Echo Class Read online

  Having promised to sign the watch bill later in the morning, MacDonald threaded his way in the tight confines of the combat information center to where the sonar compartment was located near the aft hatch. He avoided two sailors as he wove his way through the small, equipment-jammed compartment. One sailor had the sound-powered phone apparatus draped over his shoulders and on his head, making him look like some giant soldier ant guarding Combat. The other sailor squeezed himself against one of the radar repeaters, relaying to the sailor near the contact board the course and speed of the lone surface contact to the their north. The Willy Victor had earlier overflown the merchant vessel, identifying it as from Taiwan, one of their major allies in Southeast Asia.

  MacDonald walked by the plotting table installed beneath a blue fluourescent light against the port bulkhead. The blue sleeves slipped over the two fluourescent tubes helped preserve the Combat watch team’s night vision.

  Ensign Hatfield stood between three sailors to his right and one wedged between the plotting table and a rack of equipment behind him. That sailor wore the sound-powered telephone gear. All four sailors and the ensign leaned downward, watching the motionless trace paper. All five were talking, pointing, making imaginary lines with their fingers on the paper. Hatfield was biting his lower lip as the sailors talked and he listened.

  As he approached, MacDonald saw the penciled circles marked on the trace paper, each circle growing bigger as it moved outward from where the submarine was last seen. He caught the last few words of Hatfield’s question: “. . . you think so?”

  “Yes, sir. Why else would it be out here?” Petty Officer Oliver asked, looking up. MacDonald’s and Oliver’s eyes met. The sailor elbowed Hatfield and nodded toward MacDonald. Everyone straightened as he approached.

  “Well, Peppercorn, doesn’t look as if you and your team are getting much of a workout,” MacDonald said when he reached the table, bending over slightly as he spoke because of an overhead cold water pipe that ran through Combat.

  “No, sir, but when Sonar detects the submarine we’ll know how far away he is,” Hatfield replied, his words running together in excitement. Hatfield leaned down and placed his finger on the outmost circle drawn on the thin sheet of plotting paper. “Look here, Captain. We’ve been adding a ‘farthest-on circle’ every thirty minutes. This way, when Sonar does have a contact, we’ll know what’s the farthest it can be from us.”

  MacDonald’s right lip lifted in a sort of forced grin. He knew, and the sailors knew, that Hatfield was repeating what the sailors were teaching the new ensign. “That’s good, Ensign Hatfield. One thing to remember is that we are estimating the speed of the submarine. Therefore the submarine could be anywhere along the line of bearing when we get him. But good work. I am impressed.”

  “It’s not me, sir, as much as it is the sailors here. Petty Officers Banks, Edgars, and Cleary are old pros. Petty Officer Cleary is our sound-powered-phone talker while Banks is leading our TMA effort,” Hatfield bragged. He nodded toward the fourth sailor. “Petty Officer Oliver has been sharing some of his sonar knowledge about the Soviet submarines. It definitely helps when we get all this talent in one place.”

  MacDonald’s forced grin turned real. He looked at the four petty officers. “Good job, sailors. So, Petty Officers Cleary and Oliver, why do we have you two on the target motion analysis team? We barely have enough sonarmen for twenty-four-hour watches.”

  “I’m not, Skipper,” Oliver answered. “I’m about to go on watch in Sonar.” With that, Oliver turned and headed aft away from the group.

  Cleary looked down, hoping the skipper couldn’t see the damage to his face. “The chief thought it would be . . .”

  “Petty Officer, you’ll have to speak up,” MacDonald said, noticing the bruise, cut eyebrow, and—was that a growing fat lip on the left side of the mouth?

  “The chief wants me to learn it, sir.”

  MacDonald’s lower lip pushed against the upper one as he nodded. “Then let’s hope you learn it.” He looked at the three men. “Keep up the good work.”

  “Thank you, sir,” they replied. Cleary eased the sound-powered headset back down on his ears, pulling the helmet forward slightly, hoping to hide his face and escape questions.

  MacDonald eased aft a couple of steps so he could straighten up. “Mr. Hatfield, you and your team keep doing the good job you are, but be ready when we locate the contact. If anyone can find the Echo, it’ll be the Dale team.” He nodded at the second-class petty officer. “Banks, good work, right?”

