“That’s okay, son,” said the skipper, putting his hand on Calhoun’s shoulder. “You’ve done an outstanding job, regardless of what this may turn out to be. Don’t you agree, Chief?”
“Yes, sir, Captain. Calhoun is one of the best operators I’ve trained.” Damn. Calhoun was going to take this credit away from him.
“Darken the display and let’s see what the blip shows.”
On the increased background the sound anomaly ran down the screen until about 2130 hours, when it showed a slight turn to its present bearing.
The chief pointed to it. “Look here, Captain. This shows the blip turning.” “Maybe we turned?” Calhoun asked.
“Better not have turned without telling me,” the captain said curtly.
“We were put on a course of three three zero at eighteen hundred hours with orders to maintain that course until fifty miles out.” He paused and then pensively added, “No, if we had changed course, the OTC would have been screaming at us.”
He reached over and pressed the intercom button. “Bridge, this is the captain. Did we make any course changes or corrections between 2120 and 2140 hours?”
“Wait one, sir,” the OOD responded. Several seconds later he replied.
“Captain, we were on a course of three three zero, and I show no course corrections since twenty forty-five hours, and that was to correct for bearing drift.”
“Okay, thanks. Bridge.”
The captain cocked his head to one side, his bushy eyebrows nearly touching as he gave this problem his full attention. A minute later the captain looked at his watch. It was ten minutes after taps. Most of the crew would be drifting off to sleep now. He hated to do it. but the image of the USS Gearing loomed fresh in his mind.
“Chief, I’m beginning to have a bad feeling about this. Rather look a little foolish than take the chance. Upgrade this to possible sub,” he commanded.
He patted Calhoun on the shoulder once again. “Good work, sailor. Now, let’s see if you get the glory or I get egg on my face, but I’d be damned forever if we failed to do anything and it was a submarine.” The captain the intercom to the bridge. “Officer of the deck, sound General Quarters.”
Chill raising bongs rushed through the night. The captain stepped through the hatch leading into Combat to the sound of sailors hurrying to their battle stations. Boondockers pounding on the metal ladders mixed with audible curses as tired sailors hastened to their assigned stations.
The wind carried the GQ alarm to the sailors of the USS King, who were loitering topside on the fantail, enjoying their cigarettes in the night breeze. Several snide comments about nervous captains ran through the group. Then, their own General Quarters alarm sent cigarettes into the sea and them scrambling to their battle stations as, like dominoes falling, the battle group went to full alert.
“What is it?” asked Admiral Cameron as he stepped into Flag Combat aboard the Nassau. He tossed the napkin, still in his hand, onto a nearby desk. The GQ alarm drowned out his voice. The clanging footsteps of the Nassau sailors running to their stations echoed through Combat.
“Sir, Hayler is prosecuting a possible submarine bearing two eight zero from her position,” Captain Clive Bowen replied. He tapped the chart in front of him. “That’ll be two two five from our position.”
“What are they basing it on?”
“Admiral, they have a blip, a noise event, that is originating from outside the battle group. According to the captain, they’ve had it for at least two hours, but have just upgraded it to a possible submarine.
They are unable to equate it to normal undersea noise or marine biologies.”
“When this clears, Chief of Staff, find out why it took two hours.
That’s un sat If the Gearing hasn’t taught us to be wary, then I don’t know what will. What orders have we given the battle group?”
Captain Bowen replied, “I’ve ordered everyone to battle stations as a precaution and we’re already in a darken-ship status. Sir, if I may, I recommend a ninety-degree formation turn to starboard for Nassau, Trenton, King, and Nashville with an increase to max speed for ten minutes to open the distance to the possible submarine. Then commence a northeasterly zigzag at twelve knots. We have Hayler prosecuting, and I have ordered Spruance to join her. Yorktown is moving into defensive position between the four high-value units and the contact.”
“Good work, Clive. Go ahead and issue the orders to take the amphibs and the arsenal ship out of the contact area,” Admiral Cameron said. He looked around. “Where’s the goddamn intelligence officer when I need him?”
“Right here, sir,” Commander Mulligan answered, stepping out of the shadows in Combat.
“You’re CTF Sixty-one’s in tell officer, Commander. No offense, but where’s mine?”
“Sir, Captain Lederman fell down the ladder on the oh-two level. He broke his arm. Happened about an hour ago. He’s sedated and in sick bay getting it set.”
“Okay, then you’re it, Commander.”
Clive pressed the intercom and passed the admiral’s orders to Commodore Ellison, who as the officer in tactical command was responsible for the maneuvering of the battle group. captain ibm al jam al stepped into the control room of the Al Nasser, careful to avoid bumping his head on the steel rim of the hatch. The vinegary smell of sweat seemed stronger than usual. The tea had been nice. Hot, steaming aroma with just the right amount of sugar. Some things in life must remain constant, if life was to be bearable. Birth and death were about the only two sure things in life. Most would add taxes, but too many avoided taxes for that to be a constant in his mind. Everything in between was determined by events, seldom by the person. But a good cup of tea was a constant. There was a small tea shop called Grosvenor’s off Oxford Street in London that made an excellent cup, and from there, you could watch the American sailors going in and out of their European headquarters.
He looked at the navigational gauges over the shoulder of the helmsman.
Twenty minutes spent updating his personal log in his stateroom with his thoughts and intentions had relaxed him somewhat. Still no word from Algiers. His last orders were to attack any ships within thirty nautical miles of the capital that posed a threat to the new nation. If he waited another hour, the Americans would be beyond that thirty-mile limit, but they’d return in the morning, and fighting a day battle against these incredible odds would severely diminish his survivability. No, the night was his. He brought Al Nasser up to periscope depth, where he easily found the arsenal ship. Ordering a spread of four torpedoes, he discussed softly the sequence of events he expected the Al Nasser to execute after firing the torpedoes. He wanted the officers and crew thinking about what they had to do, not waiting for him to tell them and then figuring how to do it.
Satisfied they understood, he turned to the periscope. The targeting officer informed him that the battle group appeared to be dispersing, with some of the ships, including the arsenal ship, changing course away from them. The captain looked up. “Then let’s hurry,” he told them, keeping his voice calm and professional. He twisted the focus knob on the periscope. The view sharpened in the starlight.
The arsenal ship’s stern was swinging across the bow of the Algerian Kilo attack submarine. Less than six thousand meters separated the submarine Al Nasser from the most heavily armed and explosive-laden ship in the battle group. He ordered the Kilo’s speed increased another four knots.
The speed increase added another minute to refine a firing solution. He paused in thought. When he fired the torpedoes, the Americans would try to sink the Al Nasser. For a split second he nearly ordered the periscope down with the frightened intent of running. But professionalism overrode the fear. This was his job. War was the profession he trained for. He no longer envied the other Algerian Kilo submarine Al Solomon on patrol near the Strait of Gibraltar. This was for the glory of Allah, the greatness of Islam, and the future of revolutionary Algeria.