“Sonar contact!” Roosevelt’s operator said. “Good bubbles, sir,” by which he meant the cavitation of the unidentified ship’s prop was very definite on the sound graph.
“Trawler?” suggested Brentwood as he grabbed the extra set of earphones.
There was no reply from the operator.
“Closing?” asked Brentwood
“Think so, sir. Slowly. Think they might be trawlers.”
Brentwood turned to Zeldman. One of the burst messages they had received before the “Zippos” had started was about the trawlers who’d attacked R-1. “Cut to one-third.”
“One-third, sir.”
Now the sonar hydrophones would have reduced interference from the Roosevelt itself.
“Soon as you can, Sonar,” Brentwood enjoined.
“Yes, sir.”
Zeldman, his face in the light of the control room taking on a deep sunburned color, asked, “Herring boats?”
“Possibly,” answered Brentwood.
“Closing, sir,” came Sonar’s voice. “Fifteen knots.”
“Tad high for a fish boat, isn’t it?” put in Brentwood.
Sonar made a face that said six of one and half a dozen of the other. “ ‘Bout right if they’re hurrying to close in a net, sir.”
“Or attacking,” said Zeldman. “Doing a Norwegian.”
“Torpedo status report?”
“All eight loaded, sir. One to six inclusive Mark-48s. Seven and eight MOSS.”
“Very well. Lock in seven and eight to sonar feed.”
Two seconds elapsed.
“Seven and eight MOSS locked to sonar, sir.”
“Very well,” Brentwood said, speaking on the intercom to the lieutenant in charge of the torpedo room up forward. “Stand by.” Brentwood now switched his attention to the screen readout. “Have we got a signature match for friendly?”
“Negative,” answered Sonar.
In his mind’s eye Brentwood could see the convoys of well over three hundred ships en route to Europe behind him.
“Sir. Two other contacts coming in. I’d say range six miles and closing.”
“Signatures?”
“None of ours. But trawler class.”
“Very well. Designate targets Alfa, Bravo, Charlie.”
“Designated Alfa, Bravo, Charlie, sir.”
“Very well. Alfa bearing?”
“Zero seven four,” said Sonar.
“Mark. Fire seven.”
“Seven fired and running.”
Zeldman instinctively looked above, as if trying to see through the sub’s pressure hull, as the torpedo, running at forty-five knots, the sub’s attack speed, streamed away from the sub, giving off the signature of the Roosevelt. At seventy-six seconds after release of the torpedo, Sonar reported, “Alfa — violent pulse.”
All faces in the Roosevelt’s control room were locked on to the dials, the loudest sound the men’s breathing, all knowing that “Bing” had elected to roll dice with the MOSS. To fire another MOSS now or another torpedo might give the deception away. The price for firing the MOSS was, you had to stay absolutely still or you might end up being hit instead of, or as well as, the MOSS. Zeldman and Brentwood watched the sonar screen intently, seeing the luminescent dot on the top of the green screen signifying that something had been fired from the first trawler.
“Track the splash,” ordered Brentwood dispassionately. “Designation Tango.”
“So designated,” answered Sonar. “Ah — sir — Bravo Charlie, fading.”
“Frightened them off?” wondered Zeldman, his tone half wishful thinking, half doubt. Brentwood said nothing. Target designated Alfa was also turning now, its echo fading. But whatever it had dumped was still falling and, worse, spreading.
“Mines!” proffered Zeldman.
“Sonar?” asked Brentwood, lending his authority to the question. The operator looked puzzled.
“What’s up?” asked Brentwood.
“Don’t know, sir. Fuzzy.”
Brentwood held up the earpiece. It was fuzzy, a soft sound, like milk simmering, men more diffuse. The one big chunk of sound definitely broken up, as a pile of mines would.
“Bearing?”
“Zero eight niner.”
“Mark. Fire one and two.” The sub felt a gentle push.
“One and two fired and running, sir.”
Again Zeldman looked up, the Mk-48s running off to his right from the sub’s bow at ninety miles an hour, uncoiling their thin guide wire until the torpedo would be close enough for the target’s sound to activate the Mk-48s’ own sound sensors, which would then cut off from their wire feed control and home in by themselves.
