“At one-five-zero, ahead one-third,” Lt Miller reported. “Clearing baffles to the right.”
Hunter nodded and answered, “Very well, Weps. We need to be up to copy the 0430 Zulu broadcast. You’ve got five minutes. Let’s ventilate for thirty minutes while we are up. We could use a little fresh air.”
SAN FRANCISCO swung around to the right so that the sonar dome in the submarine’s bow could look back behind where the boat had been, making sure that no ship was hidden there. Hunter bent over the sonar screen, watching as the previously baffled sector came slowly into view. Nothing appeared on the screen.
“Conn, sonar, completed baffle clear,” Master Chief Holmstad’s voice boomed from the speaker. “No new contacts. Currently hold one contact, Sierra Two-Two, currently bearing three-zero-four.”
“Captain,” Miller called out. “Hold one sonar contact, Sierra Two-Two, NEBRASKA. Request permission to proceed to periscope depth to copy the 0430 broadcast.”
“Proceed to periscope depth,” Hunter ordered.
Miller reached up into the overhead and grabbed the large red ring that circled the number two scope. “Raising number two scope,” he called as he rotated the ring.
“Speed five,” the Diving Officer called out, verifying that SAN FRANCISCO was going slow enough to raise the periscope.
As the periscope smoothly slid upward, Miller squatted down, waiting for the eyepiece to rise out of the deck. “Dive, make your depth six-two feet,” he called out.
“Make my depth six-two feet, Aye,” the Diving Officer answered. “Proceeding to periscope depth.”
The control room fell silent. Everyone’s attention was riveted on Miller as he rose with the scope eyepiece. He slapped the handles down and glued an eye to the eyepiece. With any sign of a ship above, either from Miller seeing it or from the sonar, the crew had to instantly respond to get them back down to the safety of the depths.
The submarine slowly rose upward until the periscope broke through the surface into late evening sky.
Miller danced the scope around in a complete circle, peering out in search of any shape that might be a ship bearing down on them. He saw only the Pacific swells illuminated by a full moon shining down from above and the last glimmers of the sun disappearing below the Western horizon.
“No close contacts.”
Everyone could relax and breathe again.
“Chief of the Watch, raise number two BRA-34,” Miller called out.
The Chief of the Watch reached up on the panel of switches, gauges, and indicator lights in front of him and flipped up on a small toggle switch. “Number two BRA-34 coming up.”
The 21MC speaker blared out, “Conn, Radio, in synch on the broadcast.”
Miller glanced over at the ballast control panel, where the Chief of the Watch controlled hydraulic, air and trim systems throughout the sub. A small section of the panel was devoted to controlling the various masts that filled the sail above them.
“Chief of the Watch, prepare to ventilate the ship,” Miller called out.
The Chief grabbed the 1MC microphone and called out, “Prepare to ventilate.”
Crewmen on-watch around the boat moved to align dampers and fans in the ventilation system so that new air could be drawn from outside and old air exhausted overboard.
“Raise the snorkel mast,” Miller ordered.
“Snorkel mast coming up,” the Chief of the Watch called out as he flipped the toggle switch that pushed the big mast up.
“Torpedo in the water!” The startling announcement came out of the blue, the 21MC reverberating with the information. Someone had shot at them.
Lieutenant Miller reacted automatically. “Torpedo evasion, ahead flank!” He yelled out. “Make your depth six hundred feet! Snapshot, tube two!”
The crew jumped into action. They had to out-maneuver or out-run the incoming torpedo and shoot back. It was the only way to stay alive.
“Torpedo bearing three-one-two!”
Hunter stomped up on the periscope stand and, in a commanding voice, ordered, “All stop. Make your depth four two feet.”
The fairwater planes slapped the surface as the boat bobbed upward until the main deck was awash.
“Torpedo bearing three-one-two!”
Fagan called from across the room at the fire control system, “Solution ready on bearing of incoming torpedo; weapon ready, tube two.”
Hunter ordered, his voice flat and dry, “Shoot tube two.”
A slamming, whooshing noise rushed up from the torpedo room. An ADCAP torpedo flushed out of tube two and raced off toward its target.
“In-coming torpedo bearing three-one-two,” Holmstad called out. “Own ship’s weapon running normal.”
Hunter whispered so that no one but the young lieutenant could hear, “Mr. Miller, you had masts and antennas up that would have been bent over with that little maneuver. I know it’s difficult, but in the future please try very hard to keep your head out of your ass.”
“But Skipper,” Miller pleaded, “We had an incoming weapon. We had to evade.”
“You’re supposed to be the Weapons Officer,” Hunter answered. “What are the chances of out running an ADCAP torpedo with the alertment we had?”
“Probably none, sir,” Miller answered sheepishly.
“Then we have to out-smart it,” Hunter continued. “NEBRASKA thought they were shooting at a submerged nuclear submarine. They know the standard evasion tactic as well as we do. They expected us to go deep and run. What they got instead was a surface ship stopped in the middle of the ocean.”
Miller’s face brightened as he understood what Hunter was teaching him, “Of course! He would shoot with Doppler Enable in and submerged settings. The torpedo wouldn’t even look at a zero knot target on the surface.”
“Conn, sonar, incoming weapon passed underneath and is opening. It missed. NEBRASKA is speeding up. Sounds like she is going to flank.”
The torpedo launch control operator called out, “Detect! Detect! Acquisition!”
“Own ship weapon speeding up. We got a hit!”
4
21 Jan 2000, 1640LT (0440Z)
Tommy Clark stood on the rusty steel deck and watched as the Motor Vessel Sabinyama slowly inched away from the pier and headed
