The Golden U-Boat

Chapter Ten

Petty Officer First Class Joe Carter sat in the Cheyenne’s mess toying with his turkey stew. Seated opposite him, Senior Seaman Sam Tabor was digging into his bowl of stew with an appetite.

“Darn it, Tabor,” said Carter as he pushed away his partially eaten plate of chow.

“Don’t you ever get sick of this turkey stuff?”

The brawny mechanic answered without even bothering to swallow down the mouthful of food he was eating.

“I like it, Joe.”

“You eat anything they put in front of you,” observed Carter.

“First it’s turkey patties, and now it’s turkey stew. I’m craving for a nice juicy, medium rare steak, or maybe some crispy fried chicken and gravy. Now that’s real food that sticks to a guys ribs.”

Joe Carter tried a spoonful of yogurt and spat it out disgustedly.

“Jesus, Mallott’s even getting funny with our desserts. I want some pie or a big hot fudge sundae with peppermint ice cream.”

Carter’s dinner companion shovelled up his remaining stew and mopped up the plate with his roll.

“Aren’t you hip, Joe? This is some of that new health food. Why it’s guaranteed to put five extra years on your life.”

Carter sneered.

“Man, if I wanted to live forever,

I sure wouldn’t have signed onto a nuclear submarine.

As for this health food crap, my grandpa’s ninety-five years old and that guy’s in better shape than half the bozos on this boat. Why he even drives himself to work everyday. And do you think that he eats turkey burgers and yogurt? Hell, no way. Old grand pop puts away a pound of bacon a week, has two eggs fried in butter every morning, and especially enjoys his fried catfish, pork chops and chitlins.”

“I don’t know, Joe,” returned the skeptical mechanic.

“My wife gets one of those health magazines and from what I read it sure sounds to me like diet plays an important role in living longer. Your grandfather must be a rare exception.”

“Hell, Tabor, if you believed half the things you read in those health books you wouldn’t eat red meat because of the hormones, fish because of the pollution, and fruits and vegetables because of all that bug spray that’s put on them. Why they say that even the water’s poison, and as far as the air’s concerned, you’d better not breath it for long.”

The mechanic couldn’t help but laugh at this remark, and realizing how angry he had been getting, Carter joined him.

“Guess I’d better throw together some peanut butter and jelly sandwiches to take back to the sound shack with me,” said Carter between chuckles.

“I got a feeling it’s going to be a long night.”

“When’s that exercise supposed to begin?” asked the mechanic as he spooned in a mouthful of yogurt.

Joe answered while standing up and stretching.

“If I’m not mistaken, it already did about an hour ago.”

“Then what is the Cheyenne’s best pair of ears doing back here shooting the stuff in the mess?”

quizzed Tabor.

Joe Carter grinned.

“Have no fear, my man. The captain’s been saving me for the heavy stuff. And besides, we’ve just penetrated the southern portion of our patrol sector anyway, so the hunt is just now official.”

“Well, go get ‘em, Carter. I hear those Kraut submariners are tricky bastards.”

“With their U-boat tradition and all, they should be,” replied the senior sonar technician with a wink.

“See you for breakfast, Tabor. And if you’re nice to me, perhaps I’ll share my turkey sausage with you.”

After hurriedly preparing himself a couple of sandwiches, Carter ducked out the forward hatchway.

The sound shack was situated off a long passageway that led directly to the control room. Its specially designed door was shut to protect the acoustic integrity of the compartment inside. A large hammer and sickle that had a thick red slash mark drawn over it was painted on this portal.

Carter briefly touched this symbol for luck before entering.

Inside, there were three individual consoles. Each had a baffled wall between them. Only the first two stations were manned. Both of the specialists who sat here wore headphones, and had an assortment of flashing repeater screens, amplifiers, filtering mechanisms, and sound meters before them.

The room smelled of stale coffee and sweat. As Carter proceeded to his station, which lay against the far bulkhead, the figure seated in the middle position noted his presence.

“It’s about time you got here, Chief,” greeted Senior Seaman Vie Manning.

Carter responded while settling himself into his chair.

“Why’s that. Manning? Did you miss me?”

“I guess you could say that we did, Chief. Because the XO was just down here and he really read us the riot act.”

“Let me guess,” remarked Carter.

“Lieutenant Commander Stoddard was pissed as hell because you didn’t tag that surface ship that almost sliced the top of our sail off.”

“You got it, Chief. But hell’s bells, we’ve got a sea-state topside that’s all full of ambient noise. And besides, the XO knows very well that even under normal conditions, whenever a submarine approaches the surface, the physics of underwater sound and the near surface effect of solar heating combine to render our sonar nearly useless.”

“I understand, Manning. Just take a deep breath and relax” advised his experienced coworker, as he draped his own headphones around his neck.