At four minutes plus three seconds, the sonar screen went into what looked like power failure whiteout, as a screen goes blank when hit by a high voltage without a surge control bar, the screen about to die, but the green and amber tints started to bleed back. There were loud cheers and excited congratulations all around.
“Shut up!” It was Brentwood, as sharp as they’d ever heard him. “Sonar — readout on Alfa, Bravo, Charlie?”
“Still fading, sir.”
The control room remained quiet, no one moving, waiting to see if the Alfa, Bravo, or Charlie fish boats were returning or whether passive was picking up anything on them at all.
“Distance to Holy Loch?” Brentwood asked Zeldman.
“A hundred miles, sir.”
“Very well. We’ll wait ten minutes, then proceed. Plot a new course to the loch.”
“Yes, sir.”
Brentwood glanced around at one of the spare watch-standers, another “Bugs Bunny,” or sonar operator, with whom he could replace the present sonar operator, whom Brentwood now asked to report to his cabin in fifteen minutes. The sound wave from the Mk-48 explosions now hit them, the sub rolling slightly, then righting itself.
The sonar operator didn’t know what to make of it but took his leave to go down in his slippered feet toward the gallery for a much-needed coffee with liberal helpings of sugar.
Two of the other watch-standers in control, out of Brentwood’s view because of the scope island, made “what’s with him?” faces at each other.
After ten minutes, Brentwood turned over the watch to Zeldman. But before he brushed the heavy green curtains of the combat control center aside, he looked around at the men on watch, from sonar to planesmen. “If I ever hear an outburst like that again, I’ll cancel all liberty on this pig boat. That clear?”
Muffled acknowledgment.
Brentwood did not raise his voice — indeed, it was softer than the usual tone he used issuing orders — but the repetition of his question now took on a more clipped tone. “Is that clear! Everyone?”
“Yes, sir,” came back the affirmation.
“In the two seconds it took you to sound off, an enemy surface ship could have fired an ASROC-SN-12, which travels — at what speed? Wilkes?”
The planesman frowned, the glistening worry lines emphasized by the red glow. “Can’t say exactly, sir.”
“Ex?” Brentwood didn’t want to show any favorites.
“Eight hundred meters a second, sir,” answered Zeldman.
“Correct. Twice as fast as our best ASROC, gentlemen. And sixteen times faster than our torpedoes. Message received?”
“Loud and clear, sir,” said the Trim petty officer.
“Very well. Carry on, Ex.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
After Brentwood left control, there was a sigh of relief in the room, and Zeldman’s presence, though clearly felt, was more like that of an assistant coach — the big tension was off, which Brentwood could feel as he stepped out of the control room and which is what made him worried. The most difficult thing at sea on such long six-month patrols, was to keep the men on the razor’s edge. A second or two had always been important in war, but never so much as now.
“What’s bugging Bing?” Brentwood heard a seaman ask as he passed the galley, his antistatic moccasins moving noiselessly on the shiny spill of red light bouncing off the polished decks and bulkheads.
“His book’s probably out of print,” answered someone else, and Brentwood heard them laughing.
When he got to his cabin, the sonar operator was waiting outside apprehensively. Brentwood took off his cap, pulled the narrow green drapes across the cabin entrance, and waved the operator into his cabin. “Come in, Burns.”
“Yes, sir.”
Robert Brentwood yawned, excused himself, and motioned the seaman to a chair, but the seaman declined.
“You did well up there, Burns.”
“Thankyou, sir.”
Brentwood noticed the boy had a prominent Adam’s apple, just like his kid brother Ray. “But there’s something you did I don’t want you to repeat.”
“Sir?”
Brentwood pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, the tiredness in his eyes now more pronounced under the regular cabin lighting. “You hesitated on giving me two readings.’ Ah — something.’ I don’t want any ‘ah — somethings.’ It’s at least a second’s delay, and it could be enough for a target designation of us by an enemy sub. We’ve got enough acronyms — letters for symbols — as it is. Forget about ‘ah’—sounds like ‘R.’ “
“Yes, sir.”
“One more thing, Burns. What the heck you think we blew up? I would have expected more of a bang. I’ve heard forty-eights go off against targets. Usually make a lot more noise than that.”
