The Golden U-Boat

Chapter Seven

When Admiral Alexander Kuznetsov got the assignment from the Deputy Secretary General to survey the Norwegian gas pumping facility at Karsto, he could think of only one submarine to do the job. The Lena was a nuclear powered Alfa class attack vessel. It was small, fast, and manned by a skilled crew who wouldn’t be intimidated by the dangerous penetration into shallow waters that such a mission would entail. And to insure that the job was done correctly, Alexander Kuznetsov decided to go along as a firsthand observer.

They set sail for Karsto from the Siberian naval base at Polyarny on a cold, overcast morning.

Though Alexander had previously toured the Lena along with a group of Naval Ministry dignitaries, this would be the first time that he actually put to sea on the boat. No stranger to the workings of a submarine, the white-haired veteran had been confined to a desk for over a decade, and he looked upon this patrol as a chance to put some badly needed adventure back into a life that had become much too predictable.

As they entered the icy waters of the Barents Sea and descended to periscope depth, Alexander knew that his decision to come along had been the right one. The ship was a high-tech masterpiece, crewed by some of the most intelligent, hardworking sailors that he had ever known. This became obvious as he stood in the corner of the Lena’s attack center, watching its young commanding officer at work.

Captain Grigori Milyutin was only in his mid-thirties, yet had already distinguished himself as a skilled mariner. He was the type of leader that men respected. A graduate of the A. A. Grechko Naval Academy, Milyutin worked hard for his commission, graduating in the top five of his class.

When asked by the examination board on what kind of vessel he’d like to serve the Rodina, the Kiev-native picked submarines without batting an eye.

Milyutin’s first assignment had been as the weapons’ officer of a Kilo class boat. Six months later, he was fully qualified, and his promotion to senior lieutenant was soon in coming. He distinguished himself when a fire broke out in the reactor room of a Victor class boat on which he was serving.

When the captain of this attack sub was severely injured fighting this blaze, Grigori Milyutin calmly took his place in the control room, and it was said that it was because of his cool efforts alone that the crew was kept from panicking. Against all the odds, the crippled Victor made it back to port.

When the naval inquiry into the incident was finally completed, Milyutin emerged with not only the Order of Lenin to pin to his chest, but a promotion to captain as well.

The Lena was the perfect size boat for the young officer to show Command his potential. Only eighty-one meters long and displacing a mere 2,900 tons, the Alfa class was the smallest nuclear pow171 ered sub in the fleet. Yet what it lacked in size, it more than made up for in speed, diving depth, and offensive punch.

The attack center that Alexander currently stood inside was a prime example of the Lena’s advanced design. In fact, the interior of this compartment looked more as if it belonged in a computer laboratory than on a warship. From their digital consoles, five senior ratings effectively ran all of the boat’s operational functions. Old fashioned valves and gauges had long since been replaced by computer keyboards. Even the planes man traditional brass wheel, by which the sub was steered, was now but a joystick.

Alexander knew that this automation was vitally necessary here, for the Lena only had a crew of forty-five. Over two decades ago, he had participated in the program from which the Alfa class was born. At that time, they had been looking for a submarine that could successfully penetrate an American carrier task force. To accomplish this difficult mission, a small, compact vessel was envisioned that could attain such high speeds that even the most advanced western ASW weapon couldn’t touch it.

A specially designed nuclear reactor that employed a lead-bizmuth mixture as a coolant was developed, producing speeds well over forty knots.

This was over ten knots faster than any other submarine could travel, and was incorporated with yet another novel feature that made the Alfa a class unto itself.

Until this time, high-tensile steel was the state of the art when it came to producing the actual pressure hull of a submarine. Such a construction method allowed depths of up to one thousand feet to be attained. But this was not good enough for the Alfa, whose hull was formed out of titanium, giving it a diving depth of three thousand feet, over three times deeper than any other sub.

Alexander had been at Leningrad’s Sudomekh shipyard when the first Alfa class prototype was launched. Many of the old admirals present at the ceremony had commented on how very small and puny the vessel looked. Concerned that the billions of rubles it had cost to develop this prototype had been wasted, they anxiously awaited the results of the first sea trials.

A collective sigh of relief echoed through the halls of the Naval Ministry as the first reports from the Baltic were received. On its very first highspeed run, the boat reached 42 knots, with the captain commenting that the throttle hadn’t even been completely engaged!