“The XO knows the score. He was just doing what all officers do best, putting the fear of God in you so that you’ll apply yourself even harder the next time.

We’re no miracle workers down here and he knows it. We can only monitor what our sensors tell us.”

“And in this instance it was a big fat zero” continued the upset technician.

Joe Carter began activating his console as he replied.

“I’ll tell you what, Manning. When this exercise is over, I’ll sit down with you and we’ll go over the tape inch by inch. And if that ship’s signature is indeed inaudible, I’ll personally bring it up to the XO to clear the air.”

“I’d appreciate that. Chief.”

“Then it’s settled,” returned Carter firmly.

“Now let’s get down to work and show our NATO allies who they’re dealing with out here.”

Carter addressed his keyboard and initiated a broad-band passive sonar scan. Unlike the sub’s active sonar that projected acoustic pulses out into the surrounding waters, the passive system involved no such transmissions that could give the hunter away.

It depended upon a series of hydrophones. These ultra-sensitive listening devices were strategically set into the Cheyenne’s hull in various locations.

Carter began his scan to determine current sea conditions. This involved a full spectrum of incoming signals, and the senior technician did his best to separate the various random noises of the sea and its creatures from the manmade signatures that he was searching for.

In such a manner he was able to pick out the sound of the wave surge above them as it smashed into the bases of the nearby oil production platforms.

Another submarine could easily take advantage of this racket and attempt hiding in it, and Carter would have to pay extra attention in monitoring it.

As he continued scanning the various frequencies, he came across a sound that seemed as if it was produced by thousands of madly clattering caste nets These musicians of the deep were shrimps.

And soon they had a bass accompaniment as they were joined by a deep, drawn-out, mournful cry that sounded almost unearthly in its origin. Carter was no stranger to the monstrous creature responsible for this distinctive song, for since he was a child, whales had always fascinated him. The strange thing was that he never even knew that they could sing in this manner, until he was in basic training. This discovery inspired him to check out the San Diego se aquarium and he wasn’t the least bit disappointed. After one of the shows, a trainer let him feed a pair of small pilot whales, who responded with a series of spirited, well-rehearsed jumps.

The dolphins were extremely talkative, and there was no doubt in Carter’s mind that their squeals, groans and whistles were a language all their own.

Their cousins the whales also communicated in this manner, and when Carter learned that some of these songs could be heard hundreds of miles away, he decided to research this astounding subject more closely in the base library.

One of his instructors during basic was actively involved with an ongoing project that was attempting to train marine mammals for use by the navy.

Carter approached him after class and practically begged him to share some of his findings. The instructor was cold to his approach at first, but after Carter continued to pester him, he finally gave in and asked Joe to accompany them on a field trip to the Channel Islands. This trip turned into a week long affair, during which time they were responsible for a pair of specially trained seals. These boisterous, perpetually hungry creatures were sent out to locate a torpedo that had been lost in the waters off Catalina Island. While the seals hunted for this object, Joe was instructed in the use of a small, bottom-scanning sonar unit that had been fitted into the hull of their boat. As it turned out, the seals found the torpedo before Joe was able to. After the seals attached a retrieval harness onto the weapon, they were gathered up and returned to San Diego.

By the time Joe returned to the base, he knew that he wanted to be a sonar operator. He applied himself to his studies with a new intensity, paying particular attention to his science classes. When it was discovered that he had above average hearing, he found himself one step closer to his goal. The rest was hard work and a little luck of the draw along the way.

Joe Carter was proud of his present position. As the Cheyenne’s senior sonar technician, he was the eyes and ears of the ship when it was underwater.

Though he had been offered a permanent teaching position at the base in San Diego, he chose to go to sea instead. This had been a decision that he certainly didn’t regret.

It was exciting to be a prime component of the Cheyenne’s attack team. Their ship was one of the best in the fleet, as was its corps of officers and enlisted men. Carter was especially impressed with his C.O. He knew Captain Aldridge was a class act from the first moment they met. Working with him was a pleasure, since he gave Carter plenty of room to do his own thing.

Sonar work was more like an art form than a regimented discipline. Though its basic premise was one hundred percent scientific, creative thinking came into play as one interpreted the data. Then there was that gray area, when the sensors showed nothing, but the intuition knew differently. Some called this nothing but pure chance or luck. Carter couldn’t really say, though sometimes it was almost scary when an impulse turned into cold truth.

As the whales continued their sad song, he switched over to the narrow-band system. In an instant, the random noises of the sea were gone. He was now searching for one sound only, that which would be produced by another submarine. The process that allowed such a scan was an extremely sophisticated one that required spectrum analyzers and powerful microprocessors.

