“Yes, sir!” returned Tolliver, smartly saluting before exiting.
“Commander Cooper,” continued the chairman. “I want you to personally find out what in the hell that communications snafu is all about. Since we already can’t reach our submarines, if we lose contact with the QE2 as well, we could be in one hell of a mess. This is especially the case if your suspicions hold true, and we’ve got a damned outlaw Chinese submarine headed out into the North Atlantic for God knows what purpose, and the leaders of the free world sitting out there with us unable to warn them!”
20
The submariners’ world is divided into four six-hour increments. Because of the unique medium in which they sail, the crew often has to depend upon the nature of the meal being served to know whether it is day or night topside.
Thus, when Benjamin Kram woke up at the start of the USS Folk’s third straight twenty-four patrol segment at flank speed, he had dinner. It was still only midnight.
He found three of his fellow officers gathered around the wardroom’s elongated table. As Kram took his customary seat at the head, he noticed that his shipmates were almost finished with their meals.
Lt. Michael Ritter, the Folk’s radio officer, was seated to Kram’s left, eating a large bowl of chili. Directly across from him, Comdr Doug Gilbert, the SEAL team CO, was also eating chili, along with Lt. Col. Lawrence Laycob of the Royal Marines. The blond-haired Englishman was wearing his customary green woolen sweater, and Kram could tell from the way he was devouring his meal that he was enjoying himself.
“Looks like we all lucked out tonight,” remarked the captain as he pulled his blue napkin out of the thick silver ring that had his name engraved on it. “I’ve got to start coming to mid rats more often.”
“This dish is truly an extraordinary one,” reflected the Englishman after spooning in a final mouthful of the savory concoction. “And to think that it doesn’t contain an ounce of red meat.”
The SEAL grunted. “Hell, as long as we’ve been on this pig boat, I can count on one hand the number of times we’ve been served a decent steak.”
“Who needs steak when we’ve got turkey?” offered CPO Howard Mallott, as he emerged from the serving pantry. The portly head chef was dressed in khakis and a royal blue polo shirt. The crest of this shirt showed a palm tree with a colorful parrot superimposed on top of it, with jimmy’s buffet embossed in gold below. He carried a tray with a large bowl of chili and a platter filled with chopped onion and shredded cheese.
Kram dug into his chili with gusto. It was as delicious as ever, and the only feedback that he needed to give Mallott was a single look of heavenly delight.
Mallott took this as his cue to leave, and he filled his tray with empty bowls before returning to the galley. This left the Folk’s captain free to enjoy his meal, while his shipmates sipped their drinks.
“Captain,” said the SEAL as he watched Kram spoon on some more onions.
“Lieutenant Ritter was telling us about the radio problems that the boat’s been experiencing. Do you think this will affect our ability to carry out this mission?”
Kram held back his reply until he swallowed the mouthful of beans that he had been chewing. “As long as conditions don’t worsen further, I don’t see how our difficulty establishing a clear VLF channel with Command will compromise the Folk’s operational status. If they really need to reach us, there’s always TACAMO to fall back on.”
Kram shifted his focus to his communications officer. “I was planning on doing a complete walk-thru this shift, and the radio room was going to be one of my first stops this morning, Lieutenant. I take it that VLF remains inoperable.”
Ritter nodded. “Nothing’s changed since your last visit, sir. We get a few teasing seconds of clear channel, followed by long segments of static. Those solar flares are continuing to play havoc with our frequency propagation.”
“I imagine that Talent and the other submarines in our flotilla are experiencing similar difficulties,” supposed Laycob.
“Certainly there must be other frequencies available to contact Command on.”
“If the Polk really needed to deliver the mail, all we’d need to do is go to PD”—periscope depth—“and pop up our highfrequency antenna,” said the SEAL matter of factly. “The trouble is, the QE2 is moving so fast that if we were to slow down to surface, we’d end up losing the very ship that we’ve been assigned to ride shotgun on.”
“The commander’s right,” said Kram. “Our main focus is keeping up with the QE2. These lousy atmospherics are bound to clear up eventually, and when they do, we’ll be getting such an earful from the CNO that we’ll be looking back at this radio blackout and praying for those sunspots to return.”
As Kram’s audience laughed at this remark, the intercom growled loudly.
The nearest handset was mounted beneath the lip of the table. Kram reached down with his right hand and grabbed it.
“Captain,” he said into the transmitter.
Whatever he was hearing caused a puzzled look to cloud his expression.
“Are you absolutely certain?” he asked, as if he weren’t hearing properly.
“Well, I’ll be,” he said with a grunt. “No, there’s no need to wake the XO. Just make sure to log the exact time of the course change, and I’ll join you in control shortly.”
Kram hung up the handset, and met the curious stares of his dining companions. “That was the COB. A couple of minutes ago, sonar picked up an indication that the QE2 has changed its course. It appears that they’ve broken off their great circle route, to proceed on a north-northeasterly heading of zero-three-zero.”
“Perhaps they’ve spotted some ice in the area,” suggested Lawrence Laycob.
“Or maybe weather has forced them to alter course,” offered the SEAL.
“Whatever’s happened up there,” said Kram, his expression still pursed in thought, “it wasn’t part of the original operational orders. I’m going to see about closing the distance between us and the Queen. Lieutenant Ritter, I want you to see if you can hail the Talent on the under water telephone. Perhaps the Royal Navy can tell us what the hell is going on up there.”
21
Comdr. Mark Eastbrook was a lucky man, and he knew it. To get command of his very own nuclear-powered attack sub, in these post-Cold War days of rapidly shrinking fleets, was an amazing turn of good fortune. To get this command having barely graduated secondary school, was simply incredible.
As he sat in his cabin, staring at the open pages of his diary, he realized that he must have had a guardian angel looking after him, on that rainy morning in 1975, when he joined the Royal Navy as a junior rate. A mere six years later, he completed initial officer training at Dartmouth’s Britannia Naval College, having worked his way up the ranks via the Upper Yardman scheme.
He received his commission in time to see combat in the Falklands, where he was assigned to the destroyer HMS Sheffield. An Argentine exocet missile showed him the dangers of duty in the surface fleet.
Severely burnt while fighting to save his ship, Eastbrook promised himself that if he survived that fateful day, he’d volunteer to spend the rest of his Royal Navy career as a submariner.
Survive he did, and following a succession of assignments aboard a number of submarines, he was selected for the command course in 1990.
Perisher school was almost as tough as real combat. But he persevered, and after spending two years as the XO of the HMS Trenchant, and a stint in Groton, Connecticut, on exchange with the U. S. Navy, he was finally promoted to commander in 1995, when he also assumed command of the Talent.