Unfortunately, the sub was later to experience serious cracking in its welded titanium joints, causing the trials to be abandoned. Undaunted by this failure, the engineers went back to their drawing boards, and soon the welding problems were solved. The Alfa went into full production.

Six of these capable vessels were produced, with the Lena being launched in 1983. As the last in its line, the Lena was fitted with six bow tubes that could fire a mix of conventional anti-ship and antisubmarine torpedoes. It also carried the SS-N-15 nuclear tipped antisubmarine rocket which greatly extended its ASW capability.

Because of its compact size and unique handling abilities, the Lena was to become the vessel of choice whenever shallow water operations were necessitated. Such dangerous missions often involved the landing of Spetsnaz commando teams onto unfriendly shores. More often than not, the successful outcome of this work depended upon careful reconnaissance and split-second timing.

Alexander remembered one such clandestine mission several years ago. He had been the senior officer of the Pacific fleet’s central planning staff based at Vladivostok, and had been tasked with the job of landing a Spetsnaz team onto the shores of California’s San Clemente island. Since a series of shallow shoals surrounded the island, one of the larger nuclear attack boats was out of the question and since the smaller diesel electric subs didn’t have the range, Alexander picked the Lena, which had been assigned to the Pacific Fleet at that time.

The Lena’s commanding officer was a bullnecked Siberian by the name of Tartarov, who was feared by both officers and conscripts alike. A strict disciplinarian, Tartarov demanded a hundred percent from his crew and usually got it. He certainly demonstrated the Lena’s ability to travel at high speeds for an extended period, as they crossed the entire breadth of the Pacific in an unprecedented one-hundred and fourteen hours. Then heedless of the pair of U.S. Navy frigates that were stationed off San Clemente island’s western coast, Tartarov expertly guided the Lena up over the shoals and practically onto the beach itself. It was said that the commandoes only had to get their feet wet as they left the Lena to get on with their mission.

Three days later, the sub was right there to pick them up. As they initiated the sprint back to Mother Russia, they now had the additional company of the complete guidance system to an American Tomahawk cruise missile, that had been neatly plucked from San Clemente’s target range.

Alexander inwardly chuckled as he once again thought about this daring caper. Though the boat’s current commander was certainly not a ranting tyrant like Tatarov, Captain Grigori Milyutin could get the job done all the same, with a lot more tact and class along the way. Proud of the system that had produced such a fine young officer, Alexander looked on as a chubby, balding individual entered the attack center and headed straight for him.

“Ah, there you are, Admiral,” greeted the Lena’s Zampolit, Felix Bucharin.

“I was wondering where you ran off to.”

Never a great lover of that necessary evil known as the political officer, Alexander managed a civil reply.

“There are certainly no hiding places in a vessel of this size, Comrade Bucharin. Now, how can I help you?”

The Zampolit answered while patting his sweat-stained forehead with a white handkerchief.

“I was wondering if you’d give us the honor of your company at tomorrow night’s Komsomol meeting? We’ll be discussing the role of the fleet in carrying out state policy in times of crisis, and I was hoping that you’d share some of your invaluable insights with us. After all, it’s not often that we have such an esteemed passenger in our midst.”

“I’d be more than happy to speak to your group, Comrade Bucharin. But I’m afraid I won’t be able to stay for the entire meeting. My endless paperwork follows me even here, and I must get at it” “I understand perfectly, Admiral,” returned the Zampolit.

“Be in the wardroom at eight o’clock sharp, and we’ll be ready for you with open ears.

Why, the men will be talking about this momentous night for months to come.”

Certain that the clever political officer was only using him to beef up attendance, Alexander nodded.

“Eight o’clock sharp it is, Comrade. Now if you’ll excuse me, I think it’s time that I had a few words with the Captain.”

Alexander turned to leave, but much to his dismay, he found the portly Zampolit following him as he crossed the attack center and approached the command console. Seated here in a comfortable, high-backed leather swivel chair that was anchored directly into the deck was Grigori Milyutin. The Captain was in the process of studying a video monitor on which a miniature bathymetric chart of the entire Norwegian coastline was displayed.

“The ship seems to be running most smoothly, Captain,” observed Alexander as he bent over to take a look at this chart himself.

