801 T.T.S. Airbats Fan Fiction ❯ Japanese Bat, American Eagle, North Korean Dragon ❯ Diesel boats to war ( Chapter 4 )

PEARL HARBOR, HI

25 Apr, 2005 0800hrs local

COMSUBPAC

 

Eight submarine captains and their executive officers were seated around a conference table. At the head of the table sat the Pacific Ocean's top submariner, Commander, Submarine Forces, Pacific Fleet, Rear Admiral Brandhu. He looked at the skippers of Subron 15. Even in the presence of the COMSUBPAC, fourteen of these officers looked every inch diesel boat drivers. “Gentlemen,” RADM Brandhu said, “I'm thankful that you came this morning. As you well know, two days ago war was declared against North Korea. Because of the mission, I wanted only diesel boats in there. And that means you. Your orders are already on your boats; they are to be opened upon passing Midway Island. Good luck and good hunting.” The officers stood, saluted COMSUBPAC and left the conference room.

 

USS BOWFIN

Balao-II class Fleet Submarine

 

LCDR Doug Roberts and his XO, Lt. Martin Pascal, stepped aboard their boat, the USS Bowfin. “Ensign Pulver,” Roberts called, “make ready to get underway.”

“Aye, sir,” the ensign replied. He picked up the 21-mc. “Engine room, stand by to answer bells.”

“Engine room, aye.” The intercom clicked shut, and the twin turbodiesel engines rumbled to life. The shore power line was disconnected and hauled out of the engine room hatch.

“Take us out, Mr. Pulver.”

“Aye sir.” Pulver called down the hatch to the control room. “Stand by.” He picked up an ancient megaphone, and looked towards the bow of the ship. “Cast off all lines forward,” he called. As the bow lines were tossed to the Tang, Pulver called aft. “Cast off all lines aft.” He called down to the control room “All back one-third.” The boat pulled out of her assigned mooring. “Right standard rudder,” he called down. The boat began to turn, aided not only by the rudder but the bow thruster as well.

Commander Roberts took over the conn, and navigated their way out from the sub piers towards the entrance towards the harbor entrance. He looked aft and saw the Tang, Harder, Archerfish, Wahoo, Ling, Squalus, Growler, and Ohio backing away from their moorings. As the boat cleared harbor mouth, and into the swells of the Pacific, Roberts picked up the 21-mc. “All hands, set surface watch.” He called down to the control room. “All ahead full. Maintain this course for two hours, then come to new course 285 degrees.”

Roberts looked around at his command. The teak main deck was still reddish in color; it hadn't been weathered by sun and sea yet. His gunners mates, among the first in the submarine service since the end of World War II were making sure that the Bowfin's potent surface armament, her 5” deck gun was in working order. A P-3 flew by, Roberts and the deck crew waved at it; the pilot of the sub hunter waggled his wings in reply.

Roberts looked aft, and saw that his fellow skippers were spreading out along the surface, all doing 20 to 25 knots. Further aft, the Ohio was making turns for 30 knots; a huge bow wave rolling aft along her cylindrical deck, looking everything like the angel of death she used to be with her dive planes on the sail. Their nuclear-powered milk cow began to descend, and then disappear except for the feather of her periscope, until even that disappeared below the calm surface of the Pacific.

Roberts went below and settled into his cabin, pulled out his logbook, and made his first war patrol entry. Finishing the short entry in his war diary, he hit the 21-MC for the radio room. “Radio.”

“Its time, Chief. Dig it out.”

“Aye sir.” A few moments later, the ship's speakers came to life.

“It's a long to Tipperary, it's a long way to go…”

Which prompted Marty Pascal to look at the speaker under the combing on the bridge. “Where does the Captain think we are, in the British Navy?” He asked, rhetorically. Of course, the lieutenant conveniently ignored the fact that the crew had joined in with the singing.

The Chief of the Boat looked at the XO. “No sir, he's seen Das Boot way too many times. It's become a tradition with him. Hell, there was this one time up in the Baltic, we were had a Bundesmarine U-boat captain on board…” And so began the Bowfin's first war patrol.

