“Passing thirty meters!” Lieutenant Antipov announced.
“All engines stop!” Anton ordered.
Almost instantly, the vibration of the shafts stopped. The Whale continued downward. Experience told him he had sufficient momentum to take him the remaining thirty meters.
FIFTEEN
Shipley yawned as he stood near the starboard bulkhead of the conning tower. “When did you detect them, sound?” he asked the sonar operator. He finished buttoning up his foul-weather jacket. Having slept under it, his body heat had kept the garment warm.
“About thirty minutes ago, sir. Twin screws, fast turns, and I classify them as possible destroyers.”
“Have they detected us?” Shipley asked, knowing the answer. Destroyers would already have been raining depth charges over them if they had been detected.
“No, sir, but they are in a search mode. The sound of their screws rising and falling as they twist and turn. They seem to be searching for something.”
“You think we might have stumbled into a Soviet exercise?” Arneau asked.
Shipley didn’t answer. Why would the Soviets have warships out in the middle of Kola Bay searching the bay unless they thought someone was here who shouldn’t be?
“Skipper?”
“Sorry, XO; I was thinking.” He looked at the sonar operator. “Sound, have you heard any pings?” A ping would tell him if they were conducting ASW operations. Maybe they were new crews practicing maneuvering and sea operations. “Boring holes in the ocean” was the term the skimmers used for taking a warship out and letting the junior officers and sailors practice seamanship on it.
Lieutenant Logan stood off to one side, quiet and watching.
Shipley looked at him. “What are your thoughts, Lieutenant Logan?”
“Sir, Soviet commanding officers, like our own, get graded on their competence in seamanship and navigation. It could be they are conducting their own equivalent to our refresher training.”
“I think I prefer Norfolk to Kola Bay,” Arneau offered quietly.
Shipley nodded at Logan’s answer. He looked at Van Ness standing near the plotting table. “How long until station?”
“We are within a mile of where we plotted, Skipper. By zero six fifteen we will be one mile off the coast of where we want to be.” Van Ness straightened. “Of course, that is by dead reckoning, Captain. We need to take some sightings to derive our actual location.”
Weaver spoke up. “We are on course one niner zero, speed six knots, depth one hundred fifty, sir.”
Shipley nodded as he stifled another yawn. He looked at Arneau. “XO, lay below and get some sleep. I’ll call you if we need you.”
“But—”
Shipley held up his hand. “Same rationale you used on me, Arneau. I want you fresh if we have to run for it. I don’t want you falling asleep on us.”
“Never happen,” Arneau protested.
“See you in a few hours.”
“Aye, sir,” Arneau said with the petulance of a Navy officer being forced away from the action. “I’ll go try to sleep for a couple of hours.”
Shipley held up three fingers. “Three hours minimum and then most likely you’ll have to wake yourself.”
Shaking his head, the XO grabbed the rungs of the ladder and slid down to the control room. Shipley turned back to Lieutenant Weaver. “Let’s bring the boat up to fifty-five feet, officer of the deck. Let’s do it slowly and without cavitating.” He looked at Van Ness. “Tell me what we’ll be looking for,” Shipley said, referring to shore markings from which the navigator could take bearings. He saw Logan against the port bulkhead.
“Lieutenant Logan, where are your people?”
“They are standing by near the radio shack, sir.”
“Very well. What do you want to do first? You have two crew members and two stations. We are going to have to surface for you to hook up the air samplers to one of the main induction valves.” Logan nodded. “I thought we would hook up the camera first, Captain, if that is okay with you. That way when we surface, we’ll already be taking photographs. Then, when you give the word, we can hook up to the main induction valve.”
Shipley nodded. “Okay. I’ll use the attack scope for observation until we surface.”
Logan nodded. “Aye, sir.”
“There should be a water tower off our starboard side, sir,” Van Ness said. “If we can locate that, then a couple of sightings as we move past it will give us our true location.”
A few seconds passed as Shipley walked to the hooks in the aft portion of the conning tower and pulled the Boohan-modified watch cap off and put it on. When he turned, he glared at Logan. “Well, Mister Logan, are you going to get your sailors up here and hook up that Naval Intelligence piece of whatever, or are you going to stand there waiting for me to tell you to do it?”
Logan jumped. “Sorry, sir; no, sir,” he stuttered, then quickly disappeared down the ladder. Behind him, Lieutenant Weaver smiled.
“Quit your smiling,” Shipley said. He looked at the sonar operator. “Sound, you keep a close ear on those warships. I want to know every sound you hear. Our lives may well depend on you, son.”
The sailor’s eyes widened as he reached up and pressed the earphones tightly against his head. Shipley wanted everyone to understand how precarious their situation was. This wasn’t an exercise where they could walk away and start over if they were discovered. At worse, they would all lie entombed or scattered across the bottom of Kola Bay or find themselves on the front page of the Washington Post and Stars & Stripes. Or maybe listed as missing somewhere in the North Atlantic, never to be heard from again. This was a different world they lived in from the clear-cut warfare of World War II.
“Passing one hundred,” Weaver announced.
Shipley looked at the planesmen, not surprised to see Senior Chief Boohan standing above them. He had not heard the chief of the boat climb into the conning tower, but then senior chiefs, like master chiefs, were known for their stealth. Cunning also, he thought with a slight smile. A good submarine may be officially measured on the competence and performance of its skipper, but a good skipper reached those measurements by having great executive officers and heaven-sent chiefs of the boat such as Boohan.
Clanging on the ladder drew everyone’s attention, and without even guessing, Shipley knew it was Logan and his two communications technicians, Brooks and Cross.
Cross was breathing heavily as the three men finally gathered in the conning tower. It was beginning to get crowded, but then Shipley recalled how ten of them used to crowd into the conning tower during World War II to conduct their attacks, bumping into each other, sweat pouring off their bodies from the heat of the Pacific, to puddle on the deck. Then they’d launch their torpedoes; cross their fingers; and then twist, maneuver, and change depth as they tried to evade and escape the Japanese depth charges.
Many submariners never returned, and most times you never knew how they died or disappeared. Just one day Pearl would announce that a boat was overdue, and as the days rolled up against each other and the submarine never answered its call, submariners would mourn in their own way.
“Skipper,” Weaver said, his voice louder.
Shipley looked at him. “What is it, Alec?”
“Sorry, sir; I said we are at periscope depth.”
Shipley nodded. “Raise the periscope.” He squatted, slapping the handles down as the search scope emerged. He rose with the scope, and when it broke the surface, he did a quick scan of the area. “We still have fog, but I can see a faint light on the shore,” he said. “The fog isn’t as thick, but it’s still out there.” He bumped into someone, jarring him away from the scope. It was one of the communications technicians.