the ship. Henri, the quartermaster of the watch correctlyanticipated the order and its follow-on. He initiated the gong, gong, gong of the general alarm and announced over the 21MC, “Man battle stations!”
Brent ordered, “Torpedo Room, Conn. Make tubes one and two ready in all respects.”
Instantly, Brent knew he had made a mistake. The sound of water blown from WRT tank to the launchers deafened the sonar at the most critical moment. The background noise masked the torpedo’s running sounds. For what seemed an eternity the torpedo tube blow subsided forty seconds later.
“Bearing to torpedo, Sonar!”
“Two-eight-four, drawing left.”
Brent surmised correctly, They’re shooting at Utah.
Wanting to acquire a bearing and range to the attacking Soviet with a pulse from the ship’s sonar, Brent turned to Bostwick, and requested, “Permission to go active, Captain.”
Silence ensued.
Brent demanded, “Captain!”
Bostwick made a stern and well calculated reply, “Not granted.”
The sound of two distant explosions rattled Denver’s hull.
Brent pleaded, “Captain … for chrissake. Permission to go active and get the sons of bitches.”
“Not granted, Brent. It’s too late. Let’s not give ’em another aim point and another scalp for their belt.”
“Let me shoot down the bearing line, then.”
“No. They’re out of range and they can outrun anything we throw at them. Secure the tubes and save the bullets. We’re going to need them later.”
Anger surged through Brent’s chest but mostlyat himself. He knew the captain had itright. They had blown their first mission, but better not to make matters worse by striking out in stupid anger.
Get above the layer , Brent thought then said, “Chief, five degrees up bubble, make your depth six-zero feet.”
No response from Chief Cunningham as he sobbed uncontrollably. At that instant, sounds from a collapsing compartment in Utah rattled over the underwater telephone receiver speaker. The sinking Titan yielded to the sea and gave up the lives of Cunningham’s former shipmates.
Calmly, Brent ordered, “Henri, relieve the chief of the watch.”
The authoritative voice of the black quartermaster responded, “Aye, sir,” and then ordered the helmsman, “Full rise on the fairwaters, five up on the angle, smartlyto six-zero.”
“Messenger of the watch, call the chief’s relief,” Brent said. Then he put his arm about Cunningham’s shoulder and guided him to the ladder leading to the crew’s quarters.
Doing what he could, Brent tried to comfort the COB. “Chief, I can’t say I know how you feel. I’ve never been there. But I hurt for you, Chief, and for your buddies. I hurt goddamn bad.”
Captain Bostwick hunched his shoulders and with no expression showing on his face, walked to his stateroom.
The 21MC crackled, “Conn, Sonar. Distant suppressed cavitation bearing two-eight-five, range opening.”
The message described the distinct sound of an escaping submarine. Her work done the victorious Soviet sped off into the vastness of the Pacific Ocean.
Chapter 6
Eric Danis looked out his office window onto a magnificent view of the Mojave Desert. Though a seaman, the expanse and serenity of this intriguing land overwhelmed him. He made a mental note to find time to look into the many secrets that had attracted man to find an abode here over the past ten millenniums. He held a phone to his ear and heard the ring at the other end, twice, three times.
“Hello, Dave Zane speaking,” came a distant voice.
“Hello, yourself. Eric Danis, here.”
“I know that. I’d recognize that sandpaper voice anywhere. How are you, old buddy?”
The relief in Dave’s voice said much. His friend had survived. A custom of their generation precluded emotional pronouncements.
“Figured I’d find you at the Digs, Dave.”
“You figured right. If you believe
Brent ordered, “Torpedo Room, Conn. Make tubes one and two ready in all respects.”
Instantly, Brent knew he had made a mistake. The sound of water blown from WRT tank to the launchers deafened the sonar at the most critical moment. The background noise masked the torpedo’s running sounds. For what seemed an eternity the torpedo tube blow subsided forty seconds later.
“Bearing to torpedo, Sonar!”
“Two-eight-four, drawing left.”
Brent surmised correctly, They’re shooting at Utah.
Wanting to acquire a bearing and range to the attacking Soviet with a pulse from the ship’s sonar, Brent turned to Bostwick, and requested, “Permission to go active, Captain.”
Silence ensued.
Brent demanded, “Captain!”
Bostwick made a stern and well calculated reply, “Not granted.”
The sound of two distant explosions rattled Denver’s hull.
Brent pleaded, “Captain … for chrissake. Permission to go active and get the sons of bitches.”
“Not granted, Brent. It’s too late. Let’s not give ’em another aim point and another scalp for their belt.”
“Let me shoot down the bearing line, then.”
“No. They’re out of range and they can outrun anything we throw at them. Secure the tubes and save the bullets. We’re going to need them later.”
Anger surged through Brent’s chest but mostlyat himself. He knew the captain had itright. They had blown their first mission, but better not to make matters worse by striking out in stupid anger.
Get above the layer , Brent thought then said, “Chief, five degrees up bubble, make your depth six-zero feet.”
No response from Chief Cunningham as he sobbed uncontrollably. At that instant, sounds from a collapsing compartment in Utah rattled over the underwater telephone receiver speaker. The sinking Titan yielded to the sea and gave up the lives of Cunningham’s former shipmates.
Calmly, Brent ordered, “Henri, relieve the chief of the watch.”
The authoritative voice of the black quartermaster responded, “Aye, sir,” and then ordered the helmsman, “Full rise on the fairwaters, five up on the angle, smartlyto six-zero.”
“Messenger of the watch, call the chief’s relief,” Brent said. Then he put his arm about Cunningham’s shoulder and guided him to the ladder leading to the crew’s quarters.
Doing what he could, Brent tried to comfort the COB. “Chief, I can’t say I know how you feel. I’ve never been there. But I hurt for you, Chief, and for your buddies. I hurt goddamn bad.”
Captain Bostwick hunched his shoulders and with no expression showing on his face, walked to his stateroom.
The 21MC crackled, “Conn, Sonar. Distant suppressed cavitation bearing two-eight-five, range opening.”
The message described the distinct sound of an escaping submarine. Her work done the victorious Soviet sped off into the vastness of the Pacific Ocean.
Chapter 6
Eric Danis looked out his office window onto a magnificent view of the Mojave Desert. Though a seaman, the expanse and serenity of this intriguing land overwhelmed him. He made a mental note to find time to look into the many secrets that had attracted man to find an abode here over the past ten millenniums. He held a phone to his ear and heard the ring at the other end, twice, three times.
“Hello, Dave Zane speaking,” came a distant voice.
“Hello, yourself. Eric Danis, here.”
“I know that. I’d recognize that sandpaper voice anywhere. How are you, old buddy?”
The relief in Dave’s voice said much. His friend had survived. A custom of their generation precluded emotional pronouncements.
“Figured I’d find you at the Digs, Dave.”
“You figured right. If you believe