Torpedo!

CHAPTER 14

The early morning winter winds rattled a loose window in Captain Steel’s office and he went over to the window and pulled the drape across the glass, shutting out some of the cold air that came through the loose-fitting window frame and muffling the noise of the wind. He went back to his desk and sat down and watched as a Chief Electronics Technician patiently searched for hidden electronic bugs in his office. The Chief finished and packed away his gear in a box.

“Not a thing, sir,” he said to Captain Steel. “Everything’s as clean as a whistle.” Steel nodded and the Chief left the office. He stopped at the desk of Captain Steel’s Chief Yeoman, looking back over his shoulder to make sure the door to the office was closed tightly.

“What’s with him, he paranoid? Every other week he wants this place swept. Who the hell is going to bug an office in this area of the Pentagon?”

“Someone did, about eight years ago. Before I got here. He found the bug under his desk. That was back when he was fighting for appropriations for his submarines. He’s never forgotten it.”

“Why didn’t you get yourself a transfer,” the Chief Electronics Technician growled. “Got to be better billets than this one for a Chief with as many years in as you got.”

“It’s not too bad. He’s hard but he’s fair. Worst thing about him is you can’t drink coffee or smoke during working hours. He says coffee and cigarettes are poison. He might be right. I feel a hell of a lot better, not smoking or sucking up coffee all day long.”

Satisfied that his phone lines were electronically clean, Captain Steel dialed the private number of Representative Walter W. Wendell, Chairman of the House Armed Services Committee.

“Us country boys get up early,” the old Congressman drawled into the phone. “Yeah, I can meet you at that place. In about twenty minutes. Can’t give you too much time. Got to call a committee meeting and sort of take a fall out of one of my new members. Damned fool thinks he’s gonna get a new Naval Reserve Armory for his district. Hell, the Naval Reserve is the biggest boondoggle we got and I ain’t releasin’ no funds for another pile of bricks. Twenty minutes.”

The Congressman ordered coffee, ignoring the cold stare of disapproval from Captain Steel. He hunched over the table and dug a crumpled pack of cigarettes out of his coat pocket. He pulled a cigarette out of the pack and straightened it between his arthritic fingers and lit it, not bothering to blow the smoke away from Captain Steel.

“Had one of my best bird dogs do a rundown on Brannon,” he said. “The bird dog’s good at his trade. He can find rich black dirt where you and me see nothin’ but gravel. He couldn’t find nothin’ in Brannon’s life, official or private, we can use against him.”

“Which means?” Captain Steel rasped.

“Which means the easy way ain’t there. I even had a friend ask old J. Edgar if they had anything on Brannon in J. Edgar’s private files. Negative, as they say in the military.”

“I gave you enough information to use, enough to haul him before a congressional investigation committee,” Steel said.

“And I told you what I thought of that information. I know what he did was wrong. General MacArthur was wrong too, but Brannon’s smarter than MacArthur was. Brannon did something wrong that was so damned big and wrong that I’d say every mother’s son of a voter out there in this great nation would stand up and holler that this is what we should have been doing ever since the Roosians euchred us out of half of Europe after the war.” He sat back in his chair and sipped at his coffee and then he leaned forward, his elbows on the table.

“The Roosians sank one of your missile submarines. And Michael P. Brannon gave the order to sink the submarine that sank our submarine. And he got that submarine sunk. And the Roosians ain’t done nothin’ in return. And probably won’t.”

“The Soviet Navy has put all its submarines on full war alert,” Captain Steel said.

“I know about that,” the Congressman said. “Used an old code, didn’t they? A code that everyone can read without no trouble. They want everyone to know that they’re chompin’ at the bit, ready to go to war.

“Well, shit! Reminds me of a bully we had in our town when I was a boy. He’d put a stick on his shoulder and dare the smaller kids to knock it off. If no one knocked it off he’d punch some of the littler kids and then laugh. Told my pappy about that and he told me that the next time it happened I should knock the stick off’n his shoulder and if I didn’t he’d whop me with his belt. My daddy could whop the shit right out of you with that belt of his.”

“And I suppose you knocked the chip off the bully’s shoulder,” Captain Steel said in a bored voice.

“I did and I purely kicked the shit out of that old boy.” The old man smiled at the memory. “I don’t know whether it was he couldn’t really fight or if it was that I was more scared of my daddy and his belt than I was of that bigger boy. Didn’t make no never mind. He never bothered us kids again.” He signaled the waitress for a refill for his coffee cup and lit another cigarette.

