Robert Brentwood was bringing his sub up from a thousand feet to trail his VLF antennae for a “burst message” which, lasting only milliseconds, was designed for a position verification for SACLANT and also for passing on any new instructions to the submarine. Around the raised periscope island in the combat control center, the highly polished brass rail was a ruby sheen, the sub rigged for red.
Brentwood listened carefully to the depth readout from the planesman. “Three hundred feet…two fifty…two hundred… one hundred. Steady at one hundred.” The sub’s props were now stilled, the Roosevelt suspended a hundred feet below the surface.
“Very well,” said Brentwood. “Stand by to extend VLF.”
“Standing by with VLF, sir.”
“Extend three hundred.”
“Extending three hundred, sir. Ten — twenty — thirty — forty—”
Brentwood was watching the sonar blips from the Roosevelt’s built-in hydrophones; the noise of the oil-smooth VLF aerial extending out from behind the sub was audible to the hydrophones, but the operator was classifying it as “soft,” meaning there was only low risk of enemy subs picking it up unless they were closer in than fifty miles, which Robert Brentwood figured he should know about, the Roosevelt having dragged its towed array less than an hour before. Even so, the sheathing on the Russian Mike-class was extraordinarily good at dampening prop noise.
“VLF at three hundred, sir.”
The VLF would stay out for five minutes exactly, during which the millisecond burst should be received, updating instructions.
Five minutes later the VLF automatic override began winding in the aerial. Six minutes later, the OOD reported, “VLF in.”
It was not unknown for a sub not to receive its VLF burst during the prearranged time slots, but it had never happened aboard the Roosevelt. Four misses and the sub captains had been ordered, contrary to persistent and vigorous denial by both the administration and the Pentagon, to use their initiative. After the fourth miss or, “Zippo,” as the no-burst was known, the captains of American subs entered into the world of TKI or two-key initiative. This meant the captain could, upon “reasonable and repeated confirmations,” take it as given that the United States of America was under nuclear attack — HQ unable to transmit.
In such a situation the sub commander was free to fire his nuclear missiles at predesignated targets or at his discretion.
In the case of the ten-thousand-ton Sea Wolf II, it would involve firing nuclear-tipped Cruise missiles from torpedo tubes, and the six Trident ballistic missiles in two rows of three aft of the sail. The killer word was “reasonable.” What was reasonable if you couldn’t get confirmation? It was a lawyer’s delight. The reason for no message being received, of course, could be that there was some malfunction in one of the huge and elaborate VLF signaling and relay aerials on the East and West Coasts of the United States, the other aerial “farm” for the Roosevelt and the other subs in the Atlantic Fleet being in Wisconsin. But Washington knew this and allowed for four attempts at ten-hour intervals — ample time, it was thought, to work out any problems on the aerial farms. If these could not be worked out, however, after twenty hours, TACAMOs—”take charge and move out” signal planes — would be ordered to fly over and beam down the bursts at the prearranged times.
“What happens if we’re out of TACAMOs?” an off-duty submariner asked his friend. “Then where are we?”
In the control center Brentwood ordered the diving planes-man to take her to one thousand, and turning to the OOD, instructed him to resume patrol. There was no point in making any comment about not receiving a message. The thing was to not make a big deal of it among the crew, start them worrying unnecessarily. During the resume patrol mode, the rules of operation were as carefully spelled out as any other mode, including an informal one that said if any member of the crew made a noise above detectable decibel level, the old man would personally stuff him into one of the eight forward torpedo tubes and blow him out to the sharks.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
In the Sea of Japan, aboard the U.S. carrier Salt Lake City, there was a half hour to go, pilots advised there would be a briefing in ten minutes. Fisher, Frank Shirer’s radar interference officer, knocked and came into Shirer’s cabin. “Scuttlebutt from ‘Prifly’ says we might have to go north of the parallel for a while. MiG Alley.”
“Haven’t heard,” said Shirer. He tore half a dozen tissues from the Kleenex box, forming them into a cuplike shape, which he put in a small plastic Baggie, reached into his underpants, put the cupped Kleenex over his penis, then reached for his gravity suit.
“I’ll bet they want us to hit some of the bridges over the Han,” said the navigator.
“Maybe,” said Shirer. “You might get an OET bonus.”
“Over enemy territory? Hell, the whole of Korea’s enemy territory. Just about.”
“Only kidding,” said Shirer, slipping on the G-suit. “You’ll get a thank-you from the old man and a cup of coffee. No bonuses.”
“Yeah,” said the RIO. “Y’know, this friggin’ G-suit of mine is too damned tight.”
“Supposed to be. Stop the—”
“The blood from pooling,” the RIO cut in. “I know. I think it’s worth shit. Just a goddamned girdle.”
“Ever been up without one?” asked Shirer.
“Yeah,” said the RIO.
Shirer looked across at him, surprised. “The hell you have.”
“I have. Pan Am flight out to the coast.”
“Stupid bastard.” Shirer grinned, the RIO playfully punching die other’s shoulder patch: “Salt Lake City’s Shooting Stars.”
The sun, a red ball that had burned off low cloud, cast long shadows along the flight deck. Three “moles” from the most recent AWAC to land were being led like a column of blind men, their polarized visors down, each man’s arm on the man’s in front of him as a member of the flight deck crew led them through the hectic, noise-filled activity of prelaunch, the three moles’ eyesight not yet adjusted to any kind of daylight after spending four to six hours straight in the windowless twilight in the rear of the AWAC.
In the ready room the monitors were giving all pilots the good news that the Soviet Fleet was not proceeding farther south, intelligence reports indicating all available jets were being thrown into the European theater. The bad news was, a front was moving south into the Sea of Japan and was bringing more low stratus, reducing visibility again and even possibly interfering with some of the infrared systems because of” 100 percent” moisture.
“There will be three predawn attacks,” said the briefing officer: “Two companies of helo-ferried Second Airborne at Taegu, and two at Taejon preceded by Hawkeyes with fighter cover. I’ll get to the third target in a few minutes. First, targets one and two.” He called up the computer image of the 180-mile-wide, 200-mile-long peninsula. “Phantoms will be riding shotgun for Taegu, and Taejon troop choppers will be preceded by Apache attack helos and Huey gunships from the helo carrier Iwo Jima north of us. They’ll be laying eggs,” by which the briefing officer meant laying mines around the landing zones.
“Remember the chain guns on the gunship helos are mounted left, so they’ll be going in counterclockwise when they start their attack. By then, of course, it will have hit the fan and the MiGs’ll come in, trying to chop them up. It’s your job to break up the MiG attack and take out as many as you can.”
“All right!” said Fisher.