. Captain, if you really want to put some shit in the game, we could roll one depth charge. We’re not going to hit anything, but it would shake up ’em down there; maybe spoil their solution if they’re setting up on us.”
Mike stared at him for an instant, and then nodded. He keyed the bitchbox to sonar control.
“Linc, in addition to having fanfare on, I’m thinking of rolling a depth charge. I have this feeling we’re in somebody’s gunsight, and I want to fuck with his mind. The carrier’s clearing out now, so it’s just us and our phantom left to do business.”
“Aye, Cap’n, just give the word.”
Mike walked back over to the plot. The carrier’s plot was tracking in broad data points now as he opened to the east. His speed track was showing 27 knots. I’ll just bet he’s making smoke, thought Mike. Coral Sea was even older than Goldsborough.
He thought fast. By making his course changes more radical, it would be harder for the submarine to set up a firing solution on Goldsborough. By turning on the towed torpedo decoy noisemakers, he introduced yet another sound line into the submarine’s passive command and control system. A beacon, for sure, but something else to think about. A depth charge would frighten his enemy, and maybe provoke him into doing something that could lead to contact.
The radio messenger came hustling into Combat again, waving a message form. Mike took it, read it, and shook his head in wonder.
“The system absolutely slays me sometimes. We’ve been designated a Task Unit and told to defend Coral Sea from possible hostile submarine attack. And, get this. Help is on the way. Two Spruance destroyers will be out here in two to three hours, depending on whether or not tugs can get the remains of the Toyota carrier out of the channel junction. One of the Spruances will have ComDesRon Twelve embarked, who will then relieve me as Commander of the Task Unit …”
He threw the message on the deckplates.
“Fuck it,” he declared. “Let’s go fishing, backwoods style. Weapons control, roll one depth charge, depth setting two hundred feet, now.”
“Weps, aye, rolling one on standard setting. Now.”
Mike grabbed the 1MC microphone.
“All hands be advised that we are rolling one depth charge as a distraction device. Brace for shock.”
Everyone in CIC grabbed on to some standing part of the structure, and waited. Finally there was a large thump that resonated through the ship all the way up from the keel, rattling the loose equipment in CIC, followed by a roaring noise astern as the plume broke the surface. The Exec’s voice came in over the bitchbox.
“That was a pretty impressive blast, Cap’n, even at 200 feet. We trolling?”
“Yeah, XO, Georgia fly fishing. Throw some dynamite, see the fish fly. I’ve activated the noisemakers, too. Once he figures out that the carrier is outbound, we ought to get a sniff. And by the way, we’re now officially a task unit. I guess they’re believers back on the beach. They’re sending some Spruances out.”
“Spruances?” said the XO. “No aircraft? Ships will take a couple of hours to get out here.”
“My guess is that, having ordered the carrier out of the area, the problem’s not so urgent.”
“I hope they’re right about that. I wonder what the hell changed their minds.”
“That car carrier blowing up in the channel probably influenced their thinking, but there must be more to it than that. Anyhow, keep alert. Let’s see what that depth charge produces.”
“So far, a helluva lot of dead fish. I’ll bet those fishermen over there are going ballistic.”
Mike sat back down in his chair. That depth charge would blank out a sector of the underwater search scene, so he had taken a chance letting one go. He focused his mind on what to do next. Keep searching for the sub. The carrier was outbound, and unless the sub were east of Goldsborough, between the destroyer and the carrier, Coral Sea was getting safer by the minute. Goldsborough had already swept those waters with her sonar, so the sub should not be there. Should. If they had really guessed wrong, the carrier
could be running like hell right into the jaws of a trap. But Mike didn’t think so.
What to do next. We’re still headed west. Hopefully we’re between where we think the sub is and the carrier, right where we should be. We have weapons ready. We’re making a large zig zag pattern, which should make it very tough for a sub to set up a solution. Unless he’s got wire guidance. A chilling thought.
“Sir, the secure circuit is up with Coral Sea, and the XO is transmitting.”
“Very well.”
OK, so the carrier’s skipper would be getting the picture. Probably add a knot or two to his departure.
“Ops, what course is the carrier tracking?”
“Sir, Coral Sea is going due east, 090.”
“Tell the XO to break in and recommend he come left to 060.”
“060, aye, Sir,” said the operations officer, relaying the message out to the bridge via sound powered phones.
Why did I do that, Mike mused. Something about torpedo geometry and woods sense. He couldn’t put his mind right on it, but he knew that a steady course away was still a steady course. The Libyan would carry Russian torpedoes, which could go for miles and miles in pursuit of a target. A steady course made for an easy shot. So make the carrier turn. Instincts. Don’t stand still in the woods. The feel of crosshairs on his back.
His stomach was churning, although outwardly he just sat there in his chair. You should be doing something. What’s the next step. Search, evasive steering, decoys active astern, weapons ready to go, a random depth charge to fuck with the guy’s mind—can’t do that again; not enough depth charges left. He stared hard at the backs of his people around the plotting table. This isn’t an inspection, man. What if that bastard wasn’t here—could he be east of them instead of west?