“I know that you’re an engineer, Captain, and a damned genius and you can’t hardly keep your patience listenin’ to me tell you that story. That’s the difference between a good engineer and a good politician; politicians listen kinda close to people.

“Michael P. Brannon, Vice Admiral of our Navy, did to the Roosians what I did to that bully. He knocked the chip off their shoulder and he whupped their ass. They understand that kind of talk, Steel. The country understands that kind of talk.” The faded hawklike eyes under the bushy gray eyebrows peered through the cigarette smoke at Captain Steel’s ascetic face.

“Just mebbe, Captain, just mebbe you’ve misjudged the caliber of Michael P. Brannon. Mebbe he’s a mite too tough for you. Mebbe he’s got some ideas that I haven’t had a chance to hear. Think that could be so?”

Captain Steel drained the large glass of orange juice he had ordered. “We’re not staying on track, sir. Admiral Brannon has committed an act of war. He did so on his own. The President, the Congress of the United States, has been deliberately ignored by Brannon. That should concern you, very greatly.

“What concerns me is where does this madness of Brannon’s stop? I’ve lost one of my ballistic missile submarines. The Soviet Union has lost one of their newest attack submarines. What is next? Will the Soviets destroy two of my missile submarines and will Brannon then retaliate by destroying two of their submarines? You know, as well as I know, that our land-based nuclear missiles can be destroyed in the first Soviet nuclear strike. If that happens our only capability for retaliation lies in my missile submarines.” He leaned over the table, subjecting his sensitive nostrils to the Congressman’s cigarette smoke.

“I will not allow this to go on, sir! I will not risk losing one more of my submarines! I came to you, confided in you, because I trust you. But if you cannot solve this I will be forced to take action!”

Congressman Wendell leaned back in his chair and looked at the man across the table. He smiled softly.

“Captain, I told you to let me study this and I’d solve it. This is a political matter and if you want to know something, your tit’s in the wringer just as much as Brannon’s is. You knew about this whole thing and you ain’t done anything about it and you’ll be out on your Jewish ass right alongside of Brannon.

“Now you listen to me. We can’t go public with this as long as the Roosians don’t make any formal protests and I’m sure that ain’t gonna happen. We can’t force Brannon to resign because his personal life is so clean it nauseates me. But we got that stupid asshole, that Admiral McCarty on the Joint Chiefs. He’s a lightweight if I ever saw one. And like most lightweights who maneuver themselves into a nice position of power he gets worried if anyone tries to sneak anything by him. I’m havin’ dinner with him tonight at my house, got to rehearse him on his testimony before my committee, that business of the Navy wantin’ four more carriers. Might drop a word in his ear about how Admiral Brannon has run a sneak around the end of his line. McCarty was an aviator. They don’t usually like you submarine people. If I put it to him in the right way he might force Brannon to retire early. He knows how to put pressure on Brannon.”

“Tonight, then?” Steel said.

“Provided McCarty gives me the openin’ I need,” Congressman Wendell said. “I’ll be talkin’ to you soon.” He rose and shuffled out of the restaurant, leaving the check to be paid by Captain Steel.

Out in the broad reaches of the Atlantic Ocean the U.S.S. Orca was making all possible speed westward. Far out to her starboard side the U.S.S. Devilfish was following a parallel course. Mission: intercept and shadow a Soviet ballistic missile submarine headed for the East Coast of the United States and sink that submarine if it gave any indication that it was opening its missile hatches to fire its nuclear missiles.

Turk Raynor relaxed in a canvas chair on the starboard side of the Orca’s torpedo room. He cocked an eye toward the loudspeaker as it rasped, and listened to the Quartermaster of the Watch reporting the hourly course, speed, and depth. Raynor turned to one of his torpedo gang.

“Way things are going, heading on this course, we’re gettin’ farther and farther from Holy Loch. Gettin’ farther and farther from a chance to go up to the Personnel Office and put in for my transfer. Way things are going lately I’ll never get off this fucking ship. We’ll probably be on war alert and all hands will be frozen in their duty stations.”

Amos Spangler, a tall, slender torpedoman with arms roped with stringy muscle, lit a cigarette. “You get any dope on why we turned west and they opened up the throttle, Turk?”

