Automatically, his nautical mind took in the angle of the carrier. The stern of the
Kitty Hawk
was only partially visible. He could see more of the bow. That angle meant the carrier was closing the distance to the
Dale
, if only at a slow approach. Another F-4 Phantom catapulted off the carrier, the loud noise of its jet engines filling the bridge. Meant the wind was blowing toward them from the
Kitty Hawk
. Launching aircraft also meant the carrier had steadied up on its new course.
MacDonald glanced at the compass. Wind was coming from the north-northeast.
“Mr. Goldstein! Has the carrier completed its course change?”
Navy Red mounted over the angled windows of the bridge burst into life. “All ships, this is Alpha Xray; Corpen Romeo two-zero-zero.”
Instinctively, MacDonald translated the broadcast. It was the
Kitty Hawk
announcing a course changeâ“Corpen Romeo” to two-zero-zero true.
“Belay my last, Mr. Goldstein.”
He looked at the compass on the stand near his seat.
Dale
was on course two-one-zero. They should be safe, unless Goldstein screwed up and did a port turn.
“Make sure she isn't going to run us over, please, Mr. Goldstein. And I'm still waiting for a course to get us out of here.” Then he mumbled, “And that course should take us away from this decreasing range to the
Kitty Hawk
.”
The synchronization stopped and was replaced by a steady static, punctuated with a clear voice when someone on the other end pressed the “push to talk” button. Then several voices exchanged communication checks with one another.
God,
MacDonald thought,
grant me the serenity to understand why radiomen believe they have to check every circuit just when everyone needs to use it.
Nearly a minute passed before the ships, including the
Dale
, finished with the communication checks.
When the circuit seemed to pause between transmissions, MacDonald pressed the “push to talk” button on the red handset and called for Admiral Green. Several seconds passed before the admiral came on the circuit. His deep New Hampshire accent, ending even statements as if they were questions, identified the man without Green ever having to say his name.
MacDonald smiled when he heard the accent. Worst kept secret in the fleet was Green's nighttime attempts to find watches less than alert. The admiral would call a ship and pretend to be someone else. Green confided to MacDonald that this was the way to truly discover how ready a battle group was. A little operational deception, a feint here and jab there, and you had a real picture of battle group preparedness.
It also only takes a strong accent to identify who's on the other line, regardless of what he calls himself. So everyone played along, but called their skipper as soon as the admiral's voice was recognized.
Yesterday, his XO, Joe Tucker, had told him of a radio transmission to the CIC watch officer by Green pretending to be a chief petty officer. “Joe Tucker,” MacDonald said aloud. The name “Joe Tucker” rolled easily off his tongue. Few ever called the XO “Joe.” Peers and seniors alike referred to him as “Joe Tucker,” as if it was one word. MacDonald chuckled over the thought.
“Skipper, this is Admiral Green. You got my orders, why haven't you changed course?”
“Sir, we were waiting for assignment of the other units to the SAG.”
“What other units, Commander MacDonald? There are no other units. You are a one-ship SAG. Your job is to get out there and keep that goddamn Soviet submarine submerged and away from my battle group.”
MacDonald reached down and pushed the mute button. Green's voice was still in his ear, but the admiral could not hear him. “Officer of the Deck, bring us onto course two-two-zero and bring our speed up to twelve knots.”
“Aye, sir,” Goldstein replied.
Behind him, MacDonald heard the scurry of activity as Goldstein relayed the commands to change course and speed and the navigation team started recalculating the distances to the other ships.
MacDonald returned to the voice on the other end.
“You got all that?” Green asked.
MacDonald unlocked the mute button. “Aye, sir. We are heading toward the datum, even as we speak.”
“Don't kid me, Danny. If I hadn't chewed your ass, you'd still be steaming along placidly like another sheep in the herd waiting for someone to tell you to do it. You haven't become one of those rear-echelon desk jockeys, have you? So cautious you're waiting for your navi-guessers to come up with a safe course out of the battle group. I thought by now I would have taught you to act first and worry about the ankle bitersâ”
“Like safety?”
