Free D. M. Ulmer 01 - Silent Battleground by D. M. Ulmer Page A

periscope depth.  Should be pretty bright now.  At least we’ll get a weather observation outta this.”
    “Aye, sir,” and then pressing the 21MC button said, “Sonar, search around, report all contacts.”
    The sonarman responded, “No contacts, sir.   Just the rumbling.”
    Brent ordered the helmsman, “Ahead two-thirds,” and then to Cunningham, “Chief, make your depth one-five-zero feet smartly.”
    He turned to the quartermaster of the watch and said, “Henri, based on the last look, give me a good heading away from the troughs.”  This measure minimized obscuring the periscope upper optics from wave action.
    “Recommend come left to zero-seven-five,” came Henri’s crisp reply.  This heading also assured best possible depth control near the surface.
    “Level one-five-zero, sir,” reported Cunningham.
    “Sonar, Conn, coming left to zero-seven-five.  Check the baffles,”
    Denver’s main sonar, the spherical array of the AN/BQQ-5 baffles, being mounted forward created a blind spot by the submarine hull.  Turning the ship permitted sonarmen to detect possible contacts being masked by the baffles.
    Sonar responded, “Baffles.  Conn, Sonar, aye,” and a minute later, “Baffles clear.”
    Double clicking the 21MC, Brent signaled he heard and understood the report.  “Six-three feet smartly, Chief,” Brent ordered.
    “Six-three smartly, aye, sir.”
    “Very well, Chief, mark at seventy and every two thereafter.”
    “Seventy, and the twos, aye.”
    Brent ordered, “Up two for a look around.”
    Henri reported, “Two coming up, sir.”  As the periscope cleared the well, he flipped the handles to the down position, rotated the optics to low power with the right handle and elevated the optics to full high with the left.
    Brent fastened his eye to the scope and at once saw florescent plankton speed by the periscope head window.  He rotated the scope rapidly for visual contact with the bottom of possible undetected surface ships that might be close aboard.
    Cunningham called out, “Seven-two feet, seven-zero, six-eight.”
    Brent shouted, “Scope clear,” as the optics broke the ocean surface.  “Swinging around in low power.  Nothing close.  Raise the BRA 34.”  Training the scope aft, Brent observed the large antenna break the surface and extend to full length.  “Henri, tell Radio the 34 is clear.  Monitor all VLF and HF band signals.”
    Radio responded to the order relayed by Henri, “Radio, aye.  Our ears are on.”
    A minute slipped by and the 21MC crackled again.  “No joy in Radio, Conn.”
    “Well, Brent, looks like no war today,” the captain smirked.  “I’m going below and get some—”
    The 21MC prevented Bostwick from finishing his sentence.
    Ashrill and panicked voice cried out, “Captain to Radio on the double!” 
    No one ordered the captain anywhere and never on the double.  As he hurriedto the radio shack, he snarled, “This better be damned important.”
    A short while later, Bostwick returned to the Attack Center, his face ashen.  “Men, we’re about to change our spots from peacetime sailor to full-time warrior.  We’ve been attacked by the Soviets.  Good luck to us all.  We’re going to need it.”
    Brent wondered if the other men had detected Bostwick’s lack of conviction.  He was not eager to follow this captain into combat.
     
     

Chapter 5
     
    Dave Zane and Bea loved their rustic familyretreat that sat on a cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean from Washington’s magnificent Olympic Peninsula.  The simple, functional, cozy structure included a kitchen and dining-familyroom combination with a large ocean view window.  A nearby cliff looked down fifty feet onto a stretch of sandy beach strewn with large boulders deposited there during the ice age.  A rugged switchback trail provided access to the beach for the stout of heart.
    Dave built most of the house himself, but his wife Dale drew the line and brought in professionals