Settling back in his chair, Carter isolated the Cheyenne’s BQjQ-25 towed array. Originally stored in a long tube that lay between the pressure hull and the boat’s outer casing, the array was released into the water by means of a winch set into the forward ballast tank. The hydrophones themselves were attached to a cable 2,624 feet long and.37 inches in diameter. This cable was being towed behind them in a straight line, at a restricted speed so that it would not oscillate and give their own position away. It was designed to give them a rearward-looking capability that was not available by any other means.

Carter was well into his watch, with the towed array still deployed, when the barest of flickering movements caught his eye on his repeater screen.

Quickly turning up the volume gain of the hydrophone responsible for capturing this sound, he closed his eyes and focused his concentration on the steady hissing signal being conveyed into his headphones.

For the briefest of seconds he picked up a barely audible pulsating noise. Yet before he could further increase the gain it was gone.

Again he carefully checked the screen, whose sensor was far more sensitive than the human ear. But just like the signal being conveyed into his headphones, it too drew a blank.

Was this distant throbbing sound the signature of another submarine? Or was it only an anomaly produced by the gremlins of the deep? With the available hard data, Joe Carter couldn’t really say one way or the other. He could only be guided by the pull of his instincts, that warned him that this sound was worth checking out.

Carter was in the midst of reaching out for the intercom to inform the control room of his find, when all hell broke out in the waters in front of them.

“Jesus Christ, what the hell is that?” quizzed Vie Manning as he yanked off his headphones to massage his pained eardrums.

Even without the benefits of headphones, a gut-wrenching, grinding cacophony of sound could be heard emanating from the seas beyond. Spurred on by this racket, Joe Carter turned down his own volume gain, so that he wouldn’t receive a sonic lashing like his coworker had, and tuned in the bow hydrophones.

To get the full effect, he switched to the broad band processor. As he expertly determined the noise’s range and bearing, it became evident that it was originating from a portion of the sea near one of the oil platforms. It was on a pure hunch that he switched back to the narrow-band processor. It was then that he knew for certain just what had occurred out there.

Admiral Alexander Kuznetsov was in the process of concluding the speech he had been giving for the last quarter of an hour, when this same grinding noise reached the Lena. Even though this was the high point of his address to the eight members of the Komsomol gathered before him, the veteran immediately halted. All eyes went instinctively to the ceiling, as the screeching groan of metal on metal intensified.

“Have we hit something?” cried out one of the apprentice seaman in horror.

“Good heavens, no!” retorted Alexander.

“If that would have been the case, we’d all be spilled out on the deck by now, with the sea pouring in on top of us. Most likely that din is being caused by another vessel’s misfortune. Why, I bet that Norwegian diving support ship that I watched pass us earlier has hit one of the oil production platforms!”

This conjecture was met by the harsh ringing of the compartment’s intercom. It proved to be Felix Bucharin who picked up the handset.

“Zampolit speaking… why yes, Captain, he’s right before me … tell him to at once, Comrade.

By the way, Captain. Captain? Captain?”

Hanging up the handset in disgust, the Political Officer looked up to address their guest speaker.

“Captain Milyutin requests your presence in the attack center at once, Admiral. Maybe he’ll be able to tell you what all this racket is about.”

The mysterious noise had all but disappeared by now, and Alexander quickly gathered up his notes and excused himself. The attack center was lit in red light to protect the crew’s night vision, and it took the veteran several seconds to be able to spot the Lena’s captain hunched anxiously over the sonar console. Quickly he joined him.

“Captain?” quizzed Alexander expectantly.

Grigori Milyutin looked up with a Cheshire cat grin turning the corners of his mouth.

“Ah, Admiral.

You’ll never believe what took place in the water behind us.”

“From that grinding roar, it sounded as if there’s been a collision. Was it that Norwegian ship that we watched pass on the periscope earlier?” offered Alexander.

“It’s better than that,” returned the excited captain.

“An extensive sonar scan of the noise’s source indicates that what we were hearing was the sound of a submarine colliding with the base of one of the production rigs!”

“Why that’s remarkable,” said Alexander.

“I do hope that it wasn’t one of ours.”

“That’s highly unlikely, Admiral. Unless there was some sort of clandestine operation going on out here that I wasn’t informed of, there should be no other Soviet submarines within a thousand kilometers of us.”

“Then I wonder who it was?” reflected Alexander.

Once more a broad grin turned the corners of the captain’s mouth.

“Shall we turn around and find out, Admiral? We could do so with the least bit of trouble. Once we identify the unfortunate vessel and determine its degree of damage, we can turn south again and be on our way to Karsto with minimum delay.”

“I must admit — your suggestion sounds awfully tempting,” mused Alexander.

“Just think of the wealth of intelligence such a survey will generate,” added the Captain.

“This will especially be the case if it turns out to be an American vessel.”

It was obvious that Grigori Milyutin wanted to gloat over another commanding officer’s misfortune.

