Calucci dispensed with any pretense of the normal pleasantries and immediately began the briefing. "Let's go over this one more time. SUBPAC is all over me to make sure you don't screw this up."
He idly knocked his large gold Naval Academy class-ring against the gleaming wood. It was a very unsubtle reminder that Hunter was not part of "the club" and Calucci fancied himself as part of the inner circle.
Calucci once again reviewed their mission, emphasizing, for the thousandth time, the need for absolute security. “We have to find out what is happening on that island. If the intel reports are even close, we are playing with fire.”
Hunter nodded and watched the Commodore as he ranted on.
“I don’t mind telling you, you and your crew are certainly not my first choice for this run. If I had anyone else, I would send them. But you’re it.”
He fairly growled as he said, “Just the hint of this op getting out and I’ll fry you all. There are security leaks all over this island. That’s why only you, my ops officer, and I know anything about it. If word of this gets out, you caused the leak.”
Underway from Pearl Harbor was set for 0100 with no prior notice. There would be no radio traffic to minimize prying eyes seeing the operation and to allow SAN FRANCISCO to be submerged and well away from the islands before dawn discovered her empty berth.
Calucci had no new information, only a rehash of what they all knew. The meeting was mercifully concluded.
Hunter and Fagan rose to leave. Calucci chose not to walk out with them or to wish them luck. Hunter could feel Calucci's baleful eyes burning into his back as he strode out of the office.
As they walked back toward the boat, Bill Fagan was trying to figure out all the millions of details of trying to get SAN FRANCISCO to sea without being discovered. The one thing that he just couldn't answer was the need for tugs. He rubbed the late afternoon bristle on his chin.
With a 0100 underway, they would need the tugs tied up alongside by at least 0015, to allow time for main engine warm-up. They needed to use them for the underway, but arranging for them was a dead give away. How were they going to get around this?
SAN FRANCISCO’s huge main turbines needed to be carefully brought up to operating temperature before they were ready to push the big sub through the water. Much like a turkey slowly roasting on a spit, they were turned as they were heated by steam from the reactor until they were thoroughly and evenly warmed. Failure to successfully complete this delicate procedure could result in the turbine blades hitting the casing and sending deadly shrapnel around the engine-room. The problem, though, was that her engines were so powerful, if she was not restrained by the combined power of the tugs; she could rip the bollards out of the pier or snap the doubled Kevlar mooring lines during the delicate main engine warm-up. Older classes of submarines had a clutch installed that allowed for disconnecting the shaft and screw from the main engines, but they lacked the immense power of the LOS ANGELES class. A clutch powerful enough to withstand her tremendous torque would not fit within the confines of her hull, so the decision had been made to forgo the convenience.
"What is it, XO," Hunter asked. "I hear the gears grinding."
"Tugs, Skipper".
Hunter hesitated, nodded, slowly rubbed his chin, and then said, “Let’s do this without tugs. We can’t afford to announce our underway, particularly in the middle of the night. You’ve listened on harbor common before."
Both knew that anyone with a marine-band radio within twenty miles would know everything happening inside the harbor by listening to all the radio racket.
They rounded the corner of the headquarters building and walked down the waterfront, past the piers that were temporary homes to SAN FRANCISCO's sisters. Most of the berths were empty. The few boats left from the repeated fleet down-sizing’s of the last decade were out on missions.
"OK, Skipper, what are you thinking?" Fagan asked.
"Well, Bill, look at it as innovative ship handling. Let's do it the way the whaling ships did, capstan and lines.”
Fagan flinched, “But, Skipper, that's never been done on an LA class before. And those whaling ships didn’t have a sonar dome to worry about." He didn't need to add how much was at risk if they drove the sonar dome into the pier.
Hunter responded, “We’ve never been bothered by the fact something hasn’t been done on a LOS ANGELES class before. Besides, we have the outboard.”
Hunter referred to a small retractable and trainable electric motor mounted in SAN FRANCISCO's aft ballast tanks, used to swing the stern around or for emergency propulsion if the main engines failed.
They stopped and sat for a few minutes on a picnic table under the palm trees behind the SUBASE theatre. SAN FRANCISCO lay just a few yards away, attended by scores of scurrying sailors. But here was a small, quiet oasis away from the hustle and bustle. The perfume wafting from the dense growth of plumeria behind the old SUBASE Officer's Club enveloped them with the peace of a warm Hawaiian evening.
Taking a scrap of paper out of his pocket, Hunter began to draw, “We’ll use simple vector arithmetic….
LCDR Fagan wasn't entirely convinced but took the scrap of paper and said, “OK, Skipper, I’ll brief the line-handlers and put some of the SEALs on the piers to take in the lines."
He didn't need to add how ticklish he felt this idea was. If the boat slid even a couple of feet forward by too strong a pull on the capstan, she would hit the coral and damage the
