This question seemed to stump the seaman second class, who pondered an answer. Meanwhile, Lefty Jackman’s attention was drawn back to his headphones as a far-off, crackling noise sounded from their stern hydrophone. Of a different pitch than that of a turbine engine, the faint noise was somehow familiar. Positioning himself squarely before his console, Lefty began to investigate it more fully.
On the floor immediately above Lefty, Commander Philip Exeter and three of his senior officers stood before the chart of the Gulf of Santa Catalina. The atmosphere that surrounded them was tense. The rest of the control room’s complement of men was hunched in front of inactive instruments, waiting for the word that would get them going once again.
Around the navigation station, a whispered discussion was taking place. Lieutenant Smith, the Engineering Officer, had just figured out that they had a little less than sixty minutes of battery time left. Then they’d be forced to ascend and recharge their batteries.
Since Operation Mauler extended another ten hours, if the destroyer and her escorts stayed close by, the Razorback would come up on the short end.
Smitty also informed them that the boat’s heating unit was close to failing. It was impossible to repair in a condition of ultra-quiet, and the temperature inside the vessel had already dropped a full ten degrees.
Philip Exeter and his fellow officers had long since put on their short khaki jackets. The additional chill was the least of their problems, and Exeter opened their predicament up for discussion.
Lieutenant Willingham was the first to offer his opinion.
“I think we should attempt to creep away under battery power while we still can. Directly to the east of us there’s all sorts of shallow trenches we can take advantage of along San Clemente’s eastern shore. There we can safely ascend to snorkel depth, and if necessary, take on additional air in quick sips.
When night falls, it should be a relatively easy run around the island’s southern edge, and then we’re home free in open ocean.”
Contemplating this plan, Exeter turned to query his XO, who was standing to his right.
“You’ve been unusually quiet this morning, Mr. Benton. What do you think is our best course of action?”
Pulling his pipe out of the corner of his mouth, the XO studied the chart a few seconds before answering.
“Lieutenant Willingham’s idea is interesting, but I’m afraid, in this instance, it’s just too dangerous. The currents around San Clemente are extremely treacherous.
This drastically increases the risks of us going aground. Not only could we fail the operation, we could lose the boat as well.
“I’d say we’d have a much better chance following the bottom of the trench we currently occupy northward.
That will put us smack in the middle of the Outer Santa Barbara Passage. Once our batteries get us there, we can find ourselves a thermal and use it to veil us until it’s safe to ascend. Right now, I’ve got a feeling that those surface ships topside aren’t really certain where we are. Pushing on to the north could lose them for good.”
Taking in this suggestion, the Captain was just about to offer a comment of his own when the comm line activated. The excited seaman relayed the message breathlessly.
“Sonar reports an underwater contact, sir. The bearing is one-eight-seven, with a range of fifty thousand yards.”
Hastily rechecking the chart, Exeter realized that this would place the contact well within the southern perimeter of Operation Mauler. Since no U.S. submarine but the Razorback was authorized to be in this triangular sector for the next seventy hours, the Captain’s pulse quickened. Tapping the comm line to the sonar room himself, he issued a single query.
“Can you get me a signature I.D. on it. Lefty?”
Recognizing this voice’s source. Seaman Jackman’s voice nervously faltered.
“I believe I can, Captain. Though it’s at the limit of our range, it’s making speed and really kicking up a ruckus. Don’t hold me to this, sir, but I could swear this is the same sub that we picked up off Washington. Though I can’t definitely prove it as yet, my gut tells me it’s that outlaw Soviet Victor!”
Shocked by this revelation, Exeter stirred.
“Good work. Lefty. Keep me posted on any developments.”
Disconnecting the line, he pivoted to address his officers.
“Well, this certainly throws a new log on the fire. Seaman Jackman feels this newest contact is none other than that Victor we chased out of Juan de Fuca. Do you believe the gall of those guys? It looks like it’s time for us to teach our comrades another lesson about trespassing in American waters. Prepare the boat to get under way. I’m going to want flank speed.”
“But what about the exercise?” offered the XO.
“Damn the exercise!” countered the Captain.
“I’m not about to just sit here twiddling our thumbs while one of the Soviet Union’s most advanced attack subs scoots right through our own backyard. Even if we can’t pull thirty-two knots like they can, at least our pursuit will lead our ASW force to them. I say that it’s time to put the fear of God in them!”
It was while he was initiating the flurry of orders that was putting new life into the Razorback’s control room that one of the vessel’s radiomen proceeded to the Captain’s side. He handed Exeter a single, folded sheet of white paper. Opening it with a flourish, the Razorback’s senior officer paled upon reading its contents.
Conscious of this message’s effect, the XO approached him.
“Is there anything the matter. Captain?”
Philip Exeter managed a small grin.
“Just when it seems most confusing, the U.S. Navy has a way of stepping in and making your decisions for you. Cancel that intercept, Mr. Benton. We’ve just received a top-priority transmission from COM SUB In effect, the Razorback has been ordered to abandon all operations and proceed with all due haste to the seas off Vandenberg. There we’re to assist the Air Force in the salvage of a Titan 34-D rocket that has just gone down in the Pacific.”
“Jesus, you’ve got to be kidding!” returned the XO.
“What about the Victor?”
Exeter shrugged his shoulders.
“I guess we’d better radio those destroyers and let them know where the real enemy lies. Right now, I’d better get going on that course to Point Arguello.
“Prepare to ascend, Mr. Brawnley. Lieutenant Willingham, our new depth will be sixty-five feet. All ahead full on course three-zero-zero.”
To a roar of venting ballast, the Razorback shuddered and slowly began rising. Invigorated with new purpose, the black-hulled vessel appeared imbibed with life itself as its planes rotated upwards and its single screw whipped into action with a frantic hiss.
Chapter Four
The morning was hot and steamy as Lieutenant Lance Blackmore walked out onto the exposed bridge of the tender U.S.S. Pelican. This was only his seventh day in Hawaii, and already he had found little to be excited with. Although the scenery was beautiful, unfortunately his first Naval assignment was turning out to be a real disappointment. And to think that his classmates had been actually envious of him when he’d opened the orders directing him to Pearl Harbor!
He had arrived here fresh out of sub school and full of expectations. What little he had read about DSRV duty had seemed interesting and most challenging.
Designed especially to rescue the occupants of a submarine accidentally immobilized on the sea floor, the Deep Submergence Rescue Vehicle was a relatively new phenomenon. Able to be transferred by a tender, such as the Pelican, or on the back of a fullsized submarine, such a vessel had enormous value.