Instinctively, MacDonald translated the broadcast. It was the Kitty Hawk announcing a course change—“Corpen Romeo” to two-zero-zero true.
“Belay my last, Mr. Goldstein.”
He looked at the compass on the stand near his seat. Dale was on course two-one-zero. They should be safe, unless Goldstein screwed up and did a port turn.
“Make sure she isn’t going to run us over, please, Mr. Goldstein. And I’m still waiting for a course to get us out of here.” Then he mumbled, “And that course should take us away from this decreasing range to the Kitty Hawk.”
The synchronization stopped and was replaced by a steady static, punctuated with a clear voice when someone on the other end pressed the “push to talk” button. Then several voices exchanged communication checks with one another. God, MacDonald thought, grant me the serenity to understand why radiomen believe they have to check every circuit just when everyone needs to use it. Nearly a minute passed before the ships, including the Dale, finished with the communication checks.
When the circuit seemed to pause between transmissions, MacDonald pressed the “push to talk” button on the red handset and called for Admiral Green. Several seconds passed before the admiral came on the circuit. His deep New Hampshire accent, ending even statements as if they were questions, identified the man without Green ever having to say his name.
MacDonald smiled when he heard the accent. Worst kept secret in the fleet was Green’s nighttime attempts to find watches less than alert. The admiral would call a ship and pretend to be someone else. Green confided to MacDonald that this was the way to truly discover how ready a battle group was. A little operational deception, a feint here and jab there, and you had a real picture of battle group preparedness.
It also only takes a strong accent to identify who’s on the other line, regardless of what he calls himself. So everyone played along, but called their skipper as soon as the admiral’s voice was recognized.
Yesterday, his XO, Joe Tucker, had told him of a radio transmission to the CIC watch officer by Green pretending to be a chief petty officer. “Joe Tucker,” MacDonald said aloud. The name “Joe Tucker” rolled easily off his tongue. Few ever called the XO “Joe.” Peers and seniors alike referred to him as “Joe Tucker,” as if it was one word. MacDonald chuckled over the thought.
“Skipper, this is Admiral Green. You got my orders, why haven’t you changed course?”
“Sir, we were waiting for assignment of the other units to the SAG.”
“What other units, Commander MacDonald? There are no other units. You are a one-ship SAG. Your job is to get out there and keep that goddamn Soviet submarine submerged and away from my battle group.”
MacDonald reached down and pushed the mute button. Green’s voice was still in his ear, but the admiral could not hear him. “Officer of the Deck, bring us onto course two-two-zero and bring our speed up to twelve knots.”
“Aye, sir,” Goldstein replied.
Behind him, MacDonald heard the scurry of activity as Goldstein relayed the commands to change course and speed and the navigation team started recalculating the distances to the other ships.
MacDonald returned to the voice on the other end.
“You got all that?” Green asked.
MacDonald unlocked the mute button. “Aye, sir. We are heading toward the datum, even as we speak.”
“Don’t kid me, Danny. If I hadn’t chewed your ass, you’d still be steaming along placidly like another sheep in the herd waiting for someone to tell you to do it. You haven’t become one of those rear-echelon desk jockeys, have you? So cautious you’re waiting for your navi-guessers to come up with a safe course out of the battle group. I thought by now I would have taught you to act first and worry about the ankle biters—”
“Like safety?”
“Danny, don’t get smart-ass with me,” Green replied with a chuckle. “Don’t forget I’m the admiral and I know what is going on. You’re just a kid-commander listening at the knee of your mentor — that’s me”
MacDonald smiled. Even when Green was chewing your ass, you had to remember that he was one of the few officers still on active duty wearing World War II ribbons and medals. “Aye, sir. And I appreciate your direction.”
“Danny, one day someone is going to gangster-slap the shit out of you.”
MacDonald nodded and felt his face blush. “Sorry, Admiral.”
Green laughed. “It’s too late, Danny me boy. If you want to get off my shit list, bring me the side number of that Soviet submarine. I’ve always wanted a photograph of one of these Soviet nukes for my office wall.”
“I will try my best, sir. But if I follow your orders to keep it submerged, that’s going to be hard to do.”
“Skipper, that’s not my worry.”
“Are we sure it’s a Soviet submarine?”
“Well, here’s the reasoning of an old sailor, Danny. First, the tattletale has to be targeting. Second, the tattletale is Soviet. Third, there are no threat surface units in the area. And, fourth, we’d already know if Soviet Bears were airborne and heading this way. Fifth, the Chinese submarines are afraid to leave the shadow of their coast. And, most important, the Willy Victor has a visual on her. Ergo…”
MacDonald imagined the admiral raising a slim finger into the air when he wanted to make a point. He had seen that finger raised too many times to count, when Green was the chief of staff for Commander in Chief U.S. Pacific Fleet back in Pearl. Only a couple of years ago, but it seemed as if it was only yesterday.
“… It is a Soviet submarine.”
“Are we sure going southwest is the right direction?”
“Soviet tactics is for the tattletale to be aligned with the inbound missiles. If they fly over the head of that fucking Kashin, then they’ll hit the Kitty Hawk. Do you know how pissed off I’m going to be if I have my afternoon coffee upset by a missile hit?”
Not too much, if your coffee is like the cup sitting here. “Very much so, sir.”
“Of course you do, Skipper. Besides, I’m sending the Gearing out on a reciprocal course to the northwest just in case the Soviets start doing something unusual like being innovative.”
The USS Dale tilted slightly as the destroyer turned starboard off the base course to the new one. MacDonald looked up at the OOD, raised his finger, and made circles in the air.
“If he’s out there, we’ll find him.”
“There is no doubt in my military mind that you will, Danny. So go get the son of a bitch and scare the shit out of him. And, Danny… stay with him until you can force him up or you lose him.”
“If he’s out there, we’ll find him,” MacDonald repeated.
“Sounds to me like déjà vu, Danny. Listen! I’m going to let you go. Don’t let an old sailor down.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” MacDonald replied, knowing Green would stay on the line longer, hoping to hear some inadvertent comment.
“Right full rudder!” Goldstein shouted.
“The Dale never loses a contact.”
There was slight laughter on the other end. “Just like you to never put me on mute and order a course change, Skipper. What was that? The OOD not put enough rudder on?”
“Sir, you are a psychic.”
“No, I’m just a destroyer sailor who has been there, done that, and envies you this opportunity.”
“We’ll get him, if he’s still out there.”
“That’s the spirit. Wish I could afford another ship or two to help, but our mission is to get the Kitty Hawk off Vietnam as soon as possible. We still have a port call in Olongapo for a brief fueling stop and to pick up the Tripoli and her cargo of angry, fire-breathing marines. Operation Beacon Torch could be the turning point in this war.”