00000

 

20 miles south of Midway Is.

65 hrs later

 

“Bridge to captain. Sir, you asked to be informed when we were 20 miles south of Midway Island. GPS is indicating that position now, sir.”

“Understood, Mr. Pascal. Captain out.” Roberts went to his safe and opened it. He pulled out a sealed manila envelope, and cut it open. He withdrew a number of paper charts, a set of orders and satellite photos.

 

To: Commander, USS Bowfin

Fm: COMSUBPAC

 

You are to proceed to the 15 miles east of Hamhung Naval Base, on the east coast of North Korea. You are to observe naval traffic and report to COMSUBWESPAC. Authority to attack is any surface or subsurface targets enroute to or within your patrol area is at your discretion.

Upon crossing longitude 180 degrees, you are to assume combat conditions, ROE 3. You are authorized use of deadly force.

Good luck and good hunting

 

Roberts stood and looked at the charts. They were prewar, showing possible anchorages and approaches to Hamhung harbor. He pulled the photos out and looked at them. Sitting in port were a number of patrol boats, as well as what appeared to be a smaller number of Krivak-class ASW frigates and a pair of Kresta-class destroyers. “This is going to be a tough nut to crack,” Roberts muttered. He took the charts and headed to the control room.

“Mr. Christian,” he said to the ensign on watch, “come to new course 280. And secure exterior lights.”

“Aye sir.” Christian turned to the COB. “Chief, come to heading 280 degrees.”

“Aye sir,” the COB replied. “Helm, come to new course, 280, standard left rudder.”

“Aye.” The helmsman brought the boat around 5 degrees. “Steady on course 280, Chief.”

Christian reached over and popped the circuit breaker for the exterior running lights. “Darkened ship, sir.”

“Ensign, I want the deck guns and bridge manned at all times when we're on the surface.”

“Aye, sir.” Christian replied, as Roberts hit the intercom. Throughout the ship, an electronic boson's whistle sounded over the 21-mc.

“All hands, this is the captain. As of right now, this ship is on a war patrol. All personnel will wear only sneakers or socks while on duty. Any contact may be an NK warship or cargo vessel. I want the torpedoes and missiles to be in top working shape. For the first time since the First Korean War, United States Navy diesel boats are going to war. I want the Navy to be proud of us, and our tradition. That is all.”

 

150 MILES N OF THE MARCUS IS.

 

“Bridge, Plot.” The squawk box on the bridge of the Bowfin called. “New radar contact, bearing 270 degrees, range 100 miles.”

“Plot, aye.” The captain punched the button for the conn. “Conn, increase speed to flank; come to new course 270 degrees. Standby to sound battlestations, surface action. Plot; report any position or course changes on the target. Lookouts to the bridge.” The steel hull of the ship reverberated as the twin Caterpillar turbodiesels propelled the sub close to 40 miles an hour. More personnel climbed up on to the bridge, as swells broke over the bow of the boat and swirled down the hull.

After chasing the target for close to two hours, one of the lookouts saw their target first. “Mast ahoy! 10 degrees off the starboard bow.” Six sets of binoculars swung on to that bearing.

“Looks like a fishing vessel, Captain. And I think that's a North Korean flag flying from her mast.”

“So it does,” Captain Roberts replied. He punched up the control room. “Conn, Bridge. Engines ahead two-thirds.”

“Bridge, aye,” came the reply as the turbodiesels were throttled back.

A spray of water could be seen near the surface contact in the binoculars. “Sonar, Bridge. What do we have on bearing 280?”

“Bridge, multiple biological contacts. Possibly gray or blue whales.”

Roberts lowered his glasses and looked at his executive officer. “Mr. Pascal, what do you make of that North Korean fishing vessel?”

Marty Pascal looked at the captain, and grinned. “Skipper, I think she might very well be a whaler. Which makes her in violation of UN resolutions banning commercial whaling.”

“Which makes her a pirate.” Roberts leaned down into the squawk box. “Conn, Bridge. Sound general quarters, surface action.”