“Quartermaster told me that we’re runnin’ with the Devilfish. She’s about five miles out to starboard. Some Russian missile submarine is comin’ down from the north and we’re supposed to intercept her and if she makes a funny move we sink her.” The senior torpedoman stretched his arms above his head until his heavy shoulder muscles creaked.

“Trouble with this fucking nuclear submarine Navy is that they don’t tell you a fuck-all about what’s goin’ on. I’ll bet those nuke poges we got aboard know all the operating dope. If you ain’t been to nuke school on these damned ships then you’re nothin’ but slave labor.”

“Until they tell you to get ready to fire. Then you’re damned important. Old Man comes down here to pass the time of day and make sure we ain’t fuckin’ off under the sun lamp or some fuckin’ thing,” Spangler said.

“Don’t knock the Old Man. He’s good people,” Raynor growled. “If it wasn’t for some old hands on this tub we’d never know what was going on.” He stared at his torpedomen.

“You people got to know we didn’t fire at no Goddamn electronic target when we blew them two out of the tubes. If you don’t know, we fired at a Russian submarine.”

“Why the hell did we do that? We didn’t get no announcement of war starting.” Spangler asked.

“Sharkfin is gone,” Raynor said flatly. “Quartermaster said the Russian submarine we went after with the sank the Sharkfin, couple of weeks ago. Old Iron Mike, sitting there in the Pentagon, thinks he’s back on a diesel boat in the war against Japan. He sent orders to Devilfish and us to get the Russian sub. We got her. Bam! Two! Now we’re gonna dog this Russian missile submarine and if the skipper of that tub makes one wrong fucking move we take him out like we took out the other one.”

“Jesus Christ!” Spangler said. “We’re at fucking war!”

“Word I get is that no war been declared,” Raynor said. “But if they keep up this silly shit you can bet your damned skivvies that if we ever get back to the States the Goddamned country will look like something that fucking cook makes in the Galley. Burned up. Like charcoal.”

Captain Reinauer sat in the Wardroom, a chart of the Atlantic in front of him on the Wardroom table. Eckert, his XO, sat next to him, pointing with the tip of a pencil at the chart.

“That’s the Russian’s course. We’re on a flat intercept, sir. Should make contact in the next eight hours if he doesn’t turn to starboard and head more toward the coast. Depending on his speed, it’s been varying.”

Reinauer touched the chart with his forefinger. “Looks like Devilfish will make the first contact, she’s closer to his course line if he keeps coming as he is.” He looked around the table at his officers.

“The order we received specified that we do complete surveillance of the Russian missile submarine. That means silent running. He can’t help knowing there’s one of us here but we’d like to keep him from knowing that there are two of us after him. Devilfish concurs. If they contact him first they won’t make any effort to go to silent running. They’ll dog him, follow him, run ahead of him, drop back, run alongside, always on his starboard hand.

“We’ll go to silent running and a full alert sonar status. That means we’ll be doing a constant attack problem on the Russian and on the Devilfish, so we know where Devilfish is at all times. If the Russian opens his missile hatches we should be able to hear that. The word I had in Holy Loch was that the Russians use manual power to open their missile hatches. Takes them about four minutes to open a hatch and they open one or at the most two at a time.

“That gives us time to get off torpedoes, provided we have a constant firing problem in the computers. Mr. Eckert will see to it that we have a continual attack problem running. Mr. Reiss will alert the torpedo room to the problem we face.” He paused and rubbed his beard. “We can’t go to Battle Stations and stay there for maybe days on end, once we make contact. We’ll have to play it by ear, once we find him.” He looked at Reiss.

“I want you to fill in Turk Raynor. Impress on him the need for readiness to fire on a moment’s notice.”

“Won’t we be breaking ComSubLant’s order to keep this information in the Wardroom, sir?” Reiss asked.

“Oh, hell!” Reinauer snorted. “Do you think that everyone on this damned ship doesn’t know we sank a Soviet submarine? Do you think the crew doesn’t know that we’re going to sink another one if he makes a wrong move? You can’t keep that sort of information from a crew. They know.” The telephone on the bulkhead buzzed and he turned and picked the handset off the bulkhead. He listened for a moment and then put the handset back.

“Devilfish may have made contact. Sonar reports she’s put on speed and is turning northward. Let’s go to Battle Stations. We’ll follow Devilfish into whatever she’s got. Go to silent running. Mr. Eckert, start a firing plot at once.” The Wardroom emptied and the soft, muted clanging of the Battle Stations alarm sounded throughout the Orca.