"But you do think it's a submarine?" I pressed.
He nodded. "We can get pretty accurate on the location now," he said, blithely assuming that I didn't know the critical equipment parameters of the gear now in front of me. "That spot it's aimed at ― empty ocean. At least according to the radar. Now if we had an S-3 or something overhead, we might know for certain." "Anything from the undersea warfare commander?" I said, referring to the destroyer squadron, or DESRON, that occupied the 0–8 level of the aircraft carrier's tower. The recent changes in battle group organization had not left any of the traditional warfare commanders untouched. The DESRON, for decades called the Antisubmarine Warfare (ASW) commander, was now referred to as the Undersea Warfare (USW) Commander. He had charge of all the USW assets in the area, ranging from P-3s deployed from shore stations in support of the battle group, to the S-3 submarine-hunter killers that flew off our own flight deck, to the host of other national assets, including our own submarines.
This deployment, he didn't have that much to work with. Unlike most battle groups, we were traveling without a submarine. Given the sensitive nature of our deployment into Russia's northern waters, that seemed a politically sound decision. Additionally, we were out of range of most P-3 maritime patrol aircraft, which left us only with the organic helos and S-3s on the flight deck above me.
"Nothing from the DESRON," Petty Officer Martin confirmed.
I studied the signal for a while longer. A few more brief repetitions at the same frequency, each one of which made Martin tense up and lean forward in his chair. The printer continued its chattering, spitting out hard copy of all the data. It had two options for printing, either a graphic representation of peaks and valleys of signal strength or a numeric display with rows and columns of dense, closely spaced numbers. A guy in practice, like Martin, usually preferred the numbers. Older and less trained eyes like the graphic representation.
"I'll wander up and see the DESRON," I said finally. "Keep an eye on it ― call me up there immediately if there's any change. Anything significant, anyway."
Martin nodded. "Go wake ' up, just in case they're napping, sir." I smiled despite myself. EWs are convinced there's no rating on the ship that works as hard, or as smart, as they do. Sure, they admit that there's a certain glamour in flying aircraft off the ship, and working on the flight deck, and even in maintaining the USW pictures as the DESRON is supposed to do. However, they have a lingering distrust that everyone else isn't doing his job quite as well as the EWs are.
Part of it is based on fact. There are very few ratings onboard the aircraft carrier that have as many sailors that are as smart as EWs. Just to get in the program, they have to be in the top 2 percent of the Navy in intelligence, and in terms of sheer raw brainpower, many of the EWs are damned near brilliant. Most of them are a good deal smarter than the college graduate pilots and RIOs they brief and debrief every day.
Maintaining the properly respectful and military attitude toward their seniors is often quite difficult for them. In their minds, the facts are simply indisputable ― EWs are smarter, so the more senior people ought to pay attention to what they say.
Pilots, especially the very young or inexperienced, don't always see it that way. They are all too impressed with the insignia on their collars and the sheer fact that they are naval aviators. Sometimes they don't listen as well as they ought to. The EWs know that, and I've got them pretty well trained to come running to me when they have a collar count discrepancy problem. I let them rant and rave, wait until they calm down, and then either take care of the problem or placate them.
In this case, I knew what Martin was thinking. There might have been a little sniff of a submarine somewhere, something that an Aviation Antisubmarine Warfare Technician ― or AW for short ― hadn't taken a good look at. The other fellow might have dismissed it as noise, or maybe ― and I think this is what Martin privately suspected ― he was too busy shooting the shit with his buddy to do his job. When Martin had called up, he'd probably gotten an offhand, quick answer ― "No, buddy, no submarines in this area. If there were, we'd know about it." Something in the tone hadn't convinced Martin, and I could tell he was glad I was going up to take a look myself.
I clapped him on the shoulder and said, "I'll look at the data myself, Martin. Good catch on the signal."
Martin snorted. "Wasn't much to catch, sir. If it were a snake, it would have bit me on the ass."
I left him watching the scope and hustled up the six ladders leading to the 0–8 level, the home of the DESRON. They were located in the forward part of the tower, just behind the admiral's bridge. The admiral's bridge was normally vacant unless there was a reason for the admiral to have his own navigator and staff keeping a careful eye on the carrier commanding officer.
I stood for a second outside the DESRON spaces, catching my breath from the quick trip up the six ladders. It's a lot if you do it fast, even if you are in shape. I spend an hour a day on the Stairmaster, and I still manage to get winded when I'm in a hurry.
Finally, I stepped into the small compartment. In the back part of it, a paper-plotting table took up most of one corner, standing just barely out from the bulkhead so that sailors could move all around it. In the forward half of the compartment, a watch officer sat in a chair and stared at the status boards lining the bulkheads. Against one wall was a JOTS ― Joint Operation Terminal Set ― that displayed most of the data inputs from the other ships in the area, including commercial traffic. Some people claim that JOTS stands for Jeremy O. Tuttle, the renowned father of naval electronics who rammed through its implementation in the fleet by the force of his own personality.
"Good morning, Commander." The lieutenant who was the watch officer stood, took his hands out of his flight jacket, and gestured toward the pilot. "Anything we can do for you today? It's pretty slow out here ― no contacts of any sort." "Thanks, just up checking things out," I said neutrally. "I imagine it's pretty slow for you guys up here?"
The lieutenant nodded. "Wish we had somebody to play with," he said, his tone almost wistful. "The S-3s are biting bullets to at least get some stick time, but you know how the politics of it are." He shrugged and made a vague gesture toward the ocean around us. "Don't want to piss anybody off by doing our job."
I nodded, understanding what he meant. The Kola Peninsula was home to some of Russia's most advanced submarine bases. The Kola Peninsula is home to the northern fleet, Russia's largest and most powerful seagoing organization. The largest complex of bases is on the Kola Inlet, a swath of thirty-two miles stretching from the Barents Sea to the north to the junction of the Tuloma and Kola Rivers to the south. Severomorsk, the northern fleet headquarters, the commercial port of Murmansk, along with Arkhangel'sk and Polyamyy, were just a few of the areas of strategic military interest.
One of the most fascinating bases in the area was near Bolshaya Litsa, only about thirty-five miles from the Norwegian border. A variety of submarine piers, maintenance facilities, and normal Navy activities ring the area, but the southeast facility is the most interesting. Several large, underground tunnels for ballistic missile submarines are cut into the mountains. According to Norwegian intelligence estimates, the tunnels are large enough so that any North Fleet missile submarine, up to and including the massive Typhoon, can pull into these tunnels and re-arm during time of conflict. The masses of rock provide protection from all but the most concentrated nuclear attack.