“Why, this is remarkable!

I’ve never seen so much detail packed into so little space before. In the old days, a chart like this one would fill up the entire navigator’s station.”

“Would you like to see a three dimensional view of this same subterranean terrain, Admiral?” asked the Captain without taking his glance from the screen.

“Does such a thing exist?” quizzed the veteran.

With a practiced ease, Milyutin addressed his keyboard and the video screen began filling with yet another graphic. This one showed the same portion of coastline, though instead of just having soundings, an actual picture of the seafloor was displayed in graphic detail. The various trenches, rises and depressions were clearly visible, and Alexander shook his head in wonder.

“It’s one thing reading about such devices in a requisition report. It’s another thing altogether to actually see such gear at work. Since when have you had such an amazing capability?”

Turning to face his guest, the Captain answered.

“The first software was installed three months ago.

It’s already been updated several times, as more accurate bathymetric data is collected.”

The young officer had the look of a serious scholar. Far from handsome, his dark eyes nevertheless reflected an inner depth that hinted at an extraordinarily high I.Q.

“Sort of makes you wonder how us old-timers managed to keep our feet dry with only our periscopes and our intuition to guide us by,” laughed Alexander.

“What you lacked in modern technology, you more than made up for in courage,” offered the captain. The veteran seaman nodded, appreciating the grace of the young officer.

“I must admit, that it took plenty of bravado to go out on some of the submarines that I sailed on during the Great War,” said Alexander.

“Why in those days, we didn’t even have radar installed yet, and sonar was just a dream. What we could have done with a device like this one.”

“The admiral has graciously agreed to speak at tomorrow night’s Komsomol meeting,” interjected the Zampolit, who stood nearby, listening to their conversation.

“Perhaps you would reconsider and join him, Captain. It’s been much too long since you’ve attended one of our meetings. And your presence there, along with the admiral, would be a great morale booster.”

A hint of irritation flavored the captain’s tone as he responded to this.

“You’ve already made your case, Comrade Bucharin, and as I said before, the answer is no. If I could join you, I would. But as you very well know, on a vessel this size it’s imperative that either the senior lieutenant or myself be on duty here at all times. And since Senior Lieutenant Popov is scheduled to be sleeping at the time of your meeting, my duty prevents me from joining you.”

“Very well, Captain. You don’t have to get so upset about it,” replied the Zampolit as he vainly attempted to counter the new flow of sweat that drenched his glistening forehead.

Well aware that it was time to change the subject, Alexander questioned, “How much longer until we reach our destination, Captain?”

Grigori Milyutin turned back to his console and readdressed its keyboard. On the upper left-hand portion of the video screen a number began flashing, and Milyutin was quick to interpret it.

“At our present speed of forty-one knots, we’ll be reaching the waters off of Karsto in another thirty-three hours and twenty-seven minutes.”

“I didn’t think that we’d be able to remain at such a speed while transmitting the Norwegian coast,” said the white-haired veteran.

“Certainly these waters will be filled with unfriendly ASW units that would just love to tag a target such as the Lena” The captain grinned.

“I’ve already taken such units into consideration, and I guarantee you that there’s absolutely nothing out there that — could possibly be a real threat to us. So just relax, Admiral, and rest assured that you have chosen the right vessel for this mission.”

“The Lena can handle it, all right,” boasted the Zampolit.

“Our equipment is the best. Yet what I’m most concerned with are the mental conditions of the crew. If they’re not functioning properly, the highest technology in the world won’t be any use to us. In a way, that’s what my biweekly Komsomol meetings are all about. The feedback I get from the ship’s Party members gives me great insights into the state of the crew’s morale. Lately I’ve taken to videotaping our meetings. Do let me show you one of these tapes now, Admiral. It will help you prepare for tomorrow evening’s speech that you’ll be giving.”

Alexander noted the look of pained disgust that filled the captain’s face as he absorbed these words and turned back to the command console. Wishing that he had the nerve to refuse the Zampolit’s invitation in the first place, Alexander reluctantly indicated for Felix Bucharin to lead the way to these precious tapes.

At the same time that the Lena was approaching the Norwegian Sea from the north, another submarine was headed toward these waters from the opposite direction. As was his habit on their first full day out at sea, the USS Cheyenne’s captain initiated his watch with a walk through of the entire sub.