“Bridge aye.” The alarm klaxon began ringing throughout the boat. “General Quarters, general quarters. All hands man your stations, surface action.” The results were immediate. The boat's gun crew came spring up from below, stripped the five inch of its canvas covering and muzzle plug, and slammed a high explosive round into the breach. Another gun crew did the same thing on the 20mm Phalanxes.

“Conn, all ahead full, bring us along side the target vessel.” The impellors bit into the water, and the boat accelerated, and began angling broadside with the target while closing the distance.

“Bridge, Plot. Range four miles and closing.”

“Understood.” Captain Roberts turned aft and faced the gun crew. The crew had the gun trained out and ready to fire. “Chief, stand by to fire,” Roberts called.

“Bridge, Plot. Three miles and closing.” The North Korean whaler loomed closer. “Two miles and closing.”

Roberts looked aft. “Commence fire! Fire at will!” He called.

The gunnery chief echoed the order. “Commence fire! Fire at will!” For the first time since the end of the Second World War, a submarine-mounted deck gun was fired in anger. The shell arced, and resulted in a large splash of water near the waterline of the whaler. The next round was adjusted and hit the harpoon gun mounted on the bow.

On the whaler, the bow was engulfed in flame and smoke. Just aft of the smokestack, a shipping container dropped open, revealing a 150mm howitzer. The Korean deck gun swiveled towards the Bowfin and a gout of water erupted near the portside bow, showering the crew on deck with seawater.

The Bowfin replied with her own deck gun, hitting the North Korean ship amidships, but above the waterline. The Mk19s and .50cal machine guns opened fire, raking the target with automatic machine gun fire. Another NK shell screamed over the deck of the American submarine and a gout of water appeared on the starboard side of the boat. The American deck gun barked in reply again, and a gout of flame and smoke appeared on the NK whaler. “Captain,” Pascal exclaimed, “we've hit their magazine, by God!” Another explosion ripped through the whaler, breaking her back. The ship separated into two halves as a fireball erupted through the wreck, lighting the night and quickly sank.

“Mr. Pascal,” Roberts said, turning to his XO, “stand down from general quarters. Come back to course 280, ahead two-thirds.”

 

150 MILES NORTHWEST

USS Archerfish, SS-803

 

“Sir, fog's getting thicker,” the lookout called down. As it was, the officers on the bridge could barely see the bow of the sub. Not a breath of wind ruffled the surface. For a late April night, it was unseasonably cold.

“Blasted fog,” Lt. Boxhall muttered under his breath. “Standby to dive,” he said.

“No can do, Lieutenant,” Lt. Commander Bell said, as he stuck his head out the hatch. “We're running with only one generator, so the batteries aren't fully charged. And the fuel cells aren't recharged either. So its run on the surface until we get everything fixed.”

“So what's wrong with the other generator?”

“Routine maintenance, Lieutenant.”

“Could anything else go wrong tonight?”

“Sir,” the lookout called, “There's a bright patch in the fog, just off the port bow.”

Boxhall called down the hatch. “Plot, anything on radar?”

“Negative, sir,” came the shouted reply.

“Damn. What the hell's going on here?” Boxhall wiped the moisture off his glasses. The sub cruised closer towards the bright patch of fog. Boxhall hit the 21-mc. “Captain to the bridge.”

“Fog seems to be thinning, Lt. I'm starting to make out the target off the port bow, sir.”

Commander Murdoch climbed up on to the bridge of the submarine. “Status, Mr. Boxhall?”

“Sir, we have something of a visual on an unidentified vessel off our port bow. There is no radar return.”

“Bridge!” The lookout shouted. “Target appears to be a brig. I can't make out really anything more then that.”

A chill went through the collective soul of the boat when the submarine broke into an opening in the fog. Laying off her port bow, with full sails spread, was the spectral sight of a particular 17th Century Dutch brig. The mast, sails and spars stood out against the fog in full relief. “Dear God,” Boxhall muttered. “Is that what I think it is?”