Such a desire was only natural, especially for a Soviet mariner. The waters off the coast of Norway had been notorious over the years as a graveyard for Soviet submarines. Three nuclear subs had already sunk there, while numerous others succumbed to fires and other internal disasters that sent them shooting to the surface for assistance. The Western news media had a field day with these incidents, which often made front page headlines. A proud force like the Rodina’s submariners were just waiting to return the favor, and Alexander couldn’t blame them. Yet was this the right time?

Back in Vorkuta, the Deputy Secretary General had stressed the utter importance of their mission, for only when their reconnaissance of the Karsto pumping facility was completed could a decision be made concerning the Soviet Union’s own pipeline into the heart of Europe. Such a venture had an enormous scope, and billions of rubles were at stake. Alexander had no choice.

“I’m sorry, Captain, but we must continue on to Karsto as planned. Our mission is too important, and no such diversion can be allowed.”

Disappointment was evident on the Captain’s face, but his voice betrayed no emotion. He nodded curtly and said, “I understand, Admiral.”

As Grigori Milyutin somberly walked back to his console, Alexander couldn’t help but feel sorry for the young officer. As the first Soviet Navy representative on the scene of the collision site, he would have been an instant celebrity to his contemporaries back at Polyarny. But other duties called, and though they were less glamorous, the results of their mission could change the entire balance of power in the Rodina’s favor.

Back on the USS Cheyenne, there was absolutely no doubt about the direction of their course. Inside the control room, Steven Aldridge looked on as his XO finished his conversation on the vessel’s underwater telephone.

“It’s that West German sub all right, Skipper,” reported Stoddard as he hung up the handset.

“Its name is the Emden. From what I gather, they were trying to hide behind one of those platforms, when a swell got a hold of them and smashed them up against the rig’s base.”

“How bad are the damages?” asked Aldridge.

“They still don’t know the extent of them yet, Skipper. They’ve got a pretty nasty leak in the forward torpedo room, and they’re operating under emergency power. But other than that, their pressure hull seems to be intact.”

“Thank God for that,” said Aldridge.

“Any injuries?”

“A broken leg seems to be the worst of them,” answered the XO.

“But from what the Captain said, his crew is pretty shaken up.”

“I can imagine,” said Aldridge.

“I wonder if they’re going to need a tow into port.”

The XO shook his head.

“Definitely not, Skipper.

That’s one thing that Kraut captain was firm about.

As soon as they have that leak under control, he’ll be heading back to port under their own power.”

Aldridge beckoned his XO to join him beside the periscope well.

“I think it’s best if we stand by nevertheless, XO.

Sometimes a captain can be blinded by pride. If he underestimated the initial damages, we might be needed yet.”

The XO pulled his pipe out of his pants pocket, looking thoughtful as he placed its scarred bit between his lips.

“I don’t know about that, Skipper.

There’s a full crew of Norwegians on that rig, and even though the damage to the German sub seems negligible, they’ve already called for a Coast Guard cutter. One’s steaming out of Haugesund even as we speak.”

“Then I guess that’s it for our NATO maneuvers,” remarked the Captain.

“Now what, Skipper?”

Before Aldridge could answer his second in command, he noted with surprise that a newcomer had just entered the control room. Petty Officer Joe Carter didn’t frequent this portion of the ship often, and the black sonar technician seemed relieved when he finally spotted Aldridge and the XO perched beside the periscope well. Without hesitation, he proceeded straight for them.

“Excuse me, Captain, but I think there’s something that you should know about.”

“Then let’s hear it, Mr. Carter,” replied Aldridge, who encouraged his subordinates to be frank with him.

Joe Carter seemed a bit uncomfortable as he continued.

“Right before we monitored that collision, I picked up something on the narrow-band processor.

I only got it for a second, but I’m pretty sure that we just had an unidentified submerged contact pass us by. From its signature it sounded like a nuke and it was headed due south.”

Aldridge looked at his XO as he responded.

“Well, I’ll be. If it is indeed another nuke, it’s got to be the Red version. This entire sector’s strictly off limits to any other NATO warship but the Cheyenne and our German friends out there.”

“If it is Ivan, what’s he doing this far east of his normal transit lane?” asked the XO.

“Maybe he’s not headed out into the North Atlantic,” offered Joe Carter.

The Captain’s eyes lit up.

“You could be onto something, Mr. Carter. Do you think that you could find them again?”

Joe Carter answered with confidence.

“If he’s out there and he’s wet, I can find him all right.”

“Then let’s do it,” ordered Aldridge.

“And if it is Ivan, we’ll secretly tail along in his baffles to see what he’s up to.”

Anxious to finally see some real action, the XO concurred.

“You know something, Skipper? This patrol might just prove to be interesting after all.”