Steven Aldridge began his tour of inspection in the forward torpedo room.

He entered the spacious compartment and found the crew gathered around one of the flat weapons’ racks. In the process of explaining the various functions of the orange-tipped, torpedo-like object secured on this rack was the stocky, crew-cut figure of Lieutenant Edward Hartman. The intense weapons’ officer noted the newcomer in their midst, yet continued on regardless.

“… thus until the new Sea Lance becomes operational, SUBROC here will have to keep doing the job. In service since 1962, SUBROC should help us hold our own with such vessels as the Soviet Alfa class submarine, that can attain a speed of over forty knots to outrun our fastest torpedoes.

Once one of these very capable warships are spotted by our sensors, SUBROC will be launched. Its solid-fuel rocket motor then ignites under water, sending the spiralling missile upwards. As it breaks the surface, a booster rocket will engage, propelling it into the air at supersonic speeds. At the apex of the flight path, explosive bolts will separate the warhead from the spent booster, and the warhead will then follow its ballistic’s course, eventually detonating at a pre-set depth.”

“Will we be test firing one of these babies during this cruise?” asked the senior chief.

“I’d sure rest easier knowing that those modifications to our Mkll7 were done correctly.”

Lieutenant Hartman looked to the captain for an answer.

“That depends on COMSUBLANT,” said Aldridge as he walked over to join his men.

“Our current operational orders don’t mention anything about a test launch. But if I know Command, they’ll be just as anxious as we are to know that this weapon system is truly operational. I wouldn’t be surprised if we get a launch order sometime after our primary mission has been accomplished.”

Aldridge touched the smooth metal skin of the rocket and added.

“Right now, we’re bound for the North Sea, where we’ll be participating in a NATO ASW exercise. We’ve been tasked with the job of tagging a West German Type 206 vessel. As you well know, diesel-electric subs of this class are extremely small and hard to locate, and since our patrol quadrant is quite large, we’ll really have our hands full.”

“If we tag ‘em, will we be launching a dummy torpedo at the Krauts, Captain?” asked Lieutenant Hartman.

“Not in this instance, Lieutenant,” replied Aldridge.

“Our sonar tapes will provide sufficient evidence that we’ve succeeded. I guess Command is taking it for granted that we’re capable of following this up with a kill. So you can carry on, Lieutenant Hartman. And by the way, let me take this opportunity to convey to you and your crew a job well done with the Mkll7 modification. I understand that all of you really burned the midnight oil back at Holy Loch, and your efforts haven’t gone unnoticed.”

“Thank you, sir,” snapped the weapon’s officer, who wasted no time initiating a complex explanation of the SUBROC’s arming system.

Satisfied that Hartman was doing his usual first class job, the Captain began his way aft. He passed by the enlisted men’s quarters, and found the compartment neat and spotlessly clean. Several of the bunks had their individual curtains drawn tightly shut, indicating that the off-duty seaman inside desired his privacy. Unlike past classes of submarines, each of the Cheyenne’s 127 crew members had his own bed, and no one was forced to share their living space, or ‘hot bunk’ as it used to be called.

As he proceeded into the adjoining mess hall, Aldridge spotted the Cheyenne’s senior sonar technician seated alone at one of the booths. Petty Officer First Class Joe Carter had a plateful of untouched scrambled eggs, pancakes and sausage in front of him, and seemed to be content merely to sip on his mug of coffee, all the while absentmindedly staring off into space. Aldridge decided to stop off at this booth before continuing on.

“Good morning, Mr. Carter,” said the captain.

Snapped from his deep reverie, the good-looking black sonar technician responded.

“Uh… hello, Captain. Gee, I didn’t even see you enter the mess.”

“From that dreamy, forlorn expression on your face, it looked to me like you were thinking about something other than your immediate duty,” observed Aldridge.

“It wouldn’t happen to be your recently concluded shore leave, would it?”

The likeable sailor grinned.

“You hit it right on, Captain.”

“Well, I hope yours was as good as mine was,” offered Aldridge.

Carter nodded.

“It certainly was memorable, Captain. This young lady that I met in Glasgow took me to Edinburgh on the train. Brother, is that ever a city! Edinburgh castle is right out of a history book, and while we were touring it, we even got to hear some of the pipes from the army music school that’s located there.”

