Twenty Minute Wars: CBG Seven
by Michael G. Crawford
"Sorry to put you to this trouble, Sir..." began Dr. Sustance obviously remembering his protocol well,
"...but we thought we had some information that might be of use to you. We noticed you were making pretty decent headway..." This was spoken with some admiration, the Skipper noted,
"...and we suspect we know the reason. You see...well Adam and I just had a very near brush with a submarine. Obviously our friend didn't survive the experience."
The bridge crew turned and mouths dropped as the former naval officer gave a complete and concise report of their "sighting" of the sub. It was an unbelievable story just in the fact of the sighting, but to have almost reached out and touched it was akin to the biggest fishing lie ever told. But the grimness of the death of their teammate was etched in each of their countenances and no-one doubted their veracity. Leastwise the Skipper.
"Incredible gentleman. I am speechless. I'm sorry you paid for your information with your friends life, but you have done us a great service. Please accept my deepest regrets as well as my thanks. If you wish, the U.S Navy will bury him at sea with full honors."
After a few moments of reflection both men shook their heads. They would take him back to his family.
"I am also sorry that I can't just leave the discussion of the sub, yet. I must investigate every aspect of the incident. You see, what makes your story the more believable is your description of the ultra slow speed, the motionless twin screws of the sub, and the thrumming sound."
"As I am sure you can understand, we have a small obsession with this particular submarine. We have been tracking a Soviet built Alfa class sub through the territorial waters of the Ivory Coast. You two are witnesses to the fact of the boat's trespass. You may very well save my ass if the bastard tries to bluff his way out of his predicament. Also, I am now responsible for your lives. If you would consider staying with us for a bit, answering a few more questions, I can see to it that you get a fast helicopter ride over to the mainland as soon as we are in a better position."
"That would be greatly appreciated" spoke the other Dr., his deep raspy baritone filling the bridge. "I am not a coward..." he continued, "...but I do not desire to be in a combat zone. I want to get back home and console Mrs. Chang and her family. And there are other things...well that won't interest you."
"I understand, Dr. Jackson. We won't keep you very long. In fact, I am sure I can help you in that goal. You can make your report right here, and I will forward it to the proper authority. In fact, our boson here..." said the Skipper as he motioned to the young man ready to write down every word, "...will type up your statements, and then you can sign them. If you could also take a few minutes to go over any of the details you can remember about the sub, our Exec will take notes on that. By that time, the helicopter will be ready to lift you over to Fresco."
"That sounds fine" replied Adam, and he and Terry followed the Exec through a bulkhead door into the wardroom just behind the bridge. The noise level on the bridge picked up after the two men were gone, as the men, amazed at the tale of almost touching a submarine while scuba diving, murmured amongst themselves.
"Okay, enough of that" said Ben after a few minutes, letting them get it out of their systems. It would be topic for discussion for months on the Nicholson, another Navy legend having been born.
"God" he whispered to himself as he too mulled over the feelings of the two men. And like his crew, he too wished he could have been there. Been able to reach out and touch his prey.
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2 miles to the West and just at the 5 mile limit, the Houston strolled through the depths, using her Subterranean Following Sonar (SFS) to skirt over the craggy bottom of the coastline, at near 600 feet. This sonar was a recent addition to the Houston's arsenal of underwater sensors. It operated using Extremely Low Amplitude Sonar or ELAS pulses which were barely detectable at more than half a mile from the sub. Since the signals were usable at only a short range, the Houston would not move faster than 5 knots while using the SFS system.
So there they were, trolling along as Captain Ray Planett fidgeted nervously in the Command Center of the huge Los Angeles Class Nuclear Powered attack submarine, or SSN by US submarine classification. He fingered his film badge unconciously as he waited for more information on their prey.
They normally didn't bother traveling this quiet, nor did they bother going this slow. But every so often they would pick up a trace of another submarine as it snuck along the coast line. To get a better fix on the sub's position, they would shut down the SFS gear and coast along listening for it. Unfortunately they usually lost the sound as it dropped behind the invisible wall of some shallow depth temperature inversion layer. Or perhaps the other sub's skipper also stopped his boat.
Ray thought to himself, "Whatever the reason, the whole process is downright frustrating". He wasn't exactly a novice at submarines, having served for 15 years aboard the Navy's best boats, under some of the best Skippers. But this was only his second year on the Houston, and he still hadn't grown used to the boat's size or its mission.
As far as getting used to the boat, he figured the real problem was that he had too much room to move around; too much room to pace. He had served on the namesake of the Los Angeles class boats for three years. Before that he had been the Skipper of a Sturgeon class boat, the U.S.S. Hawkbill, one of the quietest subs built before the Los Angeles.
