“Another bad joke, XO.”
THIRTEEN
“Sir, we are steady on course two-zero-zero,” Lieutenant Burnham reported. “Time zero three two zero.”
MacDonald glanced at the bulkhead clock where the hands showed three twenty in the morning. “False dawn?”
“I’ll check, sir.” Burnham turned and walked to the hatch separating the bridge and Combat. Within seconds he returned. “Eastern sky is lightening. Navigator says dawn is zero four thirteen, sir. Also, Skipper, Lieutenant Goldstein recommends no turns to port without a navigation check. He says the new course will bring us within a thousand yards of shallow water.”
MacDonald looked at the bulkhead clock. Nearly forty-five minutes until dawn. “Tell the forward watches to keep alert for a periscope.”
Burnham acknowledged the order as he hurried to the main section of Combat.
“You think he will have his periscope up, Danny?” Admiral Green asked.
“I would if it was still dark. We’re too close for our surface radar to reflect it and at this fast-paced speed of three, four knots, the contact won’t be making much of a wake.”
“True,” Green said, nodding. One of the mess cooks handed the admiral a fresh cup of coffee. “But it will still be making a wake.” He sipped. “What’s the fluorescence like inside Subic Bay?”
“Not much. Too much pollution — oil, sewage.”
“Doesn’t smell like Shit River.”
Burkeet stood astraddle of the entrance to the sonar compartment. His head spun back and forth between the admiral and captain, pretending not to eavesdrop as they talked and strategized the next course of action. Simultaneously, the young officer listened to Chief Stalzer and Oliver talk about the sounds coming across the sonar. He had learned another valuable lesson, too. Junior officers should be seen and not heard.
Burnham returned, breathless. “Sirs, Subic Operations Center says don’t light off sonar! They have had a snafu with the Wrangell. They’re estimating thirty minutes now.”
Green and MacDonald exchanged glances.
“Said when the ships went to GQ, the pierside working parties sent the Filipino laborers home. Wrangell is standing up a working party and expect to have the remaining ammunition off the pier and inside the skin of the ship in thirty minutes.”
“Thirty minutes is a long time in antisubmarine warfare,” Green offered.
“Thanks, Lieutenant,” MacDonald said. “Relay my thanks to the Operations Center and tell them…”
“… And tell them from Admiral Green that we are going to turn on the sonar in twenty minutes with or without their permission.”
Burnham saluted, did an about-face, and hurried off to relay Green’s comments.
“Dangerous if the Wrangell has exposed munitions, sir,” MacDonald said.
Green shrugged. “Naw. Won’t be dangerous. I was over there earlier today. Everything, including munitions, is just as your lieutenant said: They are on the piers. I don’t think sonar in the water is going to leap above the waves and cause them to explode unless it rips up the stanchions and the munitions fall into the water. If that happens, we’ll have more problems than worrying about sonar causing an explosion.” He snorted and then glanced at the ASW team working the passive bearings between the Dale and the Coghlan. “Plus, I want to make this bugger sweat. Coming into an American port—even if it is technically owned by the Philippines—and thinking he can get away with it.”
The aft hatch opened and the communications officer, Lieutenant Junior Grade Alton Taylor, stepped into Combat, a metal message board tucked neatly beneath his left arm. The khakis looked laundry-pressed, with two creases cutting neatly through the front pockets. MacDonald and Joe Tucker still wondered how long until the Naval Academy graduate lost his military bearing to the heat of Southeast Asia.
“Admiral, Captain, my respects, sirs,” Taylor said. “Captain, I have this urgent message from Commander in Chief U.S. Pacific Fleet.”
Green snorted. “I wonder what Big Al wants now.”
“Admiral Johnson?” MacDonald asked.
Green shook his head. “No, I’m thinking of Al Snotgrass, one of the one-stars on his staff. Al is always wanting something and not averse to using the admiral’s name. ‘Snotgrass’ was the nickname given to Admiral Albert Samuel Griffin when he was a midshipman along with the rest of us.” Green smiled. “It was for an incident involving lots of beer and long grass in front of the Annapolis bar we were in.” He tapped the message board. “Message?”
MacDonald flipped over the metal top and quickly read the message before handing the board to Admiral Green. “In this case, sir, it appears ‘Big Roy’ sent the message.”
“Don’t get cocky, Danny,” Green said, taking the message board.
“Then again, reporting an unfriendly submarine contact in Subic Harbor probably had the old man out of his rack and into his shoes fairly quickly.” Green took the clipboard and read the message. As the admiral read, MacDonald watched the flag officer’s eyes rise for a moment, just before Green pulled the metal top down. He flipped the top closed and handed the message back to the communications officer.
“Looks as if they believe the contact we are pursuing might be part of a preemptive strike.”
“Why would they believe that?”
“Because the Israeli Air Force attacked the Egyptian and Syrian airfields at zero seven fifteen Israeli time. That’s two hours, fifteen minutes ago, gentlemen.” Silence greeted the announcement. “Commander Seventh Fleet has ordered all ships in the fleet to prepare to get under way. He does not want to be caught with his pants down.”
“Six hours difference between Israeli time and ours here; means it’s around nine thirty. What do you think, Admiral?” MacDonald was surprised. His voice seemed steady, but there was this feeling that he was standing at the precipice of World War III and that Dale might be on the forward edge of starting it.
Around them, Burnham had moved closer, Burkeet had stepped out of Sonar.
Green shook his head. “I think our intelligence analysts are wrong. If our Soviet foe was going to do something as stupid as that, Crazy Ivan would have already done it.” Green pointed to the port side of the ship, in the west direction. “It would already be raining cruise missiles from that other submarine out there and this son of a bitch would have spread torpedoes all over Subic Bay.”
“Maybe they don’t know about the Israeli attack yet, sir.”
“You could be right, Skipper. We just found out, and the news is over two hours old. But when you cut through the holy war crap, the Middle East has been embroiled in since 1947, we and the Soviets have had a lot of opportunities to trade a few missiles.” Green chuckled. “It hasn’t happened yet, and I don’t think either they or us are prepared to fight over another Middle East war yet.”
“They’re doing a little spying,” Burnham offered.
“I think you are right, Lieutenant. But, then,” Green added with a sigh, “I have been wrong before. But if I am wrong, then let the Soviets start it.”
No one said anything.
“Okay, everyone,” MacDonald said. “You heard the news. Now, get back to your positions.”
Green looked at MacDonald. “This is a very long way from the safety of the Soviet coastline. It’s a spying mission that has gone awry — very awry — for them.” Green paused and looked at the message board. “And very sensitive for us.”
“You think they were involved in the shooting ashore.”
Green shrugged, then nodded. “Most likely. But then who knows for sure? We haven’t had any serious gunfire inside the navy base since that chief decided Vietcong were landing near Cubic Point. Fortunately, he didn’t kill anyone.”