“I got to hear some live pipe music myself,” said Aldridge.

“It really gives you the flavor of Old Scotland.”

“I’ll say, Captain. They’ll never believe it back home, but I’m starting to really get into those pipes.”

“You’d better watch it, Mr. Carter, or next thing you’ll know you’ll be coming home wearing kilts with a Scot lass on your arm.”

“There could be worse ways for a guy to go,” said the black man with a dreamy smile.

“How are things down in the sound shack?”

quizzed Aldridge.

“Everything appears to be functioning normally, Sir. I spent my last watch doing some interface with the newly modified Mkll7. I should have it completed by this afternoon.”

“Good,” replied the captain as he prepared to leave.

“Because I’m going to need you to focus one hundred percent on the quarry that we’ve been tasked to tag. Do you know much about the West German Type 206?”

The St. Louisan grimaced.

“That could be a real toughie, Captain. It’s small, agile, and capable of extended submerged operations under battery power alone. As I used to ask my students back in San Diego, have you ever heard the sound of your flashlight operating?”

“That’s true enough, Mr. Carter. But they’re bound to have to ascend to snorkel depth eventually to recharge those batteries, and that’s when we’re going to have to nab them.”

“I hear you, Captain. And we’ll be ready for them down in the sound shack the moment that they switch on those diesels.”

“I know that you will, Mr. Carter. Now you’d better turn your attention back to that breakfast you’ve got before you, or Chief Mallott is going to think that you don’t like his cooking anymore.”

Steven Aldridge winked and continued aft through the galley, where he soon bumped into this very individual. The portly chef was in the process of hand forming dozens of what appeared to be meatballs. As Aldridge walked by, Howard Mallott called out.

“Hello, Captain. How are you on this fine December morning?”

“It’s good to be underway again, Mr. Mallott. I see that you’ve got your work cut out for you today.

Are those meatballs?”

Halting a moment to wipe his hands on his stained apron, the bespectacled chief cook answered.

“I should say not, Sir. These are turkey-balls. I’ll be throwing them into the pot along with some chopped onions, celery, carrots and potatoes.

Then after adding a little garlic powder and some Kitchen Bouquet, you’ll be chowing down on some of the best turkey stew this side of the Mississippi.”

“If it’s anything like that turkey burger you served me yesterday, I’ll look forward to it.” Taking a second to scan the spotless galley, Aldridge added.

“How’s our food situation?”

“The larders are filled to the brim, Captain.

Right now we could sail for two months straight and I’d never have to serve you the same meal twice.”

“I don’t know how you do it, Mr. Mallott. You’re a real culinary magician.”

“It’s all in the organizing, sir. As I told you before, my father was the chef of the battleship New Jersey’s mess, and he’s the one who taught me the importance of drawing up beforehand a comprehensive monthly menu. Then as long as you have the proper provisions, the rest is a snap” “Well, keep up the good work, Mr. Mallott. Ill be the first to let you know what I think about that turkey stew of yours.”

As Aldridge turned to continue his inspection, Mallott added, “Take care, Captain, and don’t be such a stranger. You’re always welcome at Howard’s Cafe.”

Aldridge smiled, and a long cable-lined passageway took him further aft, toward the boat’s reactor and engine compartments. He passed by a ladder that led directly to the control room, one deck above. Here he could visualize his XO as he stood at his customary place beside the chart table, alertly monitoring the instruments displaying their course, speed and depth. Most likely Bob Stoddard would have the well-chewed stem of a corncob pipe clenched in his mouth, and Aldridge could breathe easily just knowing that such a capable officer was at the helm.

A throbbing, muted hum called to him in the distance, and before going up to join his XO, the Captain stepped through a hatchway that had a sign reading, Cheyenne Power and Light mounted above it. The narrow, forty foot long passageway that he now transit ted was completely lined with steel tubing. He could smell the wax-like scent of warm polythylene as he halted halfway down this passageway and looked at his feet. A heavy, metallic cover was set flush with the decking. Aldridge bent down, and as he lifted up this cover, he viewed a pulsating golden glow, clearly visible through the thick, lead-glass viewing port that was positioned there.