“Danny, don't get smart-ass with me,” Green replied with a chuckle. “Don't forget I'm the admiral and I know what is going on. You're just a kid-commander listening at the knee of your mentorâthat's me”
MacDonald smiled. Even when Green was chewing your ass, you had to remember that he was one of the few officers still on active duty wearing World War II ribbons and medals. “Aye, sir. And I appreciate your direction.”
“Danny, one day someone is going to gangster-slap the shit out of you.”
MacDonald nodded and felt his face blush. “Sorry, Admiral.”
Green laughed. “It's too late, Danny me boy. If you want to get off my shit list, bring me the side number of that Soviet submarine. I've always wanted a photograph of one of these Soviet nukes for my office wall.”
“I will try my best, sir. But if I follow your orders to keep it submerged, that's going to be hard to do.”
“Skipper, that's not my worry.”
“Are we sure it's a Soviet submarine?”
“Well, here's the reasoning of an old sailor, Danny. First, the tattletale has to be targeting. Second, the tattletale is Soviet. Third, there are no threat surface units in the area. And, fourth, we'd already know if Soviet Bears were airborne and heading this way. Fifth, the Chinese submarines are afraid to leave the shadow of their coast. And, most important, the Willy Victor has a visual on her. Ergo . . .”
MacDonald imagined the admiral raising a slim finger into the air when he wanted to make a point. He had seen that finger raised too many times to count, when Green was the chief of staff for Commander in Chief U.S. Pacific Fleet back in Pearl. Only a couple of years ago, but it seemed as if it was only yesterday.
“. . . It is a Soviet submarine.”
“Are we sure going southwest is the right direction?”
“Soviet tactics is for the tattletale to be aligned with the inbound missiles. If they fly over the head of that fucking Kashin, then they'll hit the
Kitty Hawk
. Do you know how pissed off I'm going to be if I have my afternoon coffee upset by a missile hit?”
Not too much, if your coffee is like the cup sitting here.
“Very much so, sir.”
“Of course you do, Skipper. Besides, I'm sending the
Gearing
out on a reciprocal course to the northwest just in case the Soviets start doing something unusual like being innovative.”
The USS
Dale
tilted slightly as the destroyer turned starboard off the base course to the new one. MacDonald looked up at the OOD, raised his finger, and made circles in the air.
“If he's out there, we'll find him.”
“There is no doubt in my military mind that you will, Danny. So go get the son of a bitch and scare the shit out of him. And, Danny . . . stay with him until you can force him up or you lose him.”
“If he's out there, we'll find him,” MacDonald repeated.
“Sounds to me like déjà vu, Danny. Listen! I'm going to let you go. Don't let an old sailor down.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” MacDonald replied, knowing Green would stay on the line longer, hoping to hear some inadvertent comment.
“Right full rudder!” Goldstein shouted.
“The
Dale
never loses a contact.”
There was slight laughter on the other end. “Just like you to never put me on mute and order a course change, Skipper. What was that? The OOD not put enough rudder on?”
“Sir, you are a psychic.”
“No, I'm just a destroyer sailor who has been there, done that, and envies you this opportunity.”
“We'll get him, if he's still out there.”
“That's the spirit. Wish I could afford another ship or two to help, but our mission is to get the
Kitty Hawk
off Vietnam as soon as possible. We still have a port call in Olongapo for a brief fueling stop and to pick up the
Tripoli
and her cargo of angry, fire-breathing marines. Operation Beacon Torch could be the turning point in this war.”
“I know the crew is looking forward to the port call.” Every Pacific Fleet sailor knew the joys of this Philippine town where the U.S. Navy had its largest Asian port.
“My EA has just handed me a note. Seems you're at twelve knots. Isn't that a little fast for the sonar to work?” the admiral asked, referring the capability of the sonar to work passively in detecting noise in the water.