  “We’ll try, Captain.”

  “Yes, sir, we’re Gold. Right, team!” Hatfield added.

  MacDonald saw the quick wide-eyed glances between the four sailors as they mumbled, “Gold.”

  “I like good esprit de corps among a team,” MacDonald added. Then he patted Hatfield on the shoulder as he eased past, heading aft toward the small side compartment where Sonar manned its console. He chuckled.

  Officers like Hatfield did well in the navy. Sailors adopted officers when they actively sought knowledge. On the other hand, those with arrogant infatuation with their rank, or with themselves such as Burnham, woke up one day to discover the meaning of “falling on one’s sword.” The navy would become more a memory for reminiscence than a career worthy of recognition.

  The sonar compartment was separated by a heavy curtain that parted down the middle. The newer destroyers being designed, like the DD-963 class, had doors—a true physical barrier that separated the sonarmen from the rest of Combat. But it would be 1972 before they sailed out of the shipyard.

  Once the Dale returned for its five-year yard period, it would have a true sonar compartment installed, like some of the other Forrest Sherman class destroyers.

  MacDonald pulled the curtain back. Oliver was leaned back in his chair, feet crossed at the ankles and propped up on the narrow ledge in front of the sonar display. He jerked his feet down, nearly turning the chair over, before he sat up straight. “Morning, Captain. I wasn’t aware you were—”

  “Morning, Oliver,” MacDonald said. “Doesn’t take you long to get comfortable.” He looked around the small area, then pulled his head back into Combat and glanced around. “Where are Mr. Burkeet and Chief Stalzer?”

  “Sir, they stepped outside for a smoke.”

  “You got ashtrays in here, don’t you?”

  The sailor stood as if he had finally made up his mind on whether to remain sitting or not. “Sorry, sir. Yes, sir, but they know I don’t smoke so they decided to step out on the main deck,” Oliver stuttered.

  “You got anything?” MacDonald asked. “This SQS-26 living up to its expectations?” The SQS-26 was the newest sonar in the fleet.

  Oliver let out a deep breath. His hand shook slightly as he touched the controls of the AN/SQS-26 sonar. “It’s performing to specs, sir. I did the preventive maintenance check on it yesterday when we were diverted against the Echo class submarine.”

  MacDonald’s right lip arched up. “That’s good, Oliver. Was the PMS due, overdue, or not due at all?”

  The sailor shook his head. “No, sir. I just thought it would be a good thing to do.” The sailor smiled. “I wanted to make sure everything was working when we got on station.”

  MacDonald nodded. “You did well, sailor. I don’t think most would have thought to do it.” He uncrossed his arms and pointed at the console. “You got any indications of anything out there?”

  “No, sir, but that was over fourteen hours ago when the reconnaissance aircraft spotted the Echo class submarine.”

  “You never know what a bubblehead is thinking, Oliver. Sometimes they screw up and decide to hide where they were last seen.”

  MacDonald turned at the sound of voices behind him. Chief Stalzer and Lieutenant Junior Grade Burkeet stepped through the hatch from the main passageway, into the darkened spaces of CIC. The conversation stopped abruptly when they saw MacDonald’s frame blocking the curtained opening to Sonar.

  “Skipper
, we were just—”

  “I know, Mr. Burkeet. Petty Officer Oliver told me you and the chief had taken a cigarette break. He and I have had a good conversation.”

  “Yes, sir. Last chance before we reach the datum.”

  MacDonald scratched his chin. “I agree, Mr. Burkeet. It was your last chance for that quick smoke. I’m impressed with what Petty Officer Oliver told me, but we can’t have him manning the sonar alone. He needs some help, and I want some senior leadership down here as we take up the chase. I would like you or the chief down here with the watch at all times.” His eyebrows lifted.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Work with Lieutenant Kelly so he can make sure you and Chief Stalzer are on port and starboard down here at Sonar without having to give up your other watches. I think that’s a good idea, don’t you?” He saw Stalzer’s Adam’s apple rise and fall. It never hurts every once in a while to let a chief know whose ship he rides on.

