For the DESRON commander, and the young lieutenant who was his watch stander, being this near to such a massive concentration of Russian submarine activity was a godsend.
Except for the fact that they weren't allowed to play. As I said, these were sensitive areas for the Russians, and I'd wondered from the start why they agreed to allow a U.S. battle group ― albeit a smaller one than normal ― to come so close to their most strategic assets.
One of the conditions had been that the U.S. had to promise to conduct no undersea warfare activities or intelligence gathering during our visit.
Admiral Wayne had argued strenuously that that meant only that we would not prosecute ― i. e., pepper with sonobuoys and run to the ground ― any Russian submarines we happened to find.
The Pentagon said otherwise. Not only were we not allowed to track submarines we did find, we were strictly prohibited from doing anything to find those submarines in the first place, up to and including discouraging pilots from making reports of visual contacts on submarines. No sonobuoys in the water, no active or passive sonars activated ― except for safety of navigation in constrained waters; Admiral Wayne won that one concession from them ― and no submarine hunter killer aircraft. No magnetic anomaly detectors, no passive acoustic tails in the water from the destroyers, and no satellite intelligence. Indeed, at the moment that she inchopped the Northern Sea, the USS Jefferson had been removed from several routing intelligence reports that located foreign submarines.
"Was the Commodore tempted to just shut down shop?" I asked, referring to Captain Stephens. The commander of a destroyer squadron is, by tradition, referred to as Commodore. While at one time Commodore was an actual rank, equivalent to the one-star rear admiral now, modernly it was used as a term for the senior officer in charge of a like number of units.
That is, the senior captain in charge of a number of destroyers is called Commodore, the senior captain in charge of all S-3 squadrons is referred to as Commodore, etc., etc.
"Commodore Stephens isn't that kind of man," the lieutenant said glumly. "I know what he means, though. If the shit hits the fan, we need to be maintaining tactical awareness."
I refrained from pointing out that there was nothing to maintain awareness of, not without any sensors. "How about the USW module down in CDC?" I asked, referring to the small compartment off the carrier's combat direction center that also housed a USW staff, ship's company rather than DESRON.
"They've closed up," the lieutenant said flatly. "No need for them to be up, really. Unless they're controlling some helos, they're just duplicating what we're doing."
"So you really don't have any way of knowing if there are any submarines in the area, do you?" I asked. I pointed at the blank displays, the silent radio circuits that normally would have been filled with reports from maritime patrol aircraft. "Not unless you get a lookout report."
The lieutenant nodded. "The theory is, the Russians are supposed to steer clear of us to avoid an incident at sea. INCOS, you know." He snorted. "Like that's going to be excuse for the captain if anything happens. We run over one of their submarines, we're still dead meat."
INCOS was the agreement struck between the former Soviet Union and the United States to prevent tragic incidents at sea. After years of Russian spy ships and combatants playing chicken with U.S. forces on training missions, both sides had hammered out an agreement to supplement the normal prudent seamanship rules of the road in international waters. The two nations specifically agreed not to hazard their vessels, not to come too close to each other. In civilian terms that meant no playing chicken.
They also agreed not to train their fire control radars on one another, not to interfere with vessels that were refueling or conducting flight operations, and to generally take every measure possible to avoid any risk of collision at sea.
But I knew what the lieutenant was saying as well. Under INCOS, since the Russians knew that we were not maintaining our normal underwater lookout, the Russian submarines in the area would have a duty to stay well clear of us. But if we ran over one, our ass would still be grass. No wonder the Commodore wanted a watch maintained up here.
And no wonder Petty Officer Martin had gotten such short shrift from the DESRON's watch team. It wasn't that they knew the area was clear of submarines ― it was that they simply had no information at all about it.
When pressed by one eager EW, the AWs had no doubt become truculent and unresponsive. Martin was right in this case.
"One of our fellows saw something a little bit odd," I began.
The lieutenant nodded. "Called up here and talked to Scruggins a few hours ago," the lieutenant said, and pointed at an AW lounging in the corner with a green plastic mug of coffee resting on the edge of the plot.
"Wanted to know what submarines were in the area. Of course, I told him we didn't know."
I doubt you told him that, I thought. Martin's got a very, very good memory, and that's not what he heard you say. Your fellow said there were no contacts in the area, not that your gear was down.
"In other words, you can neither confirm nor dispute Petty Officer Martin's contact report," I said quietly. "Let's not get in some pissing contest, here, Lieutenant. Right now, I'm the only source of USW information that you've got."
The lieutenant looked like he was going to start to huff and puff, then he quickly subsided as he realized that what I was saying was true.
"Sorry if we conveyed that impression, sir," he said finally. "Of course, we appreciate the information. And we'll keep a good lookout in that area ― that is if we're ever allowed to bring any assets online."
For the second time that hour, I had to soothe an ego. "Just some crossed wires, Lieutenant," I said in a reassuring tone of voice. "If you want, how about I take one of your AWs down with me? Let him look at the data that Petty Officer Martin's got ― he may be able to give us a clue as to the classification of the boat."
The AW slouched in the corner scowled slightly. "I'm not sure I'd be much help, sir," he said pointedly. "Your guy sounded like he knew what he was talking about."
"No, I think that's a fine idea," the lieutenant said, cheering up markedly. Evidently the possibility of transferring his problem child to someone else's care and control for a few hours sounded enticing. "Go ahead, Scruggins ― the commander will take you down to CVIC and get you set UP."
I eyed the lieutenant, suddenly convinced that I was able to read his mind. "Of course, a lot of our data is highly classified," I continued.
"Can't talk about it on the sound-powered phone lines or the ship's telephone system. And it would seem kind of silly to use a special encrypted circuit just to communicate between my people on the 0–3 level and yours on the 0–8."
The lieutenant nodded vigorously. "Couldn't agree with you more, sir." He turned back to his slightly disgruntled sailor. "Scruggins, how about you run up position reports and debriefs as needed, then? Shouldn't be more than two or three times every hour." The lieutenant patted his own flat, trim stomach with satisfaction. "That's how I stay in shape, running back and forth between my stateroom and here. It'll be good for you, Scruggins."
The AW groaned audibly now. He stood, his hand jostling the coffee cup that stood on the paper overlay for this area of the ocean. "But, sir, I-"
"Off with you now, Scruggins," the lieutenant said briskly. "Winder can keep the plot up ― such as it is."
"No need to worry about the coffee, Scruggins," I continued brightly, now convinced that I'd made a new friend in the lieutenant. Sure, he was a lot junior to me, but it never hurt to have a friend on every staff. "We don't allow coffee around the equipment in CVIC. A shame, too ― we have to keep it so cold down there. That damned equipment, you know."