“We'll slow down a couple of knots once we are over the horizon.”
“Probably one of these Echo class submarines.”
“Shaddock missile,” MacDonald offered.
“Shaddock missile,” Green concurred. “Wait one!”
A few seconds later, Green was back on the circuit. “VQ- 1's visual on the submarine identified it as an Echo class. A formation of Phantoms on combat air-patrol point overflew the submarine. I am sending them back to orbit the area on the off chance the clappers the Willy Victor dropped worked. If I were a submarine skipper, I'd want to surface as soon as I could and pull them off my hull.”
The ship's intercom blasted across the bridge. “OOD, is the skipper up there?”
“Admiral, we are getting the data over NTDS, sir,” MacDonald continued, ignoring the voice box.
“I'm letting you go, Danny. Go get the bastard.”
“We will.”
“One last thing: Don't fire on him. We don't want a war started out here with the Soviets. Let's finish one war at a time.”
MacDonald slipped the handset into the cradle after bidding Green good-bye. He should have an hour or so before the old man called back wanting to know his status. He leaned forward, pushed the CIC button on the 12MC console. “Combat, Skipper.”
“Combat here, Skipper.”
“Have you set the blue gold watch?”
“We have the gold antisubmarine team on their way to station, sir.”
“Good. Does Sonar have any contact-convergence zone, etc.?”
“No, sir. Too much noise from our battle group.”
“Repeat the contact information for the bridge, if you would, Lieutenant Burnham.”
“VQ-1 reports its visual as an Echo class submarine on the surface. Bears two-one-zero degrees distance, two hundred nautical miles.”
“OOD, you get that?” MacDonald asked.
“Aye, sir. Right ten-degree rudder, steady up on course two-one-zero,” Lieutenant Goldstein sang out.
“Keep me appraised,” MacDonald said, leaning back in his chair, watching the bow of the
Dale
cut through the light waves of the South China Sea, listening to the repeats from the helm as Mr. Goldstein attempted to steady up on the new course. Two hundred nautical miles. Good thing they had topped off from the
Mispillion
yesterday. He looked out the port-side door. The
Kitty Hawk
was sliding left. Meant they were opening up distance between them.
“Steady on course two-one-zero!” the helmsman reported.
MacDonald felt the tilt of the ship right itself. Two hundred miles meant the
Dale
would be late in arriving in Olongapo. That was enough for his crew to want to sink the submarine; a day lost in Olongapo was a day lost in paradise.
One day the United States and the Soviets were going to stare each other eyeball-to-eyeball and neither was going to blink. What would happen then? he wondered.
Since 1962, when America backed them down over the missiles in Cuba, the Soviet Navy had become more and more confrontational. Cutting across their bows to force American ships to maneuver and avoid collisions had been a common theme when the
Dale
was in the Mediterranean last year. Yeah, no doubt about it. One of these days there was going to be an incident at sea, and then America was going to have to kick some serious Soviet Navy butt. The sooner they did it, the better the outcome would be. MacDonald wanted to fight them now instead of leaving it to his children or his children's children to have to do it.
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“LIEUTENANT,”
Chief Caldwell said, handing a message board to Burnham.
Burnham glanced at the radar repeater, then at the naval tactical data system screen, double-checking how the blips on the radar compared with the NTDS. The ship had been outfitted with NTDS during the last upkeep period. There was something about those comfortable with the old technology that made them suspect of the new.
“What is it, Chief?” Burnham asked as he took the board.
“Sir! Do you want us to set up a time-motion analysisâ?”
“What do you think, Ensign?” Burnham said over his shoulder to young Hatfield, his voice betraying the boredom he'd found after joining the navy to avoid the draft. “Are you going to wait until the team is set and then prepare for it? Probably a good idea, but we can't do a damn thing until Sonar has contact, and we won't have that until we slow down to under twelve knots.”
“The EC-121 reconnaissance aircraft gave us a datum on the submarine,” Hatfield replied enthusiastically.