  “Yes, sir. I was thinking the same thing,” Burkeet said.

  MacDonald grunted. “I’m sure you were. By the way, Chief, you’ve done a good job training Oliver here. I was impressed he had taken the initiative to do the preventive maintenance earler to ensure everything was shipshape on the SQS-26. Ensign Hatfield told me about how Oliver had been sharing his knowledge of the Echo class submarine with the TMA team.”

  “Thank you, Skipper.”

  MacDonald turned away and started forward again. Time for him to pay a visit to the bridge. The bridge was where a skipper should spend most of his time, regardless of this new fad of fighting the ship from Combat. He opened the forward hatch and stepped out.

  OLIVER sat down as soon as the skipper turned away and the curtain fell back in place.

  The curtain came apart and Chief Stalzer slapped him lightly against the back of the head. “What did you tell the skipper, dickhead?”

  Oliver leaned toward the sonar console, away from the chief, rubbing his head. “I didn’t tell him nothing, Chief, he didn’t already know.”

  Stalzer put his hands on his hips and looked at Burkeet, who stood outside the curtains. “He must have told him something for the old man to put us on port-starboard.”

  Burkeet shook his head as he crossed his arms. “Not Oliver’s fault, Chief. Besides, this isn’t punishment because we took a smoke break. It makes sense to have one of us two down here while we have the ASW condition set. I should have thought of it earlier.” He sighed heavily as he dropped his arms. “I’m going to see Lieutenant Kelly. You, on the other hand, Chief, have the first watch.” And, before Stalzer could say anything, the junior officer walked off.

  Stalzer and Oliver watched him weave his way through Combat before Stalzer pulled the curtain shut. He turned to the sailor and lightly slapped him upside the head again, causing the headset to slide sideways off his ears. “What did you tell the old man?”

  Oliver rubbed his head, taking the headset off. “I told him nothing. I told him you two had just stepped outside for a smoke because you both knew it bothered me.”

  “Oh, gee, Oliver. That’s just what captains like: sympathetic officers and chiefs. Jesu-Christ. Lord, protect me from naïve sailors and know-it-all officers.”

  Oliver slipped the headset back over his ears.

  “What else?”

  “What else what?”

  “What did you tell him about the PMS you did yesterday?”

  “I didn’t tell him nothing.”

  “Oliver, don’t make me go back to old navy and beat the shit out of you. What did you tell him?”

  “I told him that you had me do the PMS,” Oliver lied, “because you wanted to ensure that everything was working when we reached the submarine search area.”

  Stalzer grinned and leaned back. Maybe that senior chief star was in sight after all. “Go ahead,” he snapped. “Put your sound-powered headset back on and do a communications check with the topside and bridge watches. If they see anything, you tell them to make sure we hear about it. You got that?”

  “Yeah, I got it, Chief.”

  “Good. And don’t forget it. It’s almost daylight. Can see the horizon already. We’ll have sun by six thirty. I’m going to step down to the goat locker and get me a fresh cup of coffee since I’ve got to stay up here and babysit you.”

  “What if the skipper comes back?”

  “What if the skipper comes back?” Stalzer mimicked. “What are you, my mother? Tell him Mr. Burkeet is in Combat, checking on the weapons status.”

  “But, Mr. Burkeet said for you—”

  “Oliver, shut your trap and do what I tell you. You argue too much. The navy was a nicer place before you draft dodgers showed up in it. You ought to be in Vietnam wearing army green.”

  “I tried, Chief, but they told me—”

  “I know, Oliver, you keep telling me. Your brother is in the army and they refused to station you two together so you joined the navy. Do you realize how ridiculous that sounds? You think the navy and the army are going to sit down and put you two together?”

  “No, Chief, but eventually the Dale will pull into Vietnam.”

  “Oliver, I hope for your sake this is youth and not stupidity talking.”

  Oliver pulled the headset down over his ears.

  “You just remember: When I have the watch, you have the watch.”

  Oliver lifted up one side of the headset, uncovering his left ear. “But, Chief, I have other things I have to do also. Other things you’ve assigned me. My watch bill also has me doing a topside watch,” he whined.