Twenty feet below him was the heart of the Cheyenne propulsion unit. The sealed nuclear reactor vessel was formed out of a grid of uranium plates, and filled with highly pressurized water that couldn’t boil. A series of control rods kept the nuclear fission from occurring until the reactor went on-line. Then the rods were slowly removed, and as the uranium235 elements began interacting, the unit went critical.

Actual propulsion was achieved when the hot pressurized contaminated water was pumped through a series of heat exchangers. A second loop of uncontaminated water absorbed this heat, which turned to steam, that subsequently spun the turbines, producing both power to drive the ship and the electricity needed to operate the rest of its systems.

Aldridge could never get over how efficient such a relatively simple process was, and as he closed the viewing port and stood, he turned to enter the space where this reaction was controlled. As he expected, he found Lieutenant Rich Lonnon seated behind the maneuvering room’s central control board. The brawny Florida native was in the process of logging the data that was displayed on the dozens of gauges, digital read-out counters and dials that were spread out before him.

The two senior seamen who sat beside him also kept a close watch on this data, that showed among other things the temperature of the water flowing out of the containment vessel, its pressure, and its velocity. Only after the ship’s chief engineer reached out to momentarily trigger a compact pistol switch that was directly connected to the control rods did Aldridge announce his presence.

“Good morning, Lieutenant.”

Rich Lonnon alertly swung around, and as he laid eyes on his commanding officer a wide smile lit his face.

“Good morning to you, Captain. Welcome to power central. Let me just get rid of this log and I’ll be right with you.”

Lonnon handed his clipboard to the seaman seated on his right. A brief series of instructions accompanied this transfer, after which Lonnon stood and joined the newcomer by the wall of gauges that displayed the Cheyenne’s internal electrical power data.

“It’s really good to see you again, Sir,” said Lonnon as the two officers exchanged handshakes.

“I’m afraid I was forced to miss last night’s briefing in the wardroom when the port turbine began acting up on us. We eventually got it squared away, but by that time it was well past midnight.”

“So I understand,” replied the captain, who liked the way Lonnon looked him square in the eyes when he spoke.

“You didn’t miss much. Ed Hartman gave us an update on the just completed modifications to our Mkll7 fire-control system, and the XO briefed us on some new NavPers training courses that will be offered shortly. Then I got a chance to throw my two cents in by explaining the nature of the exercise that we’re about to be involved with.”

“I heard all about our little game of Kraut tag from the XO earlier this morning,” said Lonnon.

“When you need the speed, we’ll be there to supply it. That you can bank on.”

The chief engineer reached up to reset an overloaded power circuit and continued.

“Since I also missed you at both lunch and dinner yesterday, I never did get to find out how your leave turned out, Captain. Did that doll of a daughter of yours behave herself?”

“Sarah was wonderful,” answered Aldridge.

“Susan and I kept her so busy that she didn’t have the time to get into any trouble. Though she did give us a fright one time on the island of Mull when she disappeared from the yard of the B and B where we were staying. Luckily it only took us a couple of minutes to find her on a nearby pasture, cuddling a lamb that she found nestled in the grass there.”

“I’ve been to the Highlands myself during my last tour,” revealed Lonnon.

“And as far as I’m concerned, it ranks a close second in raw beauty to the Everglades of my native state. Why, I bet that you could have stayed up there at least another month if you could.”

“I don’t know about that, Lieutenant. I kind of missed this old bucket of bolts. And besides, from the size of that stack of paperwork that was waiting for me on my desk, I got back here right in the nick of time. One more memo and I might have never been able to get back into my cabin.”

The chief engineer’s chuckle was cut short by the ringing of the nearby intercom handset. Lonnon alertly picked up the black plastic receiver and spoke into it.

“Maneuvering… why yes, XO. As a matter of fact he’s standing right next to me… very good, I’ll pass that on to him.”

Lonnon hung up the receiver and turned back to his commanding officer.

“The XO would like your presence in the control room, Captain. He says that those charts that you requested from the navigator are ready for your perusal.”

“Good,” said Aldridge.

“Now I can find out more about that patrol quadrant that we’ve been assigned to. Will I see you at lunch, Lieutenant?”

“As long as that turbine behaves, I should be there, Captain.”

“Well I sure wouldn’t want you to miss out on the turkey stew that Chief Mallott’s planning to serve us,” said the grinning C.O.

