“Left ten-degree rudder, steady up on course zero-seven-zero!” Goldstein ordered.
“Left ten-degree rudder,” the helmsman replied, swinging the helm one full turn before grabbing it sharply as it passed one full circle. “Coming to course zero-seven-zero!”
The young novice seaman manning the annunciator stepped over to watch the third-class at the helm.
MacDonald grinned. It was moments such as these he felt the magnetism of command, of knowing the fate of the Dale rested in his hands.
Someday that young seaman would be driving the ship. He imagined the anticipation of the young man was tremendous wanting to take over the helm from the qualified sailor on it.
Unless you have held the wood grain of the helm in your hands and watched the needle show the angle of the rudder, you can never know the boost of knowing that when the ship heeled to port or starboard it was because of you. There were lots of “hearts” to a ship. The engine room was a heart. Combat was a heart. The crew’s mess was a heart, and even their berthing compartments could be considered a heart. But the brains of the ship, that determined where every heart on board went, was the bridge, and within the bridge that heartbeat was the helm.
Motion at the navigational plotting table caught his eye. The duty quartermaster was wetting the tip of the pencil with his tongue. MacDonald watched admiringly as the second-class leaned over the logbook and wrote down the exact orders given by the officer of the deck along with the time of the order. Navy logbooks were the bible of a warship, capturing every presence of the captain on the bridge and every order given that changed what a warship was doing as it cut through the waves of the oceans.
“Passing zero-niner-zero!” the helmsman announced.
A beep through the headset caught Stalzer’s attention and he glanced up at the console. He shut his eyes and took a deep breath, his stomach growling. Not now. Not this close. Mechanically, he spun the round ball mounted in the shelf, shifting the sensitivity from one set of hydrophone banks in the hull-mounted sonar to another. The signal grew slightly stronger, but not much. He looked at the data on the spoke. Fifty hertz reflected on the readout. Fifty hertz meant it was not an American submarine. It had to be one of the Soviet Echo submarines, but what was it doing this close to the Philippines? He could not tell yet if it was a convergence or a direct sound spoke.
Wonder what the commie-pinko’s doing this close to Subic Bay? Probably watching. He pushed the headset tighter against his ears, closing his eyes. Watching Subic Bay was not near as much fun as being in Olongapo. If the Soviets knew what fun waited in Olongapo, they’d surrender now. The signal began to fade.
“What the fuck?” Stalzer cursed. He shifted the sensitivity around the hydrophones, trying to regain contact. “Where in the hell did you go, my asshole commie buddies?”
The helmsman shouted, “Passing zero-eight-zero!”
MacDonald nodded in acknowledgment, turning in his chair to watch the helmsman. Sailors were professionals, and regardless of how many times he walked by the ones on board, they truly amazed him with their knowledge and professional tenacity. The helmsman was no different.
The third-class boatswain mate carefully spun the helm a quarter turn to the right. The sailor’s tongue protruded slightly as he bit on it, while his eyes concentrated on the compass mounted above the wooden helm. Below the ocean surface, two huge rudders responded to the directions of the helm and began to straighten.
The boatswain mate of the watch leaned over to watch. The helmsman and the trainee were his responsibility. It was a badge of professionalism for a boatswain mate to meet course changes dead-on — slide into them gently. One degree past the ordered heading was easily masked, but two were a dead giveaway, and three degrees earned you a slap upside the side of the head by the BMOW.
The compass mounted above the wooden helm slowed as the Dale crept the last few degrees to zero-seven-zero. Zero-seven-eight, zero-seven-seven…
The helmsman slowly brought the helm back a quarter turn, allowing for the slight delay the change in rudders would impose on their course. The compass seemed to stop at zero-seven-four. The helmsman grimaced, his tongue withdrawing into his mouth as his teeth clenched. It was not lost on him that he had the BMOW and a newbie watching over his shoulder. Zero-seven-three — then, almost as if by magic the ship steadied on zero-seven-zero.
“Steady on zero-seven-zero!” the helmsman shouted, letting out a deep breath and grinning from ear to ear.
“Very well!” Goldstein replied.
The quartermaster of the watch notated the new course in the log.
“About fucking time,” the boatswain mate of the watch whispered to the helmsman.
“It was perfect,” the third-class replied with a smile. “Like always.”
With a grin, the BMOW winked. “Don’t let it go to your head, Stewart.”
The signal disappeared as the curtain parted and Oliver stepped inside the cramped space. “Sorry, Chief. Must be something I ate. I hurried back as soon as I could.”
Stalzer tossed the headset onto the narrow shelf. “About time, Oliver. Next time, call one of your friends out of their rack and make him relieve you.”
Stalzer stood and shifted to one side as Oliver took the headset and sat down. Stalzer looked up and saw that the hydrophones were still pointed in the direction of the lost signal. Oh, well, he thought. Either Oliver will find it or he won’t.
“You get anything, Chief?”
Stalzer guffawed. “If I had gotten anything, you think I would have jumped up as soon as you walked in?”
Oliver shook his head. “I’ll start a search pattern. Any orders?”
“Yeah, keep Warrant Officer Smith up-to-date even if you don’t have anything — otherwise he’ll be pestering you throughout the watch.”
“Aye, Chief.”
“I’m going down to the goat locker. Gotta get ready for the sea-and-anchor detail.”
“Chief, do you have the liberty watch schedule yet?”
“Yeah, I do,” Stalzer replied, tapping his head. “It’s right up here and you got the first duty night in port.”
“Chief, I had it last time, in Guam.”
“Duty aboard ship in Guam is a boon. Ain’t nothing to do ashore on that island except avoid the snakes.”
“Can I exchange duty with someone?”
Stalzer nearly said no, but then said, “If you can find another sonarman who’ll take your place, then I guess it’s okay.”
Oliver smiled. “Thanks, Chief.”
“Don’t thank me. You still got to run a chit through me and the lieutenant. And I’ll want to see both of your signatures on it. Yours and whoever is going to stay on board to do the 3M maintenance checks.”
Oliver’s smile faded. “Chief, I’m the only one who knows how to do the preventive maintenance checks. Can’t I do them tomorrow?”
Stalzer shook his head and laughed. “What if we have to get under way tomorrow, Oliver? You want to be the one to tell the skipper why we’re behind in our PMS?”
Oliver slipped the headset down over his ears. “No, Chief, I wouldn’t want to be the one.”
Neither would I. Stalzer scratched his chin. “On second thought, Oliver, you can have liberty tonight once we are tied up and they release the liberty parties, but tomorrow night, I want you on board doing the preventive maintenance.”
Oliver smiled. “Gee, thanks, Chief.”
“Don’t thank me. We’re getting in late. Won’t be much time for Olongapo anyway. You know where I’ll be.” Stalzer stepped through the curtains, the circulating air ruffling them slightly as they settled back into place.