  “Then I guess you better bring whatever it is you gotta do down here to do it because if I have to do port-starboard watches, you’re gonna do them with me.”

  IT was nice watching the sun breach the horizon. It was always a beautiful sight from the bridge to watch the light speed across the ocean top as daylight surfaced. He licked his teeth. The strong tannic acid from that cup of coffee on the bridge had left its taste.

  “Captain off the bridge!” came the shout as he stepped into Combat.

  MacDonald weaved through the crowded area with sailors squeezing out of the way as he continued aft. He stepped through the knee-knocker separating Combat from the passageway, turning to secure the hatch before continuing aft through the main passageway.

  A few steps and he stood in front of the radio shack. He pressed the buzzer.

  Almost immediately the locked door opened. Petty Officer Williams appeared, his every-which-way oily hair looking as if a mighty wind was blowing in from the passageway. “Attention on deck!” the sailor shouted, stepping back, holding the door open.

  “Carry on,” MacDonald said as he stepped into the cramped square communications compartment, commonly referred to on every ship as the radio shack. He pulled up the stool from in front of the R-390 high-frequency radio. Nodding at the radio, he looked back at Williams. “Well, Sparks, have you found something to keep the crew entertained after breakfast?”

  “Not yet, sir,” Williams replied in a loud voice, rubbing his hands together, “but I had just got started.” Williams’s eyes seemed to glance beyond MacDonald.

  “I won’t be long, Sparks, just want—”

  “No, sir, that’s not what I meant, Captain.”

  MacDonald laughed. “I know, Sparks. Just thought I would read the morning message board. Save Mr. Taylor the effort of bringing it to the bridge.”

  Williams grabbed the letter-size metal clipboard off the hanger and handed it to MacDonald. “Skipper, we are still ripping the zero six hundred broadcast, but all the messages to the Dale since taps last night are on it.”

  “Uh-huh,” MacDonald said as he took it, glancing at the clock on the nearby bulkhead. Zero six forty-five. He had been up all morning. He stifled a yawn as he looked around the spaces. “Aren’t you supposed to have two people on watch here at all times?”

  Seaman Korun stepped from behind the rack of receivers arrayed across the aft bulkhead of the compartment. “I’m here, Skipper
. I was just checking the wiring.” Korun yawned, then realized what he had done and slapped his hand across his mouth.

  MacDonald looked back at Williams, frowned, and narrowed his eyes. He looked down at the message board and lifted the metal cover. “I hope the wiring is functioning properly, Sparks.”

  “I may have to double-check it myself, sir.”

  Without speaking, MacDonald flipped back the top of the read-board and began reading. Every message that came into the Dale was on the board. Copies of specific messages like those for Supply, with their legends of naval stock numbers that seemed as cryptic to most sailors as the Japanese ULTRA code of World War II, were the only messages MacDonald banned from the read-board. Otherwise he would have been forced to wade through a roller-coaster series of undecipherable stock numbers with something readable every tenth or twelth message.

  “Looks as if we’re getting another radioman on board, Sparks,” MacDonald said, holding one of the messages between his fingers.

  “Out of ‘A’ school, Skipper. It’ll take me months to retrain him to how the navy really operates.”

  “As long as he doesn’t find himself checking the wiring during the mid-watches.”

  MacDonald smiled, surprised to see a slight blush on Williams’s face. He flipped the message over the two-hole metal brackets at the top and continued reading. Thirty minutes later, he finished the board. He took his pen and initialed the space beside his name on the top sheet before handing it back to Williams.

  “Sir, when do we get to Olongapo?” Williams asked.

  MacDonald shrugged. “Depends on when we find the submarine and scare him away from the battle group.”

  Williams nodded. “Thanks, sir.” The leading petty officer of the radio shack hung the metal board on the bulletin board beneath the word “TODAY.” Another metal board hung under the word “YESTERDAY.” A third empty hanger was beneath the word “TOMORROW.”

  In a few days, when the Dale tied up pierside at Olongapo, the liberty parties would fight their way down the gangway to the huge cement piers, bolting for the front gate and the sins of the city lying across bridge over Shit River—American name.