“We might have hit fish, sir.”
Brentwood looked up. “Fish?”
“Yes, sir. The way I figure it — the ‘splash’ from Alfa we got could have been them ditching their catch — to get away.”
Brentwood sat back against the bulkhead, thinking about it. “When they heard our torpedoes?”
“Yes, sir. Coming in on their fish sonar — or Fathometers, as the Brits call them.”
“Okay, Burns. You can go. You did a good job.”
“Sorry about the slipup—”
“Just chalk it up,” said Brentwood. “We learn from the mistakes. Or we should.”
“Yes, sir.”
Robert Brentwood thought about it for a few seconds after Burns had left but then rang control.
“Yes, sir?” answered Zeldman.
“Pete? Why do they call me ‘Bing’?”
“Sir?”
“They call me Bing.”
“Don’t know, sir. Maybe you mentioned him once or twice.”
“I’m sure I didn’t. That woman at the admiralty party last time at Holy Loch — she asked — wait a minute, I asked you about this Bing character.”
“Ah, yes, sir, believe you did.”
“You son of a bitch, I’ll get you for this.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Carry on. Call me half an hour before our last — I mean our next scheduled BMV/TACAMO station.”
“Will do, Captain.”
Robert Brentwood lay back on his bunk, his gaze focusing on the Pacific Northwest calendar he’d taped up on the bulkhead showing a radiantly pink Mount Shasta, its volcanic cone rising majestically into the sky. Half the days were crossed out by black marker pen, the rest, after the “hump” of the patrol, in red. The book on Crosby should be at Marriage’s by now, waiting for him. Was there something wrong with Crosby — not liking women or something? He pulled out the store’s card as he couldn’t remember its address, but soon he was wondering about what he would do if Roosevelt didn’t receive a burst message from either land farm or TACAMO aerials. He might never see a book again. He loved reading — could never understand people who were retired saying they got bored. There was so much yet to do, so much to learn. It was something that became more and more apparent after a long six-month patrol around the Atlantic, and all the time on radio silence. One thing you realized was how people ashore took their luxuries for granted, everything from a daily newspaper, a TV or radio report that told them what was going on in the world, to their freedom to go and do as they pleased. On radio silence ever since they’d received the first few bursts alerting them to the fact that the United States was at war with the Soviets, they had no idea of the extent, and beyond the convoys, the intensity, of the war, and knew next to nothing about the titanic land battle that must now be under way in Europe. Unless it had already gone nuclear, which would explain why Roosevelt hadn’t received burst messages as scheduled in the last three listening slots.
He thought about the family, Lana, whether she and her husband had sorted things out, or had she gone ahead and joined the Waves? And he wondered if young David had been caught up in the war. But soon his sense of isolation that is the submariner’s lot in time of war gave way to concern about how he was going to fill out the required “firing report,” to explain to COMSUB-1 ANT — Commander Subatlantic Pacific — why he had just fired off two million dollars’ worth of the American taxpayers’ money. At fish. The truth was that sometimes, with all the electronic gadgetry, you still didn’t know — you had to make a judgment call. He hated doing the paperwork, but dutifully started. All the while, however, he was aware of a growing sense of unease. If he received no message on the next TACAMO station, it would be up to him — his decision and his alone whether or not to go to the “nuclear mode.” To attack his predesignated targets in the USSR might mean turning what probably up to now had been a more or less conventional war into a nuclear one. If so, would his men be ready? He believed they were. If he had to do it, speed and smooth operation would be everything before the enemy could get a fix on him.
He finished with his paperwork and lay down on the bunk, clipped on his Walkman earphones and, hands behind his head, thought of London and New York and the trips he’d thought of taking on the long furlough, as this time they would be in dry dock in Holy Loch for a new coat of anechoic paint. If Holy Loch was still there.
But something told him he would not be going to Holy Loch. Or was his natural sense of caution giving way to an uncharacteristic strain of morbidity at the end of the long war patrol? He closed his eyes and tried not to think about it, tried not to dwell on the fact that the Roosevelt alone carried more explosive power than all the wars in history combined. He switched off the lamp, his right foot tapping to the deep, authoritative lament of Johnny Cash and “Sunday mornin’ comin’ down.”