“I think it is, Lieutenant,” Murdoch said, as the apparition sailed back into the fog. “I'll be in my cabin, Lieutenant. Keep me advised.” Boxhall nodded, as the Captain climbed back down into the boat. He walked back to his cabin and sat down at this small desk. He took his War Journal down and logged his contact with the Flying Dutchman. “They are not going to believe this at COMSUBPAC,” he muttered.

 

On the bridge, Lt. Boxhall shivered at what he and the rest of the bridge crew had just seen. “Someone,” he muttered, “is going to die.” He had this intense feeling of foreboding, and couldn't seem to shake it.

“What makes you say that sir,” one of the petty officers on the bridge asked.

“You ever hear of the legend of the Flying Dutchman?” The petty officer shook his head. Boxhall, a student of naval mythology, rolled his eyes. What were maritime ghost stories were they teaching these new sailors? The thrum of the diesels, the wind whistling through the antenna rigging and the occasional creak in the teak decking set the tone as the boat sailed through the night. “Back in the early 1600's, a Dutch brig was rounding the tip of Africa. For the captain, it had been a successful voyage to East India. But he wasn't paying attention, and didn't realize that he was sailing into the midst of a terrible storm until the lookout screamed in terror. The captain swore that he would get through this storm and around the Cape of Good Hope, cursing the Devil himself that he would make it back to Amsterdam with his cargo.

“But he didn't. The brig ran aground while fighting the storm, tearing out her hull. As the ship sank, the captain was still cursing the Devil as the water pulled him under. The Devil didn't take to being blasphemed against and cursed the shades of the crew and the captain to sail the Seven Seas, never able to return to port. It is said that any ship that sees the Flying Dutchman will be cursed with ill luck.

“And that means that we've been cursed ourselves.”

The petty officer gave the OOD an incredulous look. “Sir,” he said, “surely you don't believe that.”

“Think about it. The problems we've had with the engines and fuel cells. I truly think that this boat is cursed…”

The conversation was interrupted by a frantic call from belowdecks. “Bridge, sonar. Transients close aboard, from portside aft. High speed screws! Torpedoes in the water!” Twin phosphorescent trails bracketed the submarine, but missed.

“Clear the bridge!” Lt. Boxhall ordered. “Dive! Dive! Dive!” The bridge crew quickly cleared the small bridge, with Boxhall closing the hatch as the last one down. “Sound general quarters. All head one-third,” he said to the coning tower crew. “Sonar, conn. Where is she?”

“Coming out of our starboard baffles, sir. Machinery sounds like an Oscar II-class guided missile boat.”

“Sweet mother of Jesus,” a petty officer muttered, “the North Koreans aren't supposed to have any nuke boats.”

“I have the conn.” Captain Murdoch said, as he climbed up the ladder into the control room.

“Passing nine zero feet,” the COB called.

“Level off at one hundred feet.” Murdoch hit the 21-mc. “Sonar, conn. Where's the target?”

“Making a lot of noise, sir. Heading 315, speed 25 knots. Range 10 thousand yards and increasing.”

“One hundred feet, Captain.”

“Confirmed, Captain,” the weapons officer replied, monitoring from the repeater station in the conning tower.

“Very well. Stand down from general quarters, prepare to surface the boat. Mr. Boxhall, you have the conn.”

“Aye sir,” Lt. Boxhall replied, as the boat's captain climbed back down into the pressure hull. He hit the intercom. “Lookouts to the control room. Take us back up to periscope depth, Chief. Engines ahead two thirds.”

“Aye, sir. Five degree up bubble on the bow planes, blow the mains. Engines ahead two thirds.”

“Up scope,” Boxhall called. The periscope slid silently out of its housing, allowing the third officer to scan the horizon. “Surface the boat.”

“Aye sir.” A few moments later, the diesel sub surfaced, and with a loud backfire and cloud of black smoke, the diesels kicked over, as the lookouts and officer of the deck climbed up the ladder.

Boxhall headed aft and placed a foot against the lower railing that surrounded the aft CWIS. Lighting up a cigarette, he let the blue gray smoke blow back towards the rising sun. “We got lucky,” he muttered. “We got very lucky tonight. I just hope that this broke the jinx on the boat.”