“Not turkey again,” protested Lonnon.

“Why if the Chief keeps this up, not only will we have the lowest cholesterol count in the entire navy, but we’ll also be the only sub crew that goes around pecking at the ground and gobbling!”

Steven Aldridge was in an excellent mood as he left the warm confines of Cheyenne Power and Light and climbed up to the deck above, where the sub’s control room was located. He entered the familiar confines of this equipment-packed compartment and found it fully manned. Up against the forward bulkhead, the two planes men sat harnessed to their upholstered leather command chairs. One of these seaman gripped a control stick that controlled the vessel’s sail-mounted planes, while the other was responsible for activating their rudder by turning the steering column that he tightly held.

Immediately, behind the planes men the chief of the watch guarded the complex assortment of main vent levers and air-induction valves that determined the Cheyenne’s buoyancy. While beside him, the manifold operator monitored the state of the boat’s hydraulic and air pressure systems, ever on the ready to change the balance of their ballast should they get out of trim.

From the digital depth gauge mounted in front of the planes men Aldridge could clearly see that they were currently sixty-five feet beneath the sea’s surface. Other read-outs showed their speed to be twenty-eight knots, on a course that was taking them due northward. Satisfied that all appeared to be going well, the captain went on to join the two officers who were gathered around the chart table.

The sub’s XO and its young navigator, Lieutenant Andrew Laird, were busy studying a detailed bathymetric chart of the Norwegian Basin as Steven Aldridge addressed them.

“I understand that you’ve got the charts of our patrol quadrant ready.”

“That’s affirmative, Skipper,” returned the XO.

“And just wait until you see where they’ve put us.”

Bob Stoddard used the stem of his pipe to point out a square portion of the Norwegian Sea laying between the Norwegian city of Narvik to the east, and Jan Mayen Island on the west.

“Our northern flank extends to the Mohns Ridge,” continued the XO.

“While to the south, we go as far as the Odin oil fields.”

“That’s quite a chunk of real estate to cover,” observed Aldridge as he studied the chart.

“Any ideas as to where we should begin?”

It proved to be the Cheyenne’s freckled-face navigator who offered the first suggestion.

“I think we’ll find them hidden among the seamounts of Mohns Ridge. The seafloor is extremely irregular there, with some of those ridges extending up to six-hundred feet from the sea’s surface. Since that’s well within the limits of the Type 206’s depth threshold, the West Germans can use the natural contours of the basin to hide in.”

“That’s an interesting theory, Lieutenant Laird,” replied Aldridge.

“What do you say, XO?”

Bob Stoddard took his time responding.

“The Lieutenant might very well be correct, but since the ridge is at the northern extremity of our sector, we’d have to sprint up there directly to initiate a proper scan. If we gambled on his theory and lost, we’d have to backtrack and start all over again.

Thus we’d be much better off beginning our hunt at the southern edge of the quadrant, and then continuing to work our way northward, using sprint and drift to cover as much territory as possible.”

“If you think about it, those oil production platforms could offer our quarry just as much cover as that ridge could,” reflected the captain.

“Since our initial approach is from the south anyway, it would be to our advantage to gradually work our way to the north, rather than wasting the time rushing up there at flank speed, with our sensors all but useless.

What’s our ETA at the southern edge of the quadrant, Lieutenant Laird?”

The Navigator hastily calculated the shortest distance between their current coordinates and the Odin oil fields.

“We’re presently transit ting the waters that lay between the Faeroe and Shetland islands.

If our speed remains constant, we can reach the southern edge of our patrol sector in a little over thirteen hours.”

“Since the exercise doesn’t even officially begin for another twelve hours, that should be more than sufficient,” said Aldridge.

“Pull every chart that we’ve got on that oil field, Lieutenant Laird. And XO, make certain to inform Lieutenant Lonnon of the speed that we’re going to require. The sound shack must be notified of our plans so that Chief Carter and company will be ready when called upon.”

“I’ll get on it at once, Skipper,” replied the XO.

“And while you’re getting this old lady ready for some action, I’ll be down in my stateroom trying to put a dent in that paperwork,” said Aldridge.

“If I’m lucky, maybe I’ll be able to find the surface of my desk by the time that Kraut sub’s history.”