A sailor walked up to the two officers. “Sir, I’m a member of the Gold Team.”
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Petty Officer Banks from the great state of Tennessee,” Burnham said, slapping Banks on the back. He was one of the few on board who knew that this young man held a bachelor’s degree from Duke University and was one year away from his master’s in English literature. Unfortunately, when old Uncle Sam invited Banks to learn the ways of the infantryman, taking time off for the navy seemed the right thing to do.
The army’s loss had been Burnham’s gain. The two had found a harmony in intellectual discourse that only those with superior degrees could understand. At least, that was Burnham’s opinion. He enjoyed the arguments with Banks, who was a dyed-in-the-wool Democrat to his Republican.
“There,” Hatfield said, stepping back. “What do you think, Petty Officer Banks? Think we can use this for tracking our bearings?”
The unassuming Banks bent over the plotting table and ran his hands over the top. “That’s a good job, Mr. Hatfield. We should be able to use this without the paper bunching or pulling away.”
Hatfield smiled.
Another member of the Gold ASW Team had arrived silently and started sharpening pencils. Pencils would be used to mark off the lines of bearing to the contact once they had it on sonar.
Led by the versatility and “deep experience” in passive tracking of Ensign Hatfield, a couple of operations technicians such as Banks could calculate the submarine’s course and speed based on common distances between several lines of bearing. It was easier than it looked, and it was definitely easier than trying to explain or describe how “target motion analysis” was done. Even he, the one and only “Great Burnham,” had been amazed how simple he found TMA to be while others thought it was hard. Let the others discover it like he did. He saw no reason to share his insight. If the did, the others would never learn it.
“I’ll get the clappers and compass, Mr. Hatfield,” Banks said, reaching up and pushing several long strands of black hair off his forehead.
“Good idea, Petty Officer Banks,” Hatfield said.
Burnham crossed his arms, rolling his eyes upward when Hatfield ran his hand across the top of the trace paper, almost a loving gesture.
TMA was something Burnham appreciated. No one could fail to watch a good ASW team whip out a submarine course and speed in minutes based only on lines of bearing taken from the sound the submarine had generated in the water. Of course, those minutes could turn into hours, if the submarine decided to do a lot of course and speed changes. The key was to sneak up on those sons of a bitches who hid beneath the waves, locate them, drop a grenade over the side to scare the shit out of them, and then—head for Olongapo.
Or, most likely, the Dale would follow the sub forever, or until eventually they lost it. Submarine skippers knew about the layer where the warmer waters of the surface and the cooler waters below clashed. That layer was like a curtain blocking off direct noise. Made it harder to locate and track a damn submarine.
“’Bout got it, Lieutenant,” Hatfield said, interrupting Burnham’s thoughts.
Burnham glanced at Hatfield as the ensign rubbed the tape edges down again.
“There, sir. That should do it.”
Burnham grunted. Fourteen months, two weeks, three days, and he would be home in Crewe, Virginia. Whatever had caused him to join the navy? Vietnam did, you asshole. Men your size are too big to hide; they become targets. He’d already be back in Virginia, only he would have returned in the belly of a plane with tens of others.
“How long do you think until we reach the datum? Think we’ll detect the datum once we get there?”
Burnham rolled his eyes again. “Ensign Hatfield, when are you going to learn the proper terminology of your navy?” He leaned down, his face inches from the young ensign. “Tell me the truth, Peppercorn. You’re not going to make the navy a career, are you?” It would not surprise him if Hatfield ironed his Skivvies; he was so damn navy-fied.
“I don’t know, Lieutenant. I hadn’t thought of it. Are you?”
Burnham rolled his eyes again. “Please. Give me a break.”
Banks leaned forward with his pencil and made a small circle in the center of the trace paper. “Last known location.” Then the petty officer glanced at the navy twelve-hour clock on the bulkhead and wrote in the time. “Time — seventeen twelve hours.”
“There’s our datum,” Hatfield said, a hint of excitement in the comment.
“Look, datum is where the submarine was last located. Datum isn’t the submarine, Mr. Hatfield. Datum is just the original point of detection.”
“Sorry, sir. I knew that,” Hatfield explained, his face blushing in the blue light of Combat. “I was talking about the location, not the submarine.”
This Hatfield had a lot to offer. Why would he want to make the navy a career? Burnham asked himself. He reached up and tweaked his nose, letting a huge sigh escape. Maybe because it was so easy? Maybe it was because the man was a shithead lifer seed and didn’t even know it yet. Maybe it was because he — Burnham — was a shithead and just hated to see someone enjoying the navy?
A couple of sailors who’d heard the exchange between Burnham and Hatfield glanced at each other, their lips turning up as they moved away from the plotting table.
“Good. My mistake, Peppercorn.” He motioned downward at the ensign, reaching up with his other hand and tweaking his nose again. “Don’t mind me, Peppercorn. It’s been a rough day.” He picked up the clipboard with the graph paper on it. “Have you ever done a live TMA or ASW before?”
Hatfield shook his head. “Only at ASW School at Fleet Training Command.” He rubbed his hands together. “This will be my first one.”
“Doing it ashore in San Diego isn’t the same thing as doing it live.” He looked at the ensign. Brown hair, closely cropped, tapered in the back. Sideburns even with the top of the inner ear. No mustache and he doubted Hatfield’s razor blade had even been dulled during these four months at sea. If the son-of-a-bitch momma’s boy was a virgin, he wouldn’t be after Olongapo. Now, there was a city where anything goes and usually did. Burnham reached up and rubbed his chin, pondering if there was anyplace in the United States similar to Olongapo; then he decided that the religious holy rollers would have long ago shut a “wonder of the world” like that down.
“Peppercorn, is this your first visit to Olongapo?”
Hatfield nodded. “I’m looking forward to it.”
“Aren’t we all,” Burnham replied, then softly said it again, “Aren’t we all. Maybe I’ll take you with me into town.”
Hatfield’s smile broadened. “I would like that, sir.”
Master Chief Turnbull walked up to Burnham. “Afternoon, sir.”
Burnham grinned. He truly liked Turnbull. It was hard to believe the man was a lifer, unlike himself forced into the navy because of the draft. “What brings the mighty command master chief of the USS Dale up into the dark, blue-lighted cavern of CIC?”
“I’m headed to the bridge. Felt the ship turn and steady up on a new course. My compass…”
“Compass? You were on the signal bridge?”
“No, sir. I have a compass in my office. I saw us swinging off the base course of the battle group. Means either the battle group has shifted course, which means it’s heading away from Olongapo, or the Dale is taking up a new position.” Turnbull nodded at the plotting table. “But I suspect we have a submarine contact.”
Burnham shrugged. “Not yet, we don’t. Skipper said the tattletale—”
“The small Kashin destroyer that’s been with us since Guam?”