Although built in the late 1970's, the Hawkbill still hadn't had a lot of room inside. The switch to the Los Angeles had been almost comic. On the first long, stressful crisis, he had started his pacing. Suddenly he awoke to the fact that the crew in the command center was watching him with nervous glances. Then he realized the cause. He had been walking tight little circles in the immense space of the LA's command center, as if he was in the command center of the Hawkbill It was like a dog chasing its tail.
Now of course he made the longer trip, still retaining the pacing habit, even if having modified it somewhat. His crew had adjusted long ago to this pacing, as they knew it was the Skipper's way of burning off excess energy during the hunt. Some of the chiefs even kidded him behind his back; they said he was a tiger on the decks, pacing in his cage, waiting for the door to open so he could spring.
He was nervous now because of that other boat. The Houston mission was to patrol the Atlantic and either force trespassing submarines to the surface, or at a minimum track and document the trespass. This service was performed only by request of a nation which had no underwater forces of their own, or their forces didn't have the technology required to intercept the trespasser. Not only was it a strategic necessity to provide this service but the duty served as practice and a means to prove their abilities against their opponents. And of course it was a political necessity as well.
In this case, they had trailed their foe almost the entire length of the Ivory Coast. They were just now beginning to close in and tighten up the net the U.S.S. Nicholson and her sister ship the U.S.S. Scott were forming on the surface. Soon the target sub would be snared between the two surface vessels, being pinged mercilessly by sonar from the two surface ships.
In the effort to evade, their prey would turn toward their only escape, and just when they thought they had made good their escape, they would hear the Houston's sonar pulse and the gap would be closed. The enemy boat would then be limited to three choices: surface and surrender, thus admiting their incursion into unwelcome waters; turn back inland in a hopeless move to escape, or stand and try to fight her way out.
Ray was not spoiling for a fight, but he was intent upon putting the pressure on. Everyone aboard the Houston knew that this cat and mouse exercise was not a game, it was a way of policing the waters of their ally, and served to point out the U.S.'s underwater superiority. It also served to underline Africa's vulnerability to the three minute attack, a fact which might help bolster the U.S. influence in the area.
And he had to keep his men ready for battle. The other boat's Skipper was, after all, a human too. He might fear for the safety of his crew and boat, and decide to fight his way out. He could take out at least one of the surface vessels, not to mention the Houston, all in an attempt to clear his path. This was the danger; the thrill of the hunt that had him pacing.
"All Stop, secure SFS. Anything, Denny?"
The sonar/hydrophone man listening intently while studying the computer enhanced display in front of him, trying to get a fix on the quiet pulsing of the MHD drive on the Alfa sub.
"I'm not getting it now, Sir. He may be coasting."
Turning to his Exec, he said, "Ralphie. Whatta' ya' think. Is he lyin' there, waiting for us to telegraph our position?"
"Could be, Boss. You know, he's not a fool. He's been pumpin' along, then stopping to listen. Then cycling right back up again. If he hasn't heard us, then something else has him pretty concerned. I'd bet that he's heard the Nicholson. And whatta- ya' wanna' bet the Nicholson has him positioned already?"
"Well, it could be, could be. Childers is good, and the TACTAS towed sonar array makes him even better. If we can pick up the sub using our gear, imagine what a towed array like SQR-19 can do. But I don't know. I have to admit, this baby is playing it pretty sweet." After a moment's thought the Captain continued, "Ok, I agree with you. I think our prey is running from the Nicholson, not us. The only reason for running from us is if he heard the SFS. The chances that we piped the SFS over to him through a temperature vent are pretty small..." Ray held his two hands in parallel to demonstrate how two layers of largely different temperature could form a tunnel or vent through which underwater sound waves would travel.
"Anyway, if even if he heard the SFS, he probably wouldn't know what the sound is. Of course it just might make him suspicious though, he won't think it's whalesong" finished Ray.
"Yeah, well. Uhh...if I'd caught a whiff of us, I'd be making for deep water, I wouldn't still be screwin' around in, uhh...'no-no-land'".
"Hmmm" was Ray's only answer, as he thought about it some more. Sure enough he awakened to the fact he was pacing the circle. "Gotta' quit that" he said quietly, getting a grin from his Exec who had watched the entire ritual start up again.
"Definite MHD Pulsor, bearing two-niner-five. Estimate 3 to 4 knots, Skipper."
"Damn! he's at it again." Ray sat and wondered for the fifth time whether he would chance firing up the nuke and pulling in closer. With a speed even slightly better than their current 4 knots they could run right up next to him. Or they could choose to continue to lay back at a lesser speed, reducing the chances of detection. He elected to hide for a while longer, but was getting tired of playing bashful.